Julian, by Gore Vidal

by Unknown

  There was a long sigh in the room. The generals stirred restlessly. Some were disappointed; others pleased: now their moment might come.

  Julian looked at me. "Did I read that well?"

  "Yes, Lord."

  "Then I have made the departure I intended." He turned to the generals. "Now let us say good-bye." One by one, the generals kissed his hand for the last time. Many wept. But he ordered them not to. "I should weep for you. I am finished with suffering while you, poor devils, are still in the midst of it."

  When the last of the generals had gone, Julian motioned for Maximus and me to sit beside his bed. "Now we talk," he said, employing the phrase he always used when he was alone at last with his friends.

  Then Julian engaged us in a discussion of the Phaedo. What is the precise nature of the soul? What form does it take? In what way does it return to Serapis? I talked philosophy; Maximus talked mysteries. Julian preferred Maximus to me at the end and I could not blame him, for I am bleak and Maximus was hopeful. Together they repeated Mithraic passwords to one another and made cryptic references to the Passion of Demeter. Julian derived a good deal of comfort from Maximus. As usual, I was quite unable to express my affection for him; instead, like a village schoolmaster, I quoted Plato. I was never more inadequate.

  Shortly before midnight, Julian asked for cold water. Callistus brought it to him. Just as he was about to drink, black, clotted blood suddenly gushed from his side. He gave a sharp cry and clutched the wound as though with his bare hand he might keep the life from leaving. Then he fainted. The surgeons tried to close the wound. But this time it was no use; the haemorrhage when it finally stopped did so of its own accord.

  For some minutes Julian lay with eyes shut, hardly breathing. To this day I remember how the hair on his chest was matted with dried blood, like the pelt of some animal newly killed. I remember the sharp contrast between his sun-darkened neck and the marble white of his torso. I remember that foolish sliver of metal stuck in his side, and I remember thinking: such a small thing to end a man's life and change the history of the world.

  At last Julian opened his eyes. "Water," he whispered. Callistus held up his head while he drank. This time the surgeons allowed him to swallow. When he had drained the cup, he turned to Maximus and me, as though he had just thought of something particularly interesting to tell us.

  "Yes, Julian?" Maximus leaned forward eagerly. "Yes? But Julian seemed to have a second thought. He shook his head.

  He closed his eyes. He cleared his throat quite naturally. He died. Callistus, feeling the body in his arms go limp, leapt back from the bed with a cry. The corpse fell heavily on its back. One limp brown arm dangled over the edge of the bed. The lion-skin covering was now drenched with blood. No one can ever use it again, I thought numbly as the surgeon said, "The Augustus is dead."

  Callistus wept. The deaf-mute moaned like an animal by the bed. Maximus shut his eyes as if in pain. He did not need to exert his gift for seeing into the future to know that the days of his own greatness were over.

  I sent Callistus to fetch Salutius. While we waited, the surgeons drew the spear from Julian's body. I asked to see it. I was examining it when Salutius arrived. He glanced briefly at the body; then he turned to Callistus, "Tell the staff to assemble immediately."

  Maximus, suddenly, gave a loud but melodious cry and hurried from the tent. Later he told me that he had seen the spirits of Alexander and Julian embracing in the air several feet above the earthen floor of the tent. The sight had ravished him.

  After covering the body with a cloak, the surgeons departed, as did the deaf-mute, who was never seen again. Salutius and I were alone in the tent.

  I showed him the lance that I was still holding. "This is what killed him," I said."Yes. I know."

  "It is a Roman spear," I said.

  "I know that, too." We looked at one another.

  "Who killed him?" I asked. But Salutius did not answer. He pulled back the tent flap. Outside the generals were gathering by the light of a dozen torches guttering in the hot night wind. Resinous smoke stung my eyes. As Salutius was about to join them, I said, "Did Julian know it was a Roman spear?"

  Salutius shrugged. "How could he not have known?" He let the tent flap fall after him.

  I looked at the figure on the bed. The body was shrouded in purple, except for one brown foot. I adjusted the cloak and inadvertently touched flesh: it was still warm. I shied like a horse who sees a shadow in the road. Then I opened the box from which Julian had taken his deathbed speech. As I had suspected, the memoir and the journal were there. I stole them.

  What else? The meeting that night was stormy. Victor and Arintheus wanted an emperor from the East. Nevitta and Dagalaif wanted one from the West. All agreed on Salutius. But he refused. He is the only man I have ever heard of who really meant it when he declared that the principate of this world was not for him.

  When Ammianus insisted that Salutius at least agree to lead the army out of Persia, Salutius was equally firm. Under no circumstances would he take command. At a complete impasse, the two factions agreed to meet again the following day.

  During the night, Victor took action. Realizing that he himself had no chance of becoming emperor, he decided to create an emperor, one easily managed. His choice was Jovian. In the early hours of 27 June, Victor got the household troops drunk. He then incited them to proclaim their commander Jovian as Augustus. At dawn, the frightened Jovian was led before the assembly by a hundred young officers with drawn swords. The thing was accomplished. Rather than risk bloodshed and civil war, we swore the oath of allegiance to Jovian. Then the new Emperor and his guards made a solemn progress through the army. When the men heard the cry "Jovian Augustus!" they thought at first it was "Julian Augustus", and so they began to cheer the miraculous recovery. But when they saw the clownish figure of their new lord, red-eyed, nervous, stooped beneath ill-fitting purple like some exotic African bird, the cheers turned to silence.

  That same day, I myself buried poor Anatolius. I found him lying at the bottom of a steep ravine. Until now I have never had the heart to tell anyone that he was not killed by the Persians. He was thrown from his horse and broke his neck. He was a terrible horseman but a delightful companion. I kept his draughtboard, which I lost-naturally—on the trip from Antioch to Athens. Nothing is left to me. Well…

  The rest is familiar history. Jovian made a thirty years' peace with Sapor. He was so eager to get out of Persia and begin a round of parties in Constantinople that he agreed to all of Sapor's demands. He ceded Persia five provinces, including our cities of Singara and Nisibis! It was a disastrous treaty.

  We then proceeded to Antioch. En route, Procopius and Sebastian ioined us. To this day no one knows why Procopius did not join Julian in Persia. He must have given some excuse to Jovian, but it never filtered down to us. Happily, he himself was put to death, some years later, when he tried to seize the East. So there is a rude justice in our affairs, at least in this case.

  Seven months later the Emperor Jovian was also dead. The official report said that he died in his sleep from breathing the fumes of a charcoal stove. To this day, many believe that he was poisoned by Victor, but I have it on good authority that he died naturally. In a drunken sleep, he vomited and choked to death, the perfect end for a glutton. Rather surprisingly, Valentinian was declared Emperor, and that was the end of Victor as a political force. Remember how pleased we all were when Valentinian made his brother Valens Augustus for the East? Such a mild young man, we thought. Well, Valens nearly had my head. He did have Maximus's, and even you had a most difficult time of it. But now the brothers are also dead, and we live on under Valentinian's son Gratian and his appointee Theodosius, who in turn will die, to be succeeded by… I sometimes feel that the history of the Roman principate is an interminable pageant of sameness. They are so much alike, these energetic men; only Julian was different.

  Towards the end of your justly admired funeral oration at Antioch, you suggested t
hat Julian was killed by one of his own men, if only because no Persian ever came forward to collect the reward the Great King had offered the slayer of Julian. Now I was one of the few people who knew for certain that Julian had been killed by a Roman spear, but I said nothing. I had no intention of involving myself in politics. As it was, I had quite enough trouble that year when Maximus and I were arrested for practising magic. I a magician!

  Fortunately, I was acquitted. Maximus was not. Even so, the old charlatan did manage to have the last word. During his trial, he swore that he had never used his powers maliciously. He also prophesied that whoever took his life unjustly would himself die so terribly that all trace of him would vanish from the earth. Maximus was then' put to death by the Emperor Valens, who was promptly killed at the Battle of Adrianople by Goths who hacked the imperial corpse into so many small pieces that no part of him was ever identified. Right to the end, Maximus was lucky in his predictions.

  When I was finally released from prison (I wish you luck in your campaign for penal reform), I went straight home to Athens, I locked up Julian's papers in one of Hippia's strong-boxes and thought no more about them until this correspondence began.

  Lately I have found myself thinking a good deal about Julian's death. You were right when you hinted that he was killed by one of his own men. But by whom? And how? I have studied the last entries in the diary with particular care. From the beginning Julian knew that there was a plot against his life, and it is fairly plain that he suspected Victor of conspiracy. But was Julian right? And if he was right, how was the murder accomplished?

  About ten years ago Julian's servant Callistus wrote a particularly lachrymose ode on the Emperor's death. We were all sent copies. I'm afraid I never wrote to thank the author for his kind gift. In fact, Callistus had completely dropped from my memory until I reread the diary and realized that if anyone had known how Julian died, it would be the servant who was with him when he was wounded.

  Callistus of course had sworn that he did not see who struck the blow. But at the time there was good reason for him to lie: the Christians would very quickly have put him to death had he implicated any of them. Like so many of us, Callistus chose silence. But might he not be candid now, with all the principals dead?

  It took me several weeks to discover that Callistus lives at Philippopolis. I wrote him. He answered. Last month I went to see him. I shall now give you a full report of what he said. Before you use any of this, I suggest that you yourself write to Callistus for permission. His story is an appalling one, and there is some danger in even knowing it, much less writing about it. I must also insist that under no circumstances are you to involve me in your account. After a tedious trip to Philippopolis in the company of tax collectors and church deacons, I went straight to the house of an old pupil who kindly offered to put me up, a great saving since the local innkeepers are notorious thieves. The only advantage to having been a teacher for what seems now to have been the better part of a thousand years is that no matter where I go, I find former students who let me stay with them. This makes travel possible. I asked my host about Callistus (I myself could remember nothing about him except the sound of his sobbing at Julian's deathbed). "One never sees your Callistus." My old student is a snob. "They say he's quite rich, and there are those who go to his house. I am not one of them."

  "Where did his money come from?"

  "Trade concessions. Imperial grants. He is supposed to be quite clever. He was born here, you know. The son of a slave in the house of a cousin of mine. He returned only a few years ago, shortly after the Emperor Valentinian died. They say he has important friends at court. But I wouldn't know."

  Callistus is indeed rich, his house far larger and more lavish than that of my former pupil. A Syrian steward of breathtaking elegance led me through two large courtyards to a small shady atrium where Callistus was waiting for me. Here I was greeted most affably by a perfect stranger. I don't recall how Callistus used to look, but today he is a handsome middle-aged man who looks years younger than he is. It is obvious that he devotes a good deal of time to his appearance: hair thick and skilfully dyed; body slender; manners a trifle too good, if you know what I mean.

  "How pleasant to see you again, my dear Priscus!" He spoke as though we had been the most intimate of friends, even equals! I returned his greeting with that careful diffidence poverty owes wealth. He took my homage naturally. He asked me to sit down while he poured the wine himself, reverting to at least one of his old functions.

  For a time we spoke of who was dead and who was living. To people our age, the former category is largest. Nevitta, Salutius, Sallust, Jovian, Valentinian, Valens are dead. But Victor is still on active duty in Gaul and Dagalaif serves in Austria; Arintheus, recently retired to a suburb of Constantinople, has taken to drink. Then we spoke of Persia and the days of our youth (or in my case the halcyon days of my middle age!). We mourned the dead. Then I got the subject round to Julian's death. I told Catlistus of your plans. He was non-committal. I told him that you were in possession of the memoir. He said that he had known at the time that the Emperor was writing such a work and he had often wondered what had become of it. I told him. He smiled. Then I said,

  "And of course there was the private journal."

  "A journal?" Callistus looked startled.

  "Yes. A secret diary which the Emperor kept in the same box with the memoir."

  "I didn't know."

  "It's a most revealing work."

  "I am sure it is." Callistus frowned.

  "The Emperor knew about the plot against his life. He even knew who the conspirators were." Something in Callistus' manner prompted me to add this lie.

  "There were no conspirators." Callistus was bland. "The Augustus was killed by a Persian cavalryman."

  "Who never collected the reward?"

  Callistus shrugged. "Perhaps he himself was killed."

  "But why was this Persian cavalryman armed with a Roman spear?"

  "That sometimes happens. In a battle one often takes whatever weapon is at hand. Anyway, I should know. I was with the Augustus, and I saw the Persian who struck him."

  This was unexpected. With some surprise, I asked, "But why, when Julian asked if you had seen his attacker, did you say you saw nothing?"

  Callistus was not in the least rattled. "But I did see the Persian."

  He sounded perfectly reasonable. "And I told the Augustus that I saw him."

  "In front of Maximus and me, you said that you did not see who struck the blow."

  Callistus shook his head tolerantly. "It has been a long time, Priscus. Our memories are not what they were."

  "Implying that my memory is at fault?"

  He gestured delicately. "Neither of us is exactly young."

  I tried another tack: "You have doubtless heard the rumour that a Christian soldier killed the Emperor?"

  "Of course. But I was…"

  "… there. Yes. And you know who killed him."

  Callistus' face was a perfect blank. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. One can see why he has been such a success in business. Then: "How much did the Emperor know?" he asked, the voice flat and abrupt, very different from the easy, rather indolent tone he had been assuming."He knew about Victor."

  Callistus nodded. "I was almost certain he knew. So was Victor."

  "Then you knew about the conspiracy?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "Were you involved in it?"

  "Very much so. You see, Priscus," he gave me a most winning smile, "it was I who killed the Emperor Julian."

  There it is. The end of the mystery. Callistus told me everything. He regards himself as one of the world's unique heroes, the unsung saviour of Christianity. As he talked, he paced up and down. He could not tell me enough. After all, for nearly twenty years he has had to keep silent. I was his first auditor. A cabal had been formed at Antioch. Victor was the ringleader. Arintheus, Jovian, Valentinian and perhaps twenty other Christian officers were invol
ved. They vowed that Julian must not return from Persia alive. But because of his popularity with the European troops, his death must appear to be from natural causes.

  Victor assigned Callistus to Julian as a bodyguard and servant. At first he was instructed to poison the Emperor. But that was not easily accomplished. Julian was in excellent health; he was known to eat sparingly; a sudden illness would be suspicious. Finally, an ambush was arranged with the Persians. Julian has described how that failed. Then it was decided that Julian must die in battle. But he was an excellent soldier, highly conspicuous, always guarded. The conspirators were in despair until Callistus hit upon a plan.

  "After the Battle of Maranga, I broke the straps of his breastplate." Callistus' eyes sparkled with delighted memory. "Luckily for us, the Persians attacked the next day and the Emperor was forced to go into battle without armour. He and I got caught up in the Persian retreat. He started to turn back but I shouted to him, 'Lord, this way!' And I led him into the worst of the fighting. For a moment I thought the Persians would kill him. But they were too terrified. When they recognized him, they fled. It was then that I knew that God had chosen me to be the instrument of his vengeance." The voice lowered; the jaw set. "We were hemmed in. The Emperor was using his shield to try and clear a path for himself through the tangle of horses and riders. Suddenly he twisted to his left and stood in his stirrups, trying to see over the heads of the Persians. This was my chance. I prayed for Christ to give me strength. Then I plunged my spear into his side." Callistus stopped, obviously expecting some outcry at this. But I merely gave him that look of alert interest with which I reward those exceptional students who succeed in holding my attention.