Authors: Gore Vidal
At last the Pythoness stirred. She took several deep breaths of steam. She gasped; she coughed; she rolled her eyes; she clung with claw-like hands to the top of the tripod, rocking back and forth. Then she was motionless. When she finally spoke, her voice was firm and distinct despite the absence of teeth.
"Tell the King: on earth has fallen the glorious dwelling, and the water-springs that spoke are still. Nothing is left the god, no roof, no shelter, and in his hand the prophet laurel flowers no more."
That was all. The Pythoness shut her eyes. She seemed to sleep. Oribasius and the priest departed. The priest was distraught. "I don't believe it," he said. "Of course Apollo wants his temple rebuilt. I can't think what got into her. Of course these messages are always open to interpretation. Sometimes they are deliberately perverse, and obscure…" But it was no good.
I asked Oribasius what Julian said when he was told the oracle. "Nothing," said Oribasius. "Except to ask me to mention it to no one."
Personally, I am certain that the priestess was in the pay of the Christians. They knew what importance Julian set by oracles, especially this one. Why do I think they had a hand in the prophecy? Because if the priestess was genuine she would have done everything possible to see that Delphi was restored. She would not have admitted in so many words that the game was up. And to speak aljainst the interests of her own establishment meant that she had been made a better offer. Of course I do not believe—as Julian did—that Apollo speaks to us through a succession of ladies who have fits from breathing steam. The whole thing was always a fake. But this time I am positive it was a double fake. Oribasius rather agreed with me when I told him my theory.
As I said, Julian left Constantinople in high spirits and I did not see him again for some months. When I did, I noticed a great change in his mood. The euphoria of Con,stantinople was gone. He was uneasy and touchy and of course he hated Antioch, which he describes.
Julian Augustus
On Io May I left Constantinople for Antioch. All omens were favourable. The weather was good, though far too dry for that time of year. Instead of going straight south to Syria, I swung to the east, passing through Phrygia and Galatia.! pretended that I wanted to see for myself what these territories were like so that [ might have some firsthand knowledge of their problems when it came time for the tax reforms the new Count of the Sacred Largesse, Felix, insisted that I make. But my actual motive was to visit the temple of Cybele at Pessinus and there make solemn offering to my patroness.
I was accompanied by the Petulantes and Scholarians. The remainder of the army of the East was to gather at Antioch in the autumn. For a number of reasons, I had decided to postpone the invasion of Persia to the following spring. This would give me half a year at Antioch to train the troops and to put in effect various civil and religious reforms. Of my close friends only Maximus accompanied me on this progress. Priscus remained in Constantinople, while Oribasius preferred to make his own way to Antioch, stopping at out-of-the-way villages to look for cures-and he accuses me of liking magic!
It was good to be on the move again, even though, try as I might to reduce my retinue, it was still large and cumbersome. Half the Sacred Consistory attended me, as well as most of the administrative staff of the Sacred Palace. I was particularly bored—yet impressed—by Count Felix, who was acknowledged to be the most brilliant juggler of figures in the empire, a reputation he never allowed me to forget, since his vanity was boundless. Whenever I would rather timidly try to recall my own experiences wkh the finances of Gaul, he would point a long finger at me and, in the tone of master to schoolboy, define the extent of my ignorance, the folly of my instincts, and the need I had of his advice which was invariably: never forgive tax arrears. I came to dread his tall crane-like figure as it approached me after each Consistory, the long dour face set primly in a mask of false patience. But Felix was remarkable in his grasp of detail and, like it or not, I learned a good deal from him.
We crossed the Bosphorus on a fine spring day. The countryside was yellow with wild flowers and the warm air smelled of honey. We passed by Chalcedon but did not enter the city. At Libyssa, I paused to look at the grave of Hannibal. Like my predecessors, I honour him. I particularly admire him as a soldier, for his campaigns in Italy were perhaps the most remarkable of all time, excepting always those of Alexander. No one will ever know why Hannibal failed to take Rome—which is proof to me that the gods on that occasion intervened to save Rome from its most resourceful enemy. The grave is shabby: only a plain marble stele records the death of the exile.
We then proceeded to Nicomedia. This was a sad occasion, for Nicomedia is now in ruins. On 24 August 358 earthquakes destroyed half the city. It was the worst natural disaster in our time. We reached the outskirts of Nicomedia in the late afternoon. Here I was met by the senate of the city, all in darkest mourning. As we passed through streets filled with rubble, I nearly wept; so many familiar sights were gone or altered beyond recognition. Along the street to the palace the people stood, intent and watchful. Every now and then one would step forward to kiss my hand or touch the purple. Some I recognized as fellow students from the University, others as people I had observed in the forum. It was a wretched day.
I granted Nicomedia a considerable sum of money for rebuilding. Felix thought I was setting a bad precedent, but I pointed out to him that this was not just any city but a former world capital, made memorable by the fact that it was here on 24 February 303, Diocletian launched his edict against the Galileans, ordering their charnel houses razed and their communities dissolved. Unfortunately, Diocletian retired two years later and his work was not completed. If it had been… but that is wishful thinking. To me has fallen the same task, now doubly difficult, for the enemy have had half a century in which to establish themselves not only among the ignorant but in the Sacred Palace itself.
I could not wait to get away from Nicomedia. As soon at it was decently possible, I bade farewell to the senate. I should note here that everywhere I went I set about restoring the temples, and it was not easy. Most of them are in ruins or occupied by Galileans. To make matters worse, the priesthood in many places has completely died out. Provinces like Cappadocia are now entirely atheist. Yet I forced no one. Instead, I argued. I reasoned. Occasionally, I confess, I bribed the people to honour as they ought to honour their constant deities. I was criticized for this, particularly by Count Felix, who has no interest in religious matters and thought it folly to give anything to local temples, much less to the people themselves. But I felt it was worth doing. No matter what impels a man to pray to a god, the fact that he performs the ritual act is itself an act of worship and a beginning, even though his heart is false. I do not delude myself that I made many converts. Though I spoke at length to many groups in Galatia, Cappadocia, Cilicia, I convinced only a few. I am perfectly aware of this. Yet one must begin somewhere, even if it means talking to stones. I now realize that the business of restoration will be slow, but it will be sure. Meanwhile, the Galileans are hopelessly divided, and in their division is our hope.
At Pessinus I went straight to the temple of Cybele, at the foot of the town's acropolis. The temple is very old and very impressive, but in disrepair. It has been a holy place ever since the statue of the goddess fell from heaven. This was about the time she gave birth to her son, the legendary King Midas, who built the first sanctuary, in honour of his mother. The myth that everything Midas touched turned to gold, though symbolically fascinating—and certainly cautionary!—was probably based on the fact that the countryside around Pessinus is rich in iron. Midas was one of the first to make and sell weapons of iron and this made him fabulously rich. What he touched indeed turned to metal, but the metal was iron. In the side of the acropolis, next to Midas's tomb, I saw with my own eyes the world's first foundry, given to the king by his mother.
I offered a great sacrifice to Cybele, but the townspeople would not take part in the ceremonies even though I offered them a bounty, to the horror of Count Felix. More than ever I relied on Maximus, who is in constant communication with the goddess. It was he who found me Arsacius, a Hellenist whom I appointed High Priest of Galatia. Arsacius is old and garrulous, but he gets things done. In less than a week he had enrolled some twenty priests in the service of Cybele. On several occasions I lectured them at length on the necessity of proving themselves to be as virtuous in all their dealings as the Galileans claim to be in theirs. I particularly forbade them to attend the theatre, enter taverns, or involve themselves in shady business deals. I also ordered them to set up hostels for the poor and to be particularly generous to those who are Galilean. I then assigned to the diocese of Galatia an annual allowance of 30,000 sacks of corn and 60,000 pints of wine, onefifth to be used for the poor who serve the priests, and the rest to be given to strangers and beggars, since "from Zeus come all strangers and beggars, and a gift, though small, is precious". That quotation is not from the Nazarene, but from our own Homer! My last night in Pessinus, I sat up late with Maximus, discussing the nature of the Great Mother Goddess. He was more than usually eloquent and I was more than usually inspired by him, and of course by her spirit. Cybele is the first of the gods, the mother of all; and though I do not approve of eunuchs in politics, I have only veneration for those of her priests who, imitating Attis, castrate themselves in order to serve the goddess completely. After Maximus left me, I was so keyed up that I began to dictate a hymn to the Mother of the Gods. I completed it before morning. Maximus thinks it easily my best work in that vein.
Next we moved on to Aucyra. Here I was besieged by a thousand litigants. It was like a visit to Egypt. I did my best to give justice, but my temper was getting short. Reports of religious dissension were coming in from all sides. Some of our own people, excessively zealous, were damaging Galilean property, while the Galileans were doing everything possible to prevent us from reopening the temples. Sooner or later I knew that I would have to make a stand and by some harsh gesture convince the Galileans than I meant to be obeyed. But for the moment, I reasoned and argued. I promised Pessinus funds for public works, if the townspeople would support the temple of Cybele. I refused to visit Nisibis until they became less hostile to Hellenism. I deposed several bishops and warned the remainder that there was to be no interference with my plans. I don't know what I should have done without Maximus. He was always at my side; his energy never flagged; he was always a source of consolation, and I needed consoling. At Ancyra I lost my temper. I had spent three days in the courthouse, listening to men lie about one another. The creative lengths to which human malice will go quite inspire awe. One man, determined to destroy a business rival, came to me every day bringing new charges against his enemy. Each was promptly dismissed. Finally, the accuser declared in a tinging voice, "He has committed high treason, Augustus. He aspires to your place."
This got my full attention. "What evidence do you have?"
"Two weeks ago he ordered a silk robe, of purple!" Everyone gasped with horror at this lése majest&eacut;. I could stand it no longer. I pulled off my red shoes and flung them as hard as I could at the idiot's head. "Then give him these shoes! They go with the purple."
The terrified rogue fell prone in front of me. "And then remind him-and yourself-that it takes more than clothes to be an emperor!" I was not particularly pleased with myself for this outburst, but I was under great tension.
From Ancyra I moved west and south. At what they call the Gates, a mountain pass connecting Cappadocia and Cilicia, I was met by Celsus, a governor of Cilicia. I had known him slightly in Athens, where he had been a fellow student. He was also a disciple of Libanius. I'm afraid that I was so overjoyed to see a friendly Hellenic face that I kissed him in full view of the Petulantes. Then I let him ride beside me in my carriage as far as Tarsus. In a strange country, surrounded by hostile people, one clings to mere acquaintances as though they were brothers. That day I would gladly have made Celsus praetorian prefect of the East, simply to show my pleasure in talking to someone who believed as I did. On the road to Tarsus, Celsus told me many things. He was not optimistic about my revival of Hellenism, but he felt that, given time, we might prevail. He did agree with me that the Galileans would eventually kill one another off.
We also discussed the most important political problem in the empire: the town councils or senates.
Everywhere I have travelled as emperor, I am met by crowds of well-to-do citizens begging me to exempt them from serving in their local councils. What was once the highest honour a provincial might aspire to is now a cruel burden, because the councils are responsible for raising taxes. This means that in a year of poor harvest when the people are unable to pay their taxes, the members of the local council must make up the tax deficit out of their own pockets. Not unnaturally, no one wants to serve on a town council. The only alternative would be to govern directly through imperial decree, and that is not practical for obvious reasons. The whole thing is a mess and no emperor has known how to handle it. I don't. Like my predecessors, I give rousing speeches to those concerned. I tell them that it is a great honour to govern a city and that the state would perish without the cooperation of its worthlest citizens. But the burghers still beg for exemption from public service and I can't blame them. One solution of course is not to hold the councils responsible for the collection of taxes.
But that would cut the state's revenue in half, which we cannot afford. Someone must see to tax-collecting and who should be better qualified than the leading citizens of the community? So I have chosen to reinvigorate the councils rather than change the system drastically. One way to distribute the responsibility more fairly is to allow no exemptions from service in the councils. Under Constantius both the Galilean priests and the military were exempt, I have changed this, making more rather than fewer citizens available for service. There have been a good many repercussions, but I think in time the communities will be strengthened. It is certainly an intolerable state of affairs when men of property refuse to be senators in a famous city like Antioch.