Julian (55 page)

Priscus
: Julian sent Alypius to Jerusalem to rebuild the temple. I had carte blanche. With the help of the governor, they started work, to the delight of the local Jews, who agreed to raise the necessary money. Then the famous "miracle" happened. One morning balls of flame flared among the stones and a sudden tier, north wind caused them to roll about, terrifying the workmen who fled. That was the end of that. Alypius later discovered that the Galileans had placed buckets of naphtha in the ruins,. arranged that if one was lit all the others would catch fire, too, giving the impression of fire-demons scurrying about.

The north wind was not planned; it is of course possible that Jesus sent the wind to ensure his reputation as a prophet, but think coincidence is more likely. Plans were made to start rebuild ing in the spring, but by then it was too late.

Julian Augustus

The next day was 22 October. At dawn, a thousand Galileans assembled to remove the pieces of the late Babylas from the shrine Gallus had built for them. It was all carefully planned. I know because on that same day I too returned to the city and saw the procession.

The Galileans—men and women—wore mourning as they reverently escorted the stone casket which contained the criminal's remains. None looked at me. All eyes were cast down. But they sang ominous dirges for my benefit, particularly, "Damned are they who worship graven images, who preen themselves in idols."

When I heard this, I spurred my horse and cantered past them, followed by my retinue. We kicked up a gratifying amount of dust, which somewhat inhibited the singers. In good spirits I arrived at Antioch.

The next day I learned what had happened in the night. My uncle was delegated to inform me. Everyone else was too frightened.

"Augustus…" My uncle's voice cracked with nervousness. I motioned for him to sit, but he stood, trembling. I put down the letter I had been reading. "You should see Oribasius, Uncle, you look quite ill."

"The temple of Apollo…"

"He's got a herb the Persians use. He says the fever breaks overnight."

"… was burned."

I stopped. Like so many who talk too much, I have learned how to take in what others are saying even when my own voice is overriding them. "Burned? The Galileans?"

My uncle gestured wretchedly. "No one knows. It started just before midnight. The whole thing's burned, gone."

"The statue of Apollo?"

"Destroyed. They claim it was a miracle."

I controlled myself. I have found that one's rage (which in little things is apt to make one quite senseless) at great moments sharpens the senses. "Send me their bishop," I said evenly. My uncle withdrew.

I sat a long time looking out across the plain. The sun hung in the west, red as blood. I allowed myself a vision of perfect tyranny. I saw blood in the streets of Antioch, blood splattered on walls, arcades, basilicas. I would kill and kill and kill! Ah, how I revelled in this vision! But the madness passed, and I remembered that I had weapons other than the sword.

Bishop Meletius is an elegant ironist, in the Alexandrian manner. For a Galilean prelate his Greek is unusually accomplished and he has a gift for rhetoric. But I gave him no opportunity to employ it. The instant he started to speak, I struck the table before me with my open hand. The sound was like a thunderbolt. I had learned this trick from an Etruscan priest, who not only showed me how to make a terrifying sound with one's cupped hand but also how to splinter solid wood with one's bare fingers held rigid. I learned the first trick but have so far lacked the courage to attempt the second, though it was most impressive when the Etruscan did it and not in the least magic. Meletius gasped with alarm.

"You have burned one of the holiest temples in the world."

"Augustus, believe me, we did not…"

"Don't mock me! It is not coincidence that on the day the remains of your criminal predecessor were taken from Daphne to Antioch, our temple which has stood seven centuries was burned."

"Augustus, I knew nothing of it."

"Good! We are making progress. First, it was 'we'. Now it is 'I'. Excellent. I believe you. If I did not, I would this day provide a brand-new set of bones for your followers to worship." His face twitched uncontrollably. He has a tic of some sort. He tried to speak but no sound came. I knew then what it was the tyrants felt when they were in my place. Fury is indeed splendid and exhilarating, if dangerous to the soul.

"Tomorrow you are to deliver the guilty ones to the praetorian prefect. They will be given a fair trial. The see of Antioch will of course pay for the rebuilding of the temple. Meanwhile, since you Galileans have made it impossible for us to worship in our temple, we shall make it impossible for you to worship in yours. From this moment, your cathedral is shut. No services may be held. What treasures you have, we confiscate to defray the costs of restoring what you have burned."

I rose. "Bishop, I did not want this war between us. I have said it and I have meant it: all forms of worship will be tolerated by me. We ask for nothing but what was ours. We take nothing that is lawfully yours. But remember, priest, when you strike at me, you strike not only at earthly power -which is terrible enoughbut at the true gods. And even if you think them not the true, even if you are bitterly atheist, by your behaviour you disobey the teachings of your own Nazarene, whom you pretend to follow. You are hypocrites! You are cruel! You are ravenous! You are beasts!"

I had not meant to say so much, as usual. But I was not displeased that I had spoken out. Trembling and speechless, the Bishop departed. I dare say he will one day publish a long vitriolic sermon, claiming that he had spoken it to my face. Galileans take pride in acts of defiance, especially if the enemy is an emperor. But their reckless denunciations are almost always the work of a later date and often as not composed by another hand.

I sent for Salutius and ordered him to shut down the Golden House. He already had theories about the burning and was confident that in a few days he would be able to arrest the ringleaders. He thought that Meletius was ignorant of the whole affair. I was not so certain; we shall probably never know.

A week later, there were a number of arrests. The man responsible for the burning was a young zealot named Theodore, who had been a presbyter in the charnel house at Daphne. While he was tortured, he sang that same hymn the Galileans sang to me on the road to Antioch. Though he did not confess, he was clearly guilty. Salutius then held a board of inquiry, and to everyone's astonishment the so-called priest of Apollo (the one who had brought me the goose for sacrifice) swore by all the gods that the fire was indeed an accident and that the Galileans were not responsible. As watchman of the temple he has always been in their pay, but because he was known to Antioch as "priest of Apollo", his testimony managed to obscure the issue.

So far I have not had the heart to go back to Daphne. After all I was one of the last to see that beautiful temple as it was. I don't think I could bear the sight of burned walls and scorched columns, roofed only by sky. Meanwhile the Golden House in Antioch will remain closed until our temple is rebuilt. There is much complaint. Good.

Priscus
: I arrived not long after the fire. My season of teaching ended with the old year, and I travelled from Constantinople to Antioch in eight days, which is excellent time. Julian so completely reformed the state transportation system that travel was a pleasure. Not a bishop in sight, though there were several newly appointed high priests in the carriages and I confess I began to wonder if they were any improvement over the Christians. I suspect that had Julian lived, matters would have been just as they were under Constantius, only instead of being bored by quarrels about the nature of the trinity we would have had to listen to disputes about the nature of Zeus's sex life… rather an improvement, come to think of it, but essentially the same thing.

I found Julian much changed. You of course were seeing a great deal of him then, but since you had not known him before, you could not have realized how nervous and ill-humoured he had become. The burning of the temple was not only a sacrilege in his eyes, it was a direct affront to his sovereignty. He always did have trouble keeping in balance his two roles of philosopher and king. The one might forgive and mitigate, but the other must be served, if necessary with blood.

My first day in Antioch, Julian insisted I go with him to the theatre. "At least we can talk if the play is too foolish." Now it happens that I very much like comedy, particularly low farces. No joke is so old that it cannot delight me, if only by its dear familiarity. The comedy that night was The Frogs by Aristophanes. Julian hated it, even the rather good jokes about literary style which ought to have amused him. Julian was not without humour. He had a lively response to bores; some gift of mimicry; and he enjoyed laughing. But he was also conscious every moment of his sacred mission, and this tended to put him on guard against any form of wit which might turn against himself; heroes cannot survive mockery and Julian was a true hero, perhaps the last our race shall put forth.

I was delighted to be in Antioch that day. I enjoy the languorous weather, the perfumed crowds, the wide streets… As you can gather, I like the luxurious and "depraved" ways of your city. If I had the money, I would be living there right now. How I envy you! I was in a fine mood when we arrived at the theatre. We all were. Even Julian was like his old self, talking rapidly, waving with good humour to the crowds that cheered him. But then from the cheaper seats came the ominous cry, "Augustus! Augustus!"

And a chant began, "Everything plentiful, everything dear!" This kept on for half an hour, the voices growing louder until it seemed as if everyone in the theatre was bellowing those words. At last Julian motioned to the commander of the household troops, and a hundred guards appeared so swiftly that they gave the impression of being part of the programme as they gathered about the Emperor with drawn swords. The chanting promptly ceased, and the play, rather dismally, began. The next day the food riots started, but then you, as quaestor, know far more about all this than I.

Libanius
: One curious aspect of human society is that preventive measures are seldom taken to avert disaster, even when the exact nature of the approaching calamity is perfectly plain. In March when the rains did not fall, everyone knew that there would be a small harvest; by May, it was obvious that there would be a food shortage; by June, famine. But though we often discussed this in the senate—and the people in the markets talked of little else but the uncommon dryness of the season—no plans were made to buy grain from other countries. All of us knew what was going to happen, and no one did anything. There is a grim constant in this matter which might be worth a philosopher's while to investigate. It was Julian's bad luck to come to Antioch just when the shortages began. But though he could in no way be blamed for either the dry weather or the city fathers' lack of foresight, the Antiochenes (whose emblem ought to be the scapegoat) immediately attributed the famine to him.

They claimed that the quartering and provisioning of his considerable army had driven up prices and made food scarce. This was true in a few commodities but not in grain, the essential food: corn for the army was imported directly from Egypt. Yet the people of the city were eager to abuse Julian. Why? Bishop Meletius had declared that Julian's fate was decided when he removed the bones of St Babylas from Daphne. That strikes me as a rather special point of view. Meletius also maintains that the people of the city turned against him the day he shut down the cathedral. I doubt this. Some were shocked of course, but the Antiochenes are not devout Christians; they are not devout anything, except voluptuaries. Not wanting to blame themselves for the famine, they blamed Julian, who had made himself ridiculous in their eyes by his continual sacrifices and grandiose revivals of archaic ceremonies.

I confess that even at the time I felt Julian was overdoing it. On one day at Daphne, he sacrificed a thousand white birds, at heaven knows what expense! Then a hundred bulls were sacrificed to Zeus. Later, four hundred cows to Cybele. That was a particularly scandalous occasion. In recent years the rites of Cybele have been private affairs, involving as they do many ceremonies which are outrageous to ordinary morality. Julian decided to make the ceremonial public. Everyone was shocked at the ritual scourging of a hundred youths by the priestesses. To make matters worse, the youths had agreed to take part in the ceremony not out of faith but simply to curry fayour with the Emperor, while the priestesses were almost all of them recent initiates. The result was unhappy. Several young men were seriously hurt and a number of priestesses fainted at the sight of so much blood. The ultimate rites were a confused obscenity.

But Julian grimly persisted, on the ground that no matter how alarming some of these rites may appear to us, each is a part of our race's constant attempt to placate the gods. Every ancient ceremony has its own inner logic, and efficacy. The only fault I find with Julian is that he was in too great a hurry. He wanted everything restored at once. We were to return to the age of Augustus in a matter of months. Given years, I am sure he could have reestablished the old religions. The people hunger for them. The Christians do not offer enough, though I must say they are outrageously bold in the way they adapt our most sacred rituals and festivals to their own ends. A clear sign that their religion is a false one, improvised by man in time, rather than born naturally of eternity.

From the beginning, the Christians tried to allay man's fear of death. Yet they have still not found a way to release that element in each of us which demands communion with the One. Our mysteries accomplish this, which is why they are the envy of the Christians and the enduring object of their spite. Now I am perfectly willing to grant that the Christian way is one way to knowing. But it is not the only way, as they declare. If it were, why would they be so eager to borrow from us? What most disturbs me is their curious hopelessness about this life, and the undue emphasis they put on the next. Of course eternity is larger than the brief span of a man's life, but to live entirely within the idea of eternity is limiting to the spirit and makes man wretched in his day-to-day existence, since his eye must always be fixed not on this lovely world but on that dark door through which he must one day pass. The Christians are almost as death-minded as the original Egyptians, and I have yet to meet one, even my old pupil and beloved friend Basil, who has ever got from his faith that sense of joy and release, of oneness with creation and delight in what has been created, that a man receives when he has gone through those days and nights at Eleusis. It is the meagreness of Christian feeling that disconcerts me, their rejection of this world in fayour of a next which is—to be tactful—not entirely certain. Finally, one must oppose them because of their intellectual arrogance, which seems to me often like madness. We are told that there is only one way, one revelation: theirs. Nowhere in their tirades and warnings can one find the modesty or wisdom of a Plato, or that pristine world of flesh and spirit Homer sang of. From the beginning, curses and complaints have been the Christian style, inherited from the Jews, whose human and intellectual discipline is as admirable as their continuining bitterness is limiting and blighting. I see nothing good ever coming of this religious system no matter how much it absorbs our ancient customs and puts to use for its own ends Hellenic wit and logic. Yet I have no doubt now that the Christians will prevail. Julian was our last hope, and he went too soon. Something large and harmful has now come into the life of this old world. One recalls, stoically, the injunction of Sophocles: