Gods and Legions (32 page)

Julian bristled at my skepticism. 'Maximus,' he declared, 'has led me to the True Faith.'

I was dumbfounded. 'But, Julian,' I said, 'how can that be? Maximus is not a Christian, and you were already well versed in Christianity long before you made his acquaintance.'

'I said he led me to the True Faith,' he repeated, slowly and emphatically, his steely eyes fixed on me. 'I said nothing of Christianity.'

Julian's face was dead serious, and he had lapsed into silence, waiting for my reaction. I realized the abyss opening before me, and turned my face to the side. I was horrified, and grew only more so as the evening wore on and he impassively recounted to me his initiation into Maximus' mysteries.

'I set out for Ephesus and stayed for a year,' Julian continued, 'undertaking a regular course of study in theurgy and divination. Of course I still worshiped at the Christian churches, and counted many devout Christians among my closest friends. I could hardly have done otherwise, with Constantius' spies peering at me from every direction. Still, I found time and the occasion to meet secretly with Maximus and his followers, and in the end was officially initiated into the theurgic mysteries. You look pale, Caesarius' – he smiled, a combination of wickedness and indulgence I once saw on the face of an executioner when answering some pitiful procedural question from his victim before the deadly act – 'have you heard enough to satisfy your curiosity, or shall I tell you more?'

I stared at him, open-mouthed, and nodded wordlessly, which he took as my consent to hear the remainder of his story.

'I am not permitted to recount to you the sacred mysteries themselves. The secrets of Mithras have been guarded for centuries, and I am bound by my vows not to disclose them. Initiation is a long and terrible process, subject to many trials and tests, though because of the circumstances, my own was a hurried, compressed affair. Maximus inducted me in a private ceremony, separate from all his other disciples, for which I was greatly honored and flattered. On a night of full moon, he descended with me into an underground sanctuary, a hole wherein spirits dwelt, of such kind as require complete darkness and the subterranean damp to thrive. We walked slowly through the stone tunnel, a cold, dripping place that smelled of mildew and death, lit only by an occasional sputtering torch, and there, Caesarius, I encountered terrors such as I never imagined in my life – terrors which only increased in their intensity as my fears grew. Earsplitting screams from empty corners, revolting exhalations from cracks in the floor, fiery apparitions, such prodigies as you can never have imagined!'

I sat rooted to my chair, Brother, speechless at what Julian was relating.

'Several times I held back, and my courage had to be revived by Maximus, but still we pressed onward, until the demons began to gather strength, floating objects in midair, even throwing them at me. I challenged them, and they backed away hissing like serpents, and my courage rose. I couldn't drive them off entirely, for they were returning faster and more furiously as I advanced deeper into the cave – but I had overcome their power.

'But of course you did!' I cried, standing up triumphantly. 'How could you not, with Christ on your side?'

'Sit down!' he snapped at me, and I stopped short, startled by his vehemence. He glared at me a moment, and then continued.

'We finally reached the end, a tiny room cut directly into the solid rock, like a tomb – and indeed, in the far wall a narrow ledge had been cut, on which a long, white object lay. Maximus ordered a torch to flare, and it did so immediately of its own accord, and I could see by the light that the object was a young woman, wrapped in funeral vestments and lying as if dead. Perhaps, I thought, this was the source of the putrid odor that had been growing stronger as I advanced up the tunnel.

'Maximus pointed at her and issued a command in a strange and ancient language, and as I watched, the woman slowly rose from her ledge to a standing position and passed silently to the middle of the room, light and airy as if she were actually floating on a cushion of air. She was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, her hair plaited in the ancient style and her face lightly veiled. Her eyes were open and she was gazing at me. In her hands was a large bundle, the cornucopia, and this she extended straight out from her body and advanced slowly to me, walking on the ground but making no sound, bodiless as air, like a fleeting dream. Just before she reached me, the torch sputtered out and she faded from my sight, much to my agony, for by this time I was no longer frightened, but enchanted, and longed to touch and caress her.

'I needn't tell you, Caesarius, that this was the same vision I had seen on those nights in Gaul, though this was the very first time it had appeared to me. The woman, Rome's guardian spirit, has appeared to me many times since, both visibly and... invisibly. Though I never touch her, I speak to her often, and she is a source of great comfort to me.'

I was thunderstruck when I left his rooms that evening, struggling to focus on what he had told me, and the implications of it all. For thirty-five years the Empire had been a Christian one, or at least led by Christian emperors. During that time Christianity had experienced huge growth in its followers and in the numbers of churches dedicated to the worship of Christ, often through a reconsecration of temples to the pagan gods, the former sites of horrifying orgiastic festivals and sacrifices. Christ was winning the greatest battle for souls in history! Was Julian about to forfeit the victory before it could be counted? I was aghast at the lightness and ease with which he had cast aside his Christian convictions, even more appalled at the fact that this had happened so many years before and yet he had kept the secret for so long, from so many – from all, that is, until he had finally been proclaimed Emperor of all the lands that Rome ruled, and was now safe in the profession of any belief he chose.

II

For weeks I kept to myself except when absolutely needed, shocked at the implications of his conversion, and had not yet determined whether I could continue to serve an emperor who was no longer Christian. At least I had a choice in that regard; one does not, however, have the choice of
living
under a non-Christian emperor, when that emperor's dominions cover the entire known world. Word had spread quickly throughout the city of Julian's welcome of Maximus and his open apostasy, and the population was in an uproar, though a divided one. Bishops denounced him from the pulpit and Christian women openly wept as he passed in the streets, praying out loud for his salvation; but the city's pagans, who were still the vast majority, celebrated jubilantly and defiantly, and he was showered with invitations to attend the various celebrations of the ancient deities, and participate in the sacrifices, which he made every effort to do. He filled the gardens and rooms of the palace with statues and altars to the gods, to the point that they even resembled temples. Every morning he saluted the arrival of his titular deity, Helios the Sun, with the sacrifice of a white ox, and in the evening, at the moment the sun disappeared below the horizon, the blood of more victims was spilled. On days of public festivals the bloodletting was more extreme, involving sometimes dozens of bawling animals, and lasting throughout the entire morning until he had to be rushed from the altar by the eunuchs responsible for protocol, who washed him and changed his clothes in time for the more public ceremonies, when he received and rewarded his troops.

At these, as is traditional, his throne was encircled by the military ensigns of Rome and the republic. And while Christ's initials were surreptitiously removed from the
labarum,
the imperial standard which from Constantine's time had borne representations of those letters along with a crown and a cross, the symbols of pagan superstition were so cleverly embedded in the design and adornments of office that even a faithful Christian ran the risk of idolatry merely by respectfully saluting his sovereign. The soldiers passed before him in review, and each man, before receiving a generous donative from the hand of Julian himself, was required to cast a few grains of incense into the flame burning upon the altar. A few good Christians might refuse, or at the least confess and repent afterwards, but far greater numbers, attracted by the gold and awed by the emperor, entered into the diabolic contract. Since I myself refused even to view such atrocities, I found myself sadly contemplating a smaller role in Julian's inner circle – to his chagrin and wonder, as he could not imagine why I might be concerned with the religious beliefs of another, and to the evident pleasure of Maximus, who regarded me as a rustic interloper with a mere journeyman's education and culture. By now, the notion had formed in my mind of quitting Constantinople and finding my own path, yet I hesitated, thinking perhaps that Julian was merely passing through a phase, that he would return soon to his old self, and that I should not be too hasty in removing myself from his court.

Shortly after the new year, in an effort to combat the winter doldrums into which the city had fallen after the frenzy of the succession and the Christmas season, Julian determined to stage a series of games and combats in the circus. This prospect he at first looked upon with resignation, as a pastime unfitting for the mind of a philosopher. The entire time we were in Gaul he had never once attended the games, for in provincial cities such as Sens and Paris, in any case, only second-rate spectacles and gladiators would have performed. Even now, in the grandest city of the world, he was unsure whether they were worth his while. I reminded him of the danger of this attitude, for even the great Julius Caesar had once so offended the Roman people as to threaten a riot, when he demonstrated indifference by reading dispatches during the course of a race. Julian gradually warmed to the idea, however, and resolved to stage a three-day series of games, culminating in a gladiator battle that would be worthy of his accession to Constantius' throne.

And in this he begged my attendance. 'It's time for a diversion, Caesarius, if only for a day or two,' he said. 'You're disappointed in me, I know. A change of view is what we need.'

We were late arriving that day because of pressing business that had kept him at the palace – vastly late, to the irritation of the crowd, which typically looked forward as much to viewing the Emperor and his entourage in the box as the actual combat down below. The preliminary rounds had already been fought, and the mob had begun clamoring for the event for which it had paid, the battle between champions. It was only at this time that Julian arrived, followed by myself and a modest train of courtiers. The crowd erupted in cheers as he took his seat and nodded to the president of the circus to announce the climactic event.

There was at this time a Gallic champion with the unpronounceable nickname of Vercingetorix, in commemoration of the powerful Arverni chieftain who had so vexed Julius Caesar centuries before. He was said to have never been defeated in gladiatorial combat – which goes without saying, because all battles at this level were to the death. The man was huge – a good head taller than average, and solid muscle from head to toe, with long, auburn hair flowing loose to his waist and enormous mustaches streaming down the sides of his chin, a source of fascination to the crowd. As Vercingetorix was announced he sauntered into the arena to deafening cheers, as nonchalant as if returning from the market, his hands swinging freely at his sides, nodding casually up to acquaintances he recognized in the stands. He wore only a crimson loincloth and a dark, polished-leather helmet that obscured the entire top of his face, with openings for his eyes, serving the dual purpose of keeping his impressive hair out of his vision, and lending him a terrifying appearance, like that of an executioner. He wore sturdy sandals and a tiny string around his neck, which appeared all the more thin and fragile by contrast with the brawniness and rippling sinews of his shoulders and chest. A tiny object hung from the thread, which he kissed as if it were a talisman as he stopped short in front of the Emperor's box, his enormous sword hung casually at his right side from his broad belt. His shield, a custom-made affair of at least four thicknesses of ox hide overlayered with a sheet of bronze and studded with costly jewels and gold inlay, hung from its carrying strap across his shoulder, like a trophy on display. Although Vercingetorix was young, perhaps no more than twenty-five, one could tell at a glance that he was a showman as well as a supreme fighter, and he cultivated the appearance of a barbarian chieftain, much to the crowd's delight. He stood motionless before us, staring at the Emperor through his mask, his massive chest rising and falling slowly, and I marveled that a man could stand naked before a hundred thousand people, about to fight in combat to the death, and breathe so deeply and calmly.

'Where were men like that when we were fighting Chonodomarius, Caesarius? Julian asked in a whisper, gazing in amazement at the warrior's sheer bulk. The sun glinted off the tiny talisman hanging from his neck, almost buried in the mat of reddish hair covering his chest, and I saw that it was a cross.

The president of the circus then announced Vercingetorix' opponent, a Romanized Syrian giant, taller even than the Gaul, though less Herculean in build, with long, rangy arms and a quick, nervous spring to his step as he trotted across the arena to take his place at his rival's side, facing us. This man was darker, with deep olive skin and a head almost shorn but for a layer of short, bristly hairs. He was older than the Gaul by some ten or fifteen years, and his face was scarred like one who has survived many such battles, with his nose lying lopsidedly to one side. Perhaps the most salient feature about his physique was the inordinate size of his right biceps and forearm, his sword arm; the forearm alone bulged to almost twice the size of its comrade on the left, with a swell almost like that of a thigh muscle, from years of exercise and training in swordsmanship.

He, too, was naked but for a loincloth and a large sword and shield, though his weapons were completely unadorned, lacking even in polish, as of one who refrained from all external frills or distractions that might burden him in the task at hand. He looked like a military man, and indeed, a courtier nearby whispered to me that he was a former legionary, plucked from his army duties in the East by imperial scouts who had been impressed by his size and fighting ability. His reputation was as a
scutarius,
a gladiator favoring the large shield and sword. Leo, for that was the name he had chosen, was famed throughout the Empire for his long reach and his lightning speed; and the cheers of the crowd when his name was announced were soon drowned by the cries of the bookies and the bettors as they adjusted their odds and placed their final wagers on the match's outcome.

Side by side they stood, Vercingetorix and Leo, staring hard at Julian, until with a nod from the president, an orchestra blasted a cacophonous fanfare and the crowd fell silent. At another nod, the two warriors simultaneously raised their right arms in salute, and intoned the customary greeting in clear, confident voices:
Ave, Imperator, morituri te salutant!
'Hail, Emperor, those who are about to die salute you!' They then retreated several paces in opposite directions to mount their shields, still keeping their eyes expectantly on the imperial box. At the final nod, this time from Julian himself, they drew their swords, turned away, and looked at each other for the first time.

A fever seemed to grip the stadium as the combatants warily circled each other, every man in the crowd standing and straining to see over the heads of those in front of him, bellowing at the top of his lungs the name of his favorite, or the action to be taken: 'Strike, Gaul!' 'Slaughter him, Leo!' 'I've bet my house on you!' 'I've wagered my daughter on your head!' 'Kill him!' 'Kill the bastard!'

The fighters clashed fiercely but cautiously, ducking and bobbing their heads right and left, performing half lunges with their swords, each testing the reflexes of the other, their eyes fixed only on each other's eyes, unblinking, focused with a concentration that blotted out all other sights around them.

Suddenly the Syrian launched himself forward, his shield held high in a tremendous lunge, landing with a crash on the Gaul's shield. The crowd's roar swelled as the two scuffled for an instant, their swords flailing and hammering, the Gaul suffering a glancing blow on his left shoulder that seemed to enrage him. Summoning all the force in his legs, he sprang forward against Leo, who was still bearing down upon him with his shield. The Syrian, overpowered by Vercingetorix' superior weight and strength, let the Gaul's momentum carry him forward, while he himself fell and rolled deftly on his back away from his opponent's rush. Vercingetorix, however, was too skilled to be fooled by such an old trick. He skidded to a stop and whirled just as Leo was again leaping to his feet. Disappointed that he had missed a chance to impale his enemy while he was down, Vercingetorix relaxed slightly to prepare for his next move, dropped his shield a few inches, and stole a glance at his bleeding shoulder.

That was the mistake the wily Syrian had been waiting for. During his entire roll and feint, Leo's eyes had never left those of Vercingetorix. Now, in that split second when he saw the Gaul glance away, when he detected the tiniest hint of distraction in his enemy's attention, he leaped.

The Gaul's glance shot back toward Leo, but it was too late. There was no time to brace himself for the assault, to set his stance and raise his shield to deflect the Syrian's outstretched sword. Startled, Vercingetorix momentarily lost his form, and had time only to take a clumsy step to one side to avoid his adversary's rush. This, however, was what Leo had anticipated. Rushing past him like a Spanish bull-leaper, his shoulder barely brushing the Gaul's, Leo reached behind with his sword arm as he passed, and with a single, clean stroke downward, he cleaved through the back of the Gaul's knee, severing the tendons that support the leg as easily as if they were taut tent strings. His lunge carried him forward, and he continued in an easy trot for several steps, waving his fist in a brief salute to the crowd, knowing from the frenzied roar that his plan had borne fruit.

I glanced over at Julian: he was transfixed, an expression of awe and fervor in his face as he surveyed the bloody sand of the arena. A strange light had come to his eye, an avid gleam almost of eagerness, a thirsting for violence seen only among men in the heat of battle, in the very act of killing. The Syrian champion slowly circled back to the center where the Gaul had sunk down onto his injured right knee, his left leg out in front of him bent at a right angle, a widening pool of black forming in the sand beneath him. Despite his desperate situation now, unable to move from his position, Vercingetorix seemed unperturbed: his massive shoulders were still erect, his huge chest barely moving. I saw beneath the leather mask that his mouth remained closed as he breathed easily through his nostrils. He gave his great mane of hair a shake to remove it from his shoulders and allow it to flow more neatly down his back – even then the man retained his vanity! – and slowly and deliberately he assumed the combat position with his shield and sword and awaited the Syrian's next move.

It was not long in coming. The Syrian circled Vercingetorix twice as he knelt in the sand, disdaining the easiest and most obvious maneuver of simply lunging at him from behind, whence the Gaul, unable to rotate quickly on his injured knee, could not defend himself. Instead he faced Vercingetorix full in front, his shield dropped at a lopsided angle, knowing that the Gaul would be unable to attack; and slowly, deliberately, he raised his own sword to aim directly at his opponent's chest, his long arm and weapon forming a single, straight, unified line of death. 'Almighty Zeus, strengthen my arm!' he shouted, and the crowd roared. His knees flexed as he prepared to make the special spring and pounce that had given him his nickname, 'the Lion.'