Julian (52 page)

I stayed a number of days at Tarsus, a pleasant town on a lake, connected by canal with the sea. Celsus assembled an interesting group of philosophers to meet me, and we had several enjoyable discussions. The modern Tarsians are quite worthy of their predecessors, the great Stoics of six centuries ago. I even went swimming one afternoon in the Cydnus River, despite the fact that Alexander was almost killed after his swim in that river. Although Tarsus is predominantly Galilean (there are innumerable memorials to the devilish Paul who was born here), I found the inhabitants reasonable and simple in their ways. I was almost sad when it came time to leave. But I consoled myself with the thought that I was exchanging Tarsus for Antioch, the Queen of the East. I shudder now when I recall my excitement.

•          •          •

I arrived at Antioch in the last week of July, on a hot humid day. Just outside the city I encountered a large crowd of men and women. Naturally, I thought they had come to welcome me, and I was about to make them a speech of thanks. But they ignored me, calling out strange words, while waving branches in the air. I looked about for my uncle Julian, but there was no official in sight, only this mob which kept singing rhythmically that "a new star had risen in the east". I'm afraid that I took this to be a reference to myself. One gets used to all sorts of hyperbole. But when I tried to speak to them, they ignored me, their eyes on heaven. At the North Gate the praetorian prefect, Salutius Secundus, my uncle and the senate welcomed me officially. The instant the formal exchanges were finished, I asked, "What is this crowd?"

My uncle was apologetic. Of all days to come to Antioch, I had arrived on that of the festival which commemorates the death of Adonis, the lover of Aphrodite. Adonis is one of the principal gods of Syria, and Maximus and I should have known that this was the day sacred to him. But the mistake was made and there was nothing to be done about it. So I made my entrance into Antioch amid cries and groans and funereal keening, quite spoiling my first impression of the city which, after all, is a beautiful. place inhabited by scum. No, that is not fair. They have their ways and I have mine. I am dog to their cat.

The North Gate is a massive affair made of Egyptian granite. Past the gate, one's first view of the city is dazzling, for the main street is two miles long and lined with double porticoes built in the reign of Tiberius. Nowhere else in the world can you walk beneath a portico for two miles. The street itself is paved with granite and so laid out that it always gets a breeze from the sea, twenty miles away. Always a breeze… except on this day. The air was stifling. The sun oppressive. Sweat streaming from beneath my helmet, I rode grimly towards the forum, while the people remained within their shady porticoes, occasionally moaning that Adonis was dead.

As I rode, I looked about me curiously. To the left is Mount Silpius, which rises abruptly from the plain. Most of the city is contained between the Orontes River on the west and Silpius on the east and south. The finest villas are on the mountain's slopes, where there is morning shade, luxurious gardens, and a fine view of the sea. One of the Seleucid kings, during a year of plague, carved a colossal head in the rock just above the city. It is called the Charonion and it broods over the city like some evil spirit. One sees it from almost every quarter. The natives admire it. I don't, for it represents to me Antioch.

The forum of Tiberius contains a large statue of that emperor as well as an elaborate marble and mosaic nymphaeum built over a spring whose waters Alexander claimed were sweeter than his mother's milk. I drank from it and found the water was good, but then I was extremely thirsty, as Alexander no doubt had been. I cannot recall the taste of my mother's milk, but since Alexander's mother was bitter in all things, no doubt her milk was, too.

Then, accompanied by city officials, I entered the main square of the island in the river where, just opposite the impressive faqade of the imperial palace, stands a brand-new charnel house, begun by Constantine and finished by Constantius. It is octagonal in shape and capped with a gilded dome. The building is known as the Golden House and I must confess that it is a most beautiful example of modern architecture. Even I like it, and I am no modernist. In front of the charnel house stood Bishop Meletius and his fellow priests. We greeted one another politely. Then I entered the palace, most of which was built by Diocletian, who invariably reproduced the same building wherever he was: a rectangle based on a military camp. But in recent years my family has added so much to the old palace that the original austere design has been completely obscured by new buildings and elaborate gardens. Within the palace compound there are baths, chapels, pavilions and, best of all, an oval riding track surrounded by evergreens, a great convenience for me.

I was greeted by the palace chamberlain, an ancient eunuch who was terrified that I would do to him what I had done to the eunuchs in Constantinople. But I put his mind at rest. All that I demanded, I said, was decent behaviour. If I was well served, I would make no changes. Needless to say, I was looked after superbly, an improvement over my last weeks in Constantinople when my bed was often not made and dinner was never on time. There is something to be said for being comfortable, at least when one is not in the field.

I chose an apartment for myself high above the river, with a roofed terrace where I could sit or stroll in the open air, and look across the western plain to the sea. Here I spent most of my time. During the day, I received visitors and worked; in the evening, I was joined by friends. Close to the palace is the Hippodrome, one of the largest in the East. Yes, I did my duty. I attended the games when I had to, though I never stayed for more than six races. There was much ceremonial. I received the senate. I listened to testimonials. I attended the theatre. I made graceful speeches, though Priscus claims that no matter how secular the occasion, soonor or later I get on to the subject of religion! I reviewed the troops who were already there, and made plans for the reception of the legions which had not yet arrived. To the horror of Count Felix, I remitted one fifth of all tax arrears in Syria, on the reasonable ground that since we did not stand much chance of getting these revenues anyway, why not do the popular thing? And I was most popular-for about three months.

•          •          •

In August during a meeting of the Sacred Consistory I received word that Sapor had sent me a messenger with an important letter. I turned to Ormisda who happened to be attending the Consistory that day. "Will he want peace or war?"

"My brother always wants both. Peace for himself. War for you. When you are disarmed, he will arm. When you are armed, he will… write you letters."

The messenger was brought before the Consistory. He was not a Persian but a well-to-do Syrian merchant who had business dealings with Persia. He had just come from Ctesiphon. He knew nothing of politics. He had been asked to deliver a letter. That was all. But a Persian had accompanied him, in order to take my answer back to the Great King. I asked for the Persian to be brought to us. He turned out to be a tall gaunt nobleman, with a face as composed as statuary. Only once did he betray emotion: when Ormisda addressed him in his native tongue. Startled, he answered. Then when he realized who Ormisda was, his mouth set. He was silent. I asked Ormisda what he had said to him. "I inquired about his father. I know his family," said Ormisda mildly. "He seems not to admire you. Perhaps we can change that." I gave Ormisda the letter and he read it rapidly in the soft sibilant Persian tongue. Then he translated. Briefly, Sapor wished to send me an embassy. Nothing more; but the implication was plain.

"He wants peace, Augustus," said Ormisda. "He is afraid." He handed me the letter. I let it drop to the floor, an affront to a fellow sovereign. I turned to Ormisda.

"Tell the Persian that there is no need for Sapor to send us an embassy, since he will see me soon enough at Ctesiphon."

The war was now officially resumed.

•          •          •

At Antioch I dictated ten, even twenty, hours at a stretch, until my voice gave out; then I would whisper as best I could. Still there was not enough time to do what I had to do. The reaction to the two February edicts has not been good. The Galileans in Caesarea set fire to the local temple of Fortune. I fined the city and changed its name back to Mazaca; it does not deserve the title of Caesarea. I received private information from Alexandria that my enemy, Bishop Athanasius, has not left the city, though I had expressly banished him from Egypt. Instead he is living hidden in the house of an extremely rich and beautiful Greek woman who, my informant suggests, is his mistress. If this is so, we have a splendid weapon to use against him, since much of his authority derives from the so-called holiness of his life. I have given orders that he be kept under surviellance until the right moment comes for us to expose his venery. When Athanasius was told I had exiled him, he is supposed to have said, "It is a little cloud that will soon pass." He is remarkably confident.

I also ordered the Seraphion at Alexandria rebuilt, and I restored to it the ancient Nilometer which is used to record the levels of the Nile. The Galileans had moved the Nilometer to one of their own buildings. I moved it back. During this time I strengthened the Antioch senate by adding to it (despite their piteous protests) two hundred of the richest men of the city.

In September, with Maximinus's help, I composed the most important edict of my reign so far: concerning education. I have always felt that much of the sucess of the Galilieans have had was due to their mastery of Hellenic writing and argument. Skilled in our religion, they turn our own weapons against us. Now we never ask our priests to teach the writings of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, and not merely because they wrote bad Greek. No. Our priests do not believe in the Nazarene-god. Therefore why should we offend thos who do believe in him by teaching the works of his apologists? But Galieans teach our classics in every university in the world. They teach them as models of style and wit, while discarding what they say is untue. This is intolerable. I therefore decreed that no Galilean be allowed to teach the classics. Naturally, the sternness of this law has been resented and I am sorry for the hurt it has caused certain admirable men. But I had no choice. Either the line is clearly drawn between the gods of Homer on the one hand and the followers of the dead Jew on the other, or we shall be quite absorbed in the general atheism of the day. Friends of mine disagree with me; Priscus in particular. But Maximus and I stood firm. At first I made no exceptions to the law, but then I modified itto allow Prohaeresius at Athens and Marius Victorinus at Rome to continue teaching. Both accepted gladly. In Constantinople my old teacher Ecebolius forsook the Galilean madness, and in a most eloquent delaration returned to the true gods.

Priscus
: Julain here is misrepresnting everything. Ecebolius we know about. Whatever the reigning emperor worshipped, Ecebolius adored. Now I was not at Athens when the dict took effect, but Prohaeresius told me later that he himself promptly stopped teaching. Later, when his personal exemption arrived, he still refused to teach, declaring that though the edict was highly unjust, if it was to be law, it must at least be consistent. This sounds rather braver than, in fact, it was, for the day the edict was published Prohaeresius paid a visit to his old friend the Hierophant. I don't know how the Hierophant did it, but he had a genius for guessing the future. He was the only soothsayer who ever impressed me. By the way, he has just predicted the destruction of all the temples in Greece within this decade. I don't know whether he means by Theodosius or by the Goths. From the way the tribes are gathering on our borders, I suspect the latter.

Anyway, Prohaeresius had a chat with the Hierophant. Now obviously he could not ask him directly about Julian's life expectancy. That was treason. But he could ask about one of Julian's pet projects: the reassessment of all Achaian real estate in order that the land taxes might be lowered. Prohaeresius pretended to be worried about some property his wife owned. Should she sell it now? or wait until the tax went into effect? Sell it now, said the Hierophant (no breathing from a steaming rock or magic spells), the tax cut will not take place. Prohaeresius then knew that Julian's reign would be short.

Julian was quite right when he said that I opposed the Edict on Education. I thought it cruel, as well as impossible to regulate. At least half the good teachers in the universities are Christian. Who could replace them? But Julian at this period was more and more showing the strain of his huge work. In a way, it was a pity that he was not a Tiberius, or even a Diocletian. Had he turned butcher, he might have got his way. Though the Christians declare that their blood is semen, an emperor whose sole intent is their destruction might succeed through violence, especially if he were at the same time creating an attractive alternative religion. But Julian had made up his mind that he would be a true philosopher. He would win through argument and example. That was his mistake. On,e has only to examine what the Christians believe to realize that reason is not their strong point. Only the knife might have converted them to Julian's beliefs. But, good man that he was, his blade was sheathed.

Despite Julian's resolve to be serene, the continual bad news from the provinces affected him. He grew irritable and began to retaliate. The Edict on Education was, he thought, a terminal blow. If he had lived, it might have worked, though I doubt it. At heart he was too mild to have made it stick. In all of this he was constantly egged on by Maximus, who was at his most insufferable those months in Antioch.

Libanius
: For once Priscus and I are in complete agreement. Maximus was neither Sophist nor philosopher, neither lawyer nor teacher. He was a magician. Now I have never not believed in magic (after all, there is so much that is familiar which we cannot comprehend), but the magic of Maximus was obvious fakery and the influence he exerted over Julian was deplorable.