Julian

  "Good," he said at last, stepping outside the circle of the tree's shadow. "At almost any time this year the omens are good. No matter what you attempt, you will succeed."

  "We have come a long way," I said idly, looking down at the city, and the sea beyond. It is awesome to think that everything is one's own, at least for the brief space of a life—which is why I have always the sense I must hurry to get things done, that there is hardly any time at all for a man to impress his quality and passion upon a world which will continue after him, as unconcerned as it was when it preceded him. Each day that I live I say to myself: the visible world is mine, use it, change it, but be quick, for the night comes all too fast and nothing is ever entirely finished, nothing.

  "You have made Praetextatus proconsul of Greece."

  Once again Maximus knew what-until a few moments before—only I had known. Does he read my mind, the way the Chaldeans do? or does he get instruction from his private genius? No matter what his method, he can always anticipate not only my mood but my administrative appointments!

  Priscus: Julian was often wilfully gullible. Maximus had been standing just below the ledge when the announcement was made. He did not need to consult "his private genius", just his ears. As a matter of fact Maximus's ears did resemble those of a fox: long, pointed and slightly bent forward. He was a notorious eavesdropper, proving that nature is always considerate in putting together a man. Though as philosophers, we might argue that a man born with the ears of a fox might then be impelled to become an eavesdropper.

  Julian Augustus

  "I saw something interesting tonight." Maximus took me by the arm and led me along the terrace to a bench which faces the sea. Several small ships were making for the new harbour I am building just to the north. We could hear the long cry of sailors across the waters, and the response from the harbour. "Safe landing," I prayed to Poseidon out of habit. We sat down.

  "All the signs for several weeks have pointed to a marvellous victory for you—for us." He indicated my star, which shone at that moment in the west. I nodded. "I have had good signs, too."

  "Yesterday—while praying to Cybele—the goddess spoke to me."

  I was impressed. Maximus speaks often to gods of the lower rank {and of course to demons of every sort) but very seldom does he hear the voice of Cybele, the Great Mother; Earth herself. Maximus was excited, though he tried to disguise it. He had every reason to be exultant, for to speak with Cybele is an extraordinary feat. No, not feat, for one cannot storm heaven; rather, a beautifuI sign that the prime movers of the universe now thought him ready and worthy to receive their messages.

  "I was praying in her shrine. Down there." He pointed to the makeshift temple I had built near the Daphne Palace. "The chapel was dark, as prescribed. The incense heavy. Her image dim by the light of a single lamp. I prayed as I always pray to her…"

  "The full verses? To the seventh power?"

  He nodded. "Everything, as prescribed. But then, instead of the usual silence and comfort, I felt terror, as if I had strayed to the edge of a precipice. A coldness such as I had never felt before came over me. I thought I might faint, die. Had I offended her? Was I doomed? But then she spoke. The light from the lamp suddenly flared and revealed her image, but it was no longer bronze, it was she!"

  I murmured a prayer to myself, chilled by his account.

  "'Maximus,' she called my name and her voice was like a silver bell. I hailed her by her titles. Then she spoke. 'He whom you love is well loved by me.'"

  I could hardly move or breathe while Maximus spoke. It was as if I myself were now listening to the voice of this goddess.

  "'He whom the gods love as their true son will be Lord of all the earth.'"

  "Persia…?" I whispered. "Did she mean Persia?"

  But Maximus continued in the voice of the goddess.

  "'… of all the earth. For we shall send him a second spirit to aid him in the long marches.'"

  "Hermes?"

  "'One who is now with us shall be with him until he reaches the end of the earth and finishes the work which that spirit began, for our glory.'" Maximus stopped, as though he had come to the end of a page. There was a long silence. I waited, then Maximus turned to me, eyes flashing, beard like water flowing in the moonlight.

  "Alexander!" He breathed the name. "You are to finish his work."

  "In Persia?"

  "And India and all that lies to the farthest east!" Maximus took the edge of my cloak in his hand and held it to his lips, the gesture of a suppliant doing homage. "You are Alexander."

  "If this is true…"

  "If! You have heard her words."

  "Then we shall break Sapor."

  "And after that nothing shall stand in your way from Persia to the eastern ocean. She asks only that you restore her temple at Pessinus."

  "Gladly!"

  Maximus made a secret and holy gesture to my star. I did the same. Then we were interrupted by Priscus, who said in his loud clear voice, "Star-gazing again?"

  Priscus: If I had known what they were up to, I should have had a good deal more to say in my "loud clear voice". From certain things Julian let slip during the Persian campaign I did get the impression that he believed he was in some spectacular way supported by the gods, but I had no idea that he actually thought he was Alexander, or at least had the ghost of Alexander tucked inside of him, located somewhere between the heart and the liver. This particular madness explains a good deal about the last stages of that campaign when Julian-Alexander began to act very peculiarly indeed. Personally, if I were a general, I would not like to be inhabited by another general, especially one who went insane! But Maximus was capable of anything; and Julian never doubted him.

  This is all there is to the Constantinople section of the memoir. Julian intended to give a full account of all his edicts and appointments, but he never got round to it. You can doubtless obtain this material from the Record Office.

  In May, Julian left Constantinople, to tour Galatia and Cappadocia, en route to his winter quarters at Antioch. Though he said nothing publicly, everyone knew that the Eastern army would assemble at Antioch, in readiness for the invasion of Persia. I stayed on in Constantinople because I was hard pressed for money at this time. Unlike Maximus and his wife, who were making a fortune out of their imperial protdgd, I asked for nothing and I got nothing. Julian never thought of money unless you did. Then he was generous. Fortunately, I was able to give a series of lectures at the University. Old Nicocles was most helpful in getting me pupils. You knew him, didn't you? But of course. He forced you to leave the city back in the 40's. A sad business. But Nicocles was a good friend to me and I was soon able to send Hippia quite a large amount of money. Also, Julian allowed me to live at the Sacred Palace while I taught, so my personal expenses were slight. One interesting detail: just before Julian left for Antioch, Oribasius returned from Greece. He was significantly silent and there was no longer any talk of restoring Apollo's temple. It was not until many years later that Oribasius told me what had hal> pened at Delphi, the so-called "navel of the earth".

  Oribasius found modern Delphi very sad indeed. The works of art which had once decorated the numerous shrines are all gone. Constantine alone stole 2,700 statues. There is no sight quite so forlorn as acres of empty pedestals. The town was deserted except for a few tattered Cynics, who offered to show Oribasius about. I've never visited Delphi myself, but one has always heard that the people who lived there were the most rapacious on earth, even worse than the tradesmen at Eleusis. I cannot say that I feel par. ticularly sorry for them now. They had a thousand years of robbing visitors. It was unreasonable to think that this arrangement would last for ever.

  I suspect Oribasius disliked all religion, much the way I do. But where I prefer the mind of man to any sort of magic, Oribasius preferred the body. What he could not see and touch did not interest him. He was an unusual friend for a prince. His only passion was medicine, which I have always regarded as a branch of magic
, though his approach to it was blessedly matter-of-fact. Have you noticed that whenever a physician prescribes such-andsuch a treatment, and one follows it and is cured, he is always slightly surprised? Everything a doctor does is guess-work. That is why he must be as good at acting as any Sophist; his cures depend entirely upon a convincing show of authority.

  At the temple of Apollo, Oribasius called out, "Where is the priest? No answer. He went inside. Part of the roof had fallen in: dust was everywhere. Just behind the pedestal where the god's statue had been, he found a sleeping priest with a half-empty skin of wine beside him. It took Oribasius some minutes to wake the man. When told that Oribasius was the Emperor's envoy, he became quite nervous. "It's been a bad season for the temple, very bad. Our revenues are gone. We don't even get the few visitors we had last year. But you must tell the Augustus that we still go about our holy tasks, even though there's no money to fix the roof, or to pay for sacrifices." He got to his feet, swaying from drink. Oribasius asked about the oracle.

  "Oh, we're still functioning. We have an excellent Pythoness. She's rather old but she gets good results. Apollo talks to her all the time, she says. We're quite pleased with her work. I'm sure you'll find her satisfactory. Naturally, you'll want to talk to her. I'll go ask when she can receive you. She has bad days, you know…" He gestured vaguely. Then he disappeared down a steep flight of steps.

  Oribasius examined the temple. All the famous statues were gone, including the one of Homer which used to be by the door. Incidentally, Julian found this particular statue in a storeroom of the Sacred Palace, and had it set up in his library. I've seen it myself: a fine work, the face full of sadness, Homeric in fact.

  The priest returned to say that the Pythoness would consult the oracle the following day. Meanwhile, the usual propitiatory ceremonies must be enacted, particularly the sacrifice. The priest salivated at the word.

  Next day, Oribasius and the priest sacrificed a goat on the altar outside the temple. As soon as the animal was dead, the priest sprinkled it with holy water and the legs trembled, supposedly a good sign. After this, they entered the temple and descended the steep steps to the crypt. Against his will, Oribasius found the whole nonsense most impressive.

  They sat in a sort of waiting-room cut in rock. Opposite them was a door which led into the cell of the god. Here, from a fissure in the earth, steam rises; here, too, is the navel of the world—the omphalos—a round stone said to have been flung to earth by Zeus. The priestess entered from the temple. She looked at neither priest nor visitor. According to Oribasius, she was immensely old and shrunken and toothless.

  "She is now pure," whispered the priest. "She has just bathed in the Kastalian spring." The Pythoness threw a number of laurel leaves and barley meal on a brazier; the room filled with an acrid smoke. "Now she is making the air pure," said the priest. Then Oribasius, eyes streaming with tears from the smoke, followed the Pythoness into the inner cell where, for a thousand years, Apollo has spoken to man. Just beside the omphalos was a tripod, on which the Pythoness sat, cross-legged, her face bent over the steam as it escaped from the earth below her. She muttered incantations.

  "All right," whispered the priest. "She is ready to hear you."

  In a loud voice Oribasius said: "I come from Flavius Claudius Julianus, Augustus and Pontilex Maximus. He does homage to the god Apollo, and to all the true gods."

  The Pythoness sang softly to herself during this, her attention fixed on the steam at the foot of the tripod.

  "The Augustus wishes guidance from the god Apollo. He will do whatever he is commanded."

  "The question?" The old voice was thin and indistinct.

  "Shall the Emperor restore the holy temple of Delphi?"

  For a long moment the only sound in the shrine was the faint hissing noise steam makes escaping rock. That sound is possibly the origin of the legend that the earth goddess Ge had a son who was a serpent called Python. The serpent controlled the oracle until Apollo killed him and threw the body down a crevice. The steam is supposed to come from the corpse. The hissing sound is the serpent's dying voice.

  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.

  XVIII

  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.