by Gore Vidal
"A freedwoman. She was my slave."
I was amused by this unexpected sign of vigour in one in whom I had thought such things had long since been forgotten. But then Libanius had rather a scandalous reputation when he first taught at Constantinople. He was often in trouble with young girls of good family (and young boys, too), if one is to believe his envious rivals. I do and I don't. There is usually some truth to gossip, except when it concerns me!
"This child—his name is Cimon—cannot of course be made my legal heir. Up till now I've been able to provide for him. But when I die, he'll be penniless, no better than a slave. In fact, he could be sold into slavery if he were not protected."
"You want me to recognize him as your legal heir?"
"Yes, Augustus. The law of course . ."
"… is quite clear. It cannot be done. But I can get round it by special decree. Make out a deposition, and I'll present it myself to the Consistory." He thanked me profusely. I had never before seen Libanius humanly moved; it was most impressive. Usually, he is entirely the philosopher, serene and explicit, his only passion that for ideas. But now he was a father, and I was touched.
We then spoke of the coming campaign. I asked him to come with me, but he pleaded infirmity and I was forced to agree that a man with failing sight and severe gout would find life in the field torture.
"But I do wish, my dear friend," (now that Libanius was no longer a subject asking a fayour of his ruler, he reverted to being teacher with pupil) "you would reconsider this military adventure."
"Reconsider? I have no choice. We are at war."
"We have been at war for many years with Persia. But war does not necessarily mean invasion this year."
"But the omens…"
"The omens are not good. I have heard about the Sibylline books."
There are no secrets. I cursed silently to myself, wondering who had betrayed me. I had expressly forbidden the priests from Rome to tell anyone what the books advised. "I have reinterpreted the prophecy," I said flatly. "Besides, both Delphi and Delos are favourable."
"Augustus." He was now solemn. "I am sure that you will defeat Persia. I have perfect faith in your destiny. I only wish that you would put off going until next year. You have set in motion a hundred reforms. Now you must see to it that they take effect. Otherwise, the Galileans will undo everything the moment you are out of sight. You cannot control them from the field or even from the ruins of Ctesiphon."
Libanius is right of course and I continually worry, particularly now, at what is happening in my absence. But I told him what I believe to be true: that as conqueror of Persia I would be more than ever awesome to the Galileans, who would see in my victory a clear sign of heaven's favour to me. This useful end is worth a few months' confusion at home.
Libanius was not convinced, but he said no more and we talked of other matters. I find him inspiring, though somewhat longwinded, a traditional fault of great teachers. I am sure that I would be long-winded, too, except for the fact that in conversation I can never sustain any subject for very long. I shift rapidly from point to point, expecting those who are listening to fill in the gaps. They often don't. But in talking with Libanius there are no gaps or incompleted sentences. Listening to him is like being read to from a very long book, but what a splendid book!
• • •
Since I am writing these notes as history as well as for my own amusement, I should perhaps set down the reasons for this present war with Persia. One of the faults of most historians is that they take too much for granted. They assume that the reader must know the common things they know; therefore, they tell only the uncommon things, details ferreted out of archives and from private conversations. It is frustrating to read most history, because so many times one can see the author hovering on the verge of explaining some important fact and then shying away out of fear of dullness; everyone knows that:, the author says to himself, and I won't bore the reader (and myself) by telling him what he already knows.
But if one is writing to be read a hundred years from now or, with luck (and a continued interest in one's period), even a thousand years, like great Homer, then all those things we take so much for granted today will be quite unknown to those who come after. So we must explain things that every schoolboy now living knows. For instance, everyone knows that Constantius would not eat fruit, but is it likely that anyone will know—or care—in the next century? Yet it is a point to be made about him, and worth exploring on religious grounds.
I confess that I do have some hope of being read by the future, not because of my negligible literary art nor because of my deeds (though I hope they will be great), but because I am an emperor and I mean to be candid. Such autobiographies cannot help but be interesting. Marcus Aurelius is the supreme example. But the other memoirs which have come down to us are also interesting, especially the commentaries of Julius Caesar and the fascinating if calculated memoirs of Octarian Augustus. Even Tiberius's clumsy autobiography is interesting, particularly his attack on Sejanus… There! I have strayed from my point. I ask the pardon of my poor secretary, who can barely keep his eyes open as I talk, faster and faster, for in my fatigue I often have the most extraordinary bursts of clarity. At such moments the gods are near; my beloved Hermes hovers at my side. But in the interest of good form, I shall of course revise all that I have dictated, cutting out those parts where I tend to ramble.
The future will want to know why I am invading Persia. I am quite sure that there are many at this very moment who do not understand what I am trying to do. It is of course taken for granted that we must protect our boundaries and occasionally annex new provinces. Though Salutius and the literary men who are with me know how this war started, I am confident that neither Nevitta nor Arintheus has the slightest idea why I have taken the field against Sapor. Nor do they care. They think I want plunder and military glory, because that is what they want. Well!, I am not without a certain love of worldly glory—though I deplore it in myself—but that is not why I must prosecute this war. Persia (or Parthin as we ceremonially call it in imitation of our ancestors) has always been the traditional enemy of Rome. There have been occasional generations of peace, but for the most part we have been in conflict ever since the wars against Mithridates brought Rome to Parthia's border four centuries ago.
The present war began in an almost frivolous way. Some thirty years ago an adventurer named Metradorus made an expedition to India. He was received generously by the king of India, who presented him with a number of gifts from the king to the Emperor Constantine. As I piece together the story, this Metradorus was a singular liar and schemer. When he returned home he gave Constantine the Indian presents but claimed that they were his own gifts to the emperor. Then, afraid that Constantine might wonder why there was no gift from the king of India, Metradorus declared that there had indeed been many rich gifts, but that the Persians had confiscated them en route, in the name of Sapor.
Constantine, partly out of greed, partly out of policy, wrote Sapor, demanding that he return the gifts. Sapor did not deign to answer him. Constantine sent another angry letter (copies are to be found in the Sacred Archives). Finally, Sapor answered: he demanded Mesopotamia and Armenia as rightful territories of the Persian crown; there was no mention of the presents. Constantine declared war on Sapor, but before he could take the field he was dead.
For most of Constantius's reign, Sapor was relatively inactive. He had political problems in his own country. But then in 358, he sent Constantius a most arrogant embassy, again demanding Mesopotamia and Armenia. Much alarmed, Constantius sent an embassy to Ctesiphon, headed by Count Lucillianus and my cousin Procopius. Our ambassadors were duly alarmed by Sapor, and they advised Constantius to maintain the status quo. But even this was not possible when Sapor laid siege to the border city of Amida, leading his army in person; an innovation, by the way, for in the old days the Great King never appeared in battle, his life being considered too sacred to risk in combat.
A
mida fell. It was a terrible defeat for Rome. Sapor was surprisingly merciful to the inhabitants. Even so, we have lost an important city, and our border defences are dangerously weakened. When I succeeded Constantius, I looked through all his military papers and talked with his commanders, but I could not find what if any plan he had for defeating Sapor. I was forced to start from the beginning. Now I am ready.
It is my plan to conquer Persia in three months. I have no alternative. For if I fail none of the reforms I have proposed will ever come to pass, nor can our state long survive between the continual harassment of the Goths on our borders to the north and the Persians to the east. Also, and I confess it honestly, I want the title Parthicus after my name and an arch to my memory in the forum at Rome. Not since Alexander has a Greek or Roman commander conquered Persia, although some, like Pompey, pretended to, after small victories. I dream of equalling Alexander. No, I must be honest: I dream of surpassing him! And are we not one, in any case? I want India. I want China beyond. Upon the shore of that blood-dark sea to the farthest east, I would set the dragon standard and not simply for the glory (though the very thought of it makes me dizzy… oh, where is philosophy now?), but to bring the truth about the gods to all those lands bending towards the sun, the god from whom all life flows. Also, Persia is to me a holy land, the first home of Mithras and Zarathrustra. It will be, for me, a homecoming.
I always keep a biography of Alexander at my bedside. It is finished with living it. He intended to write an account of his Persian campaign and the notes he made during those last months are fascinating.
I hope my occasional commentary has not been too burdensome. I think it is always good to get as many viewpoints as possible of the same event, since there is no such thing as absolute human truth. You should be pleased at Julian's final reference to you. He admired you tremendously. I cannot think what he meant when he called you "long-winded". You are merely thorough. But then Julian was often like a child whose span of attention is capricious. I shall be very curious to see what you do with this memoir. By the way, whatever happened to your son Cimon? Did Julian make him your legal heir? Naturally, one has heard of Cimon's exploits as a lawyer, but I never realized he was a child of yours. You are full of surprises.
Libanius to Priscus Antioch, July 380
I have been working for some weeks on my preface to the memoir of Julian, which will, I hope, set this work in its proper historical frame. May I say that your notes have been of the greatest-perhaps even decisive—value to me? Just this morning as I was reviewing the last pages of the work, so tragically cut short, I noticed a phrase of yours which had escaped my attention. You say that Julian was planning to write an account of his Persian campaign. You then add: "the notes he made during those last months are fascinating". Is there more text? I had thought the memoir was all that was left. Do let me know, for I am impatient to start a final "shaping" of the work.
Yesterday I paid a call on my old friend Bishop Meletius. You recall him, I am sure, from your visit here. He is much aged and rather fragile, but he has kept all his wits. I intimated that! might be doing a new work on Julian, using previously unpublished material. He thinks this might be a mistake. "Theodosius is a Spaniard," he said, meaning, I suppose, that the Emperor has all the stern uncompromising violence of that race. "It is one thing to send him a graceful essay 'On Avenging Julian', whose merit was literary rather than political", (I thought my work highly political) "but it is quite something else to challenge the Church, especially now that the Emperor has been saved by Christ." I never know if Meletius is serious or not. His tendency to be ironic has so increased with age that he seems never to mean what he says.
Meletius also told me that the Emperor expects to be in Constantinople this autumn. So I shall wait until then to see him. I also learned that the poisonous Gregory, now a bishop, is urging that a new Ecumenical Council meet next year, probably in the capital. There is also talk that he is angling to be made bishop of Constantinople. No doubt of it, his career has been a success. But then those people usually do well. I extend my best wishes to your wife Hippia, and of course to yourself.
Added: Julian died before he was able to legitimize my son. Due to religious bigotry and the continuing perseverance of academic enemies, none of Julian's successors was willing to do the humane thing in this matter. I now pin my hopes—without much hopeon Theodosius.
Priscus to Libanius Athens, September 580
You must forgive me for not answering your letter earlier, but I have been ill. A mild stroke has drawn down the side of my mouth in a peculiarly sinister way. I now look like one of the infernal deities and country folk make the sign to ward off the evil eye when they see me tottering along the road to the Academy.
Happily, my mind is not affected. If it is, then—equally happily—I don't know it. So all's well.
It is now definite that Theodosius will spend the winter at Constantinople and you ought to go see him. It's only a ten-day journey. He is reasonable, I am told, but much impressed by his miraculous recovery. Whether he would sanction your project is another matter, but you can lose nothing by trying. He won't eat you. Also your being a friend of the Empress in the West will do you no harm. She is most active politically and, some say, had a hand in her husband's raising Theodosius to the purple. Use her name freely. But then I hardly need advise the famous quaestor of Antioch in how to put a case!
Yes, Julian left a considerable journal describing the day-by-day campaign. I have been annotating it with a thought perhaps of publication, though I should need at least some of your courage to go through with it, for this work is far more dangerous than the memoir. Julian knew all about the plot against his life; as did I. I also know what he did not, the identity of his murderer.
I have nearly finished the work of annotation. I have been slowed up recently as a result of my stroke, but I hope to get at it soon again. If I decide not to punish, I should of course be pleased to sell you the work at the same price you paid for the memoir. The cost of copying is still what it was here at Athens. If anything, it has gone up.
I hope your vision is not any worse; at our age nothing gets better. My student Glaucon was delighted to meet you last spring when he delivered the manuscript, but saddened to find your sight so greatly impaired. Oribasius used to have a non-surgical cure for cataract, but I have forgotten it. Look in his encyclopedia. It should be in the latest edition, but if you don't have that, look it up in Galen. That's probably where he got it from.
Hippia sends you her best wishes, as always. She is eternal. She will bury us all. She certainly looks forward to burying me. We spend quite a lot of time eyeing one another, each speculating on which will outlast the other. Until this stroke, I thought I had a clear edge. Now I'm not so sure. She was quite thrilled when I was sick, and gay as a girl for several days "looking after" me.
Libanius: On top of everything else, Priscus is a thief. Our agreement was plain. I was to get everything Julian left for the original price. Then he holds back the most important work of all and there is nothing I can do but submit to this robbery and pay the price! I must say I hope Hippia will soon be a widow. Priscus is a terrible man!
Priscus to Libanius Athens, October 380
Here is the journal, as I promised. I have done extensive notes, which you are free to use in any way you like. I have been somewhat weakened as a result of my stroke, but so far neither my memory nor the ability to string together sentences seems to be affected. Some of these notes have been dictated, as you will notice when you see Hippia's childish handwriting. I pay her to be my secretary. She will do anything for money. To this day she denounces me for not having made us a fortune when, as a friend of Julian's, it would have been so easy, as you well know. Though of course your fortune was made long before Julian became Emperor. I was much impressed the first time I visited you at your Antioch mansion and you told me, with perfect casualness, that you had just sent a cargo ship to Crete. Fortunate Cimon to have such a wealt
hy father! I am sure Theodosius will legitimize him for you.
I have talked—very discreetly—to several people close to the court and they agree that the Emperor would probably stop publication of any work which showed Julian in too favourable a light. Needless to say, I did not mention that there was both a memoir and a journal in existence. But it is perfectly plain that if Theodosius and his bishops knew about these works they would do everything possible to destroy them, just as they labour so devotedly to distort the history of Julian's reign. It is the perquisite of power to invent its own past. Julian must be obliterated or at least made monster before the Christian Empire can properly be born. I don't mean to sound discouraging, but there it is. I must confess that I'm relieved to have got Julian's papers out of my house and into your most capable hands. I tell you these things simply to put you on your guard, for one of those I talked to at some length was the celebrated Ausonius, who is very much in favour at court. I flattered him unmercifully when he visited here last month.
Ausonius is a small stately man who gives an impression of great dignity and power until he starts to speak. Then one knows he is simply one of us, a nervous clerk, embarrassingly anxious to be admired. He also stammers. He was pleased, he told us in his speech at the proconsul's reception, to be in such a distinguished assemblage of intellectuals and magistrates, particularly because he liked to think of himself as a "sort of bridge between the two". We wagged our tails fiercely at this to show that we loved him and wanted fayours. When he finished, he nicely took my arm and told me how much he admired me. What could I do but quote his own poetry to him?
"I have always admired you, P-P-Priscus, and I am g-g-glad to find you still alive and well."
"So am I, Consul." I beamed down at the absurd figure in its consular robe. t then praised his many books, and he praised my many silences. The academicians all about us watched me with a quite satisfying envy. Then, rather skilfully I think, I brought Julian into the conversation.