by Gore Vidal
"Go on," I said politely.
Somewhat deflated, Callistus shrugged. "You know the rest. The Augustus didn't realize he was wounded until after the Persians fled." He smiled. "The Augustus even thanked me for having stayed so close to him."
"It was a good thing for you that he suspected nothing." But even as I said this I wondered whether or not Julian had known the truth. That remains the final mystery.
"But what is death?" asked Callistus, promptly losing all the respect I had come to have for him as a villain. He is an ass. He talked for another hour. He told me that Victor wanted to be emperor, but when he saw that this was impossible, he raised Jovian to the purple. Then the notoriously strong-willed Valentinian took Jovian's place and that was the end of Victor. Meanwhile, Callistus was paid off handsomely by everyone. He has invested his money wisely and today he is a rich man. But he will not be a happy man until the world knows his secret. He suffers from what he feels to be an undeserved anonymity.
"By all means tell Libanius the truth. One did what one was born to do." He looked pious. "I am proud of the part I have played in the history of Rome." He turned his face to me left-three-quarters, in imitation of the famous bust of the second Brutus. Then he came off it. "But we'll have to get permission from the palace before Libanius can publish, and I have no idea what the policy is now. Under Valentinian, I was sworn to secrecy."
"Did Valentinian know about you?"
"Oh, yes. He even gave me the salt concession for Thrace. But he ordered me to keep silent. And I have. Until today. Naturally, I hope that we can make the whole matter public, in the interest of history."
Callistus offered me dinner but I chose to take nothing more from him. I said I must go. He accompanied me to the vestibule. He was all grace and tact, even when he chided me for never having acknowledged the "Ode to Julian" he had sent me. I apologized for my negligence. But then I said, "How could you write such an affectionate work about the man you murdered?"
Callistus was perfect in his astonishment. "But I admired him tremendously! He was always kind to me. Every word I wrote about him was from the heart. After all, I am a good Christian, or try to be. Every day I pray for his soul!"
I doubt if Theodosius will allow you to publish any of this. But one never knows. Anyway, I am finished with the whole thing and I ask you, please, to keep me out of it.
XXIV
Libanius, Quaestor of Antioch, to the
Lord Theodosius, Augustus of the East Antioch, May 381
May it please Your Eternity, I have it in mind to compose a biography of your famous predecessor the Augustus Julian, employing certain of his private papers which have only recently come into my possession.
Since Your Eternity expressed pleasure in my ode, "On Avenging the Emperor Julian", I need hardly mention that I intend to pursue my labour of vindication in precisely the same discreet style as the ode which you so graciously admired. Realizing as I do the religious and political implications of this work, I am impelled not only to remind the Augustus of my perfect (and obvious!) loyalty to his sacred person and sagacious policies but to assure him that I intend to relate this marvellous tale with the conscious delicacy which the subject inspires and the times require.
Lord, those of us who cherish the old ways (yet mean to obey to the letter your just and necessary edicts) will be for ever beholden to your magnanimity in allowing me to write with love and candour of a hero whose deeds once blazed upon an astonished and fortunate earth like the sun itself and whose fame in its day (though as nothing compared to Your Eternity's) was Rome's shield against the barbarian. It is my humble wish to reflect that remembered glory in the pages of my own dim but faithful prose.
My cherished friend, the Bishop Meletius, who is now at Constantinople, has told me that he will put my case to Your Eternity with the same high eloquence with which he has for so many decades enlightened the congregations of the East. Accept, then, oh Lord, the homage of one who is old and close to death, and wants nothing for himself but truth, and its telling.
Eutropius, Master of the Offices, to
Libanius, Quaestor of Antioch Constantinople June 381
The Augustus has read your letter with the interest anything you write deserves. He has commanded me to tell you that it is not possible at this time to publish a life of the late Augustus Julian. You refer to Bishop Meletius. He is dead. He was stricken last week during a session of the Ecumenical Council. His remains have already been sent to Antioch for burial. I am, however, at liberty to tell you that before the Bishop died, he asked the Augustus to recognize as legitimate your natural son Cimon. The Augustus is pleased to comply with this holy man's request. The documents are now being prepared by my office and will be forwarded in due course to the Count of the East, who will in turn deliver them to the governor of Syria, at which time you will be officially notified. It would not be remiss, Quaestor, were you to send the Augustus a complete edition of your works. He would value them.
Libanius to himself
I have just come from the funeral of Bishop Meletius, which was held in the Golden House on the island. I don't think I would have been able to cope with the mob in the square if I had not been with Cimon. It seems that all Antioch was on hand to say farewell to their bishop.
The crowd recognized me, as they always do, and they made way for my litter. There was a certain amount of good-humoured comment about "pagans" (a new word of contempt for us Hellenists) attending Christian services, but I pretended not to hear. Just inside the arcade Cimon lifted me out of the litter. I have been suffering lately from gout not only in my right foot, as usual, but also in my left. Though I use both a crutch and a staff, I can barely hobble without assistance. Fortunately, Cimon, good son that he is, got me safely inside the church. He was also able to provide me with one of the chairs which had been reserved for the governor's party (the Christians stand during their services and only great visitors may sit).
Of course I saw nothing. I can distinguish light and dark, but little else. I do have some sight out of the corner of my left eye, and if I hold my head at a certain cocked angle I can see well enough to read for a short while, but the effort is so great that I prefer to spend my days in the cloudy subaqueous world of the blind. My impression of the church interior was one of pale circles (faces) and dark columns (cloaks of mourning). The air was thick with incense and the inevitable heavy odour of people massed together on a summer day.
Prayers were said and eulogies delivered, but I am afraid that I wool-gathered during the service. I could think of nothing but that curt letter from the Sacred Palace. I am not to publish. Not even the legitimizing of Cimon can compensate for that cruel blow.
As I sat in the hot octagonal church, the altar to my left and the tall marble pulpit to my right, I was suddenly conscious of the voice of the priest officiating. Like most blind or near-blind people, I am acutely sensitive to voices. Some delight me; others (even those of friends) distress me. This particular voice, I noted with some pleasure, was deep and resonant, with that curious urgency which I always find appealing. The speaker was delivering a eulogy of Meletius. I listened attentively. The words were gracefully chosen; the periods artful; the content conventional. When the priest had finished, I turned to Cimon and whispered, "Who is that?"
"John Chrysostom, the new deacon, appointed last month by Meletius. You know him."
"Do I?"
But the service had continued and we kept silent while the new bishop blessed the congregation. Who was this John "GoldenMouth"? Where did I know him from? Had he been a pupil? And if he had, would I be able to recall him? My memory is not what it was; also, I have taught literally thousands of men and no one could remember them all. Finally, when the ceremonies ended, Cimon got me to my feet just as the governor of Syria passed us. I recognized him by the colour of his robe. The governor paused when he saw me.
"Ah, Quaestor, how good to see you in such blooming health."
The governor is an ass,
who means well. "The old tree survives," I said. "But it does not bloom."
However, he had turned to my son. "It is not premature, I hope, to congratulate you on the Emperor's favour."
Cimon was delighted; he craves honour, the way some men crave truth.
"No, Governor, not premature at all. Many thanks. My father and I were both delighted at the Emperor's kindness."
"You must give me some advice, Cimon." And the governor took my son by the arm and led him away, leaving me stranded in the church, blind as Homer and lame as Hephaestos. I confess to a moment of anger. Cimon should have remained with me. He could have made an appointment to see the governor at another time.
But Cimon is a lawyer, and one must be tolerant. Even so, I found it difficult to forgive him when I realized that I was now alone in the Golden House, unable to see and hardly able to walk. Leaning heavily on my stick, like some night-creature dazzled by day, I crept towards what I hoped would be the door. I had taken no more than a step when a firm hand took me by the arm.
"Thank you," I said to the vague shape beside me. "I seem to be deserted, and I do need help. I cannot see."
"Any help I give you is nothing compared to the help you have given me." I recognized the voice of the deacon John Chrysostom. I pretended to remember him. "Oh, yes, John…"
"They call me Chrysostom. But you remember me as the son of Anthusa and…"
I did remember him. I knew exactly who he was. "My best student!" I exclaimed. "Stolen from me by Christians!
"He laughed. "Not stolen, found."
"So my John is the famous Chrysostom the people listen to."
"They listen. But do they understand? After all, I am strange to them. For ten years I have been in the desert, alone…"
"And now you've come back to the world to be a bishop?"
"I have come back to the world to preach, to tell the truth, the way my old teacher does."
"We hold a different view of what is true," I said more sharply than I intended.
"Perhaps not so different." We had paused near the door. With an effort, I could just make out the lean face of my old pupil. John has begun to grow bald, and he wears a short beard. But I confess that even were my sight better I should not have recognized him; it has been nearly twenty years since he studied with me.
"Before he left Antioch, Bishop Meletius told me of your plan to write about the Emperor Julian." I wondered if John could see into my mind. Why else would he mention the one thing which most concerned me yet could hardly interest him?
"Unfortunately, it is no longer a plan. The Emperor has forbidden me to punish."
"I'm sorry. I know what Julian meant to you. I saw him once. I must have been about fifteen. It was iust before I came to you, to study. I saw him the day he left the city for Persia. I was in the crowd, in the forum, standing on the rim of the Nymphaeum when he rode by. I remember the people were shouting some. thing rude…"
"Felix Julian Augustus," I murmured, hearing again the chanting of that malicious crowd.
"Yes. I was so close to him I could have touched his horse. And though my mother had told me I should hate him, I thought he was the most splendid man I ever saw, and when he looked my way, his eye suddenly caught mine, and he smiled as though we were friends, and I thought to myself: this man is a saint, why do they hate him? Later of course I realized why they hated him, but I have never understood why he hated us."
I burst into tears. I have never been so humiliated, or felt so ridiculous. The most famous philosopher of his time, if I may say so, was weeping like a child in front of a former pupil. But John was tactful. He said not a word until the storm had passed, and then he made no reference to my senile outburst. He took my arm and led me to the door. Then he turned round and indicated a high place on the opposite wall. "New work," he said. "I think it quite beautiful." I twisted my head so that I could see-just barely—what appeared to be the giant figure of a man with arms outstretched.
"Can you see him clearly?"
"Oh, yes," I lied. The gold mosaic glowed like the sun itself in the afternoon light.
"It is Christ Pantocrator, come to redeem us. The face is particularly fine."
"Yes, I see the face," I said flatly. And I did: the dark cruel face of an executioner.
"But you don't like what you see?"
"How can I, when what I see is death."
"But death is not the end."
"It is the end of life."
"This life…"
"Life!" I turned on him fiercely. "You have chosen death, all of you…"
"No, not death. We have chosen life eternal, the resurrection of the…"
"That is a story to tell children. The truth is that for thousands of years we looked to what was living. Now you look to what is dead, you worship a dead man and tell one another that this world is not for us, while the next is all that matters. Only there is no next world."
"We believe…"
"This is all we have, John Chrysostom. There is nothing else. Turn your back on this world, and you face the pit!"
There was a silence. Then John said, "Do you see no significance in our victory? For we have won. You must admit that."
I shrugged. "The golden age ended. So will the age of iron, so will all things, including man. But with your new god, the hope of human happiness has ended."
"For ever?" he taunted me gently.
"Nothing man invents can last for ever, including Christ, his most mischievous invention."
John did not answer. We were now outside the church. The day was pleasantly warm. People I could not see greeted me. Then my son hurried up and I said good-bye to John and got into my litter. All the way home to Daphne, Cimon babbled about his interview with the governor. He has hope of "governmental preferment".
I am alone in my study. I have already put away Julian's papers. The thing is finished. The world Julian wanted to preserve and restore is gone… but I shall not write "for ever", for who can know the future? Meanwhile, the barbarians are at the gate. Yet when they breach the wall, they will find nothing of value to seize, only empty relics. The spirit of what we were has fled. So be it.
I have been reading Plotinus all evening. He has the power to soothe me; and I find his sadness curiously comforting. Even when he writes: "Life here with the things of earth is a sinking, a defeat, a failing of the wing." The wing has indeed failed. One sinks. Defeat is certain. Even as I write these lines, the lamp wick sputters to an end, and the pool of light in which I sit contracts. Soon the room will be dark. One has always feared that death would be like this. But what else is there? With Julian, the light went, and now nothing remains but to let the darkness come, and hope for a new sun and another day, born of time's mystery and man's love of light.
April 1959—6 January 1964, Rome
A Partial Bibliography
Julian, The Works of the Emperor.
Ammianus Marcellinus, The History.
Libanius, Orations: "In Praise of Antioch", "To Julian", "Monody on Julian", "Epitaph on Julian", "On Avenging Julian", et cetera.
Gregory Nazianzen, "Oration Against Julian".
Sozomen, Ecclesiastical History.
Socrates, Ecclesiastical History.
Theodoret, A History of the Church.
Eunapius, Lives of the Philosophers.
Pausanias, Description of Greece.
Edward Gibbon, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.
Jacob Burckhardt, The Age of Constantine the Great.
R. A. Pack, Studies in Libanius and Antiochene Society under Theodosius.
T. R. Glover, Life and Letters in the Fourth Century.
J. Bidez, La Vie de l'Empereur Julien.
J. B. Bury, History of the Later Roman Empire.
Franz Cumont, The Mysteries of Mithra.
Norman Baynes, "The Early Life of Julian the Apostate", Journal of Hellenic Studies, Vol. XLV, pages 251-254.
G. E. Mylonas, Eleusis and the Eleusinian Mysteries.
&
nbsp; M. J. Vermaseren, Mithras: The Secret God.
Glanville Downey, Ancient Antioch.
Glanville Downey, Antioch in the Age of Theodosius the Great.
Stebelton H. Nulle, "Julian Redivivus", The Centennial Review, Vol. V, No. 3, summer.
About the Author
Gore Vidal was born in 1925 at the United States Military Academy at West Point. His first novel, Williwaw was written when he was nineteen years old and serving in the Army, appearing in the Spring of 1946. Since then he has written twenty-three novels, five plays, many screenplays, short stories, well over two hundred essays, and a memoir.