Libanius: How typical!
Priscus: Julian notes in passing that he sent various messages to different cities. Indeed he did! He must have composed at least a dozen lengthy harangues, addressed variously to the senates at Rome and Constantinople—a not unnatural precaution—but then an equal number of apologias were sent to such cities as Corinth and Sparta, as if they still mattered in the scale of power. Their poor backwoods town councils must have been astonished to receive an emperor's homage.
I was present at the senate in Athens when the message to us was read. Since I know that you want only the truth, I must tell you that the letter was not well received, and of all cities Athens was most inclined to Julian.
I sat beside Prohaeresius while the message was read. The old man was amused, but cautious. So was I. Of course, everyone in Athens was aware that I had only recently come from Julian; even so, I was firm in saying that I knew nothing of his plans. I even praised Constantius on several public occasions. After all, Constantius might have lived. Julian might have been defeated. I might have been executed for treason. Like everyone else, I prefer to avoid undue distress at the hands of tyrants.
We were all quite nervous at the beginning of the message. (If you don't have a copy of this address, I will send you mine, free of charge.) Naturally, we were flattered by Julian's references to our ancient past, as well as respectful of his quite skilful mastery of rhetoric, even though he was prone to cliches, especially when he was tired or writing too fast. He could seldom prepare a message without "Xerxes defying nature", or trotting out that damned "oak tree" which no contemporary writer seems able to avoid.
But after a good beginning, Julian then denounced Constantius. He named all the murders. He made a point of Constantius's infertility (not knowing that Constantius's new wife Faustina was pregnant). He denounced the eunuchs, particularly Eusebius. He gave us a considerable autobiography, generally accurate, ending with the statement that he was now in the field because no one could trust the word of Constantius, since it was, he declared (relying again on a familiar phrase), "written in ashes". At this point the senators of Athens began to clear their throats and scuff their sandals on the floor, always a bad sign.
At the end of the message there was no discussion. The senate, wisely, went on to other matters. No one had the courage to behave as the senate at Rome did when they were read their letters, and Tertullus, the city's prefect, shouted, "We demand reverence for Constantius, who raised you up!"
When the senate adjourned, Prohaeresius and I left the chamber together. No one spoke to anyone else. Then—as now—the secret service was ubiquitous. We knew nothing except that Julian was somewhere in the Balkans, that the West appeared to be his, and that Constantius was moving against him with a superior army.
It was not easy to know how to behave. Our sort is for ever courted by usurpers and asked to join in this or that undertaking. Since no one can know the future, it is quite easy to pick the wrong side. The death of Maximus was instructive, wasn't it, old friend?
But of course we are all so used to these sudden changes in government that there is almost an etiquette in how one responds to invitations which could as easily turn out disastrous as advantageous. First, one appears to ponder the request with grave attention; then one pleads a personal problem; finally, one does nothing. That is how you and I have managed to live to be so old in such a stormy time.
I recall vividly my walk with Prohaeresius. It must have been some time in the second week of November. The weather was cold, the wind sharp, the afternoon clouds more thick than usual. Absently, Prohaeresius put his arm through mine. We hurried through the crowd which had gathered outside the senate house.
Not till we were past the temple of Hephaestos did he speak. "You know him. What will happen?"
"I think he will win."
"How can he? Constantius has the army. The people are with him. They're certainly not with your… our young student. The senate's mood was perfectly plain."
"I think he will win, that's all." But I was by no means as confident as I sounded.
"The oracles…" But the old man stopped. He was not about to give himself away to me. "Come home with me."
I accepted, not yet eager for Hippia's company. My marriage, always unhappy, was at this time unbearable: Hippia was still furious at me for having spent nearly three years in Paris, despite the money I had been able to send her. Today, however, after fifty years of mutual loathing, we are quite dependent on one another. Habit is stronger than hate.
I was surprised to find Macrina at Prohaeresius's house. She had not been much in evidence since the birth of her child (ostensibly sired by the businessman husband). She had gained a little weight, which was attractive. Macrina greeted us in the inner court. She was ecstatic. "It's happened! He's all right!"
"What has happened? Who is all right?" Prohaeresius was irritable.
"Julian is Emperor!"
That is how we got the news at Athens. Apparently, the formal message to the senate had been delayed. But Julian had written Prohaeresius and me, taking it for granted that we had already heard the news. We were both invited to attend him at Constantinople.
Macrina was exultant. "We must all go to court. Every one of us. We'll all live in Constantinople. No more Athens. No more grubby students…"
"No more grubby husband?" I could not resist this. She stopped talking.
Prohaeresius, who had been studying the letter, frowned. "He says, 'I worship the true gods openly and all the troops with me worhsip them. I have offered the gods many oxen as thank-offerings for my victory, and I shall soon restore their worship in all its purity.'" The old man looked at us grimly. "So he means to do what he said he would do."
"Why not?" Macrina was sharp. "He can't be worse than the bishops."
"Except that now he's Emperor there won't be an ox left in the world!" I believe I was the first to make what was soon a universal joke: Julian's sacrifices were so rich that he was nicknamed "BullBurner".
Unlike Macrina and me, Prohaeresius was in a dark mood. "I see only trouble for us," he said.
"Trouble? When you are the man the Emperor most admires?"
Macrina was unbelieving. "Nonsense. It'll be the making of all you schoolteachers. He'll be another Marcus Aurelius. Well, Septimus Severus, anyway."
"Julian is better than Marcus Aurelius," I said, and I meant it. Marcus Aurelius has been enormously overrated as a philosopher. People—especially scholars—are so thrilled that an emperor can even write his own name that they tend to exaggerate the value of his literary productions. If you or I had written those Meditations, they would not, I am certain, be considered of any great value. They are certainly inferior to your own superb pensdes. Not for several weeks did we know the details of Constantius's death, or in what manner the succession had been assured. Julian gives his version of what happened.
Julian Augtustus
As far as I can make out, Constantius had been in poor health for some months. He had chronic stomach trouble, a family weakness from which I alone seem to be exempt (so far!). As soon as I had been given the news, I sent everyone out of the room except Oribasius. Then the two officers from the Consistory were brought to me. My first question was the obvious one: "How did he die?"
"Of a fever, Augustus." The older officer, Aligildus, did most of t.he telling.
"Had there been omens?" I particularly wanted to know because I had myself received a number of mysterious signs during the previous weeks. It is good to be scientific about these things. Might not an omen observed to be malign by Constantius appear simultaneously to me as benign?
"Many, Augustus. For several weeks in the field he had been disturbed by waking-dreams and nightmares. On one occasion, he thought he saw the ghost of his father, the great Constantine, carrying in his arms a child, a handsome, strong child which Constantius took and held on his lap."
I turned with wonder to Oribasius. "Is Constantine my creator?"
For it was plain enough that I was the child in the dream.
"Then the boy seized the orb Constantius held in his right hand…"
"The world," I murmured.
"… and threw it out of sight!" Aligildus paused. I nodded. "I understand the dream. Did he?"
"Yes, Augustus. Shortly afterwards, when we came to Antioch, the Emperor told Eusebius that he had a sense that something which had always been with him was gone."
"The Spirit of Rome. These are the signs," I said to Oribasius. Like so many who deal too much in the material world, Oribasius puts little stock in omens and dreams. Yet I think even he was impressed by what he had heard. I quoted Menander, "A spirit is given each man at birth to direct his course." Then I asked about my cousin's last days.
"He spent most of the summer at Antioch, assembling an army to…" Aligildus paused, ill at ease.
"To use against me." I was amiable. Why not? Heaven was on my side.
"Yes, Lord. Then in the autumn, after many dreams and bad omens, Constanfius left Antioch for the north. Three miles outside of the city in a suburb…"
"Called Hippocephalus," said Theolaif, the other officer, reminding us that he too was messenger and witness. "We saw, on the right-hand side of the road, at noon, the headless corpse of a man [acing west."
A chill ran through me. I hope that when my star falls I shall be spared the torment of such signs.
"From that moment on, Lord, the Emperor was not himself. We hurried on to Tarsus, where he came down with a fever."
"But he could not stop," said Theolaif, suddenly inspired: the deaths of princes and the malignity of Fate obsess us all. "I know. I was with him. I rode beside him. I said, 'Lord, stop here. Wait.
In a few days you will be well.' But he looked at me with glazed eyes, his face dark with fever. He swayed in the saddle. I steadied him with my hand and felt his hand, hot and dry. 'No,' he said, and his tongue was dry, too. He could hardly speak. 'We go on. We go on. We go on.' Three times he said that. And we went on."
Aligildus continued, "When we came to the springs at Mobsucrene, he was delirious. We put him to bed. In the night he sweated and the next morning he seemed better. He gave orders to leave. We obeyed, reluctantly. But when the army was ready to move, he was delirious. Constantius was ill three days, his body so hot that it was painful to touch him. Yet he had moments of clarity. In one of those moments, he made his will. This is it." Aligildus handed me a sealed letter which I did not open."How was he, at the end?"
"When he was conscious, he was angry."
"At me?"
"No, Lord, at death, for taking him in his prime, for taking him from his young wife."
"It is bitter," I said formally. Who is so inhuman as not to feel something at a man's death? even at that of an enemy.
"Then, shortly before dawn on 3 November, he asked to be baptized, like his father. After the ceremony, he tried to sit up. He tried to speak. He choked. He died. He was forty-five years old," added Aligildus, as though he were making a funeral address.
"In the twenty-fifth year of his principate," I noted, in the same style.
"Pray, Augustus," said Oribasius suddenly, "you reign as long."
We were silent for a moment. I tried to remember how Constantius looked and failed. When a famous man dies one tends to remember only the sculpture, especially when there is so much of it. I can recall Constantius's monuments but not his living face, not even those great dark eyes which are to my memory blank spaces cut in marble.
"Where is the Chamberlain Eusebius?"
"Still at the Springs. The court waits upon your orders." Aligildus for the first time sounded uncertain. "You, Augustus, are the heir legitimate." He pointed to the letter that I held in my hand.
"There was no… objection in the Consistory?"
"None, Lord!" The two men spoke as one.
I rose. "Tomorrow you will return to the Springs. Tell the Consistory that I shall meet them as soon as possible at Constantinople.
See that the body of my cousin is brought home for a proper burial, and that his widow is treated with all the honour due her rank."
The officers saluted, and departed.
Then Oribasius and I opened the will. It was short and to the point, unlike the usual imperial prose. One knew that a man had dictated it, not a lawyer.
"The Caesar Julian at my death is raised legitimately" (even on his deathbed he could not resist this jab) "to the principate of Rome. He will find my stewardship has been faithful. Despite much treason within the empire and formidable enemies without, the state has prospered in my reign and the borders are secure."
I looked at Oribasius, amused. "I wonder how they feel about that in Amida."
I read on. "We entrust to our most noble cousin and heir our young wife Faustina. She is provided for in a separate testament, and it is our final prayer that our most noble cousin and heir will respect the terms of that will and carry them out as befits a great prince who can afford to show mercy to the weak…"
I paused. "Once I tried to make that same speech to him."
Oribasius looked at me oddly. "He spared you," he said.
"Yes. To his regret." I hurried through the rest of the document. There were a number of bequests to retainers and friends. One particularly struck me. "I cannot recommend to my most noble cousin and heir a wiser counsellor or one more loyal than the Grand Chamberlain Eusebius." Even Oribasius laughed at this. Then, at the very last, Constantius spoke directly to me. "We have had differences, the Caesar Julian and I, but I think that he will find when he fills my place that the earth seems not so big as he thought it was from his previous place or from any other place, saving this summit where there can be but one man and a single responsibility for all men, and great decisions to be made, often in haste and sometimes regretted. We are not to be understood by any except our own kind. My most noble cousin and heir will know what I mean when he takes up the orb I have let go. Now in death I am his constant brother in the purple and from whatever place God sees fit to put my soul I shall observe his deeds with fellow-feeling and hope that as he comes to know the singularity of his new estate—and its cruel isolation—he will understand if not forgive his predecessor, who wanted only the stability of the state, the just execution of the law, and the true worship of that God from whom come all our lives and to whom all must return. Julian, pray for me."
That was it. Oribasius and I looked at one another, unable to believe that this crude and touching document was the work of a man who had governed the world for a quarter century.
"He was strong." I could think of nothing more to say. The next day I ordered a sacrifice to the gods. The legions were most enthusiastic, not only at my accession (and the avoidance of a civil war), but at being allowed to pray to the old gods openly. Man7 of them were fellow brothers in Mithras.
Priscus: This is quite untrue. In actual fact there was a near-mutiny when the sacrifices were ordered, especially among the officers. At this time Julian was very much under the influence of a Gaul named Aprunculus, who had foretold Constantius's death by discovering an ox liver with two lobes, which meant that… et cetera. As a reward for having found that double liver, Aprunculus was made governor of Gallia Narbonensis. It was said at the time that a quadruple liver might have got him all of Gaul.
Aprunculus persuaded Julian to place the images of the gods next to his own image so that when each man came to throw incense on the fire as homage to the emperor, he also did reverence, like it or not, to the gods. This caused a good deal of bad feeling, none of which Julian notes.
Julian Augustus
Less than a week later, I gave the order to proceed to Constantinople. I will not dwell on the elation of those days. Even the cold winter—and it was the coldest in many years—did not depress us.
In a blizzard, we filed through the pass of Succi and descended into Thrace. From there we proceeded to the ancient city of Philippopolis where we stayed overnight. Then we moved south to Heraclea, a town
fifty miles south-west of Constantinople where, shortly before midday, to my astonishment, most of the senate and the Sacred Consistory were gathered in the main square.
I was hardly prepared for such a greeting. I was tired, dirty, and I desperately needed to relieve myself. Imagine then the new emperor, eyes twitching with fatigue, hands, legs, face streaked with dust, bladder full, receiving the slow, measured, stately acclamation of the senate. Looking back, I laugh; at the time, I was hard pressed to be gracious.
I dismounted at one end of the square and crossed to the prefect's house. The Scholarian Guards made an aisle for me. They are called Scholarian because their barracks are in the front porticothe "school"—of the Sacred Palace. I studied my new troops with a cold eye. They were smartly turned out; most were Germans… what else? They studied me, too. They were both curious and alarmed, which is as it should be. Too often in the past emperors have been frightened of the guard.
I climbed the steps to the prefect's house. There, all in a row, were the officers of the empire. As I approached, they fell to their knees. I asked them to rise. I hate the sight of men old enough to be my grandfather prostrate before me. Recently I tried to simplify the court's ceremonies but the senate would not allow it, so used are they to servitude. They argue that since the Great King of Persia keeps similar state, I must, too, or appear less awesome in men's eyes. Nonsense. But there are too many important changes to be made to worry about court ceremonial.
The first official to greet me was Arbetio, who had been consul in the year I was made Caesar. He is a vigorous, hard-faced man of forty; born a peasant, he became a soldier, rising to commander of cavalry and the consulship. He wants my place, just as he wanted Constantius's place. Now there are two ways to handle such a man. One is to kill him. The other is to keep him near one, safely employed, always watched. I chose the latter for I have found that if someone is reasonably honest and well-meaning-though he has treated one badly—he should be forgiven. When men are honest in public life we must be on good terms with them, even though they have treated us badly in a private capacity; while if they are dishonest in public affairs, even though they are personally devoted to us, they must be dismissed.