SCENE IV.
Reading edition
The Emperor’s library in the Palace. Entrance door on the left; a lesser doorway, with a curtain before it, on the right.
The Chamberlain Eutherius enters from the left, followed by two servants, bearing carpets.
Eutherius.
[Calling out to the right.] Agilo, Agilo, warm rose-water! A bath for the Emperor.
[He goes out to the right, with both servants.
264The Emperor Julian enters hastily from the left. He still wears the panther-skin and the vine-leaves; in his hand is the green-wreathed staff. He paces the room once or twice, then flings the staff into a corner.
Julian.
Was there beauty in this——?
Where were the white-bearded elders? Where the pure maidens, with the fillets on their brows, modest, and of seemly bearing, even in the rapture of the dance?
Out upon you, harlots!
[He tears off the panther-skin, and casts it aside.
Whither has beauty fled? When the Emperor bids her come forth again, will she not obey?
Out upon this stinking ribaldry!——
What faces! All the vices crying aloud in their distorted features. Ulcers on soul and body——
Faugh, faugh! A bath, Agilo! The stench chokes me.
The Bath-Servant Agilo.
[In the doorway to the right.] The bath is prepared, gracious sire!
Julian.
The bath? Nay, let that be. What is the filth of the body compared with all the rest? Go!
[Agilo goes out again. The Emperor stands some time in thought.
The seer of Nazareth sat at meat among publicans and sinners.—
Where lies the gulf between that and this?——
[Hekebolius enters from the left, and stops apprehensively at the door.
265Julian.
What would you, man?
Hekebolius.
[Kneeling.] Sire!
Julian.
Ah, what do I see? Hekebolius;—is it indeed you?
Hekebolius.
The same, and yet another.
Julian.
My old teacher. What would you have? Stand up!
Hekebolius.
No, no, let me lie. And take it not ill that I presume on my former right of entrance to your presence.
Julian.
[Coldly.] I asked you what you would have?
Hekebolius.
“My old teacher,” you said. Oh that I could cast the veil of oblivion over those times!
Julian.
[As before.] I understand. You mean that——
Hekebolius.
Oh that I could sink into the earth, and hide the shame I feel! See, see,—here I lie at your feet, a man whose hair is growing grey—a man who has pored and pondered all his days, and has to confess at last that he has gone astray, and led his beloved pupil into error!
266Julian.
What would you have me understand by that?
Hekebolius.
You called me your old teacher. See, here I lie in the dust before you, looking up to you with wonder, and calling you my new teacher.
Julian.
Rise, Hekebolius!
Hekebolius.
[Rising.] You shall hear everything, sire, and judge me according to your righteousness.—When you were gone, life at your august predecessor’s court became almost intolerable to me. I know not whether you have heard that I was promoted to be the Empress’s reader and almoner. But ah, could posts of honour console me for the loss of my Julian! I could scarce endure to see how men who made great show of outward virtue accepted gifts and bribes of every kind. I grew to hate this daily intercourse with greedy sycophants, whose advocacy was at the beck of any one who could pay down sounding gold for sounding words. Oh my Emperor, you do not know what went on here——!
Julian.
I know, I know.
Hekebolius.
A frugal life in retirement allured me. As often as I might, I withdrew to Crete, to my modest Tusculum—my little country house,—where virtue did not seem to have utterly forsaken the world. There I have been living this summer as well; meditating upon human life and heavenly truths.
267Julian.
Happy Hekebolius!
Hekebolius.
Then the rumour of all your marvellous exploits reached Crete——
Julian.
Ah!
Hekebolius.
I asked myself: Is he more than mortal, this peerless youth? Under whose protection does he stand? Is it thus that the God of the Christians is wont to manifest his power——?
Julian.
[In rapt attention.] Well; well!
Hekebolius.
I set myself to search once more the writings of the ancients. Light after light dawned upon me——; oh, to have to confess this!
Julian.
Speak out—I beseech you!
Hekebolius.
[Falling on his knees.] Punish me according to your righteousness, sire; but renounce your youthful errors on things divine! Yes, most gracious Emperor, you are entangled in error, and I—oh, I marvel that the shame does not kill me—I, I have helped to lead you astray——
Julian.
[With outstretched arms.] Come to my closest embrace!
268Hekebolius.
Oh, I entreat you, show gratitude to the immortal gods, whose darling you are! And if you cannot, then punish me because I do it in your stead——
Julian.
Come, come to my open arms, I tell you!
[He lifts him up, presses him in his arms, and kisses him.
My Hekebolius! What a great and unlooked-for joy!
Hekebolius.
Sire, how am I to understand this?
Julian.
Oh, then you do not know——? When came you to the city?
Hekebolius.
I landed an hour ago.
Julian.
And hurried hither at once?
Hekebolius.
On the wings of anxiety and remorse, sire!
Julian.
And you have spoken to no one?
Hekebolius.
No, no, I have spoken to no one; but——?
Julian.
Oh, then you cannot have heard——
[He embraces him again.
269My Hekebolius, listen and know! I too, like you, have cast off the yoke of error. The immortal Sun-King, to whom we mortals owe so much, I have restored to his ancient state; Fortuna has received her offering from my humble hands; and if, at this moment, you find me weary and somewhat unstrung, it is because I have but now been celebrating a festival in honour of the divine Dionysus.
Hekebolius.
I hear, and am amazed!
Julian.
See,—the garland is still in my hair. Amid the joyous acclaim of the multitude—yes, I may call it a multitude——
Hekebolius.
And I did not even dream of such great things!
Julian.
Now we will gather around us all friends of truth, and lovers of wisdom, all seemly and reverent worshippers of the gods;—there are already some—not very many——
The physician Caesarius, accompanied by several officials and notables of the former court, enters from the left.
Julian.
Ah, here we have the good Caesarius,—numerously accompanied, and with a face that betokens urgent business.
270Caesarius.
Most gracious Emperor, will you permit your servant to ask a question, in his own name, and that of these much disquieted men?
Julian.
Ask, my dearest Caesarius! Are you not my beloved Gregory’s brother? Ask, ask!
Caesarius.
Tell me, then, sire——[He observes Hekebolius.] What do I see! Hekebolius here?
Julian.
Newly returned——
Caesarius.
[Trying to draw back.] Then I beg leave to defer——
Julian.
No, no, my Caesarius; this friend may hear everything.
Caesarius.
Friend, say you? Oh my Emperor, then you have not ordered these imprisonments?
Julian.
What mean you?
Caesarius.
Do you not know? Nevita—the general-in-chief, as he now calls himself—is instituting prosecutions under pretext of your authority, against all the trusted servants of your predecessor.
271Julian.
Investigations, highly necessary investigations, my Caesarius!
Caesarius.
Oh sire, forbid him to go about it so harshly. The book-keeper Pentadius is being hunted down by soldiers; and likewise a certain captain of Praetorians, whose name you have forbidden us to mention; you know whom I mean, sire—that unhappy man who is already, with his whole household, in hiding for fear of you.
Julian.
You do not know this man. In Gaul, he cherished the most audacious designs.
Caesarius.
That may be; but now he is harmless. And not he alone is threatened with destruction; the treasurer, Ursulus, is imprisoned——
Julian.
Ah, Ursulus? So that has been found needful.
Caesarius.
Needful? Could that be needful, sire. Think of Ursulus, that stainless old man—that man before whose word high and low bend in reverence——
Julian.
A man utterly devoid of judgment, I tell you! Ursulus is a prodigal, who, without any demur, has gorged the rapacity of the court servants. And besides, he is useless in affairs of state. I 272have found that to my cost. I could never trust him to receive the emissaries of foreign princes.
Caesarius.
And yet we beg you, sire—all who are here present—to be magnanimous, both to Ursulus and to the others.
Julian.
Who are the others?
Caesarius.
Too many, I fear. I will only name the under-treasurer, Evagrius, the late chamberlain, Saturninus, the supreme judge, Cyrenus, and——
Julian.
Why do you stop?
Caesarius.
[With hesitation.] Sire—the late Empress’s reader, Hekebolius, is also among the accused.
Julian.
What!
Hekebolius.
I? Impossible!
Caesarius.
Accused of having accepted bribes from unworthy office-seekers——
Julian.
Hekebolius accused of that——? A man like Hekebolius——?
273Hekebolius.
What shameful slander! Oh Christ—I mean to say—oh heavenly divinities!
Caesarius.
Ah!
Julian.
What mean you?
Caesarius.
[Coldly.] Nothing, most gracious Emperor!
Julian.
Caesarius!
Caesarius.
Yes, my august master!
Julian.
Not master; call me your friend.
Caesarius.
Dare a Christian call you so!
Julian.
I pray you banish such thoughts, Caesarius! You must not believe that of me. How can I help all these accused men being Christians? Does it not merely show that the Christians have contrived to seize all the lucrative posts? And can the Emperor suffer the most important offices of the state to be badly administered?
[To the others.
You surely do not think that it is your creed which has kindled my wrath against dishonest officials? I call all the gods to witness that I will 274permit no proceedings against you Christians that are not consonant with law and justice, nor will I suffer any one to do you wrong. You, or at any rate many of you, are pious in your way, since you too adore that Lord who is all-powerful, and who rules over the whole visible world.—Oh, my Caesarius, is it not he whom I also adore, though under other names?
Caesarius.
Suffer me, gracious Emperor——
Julian.
Moreover, it is my intention to show clemency wherever it is fit that I should do so. As to Hekebolius, his secret enemies must not imagine that they will be suffered to injure him by tale-bearing or any other sort of paltry intrigue.
Hekebolius.
My Emperor! My shield and my defence!
Julian.
Nor is it my will that all the minor court servants should be unmercifully deprived of their subsistence. I have specially in mind that barber whom I dismissed. I am sorry for it. The man may remain. He seemed to me one who understood his business thoroughly. All honour to such people! So far I can go, my Caesarius, but no further. I cannot interfere on behalf of Ursulus. I must act so that the blind, and yet so keen-eyed, Goddess of Justice may have no reason to knit her brows over a mortal to whom she has confided so great a responsibility.
275Caesarius.
After this, I have not a word more to say for those unfortunates. I only crave permission to leave the court and city.
Julian.
Would you leave me?
Caesarius.
Yes, most gracious Emperor!
Julian.
You are stiff-necked, like your brother.
Caesarius.
The new order of things gives me much to reflect upon.
Julian.
I had great designs for you Caesarius! It would be a great joy to me, if you could renounce your errors. Can you not?
Caesarius.
God knows what I might have done a month ago;—now I cannot.
Julian.
A marriage into one of the most powerful families should stand open to you. Will you not bethink you?
Caesarius.
No, most gracious lord.
276Julian.
A man like you could quickly mount from step to step. Caesarius, is it not possible that you can give me your aid in furthering the new order of things?
Caesarius.
No, most gracious lord!
Julian.
I do not mean here, but in other places. It is my intention to depart from here. Constantinople is very unpleasing to me; you Galileans have spoiled it for me in every way. I shall go to Antioch; there I shall find better soil to work upon. I thought you would accompany me. Will you not, Caesarius?
Caesarius.
Most gracious lord, I too am bound for the east; but I will go alone.
Julian.
And what will you do there?
Caesarius.
Visit my old father; help Gregory to strengthen him for the coming struggle.
Julian.
Go!
Caesarius.
Farewell, my Emperor!
277Julian.
Happy father, with such unhappy sons!
[He makes a gesture with his hand; Caesarius and those with him bow low, and go out to the left.
Hekebolius.
What reckless and most unseemly defiance!
Julian.
My heart is wounded to the quick by this and many other things. You, my Hekebolius, shall accompany me. The ground burns beneath my feet in this poisoned Galilean city! I will write to those philosophers, Kytron and Priscus, who have won so great fame of late years. Maximus I expect every day; he shall go with us.—I tell you there are joyful days of victory awaiting us, Hekebolius! In Antioch, my friend,—there we shall meet the incomparable Libanius,—and there we are nearer Helios at his rising. Oh, this irresistible yearning towards the Sun-King——!
Hekebolius.
Yes, yes, yes——!
Julian.
[Embracing him.] My Hekebolius!—Wisdom; light; beauty!
278
ACT SECOND.
SCENE FIRST.
A spacious vestibule in the Emperor’s Palace, at Antioch. An open entrance in the background; on the left is a door, leading into the inner rooms.
On a raised seat in the foreground, to the right, sits the Emperor Julian, surrounded by his court. Judges, Orators, Poets, and Teachers, among them Hekebolius, sit on lower seats around him. Leaning against the wall near the entrance stands A Man, dressed as a Christian Priest; he hides his face in his hands, and seems rapt in prayer. A great gathering of citizens fills the hall. Guards at the entrance, and at the door on the left.
Julian.
[Addressing the assemblage.] So great success have the gods vouchsafed me. Hardly a single city have I approached on my journey, whence whole troops of Galileans have not streamed forth to meet me on the road, lamenting their errors, and placing themselves under the protection of the divine powers. Compared with this, what signifies the senseless behaviour of the scoffers? May not the scoffers be likened to dogs, who in their ignorance yelp at the moon? Yet I will not deny that I have learned with indignation that some inhabitants of this city have spoken scornfully of the rule of life which I have enjoined on 279the priests of Cybele, the good goddess. Ought not reverence for so exalted a divinity to protect her servants from mockery? I say to those foolhardy men: Are ye barbarians, since ye know not who Cybele is? Must I solemnly remind you how, when the power of Rome was so gravely threatened by that Punic commander, whose grave I saw not long since in Libyssa, the Cumaean Sybil counselled that the statue of Cybele should be taken from the temple in Pessinus, and brought to Rome? As to the priests’ way of life, some have wondered that they should be forbidden to eat roots, and everything that grows along the earth, while they are allowed to partake of upward-growing herbs and fruits. Oh, how dense is your ignorance—I pity you if you cannot understand this! Can the spirit of man find nourishment in that which creeps along the ground? Does not the soul live by all that yearns upward, towards heaven and the sun? I will not enter more largely into these matters to-day. What remains to be said you shall learn from a treatise I am composing during my sleepless nights, which I hope will shortly be recited both in the lecture-halls and on the market-places.
[He rises.
And with this, my friends, if no one has anything further to bring forward——
A Citizen.
[Pressing to the front.] Oh most gracious Emperor, let me not go unheard!
Julian.
[Sitting down again.] Surely not, my friend. Who are you?
280The Citizen.
I am Medon, the corn-merchant. Oh, if my love for you, exalted and divine Emperor——
Julian.
Come to your case, man!
Medon.
I have a neighbour, Alites, who for many years has done me every imaginable injury; for he, too, is a dealer in corn, and takes the bread out of my mouth in the most shameful way——
Julian.
Aha, my good Medon; yet you look not ill-fed.
Medon.
Nor is that the matter, most gracious Emperor! Oh, by the august gods, whom every day I learn to love and praise more highly—his affronts to me I could overlook; but what I cannot suffer——
Julian.
He surely does not insult the gods?
Medon.
He does what is worse,—or at least equally shameless; he—oh, I scarce know whether my indignation will permit me to utter it,—he insults you yourself, most gracious Emperor!
Julian.
Indeed? In what words?
Medon.
Not in words, but worse—in act.
281Julian.
Then in what act?
Medon.
He wears a purple robe——
Julian.
A purple robe? Oho, that is bold.
Medon.
Oh, great wing-footed Mercury, when I think how he would have paid for that robe in your predecessor’s time! And this garment of vainglory I have daily before my eyes——
Julian.
This garment, bought with money that might have been yours——
Medon.
Oh most gracious Emperor,—punish his audacity; let him be expelled the city; my love for our great and august ruler will not suffer me to remain a witness of such shameless arrogance.
Julian.
Tell me, good Medon, what manner of clothes does Alites wear, besides the purple cloak?
Medon.
Truly I cannot call to mind, sire; ordinary clothes, I think; I have only remarked the purple cloak.
Julian.
A purple cloak, then, and untanned sandals——?
282Medon.
Yes, sire; it looks as ludicrous as it is audacious.
Julian.
We must remedy this, Medon!
Medon.
[Joyfully.] Ah, most gracious Emperor——?
Julian.
Come early to morrow to the palace——
Medon.
[Still more delighted.] I will come very early, most gracious Emperor!
Julian.
Give your name to my Chamberlain——
Medon.
Yes, yes, my most gracious Emperor!
Julian.
You will receive from him a pair of purple shoes, embroidered with gold——
Medon.
Ah, my most generous lord and Emperor!
Julian.
These shoes you will take to Alites, place them on his feet, and say that henceforth he must not fail to put them on, whenever he would walk abroad by daylight in his purple cloak——
283Medon.
Oh!
Julian.
——and, that done, you may tell him from me, that he is a fool if he thinks himself honoured by a purple robe, having not the power of the purple.—Go; and come for the shoes to-morrow!
[The Corn Merchant slinks away, amid the laughter of the citizens; the Courtiers, Orators, Poets, and the rest clap their hands, with loud exclamations of approval.
Another Citizen.
[Stepping forward from the crowd.] Praised be the Emperor’s justice! Oh how richly this envious corn-miser deserves his punishment! Oh hear me, and let your favour——
Julian.
Aha; methinks I know that face. Were not you one of those who shouted before my chariot as I drove into the city?
The Citizen.
None shouted louder than I, incomparable Emperor! I am Malchus, the tax-gatherer. Ah, grant me your aid! I am engaged in a law-suit with an evil and grasping man——
Julian.
And therefore you come to me? Are there not judges——?
Malchus.
The affair is somewhat involved, noble Emperor. It concerns a field, which I leased to this bad man, 284having bought it seven years since, when part of the domain belonging to the Apostles’ Church was sold.
Julian.
So, so; church property, then?
Malchus.
Honestly purchased; but now this man denies either to pay me rent, or to give up the property, under pretext that this field once belonged to the temple of Apollo, and, as he declares, was unlawfully confiscated many years ago.
Julian.
Tell me, Malchus,—you seem to be a follower of the Galilean?
Malchus.
Most gracious Emperor, ’tis an old tradition in our family to acknowledge Christ.
Julian.
And this you say openly, without fear?
Malchus.
My adversary is bolder than I, sire! He goes in and out, as before; he fled not the city when he heard of your approach.
Julian.
Fled not? And why should he flee, this man who stands out for the rights of the gods?
Malchus.
Most gracious Emperor, you have doubtless heard of the book-keeper, Thalassius?
285Julian.
What! That Thalassius who, to ingratiate himself with my predecessor, whilst I was being slandered and menaced in Gaul, proposed, here in Antioch, in the open market-place, that the citizens should petition the Emperor to send them Julian Caesar’s head!
Malchus.
Sire, it is this, your deadly foe, who is wronging me.
Julian.
Truly, Malchus, I have as great ground of complaint against this man as you have.
Malchus.
Tenfold greater, my gracious Emperor?
Julian.
What think you? Shall we two combine our quarrels, and prosecute him together?
Malchus.
Oh, what exceeding grace! Oh tenfold happiness!
Julian.
Oh tenfold foolishness! Thalassius goes in and out as before, you say? He has not fled the city at my approach. Thalassius knows me better than you. Away with you, man! When I indict Thalassius for my head, you may indict him for your field.
Malchus.
[Wringing his hands.] Oh tenfold misery!
[He goes out by the back; the assembly again applauds the Emperor.
286Julian.
That is well, my friends; rejoice that I have succeeded in making a not altogether unworthy beginning to this day, which is specially dedicate to the feast of the radiant Apollo. For is it not worthy of a philosopher to overlook affronts against himself, whilst he sternly chastises wrongs done to the immortal gods? I do not recall whether that crowned cultivator of learning, Marcus Aurelius, was ever in like case; but if he was, we must hope that he did not act quite unlike me, who hold it an honour to follow humbly in his footsteps.
Let this serve as a clue for your future guidance. In the palace, in the market-place, even in the theatre—did I not loathe to enter such a place of folly—it is fit that you should greet me with acclamation and joyful applause. Such homage, I know, was well received both by the Macedonian Alexander and by Julius Caesar, men who were also permitted by the Goddess of Fortune to outshine other mortals in glory.
But when you see me entering a temple, that is another affair. Then I desire you to be silent, or direct your plaudits to the gods, and not to me, as I advance with bent head and downcast eyes. And above all, I trust you will be heedful of this to-day, when I am to sacrifice to so transcendent and mighty a divinity as he whom we know by the name of the Sun-King, and who seems even greater in our eyes when we reflect that he is the same whom certain oriental peoples call Mithra.
And with this—if no one has more to say——
The Priest at the Door.
[Draws himself up.] In the name of the Lord God!
287Julian.
Who speaks?
The Priest.
A servant of God and of the Emperor.
Julian.
Approach. What would you?
The Priest.
I would speak to your heart and to your conscience.
Julian.
[Springing up.] What voice was that! What do I see! In spite of beard and habit——! Gregory!
The Priest.
Yes, my august master!
Julian.
Gregory! Gregory of Nazianzus!
Gregory.
Yes, gracious Emperor!
Julian.
[Has descended and grasped his hands; he now looks long at him.] A little older; browner; broader. No; ’twas only at the first glance; now you are the same as ever.
Gregory.
Oh that it were so with you, sire!
Julian.
Athens. That night in the portico. No man has lain so near my heart as you.
288Gregory.
Your heart? Ah, Emperor, you have torn out of your heart a better friend than I.
Julian.
You mean Basil?
Gregory.
I mean a greater than Basil.
Julian.
[Glooming.] Ah! So that is what you come to tell me? And in that habit——
Gregory.
I did not choose this habit, sire!
Julian.
Not you? Who then?
Gregory.
He who is greater than the Emperor.
Julian.
I know your Galilean phrases. For the sake of our friendship, spare me them.
Gregory.
Let me, then, begin by telling you how it is that you see me here, ordained a priest of the church you are persecuting.
Julian.
[With a sharp look.] Persecuting!
[He ascends the daïs again and sits down.
Now speak on.
289Gregory.
You know what were my thoughts of things divine, during our happy comradeship in Athens. But then it was far from my purpose to renounce the joys of life. Neither ambition nor the thirst for riches, I can truly say, has ever tempted me; yet I should scarce tell the truth if I denied that my eye and my mind dwelt wonderingly on all the glories which the old learning and art of Greece revealed to me. The wranglings and petty schisms in our church afflicted me deeply; but I took no part in them; I served my countrymen in temporal things; nothing more——
Then came tidings from Constantinople. It was said that Constantius had died of terror at your proceedings, and had declared you his heir. Heralded by the renown of your victories, and received as a superhuman being, you, the hero of Gaul and Germany, had ascended the throne of Constantine without striking a blow. The earth lay at your feet.
Then came further tidings. The lord of earth was girding himself up to war against the Lord of heaven——
Julian.
Gregory, what do you presume——!
Gregory.
The lord of the body was girding himself up to war against the Lord of the soul. I stand here before you in bodily fear and trembling; but I dare not lie. Will you hear the truth, or shall I be silent?
Julian.
Say on, Gregory!
290Gregory.
What have not my fellow Christians already suffered during these few months? How many sentences of death have been passed, and executed in the cruellest fashion? Gaudentius, the state secretary; Artemius, the former governor of Egypt; the two tribunes, Romanus and Vincentius——
Julian.
You know not what you speak of. I tell you, the Goddess of Justice would have wept had those traitors escaped with their lives.
Gregory.
That may be, my Emperor; but I tell you that one sentence of death has been passed which the God of Justice can never forgive you. Ursulus! The man who stood your friend in times of need! Ursulus who, at the risk of his own life, supplied you with money in Gaul! Ursulus, whose sole crime was his Christian faith and his sincerity——
Julian.
Ah, this you have from your brother, Caesarius!
Gregory.
Punish me, sire; but spare my brother.
Julian.
You well know that you risk nothing, Gregory! Besides, I will grant you that Nevita acted too harshly.
Gregory.
Ay, that barbarian, who tries in vain to hide his origin under a Greek veneer——!
291Julian.
Nevita is zealous in his duty, and I cannot myself be everywhere. For Ursulus I have mourned sincerely, and I deeply deplore that neither time nor circumstances allowed me to examine into his case myself. I should certainly have spared him, Gregory! I have thought, too, of restoring to his heirs any property he has left behind.
Gregory.
Great Emperor, you owe me no reckoning for your acts. I only wished to tell you that all these tidings fell like thunderbolts in Caesarea and Nazianzus, and the other Cappadocian cities. How shall I describe their effect! Our internal wranglings were silenced by the common danger. Many rotten branches of the Church fell away; but in many indifferent hearts the light of the Lord was kindled with a fervour before undreamt-of. Meanwhile oppression overtook God’s people. The heathen—I mean, my Emperor, those whom I call heathen—began to threaten, to injure, to persecute us——
Julian.
Retaliation,—retaliation, Gregory!
Gregory.
Far be it from me to justify all that my fellow Christians may have done in their excessive zeal for the cause of the Church. But you, who are so enlightened, and have power over all alike, cannot permit the living to suffer for the faults of the dead. Yet so it has been in Cappadocia. The enemies of the Christians, few in number, but thirsting after gain, and burning with eagerness 292to ingratiate themselves with the new officials, have awakened fear and perturbation among the people both in town and country.
I am not thinking chiefly of the insults we have had to suffer, nor of the infringements of our just rights of property, to which we have been constantly exposed of late. What most grieves me and all my earnest brethren, is the peril to souls. Many are not firm-rooted in the faith, and cannot quite shake off the care for earthly goods. The harsh treatment which has now to be endured by all who bear the name of Christian has already led to more than one apostasy. Sire, this is soul-robbery from God’s kingdom.
Julian.
Oh, my wise Gregory,—how can you talk so? I wonder at you? Should you not rather, as a good Galilean, rejoice that your community is rid of such men?
Gregory.
Gracious Emperor, I am not of that opinion. I have myself been indifferent in the faith, and I look upon all such as sick men, who are not past cure, so long as they remain in the bosom of the Church. So, too, thought our little congregation at Nazianzus. Brethren and sisters, in deep distress, assembled to take counsel against the perils of the time. They were joined by delegates from Caesarea and other cities. My father is infirm, and—as he owns with sorrow—does not possess the steadfast, immovable will which, in these troublous times, is needful for him who sits in the bishop’s chair. The assembly determined that a 293younger man should be chosen as his helper, to hold the Lord’s flock together.
The choice fell on me.
Julian.
Ah!
Gregory.
I was then away on a journey. But in my absence, and without consulting me, my father ordained me a priest and sent me the priestly habit.
These tidings reached me in Tiberina, at my country house, where I was passing some days with my brother and with the friend of my youth, Basil of Caesarea.
Sire—had my sentence of death been read to me, it could not have appalled me more than this.
I a priest! I wished it, and I wished it not. I felt it must be—and yet my courage failed. I wrestled with God the Lord, as the patriarch wrestled with him in the days of the old covenant. What passed in my soul during the night which followed, I cannot tell. But this I know that, ere the cock crew, I talked face to face with the Crucified One.—Then I was his.
Julian.
Folly, folly; I know those dreams.
Gregory.
On my homeward journey I passed through Caesarea. Oh, what misery met me there! I found the town full of fugitive country people, who had forsaken house and home because the 294drought had burnt up their crops, and laid all the vineyards and olive-gardens desolate. To escape starvation they had fled to the starving. There they lay—men, women, and children—in heaps along the walls of the houses; fever shook them, famine gnawed their entrails. What had Caesarea to offer them—that impoverished, unhappy town, as yet but half rebuilt after the great earthquake of two years ago? And in the midst of this, amid scorching heat and frequent earthquake-shocks, we had to see ungodly festivals going on day and night. The ruined altars were hastily rebuilt; the blood of sacrifices ran in streams; mummers and harlots paraded the streets with dance and song.
Sire—can you wonder that my much-tried brethren thought they saw in the visitation that had come upon them a judgment of heaven because they had so long tolerated heathenism and its scandalous symbols in their midst?
Julian.
What symbols do you mean?
Gregory.
The cry of the terror-stricken and fevered multitude rose ever higher; they demanded that the rulers of the city should give a palpable witness for Christ by ordering the destruction of what still remains of the former glory of heathendom in Caesarea.
Julian.
You cannot mean to say that——?
295Gregory.
The magistrates of the city called a meeting, where I too was present. You know, most gracious Emperor, that all temples are the property of the city; so that the citizens have the right to dispose of them at their own free will.
Julian.
Well, well; what if it were so?
Gregory.
In that terrible earthquake that ravaged Caesarea two years ago, all the temples but one were destroyed.
Julian.
Yes, yes; the temple of Fortuna.
Gregory.
At the meeting whereof I speak, the congregation determined to complete God’s work of judgment, in testimony that they would trust wholly and solely to him, and no longer tolerate the abomination in their midst.
Julian.
[Hoarsely.] Gregory,—once my friend—do you hold your life dear?
Gregory.
This resolution I did not myself approve, but almost all voices were in favour of it. But as we feared that the matter might be represented to you falsely, and might, perhaps, incense you against the city, it was determined to send a man hither to announce to you what we have resolved, and what will presently happen.
Great ruler,—no one else was found willing to 296undertake the task. It fell perforce to me. Therefore it is, sire, that I stand here before you in all humility, to announce that we Christians in Caesarea have resolved that the temple where the heathen in bygone days worshipped a false deity, under the name of Fortuna, shall be pulled down and levelled with the ground.
Julian.
[Springing up.] And I must listen to this with my own ears: One single man dares to tell me such unheard-of things!
Courtiers, Orators, and Poets.
O pious Emperor, do not suffer it! Punish this audacious man!
Hekebolius.
He is distraught, sire! Let him go. See,—the frenzy glitters in his eyes.
Julian.
Ay, it may well be called madness. But ’tis more than madness. To dream of pulling down that excellent temple, dedicated to a no less excellent divinity! Is it not to the favour of this very goddess that I ascribe my achievements, the fame of which has reached the remotest nations? Were I to suffer this, how could I ever again hope for victory or prosperity?—Gregory, I command you to return to Caesarea and give the citizens to understand that I forbid this outrage.
Gregory.
Impossible, sire! The matter has come to such a pass that we have to choose between the fear of man and obedience to God. We cannot draw back.
297Julian.
Then you shall feel how far the Emperor’s arm can stretch!
Gregory.
The Emperor’s arm is mighty in earthly things; and I, like others, tremble under it.
Julian.
Show it, then, in deeds! Ah, you Galileans, you reckon upon my long-suffering. Do not trust to it; for truly——
A noise at the entrance. The barber, Eunapius, followed by several citizens, rushes in.
Julian.
What is this? Eunapius, what has befallen you?
Eunapius.
Oh that my eyes should see such a sight!
Julian.
What sight have you seen?
Eunapius.
Behold, most gracious Emperor, I come bleeding and bruised, yet happy to be the first to call down your wrath——
Julian.
Speak, man;—who has beaten you?
Eunapius.
Permit me, sire, to lay my complaint before you.
298I went forth from the town this morning to visit the little temple of Venus which you have lately restored. When I came thither, the music of flutes and singing greeted my ears. Women were dancing gracefully in the outer court, and within I found the whole space filled with a rapturous crowd, while at the altar priests were offering up the sacrifices you have ordained.
Julian.
Yes, yes; and then——?
Eunapius.
Scarcely had I had time to turn my thoughts in devotion toward that enchanting goddess, whom I especially revere and worship,—when a great crowd of young men forced their way into the temple——
Julian.
Not Galileans?
Eunapius.
Yes, sire,—Galileans.
Julian.
Ah!
Eunapius.
What a scene followed! Weeping under the assailants’ insults and blows, the dancing-girls fled from the outer court to us within. The Galileans fell upon us all, belaboured us and affronted us in the most shameful manner.
Julian.
[Descending from his throne.] Wait, wait!
299Eunapius.
Alas, would that their violence had fallen on us alone! But the madmen went further. Yes, gracious Emperor—in one word, the altar is overthrown, the statue of the goddess dashed to pieces, the entrails of the sacrifices cast out to the dogs——
Julian.
[Pacing up and down.] Wait, wait, wait!
Gregory.
Sire, this one man’s word is not enough——
Julian.
Be silent!
[To Eunapius.] Did you know any of the sacrilegious crew?
Eunapius.
Not I, sire; but these citizens knew many of them.
Julian.
Take a guard with you. Seize as many of the wretches as you can. Cast them into prison. The prisoners shall give up the names of the rest; and when I have them all in my power——
Gregory.
What then, sire?
Julian.
Ask the executioner. Both you and the citizens of Caesarea shall be taught what you have to expect if, in your Galilean obstinacy, you should abide by your resolve.
[The Emperor goes out in great wrath, to the left; Eunapius and his witnesses retire with the watch; the others disperse.
300
SCENE SECOND.
A market-place in Antioch. In front, on the right, a street debouches into the market; to the left, at the back, there is a view into a narrow and crooked street.
A great concourse of people fills the market. Hucksters cry their wares.wares. In several places the townspeople have gathered into clusters, talking eagerly.eagerly.
A Citizen.
Good God of heaven, when did this misfortune happen?
Another Citizen.
This morning, I tell you; quite early this morning.
Phocion the Dyer.
[Who has entered from the street on the right.] My good man, do you think it is fitting to call this a misfortune? I call it a crime, and a most audacious crime to boot.
The Second Citizen.
Yes, yes; that is quite true; it was a most audacious thing to do.
Phocion.
Only think—of course it is the outrage on the temple of Venus you are talking of? Only think of their choosing a time when the Emperor was in the city——! And this day, too, of all others—a day——
301A Third Citizen.
[Drawing near.] Tell me, good friend, what is the matter——?
Phocion.
This day of all others, I say, when our august ruler is himself to officiate at the feast of Apollo.
The Third Citizen.
Yes, I know that; but why are they taking these Christians to prison?
Phocion.
What? Are they taking them to prison? Have they really caught them?
[Loud shrieks are heard.
Hush; what is that? Yes, by the gods, I believe they have them!
[An Old Woman, much agitated, and with dishevelled hair, makes her way through the crowd; she is beset by other women, who in vain seek to restrain her.
The Old Woman.
I will not be held back! He is my only son, the child of my old age! Let me go; let me go! Can no one tell me where I can find the Emperor?
Phocion.
What would you with the Emperor, old mother?
The Old Woman.
I would have my son again. Help me! My son! Hilarion! Oh, they have taken him from me! They burst into our house—and then they took him away!
302One of the Citizens.
[To Phocion.] Who is this woman?
Phocion.
What? Know you not the widow Publia,—the psalm-singer?
Citizen.
Ah, yes, yes, yes!
Publia.
Hilarion! my child! What will they do to him? Ah, Phocion,—are you there? God be praised for sending me a Christian brother——!
Phocion.
Hush, hush, be quiet; do not scream so loud; the Emperor is coming.
Publia.
Oh, this ungodly Emperor! The Lord of Wrath is visiting his sins upon us; famine ravages the land; the earth trembles beneath our feet!
[A detachment of soldiers enters by the street on the right.
The Commander of the Detachment.
Stand aside; make room here!
Publia.
Oh come, good Phocion;—help me, for our friendship’s and our fellowship’s sake——
Phocion.
Are you mad, woman? I do not know you.
303Publia.
What? You do not know me? Are you not Phocion the dyer? Are you not the son of——?
Phocion.
I am not the son of anybody. Get you gone, woman! You are mad! I do not know you; I have never seen you.
[He hastens in among the crowd.
A Subaltern.
[With soldiers, from the right.] Clear the way here!
[The soldiers force the multitude back towards the houses. Old Publia faints in the arms of the women on the left. All gaze expectantly down the street.
Phocion.
[In a knot of people behind the guard, to the right.] Yes, by the Sun-God, there he comes, the blessed Emperor!
A Soldier.
Do not push so, behind there!
Phocion.
Can you see him? The man with the white fillet round his brow, that is the Emperor.
A Citizen.
The man all in white?
Phocion.
Yes, yes, that is he.
304The Citizen.
Why is he dressed in white?
Phocion.
Doubtless because of the heat; or,—no, stop,—I think it is as the sacrificing priest that he——
A Second Citizen.
Will the Emperor himself offer the sacrifice?
Phocion.
Yes, the Emperor Julian does everything himself.
A Third Citizen.
He does not look so powerful as the Emperor Constantius.
Phocion.
I think he does. He is not so tall as the late Emperor; but his arms are longer. And then his glance——oh my friends——! You cannot see it just now; his eyes are modestly lowered as he walks. Yes, modest he is, I can tell you. He has no eye for women. I dare swear that since his wife’s death he has but seldom——; you see, he writes the whole night. That is why his fingers are often as black as a dyer’s; just like mine; for I am a dyer. I can tell you I know the Emperor better than most people. I was born here in Antioch; but I have lived fifteen years in Constantinople, until very lately——
A Citizen.
Is there aught, think you, in the rumour that the Emperor is minded to settle here for good?
305Phocion.
I know the Emperor’s barber, and he reports it so. Let us trust these shameful disturbances may not incense him too much.
A Citizen.
Alas, alas, that were a pity indeed!
A Second Citizen.
If the Emperor lived here, ’twould bring something in to all of us.
Phocion.
’Twas on that reckoning that I returned here. So now we must do our best, friends; when the Emperor comes past, we must shout lustily both for him and for Apollo.
A Citizen.
[To another.] Who is this Apollo, that people begin to talk so much about?
The Other Citizen.
Why, ’tis the priest of Corinth,—he who watered what the holy Paul had planted.
The First Citizen.
Ay, ay; to be sure; I think I remember now.
Phocion.
No, no, no, ’tis not that Apollo; ’tis another one entirely;—this is the Sun-King—the great lyre-playing Apollo.
306The Other Citizen.
Ah indeed; that Apollo! Is he better?
Phocion.
I should think so, indeed.—Look, look, there he comes. Oh, our most blessed Emperor!
The Emperor Julian, robed as a high priest, enters, surrounded by priests and servants of the temple. Courtiers and learned men, among whom is Hekebolius, have joined the procession; likewise citizens. Before the Emperor go flute-players and harpers. Soldiers and men of the city guard, with long staves, clear the way before the procession and on either side.
The Multitude.
[Clapping their hands.] Praise to the Emperor! Praise to Julian, hero and benefactor!
Phocion.
All hail to Julian and to the Sun-King! Long live Apollo!
The Citizens.
[In the foreground, on the right.] Emperor, Emperor, stay long among us!
[Julian makes a sign for the procession to stop.
Julian.
Citizens of Antioch! It were hard for me to name anything that could more rejoice my heart than these inspiriting acclamations. And my heart stands sorely in need of this refreshment.
It was with a downcast spirit that I set forth 307on this procession, which should be one of joy and exaltation. Nay, more; I will not hide from you that I was this morning on the verge of losing that equanimity which it behoves a lover of wisdom to preserve under all trials.
But can any one chide me for it? I would have you all remember what outrages are threatened elsewhere, and have already been committed here.
Publia.
My lord, my lord!
Phocion.
Oh pious and righteous Emperor, punish these desperate men!
Publia.
My lord, give me back my Hilarion!
Phocion.
All good citizens implore your favour towards this city.
Julian.
Seek to win the favour of the gods, and of mine you need have no doubt. And surely it is fitting that Antioch should lead the way. Does it not seem as though the Sun-God’s eye had dwelt with especial complacency on this city? Ask of travellers, and you shall hear to what melancholy extremes fanaticism has elsewhere proceeded in laying waste our holy places. What is left? A remnant here and there; and nothing of the best.
But with you, citizens of Antioch! Oh, my eyes filled with tears of joy when first I saw that 308incomparable sanctuary, the very house of Apollo,Apollo, which seems scarcely to be the work of human hands. Does not the image of the Glorious One stand within it, in unviolated beauty? Not a corner of his altar has broken or crumbled away, not a crack is to be seen in the stately columns.
Oh, when I think of this,—when I feel the fillet round my brow—when I look down upon these garments, dearer to me than the purple robe of empire, then I feel, with a sacred tremor, the presence of the god.
See, see, the sunlight quivers around us in its glory!
Feel, feel, the air is teeming with the perfume of fresh-woven garlands!
Beautiful earth! The home of light and life, the home of joy, the home of happiness and beauty;—what thou wast shalt thou again become!—In the embrace of the Sun-King! Mithra, Mithra!
Forward on our victorious way!
[The procession moves on again, amid the plaudits of the crowd; those in front come to a stop at the mouth of the narrow street, through which another procession enters the market-place.
Julian.
What hinders us?
Hekebolius.
Gracious lord, there is something amiss in the other street.
Song.
[Far off.
Blissful our pangs, be they never so cruel;
Blissful our rising, the death-struggle o’er.
309Phocion.
The Galileans, sire! They have them!
Publia.
Hilarion!
Phocion.
They have them! I hear the fetters——
Julian.
Pass them by——!
Eunapius.
[Hastening through the press.] We have succeeded marvellously, sire.
Julian.
Who are they, these ruffians?
Eunapius.
Some of them belong to this city; but most, it seems, are peasants fleeing from Cappadocia.
Julian.
I will not see them. Forward, as I commanded!
The Prisoners’ Song.
[Nearer.
Blissful our crowning with martyrdom’s jewel;
Blissful our meeting with saints gone before.
Julian.
The madmen. Not so near to me! My guard, my guard!
[The two processions have meanwhile encountered each other in the crush. The 310procession of Apollo has to stand still while the other, with the prisoners—men in chains, surrounded by soldiers, and accompanied by a great concourse of people—passes on.
Publia.
My child! Hilarion!
Hilarion.
[Among the prisoners.] Rejoice, my mother!
Julian.
Poor deluded creatures! When I hear madness thus speaking in you, I almost doubt whether I have the right to punish you.
Another Voice.
[Among the prisoners.] Stand aside; take not from us our crown of thorns.
Julian.
Night and horror,—what voice is that?
The Leader of the Guard.
’Twas this one, sire, who spoke.
[He pushes one of the prisoners forward, a young man, who leads a half-grown lad by the hand.
Julian.
[With a cry.] Agathon!
[The Prisoner looks at him, and is silent.
Agathon, Agathon! Answer me; are you not Agathon?
The Prisoner.
I am.
311Julian.
You among these? Speak to me?
Agathon.
I know you not!
Julian.
You do not know me? You know not who I am?
Agathon.
I know you are the lord of the earth; therefore you are not my lord.
Julian.
And the boy——? Is he your young brother?
[To the leader of the guard.
This man must be innocent.
Eunapius.
My lord, this man is the very ringleader. He has confessed it; he even glories in his deed.
Julian.
So strangely can hunger, and sickness, and misfortune disorder a man’s mind.
[To the prisoners.
If you will but say, in one word, that you repent, none of you shall suffer.
Publia.
[Shrieks.] Say it not, Hilarion!
Agathon.
Be strong, dear brother!
Publia.
Go, go to what awaits you, my only one!
312Julian.
Hear and bethink you, you others——
Agathon.
[To the prisoners.] Choose between Christ and the Emperor!
The Prisoners.
Glory to God in the highest!
Julian.
Terrible is the Galilean’s power of delusion. It must be broken. Pass them by, the abominable crew! They cloud our gladness; they darken the day with their brooding death-hunger!—Flute-players—men, women—why are you silent? A song—a song in praise of life, and light, and happiness.
The Procession of Apollo.
[Sings.
Gladsome with roses our locks to entwine;
Gladsome to bathe in the sunlight divine!
The Procession of Prisoners.
Blissful to sleep ’neath the blood-reeking sod;
Blissful to wake in the gardens of God.
The Procession of Apollo.
Gladsome ’mid incense-clouds still to draw breath.
The Procession of Prisoners.
Blissful in blood-streams to strangle to death.
The Procession of Apollo.
Ever for him who his godhead adoreth
Deep draughts of rapture Apollo outpoureth.
313The Procession of Prisoners.
Bones racked and riven, flesh seared to a coal,
He shall make whole!
The Procession of Apollo.
Gladsome to bask in the light-sea that laves us!
The Procession of Prisoners.
Blissful to writhe in the blood-death that saves us!
[The processions pass each other during the singing. The crowd in the market-place looks on in dull silence.
SCENE THIRD.
The sacred grove around the temple of Apollo. The portico, supported by columns, and approached by a broad flight of steps, is seen among the trees in the background, on the left.
A number of people are rushing about in the grove with loud cries of terror. Far away is heard the music of the procession.
Women.
Mercy! The earth is quaking again!
A Man in Flight.
Oh horror! Thunder beneath our feet——!
Another Man.
Was it indeed so? Was it the earth that shook?
314A Woman.
Did you not feel it? That tree there swayed so that the branches whistled through the air.
Many Voices.
Hark, hark, hark!
Some.
’Tis the roll of chariots on the pavements.
Others.
’Tis the sound of drums. Hark to the music——, the Emperor is coming!
[The procession of Apollo advances from the right through the grove, and stations itself amid music of flutes and harps, in a semicircle in front of the temple.
Julian.
[Turning towards the temple, with upstretched hands.] I accept the omen!——
Never have I felt myself in such close communion with the immortal gods.
The Bow-Wielder is among us. The earth thunders beneath his tread, as when of old he stamped in wrath upon the Trojan shore.
But ’tis not on us he frowns. ’Tis on those unhappy wretches who hate him and his sunlit realm.
Yes,—as surely as good or evil fortune affords the true measure of the gods’ favour towards mortals,—so surely is the difference here made manifest between them and us.
Where are the Galileans now? Some under the executioner’s hands, others flying through the narrow streets, ashy pale with terror, their eyes 315starting from their heads—a shriek between their half-clenched teeth—their hair stiffening with dread, or torn out in despair.
And where are we? Here in Daphne’s pleasant grove, where the dryads’ balmy breath cools our brows,—here, before the glorious temple of the glorious god, lapped in the melodies of flute and lyre,—here, in light, in happiness, in safety, the god himself made manifest among us.
Where is the God of the Galileans? Where is the Jew, the carpenter’s crucified son? Let him manifest himself. Nay, not he!
’Tis fitting, then, that we should throng the sanctuary. There, with my own hands, I will perform the services which are so far from appearing to me mean and unbecoming, that I, on the contrary, esteem them above all others.
[He advances at the head of the procession, through the multitude, towards the temple.
A Voice.
[Calling out in the throng.] Stay, ungodly one!
Julian.
A Galilean among us?
The Same Voice.
No further, blasphemer!
Julian.
Who is he that speaks?
Other Voices in the Crowd.
A Galilean priest. A blind old man. Here he stands.
316Others again.
Away, away, with the shameless wretch!
[A blind Old Man, in priestly garments, and supported by two younger men, also dressed as priests, is pushed forward till he stands at the foot of the temple steps, facing the Emperor.
Julian.
Ah, what do I see? Tell me, old man, are not you Bishop Maris, of Chalcedon?
The Old Man.
Yes, I am that unworthiest servant of the Church.
Julian.
“Unworthiest,” you call yourself; and I think you are not far wrong. If I mistake not, you have been one of the foremost in stirring up internal strife among the Galileans.
Bishop Maris.
I have done that which weighs me still deeper down in penitence. When you seized the empire, and rumour told of your bent of mind, my heart was beleagured with unspeakable dread. Blind and enfeebled by age, I could not conceive the thought of setting myself up against the mighty monarch of the world. Yes,—God have mercy on me—I forsook the flock I was appointed to guard, shrank timidly from all the perils that gathered frowning around the Lord’s people, and sought shelter here, in my Syrian villa——
317Julian.
In truth a strange story! And you, timid as you say you are, you, who formerly prized the Emperor’s favour so highly, now step forth before me and fling insults in my very face!
Bishop Maris.
Now I fear you no longer; for now has Christ fully possessed my heart. In the Church’s hour of need, her light and glory burst upon me. All the blood you shed,—all the violence and wrong you do—cry out to heaven, and, re-echoing mightily, ring in my deaf ears, and show me, in my night of blindness, the way I have to go.
Julian.
Get you home, old man!
Bishop Maris.
Not till you have sworn to renounce your devilish courses. What would you do? Would dust rise up against the spirit? Would the lord of earth cast down the Lord of heaven? See you not that the day of wrath is upon us by reason of your sins? The fountains are parched like eyes that have wept themselves dry. The clouds, which ought to pour the manna of fruitfulness upon us, sweep over our heads, and shed no moisture. This earth, which has been cursed since the morning of time, quakes and trembles under the Emperor’s blood-guiltiness.
Julian.
What favour do you expect of your God for such excess of zeal, foolish old man? Do you hope that, as of old, your Galilean master will work a miracle, and give you back your sight?
318Bishop Maris.
I have all the sight I desire; and I thank the Lord that he quenched my bodily vision, so that I am spared from seeing the man who walks in a darkness more terrible than mine.
Julian.
Let me pass!
Bishop Maris.
Whither?
Julian.
Into the Sun-King’s house.
Bishop Maris.
You shall not pass. I forbid you in the name of the only God!
Julian.
Frantic old man!—Away with him!
Bishop Maris.
Ay, lay hands upon me! But he who dares to do so, his hand shall wither. The God of Wrath shall manifest himself in his might——
Julian.
Your God is no mighty God. I will show you that the Emperor is stronger than he——
Bishop Maris.
Lost creature!—Then must I call down the ban upon thee, thou recreant son of the church!
Hekebolius.
[Pale.] My lord and Emperor, let not this thing be!
319Bishop Maris.
[In a loud voice.] Cursed be thou, Julianus Apostata! Cursed be thou, Emperor Julian! God the Lord hath spat thee forth out of his mouth! Cursed be thine eyes and thy hands! Cursed be thy head and all thy doings!
Woe, woe, woe to the apostate! Woe, woe, woe——
[A hollow rumbling noise is heard. The roof and columns of the temple totter, and are seen to collapse with a thundering crash, while the whole building is wrapped in a cloud of dust. The multitude utter shrieks of terror; many flee, others fall to the ground. There is breathless stillness for a while. Little by little the cloud of dust settles, and the temple of Apollo is seen in ruins.
Bishop Maris.
[Whose two conductors have fled, stands alone, and says softly.] God has spoken.
Julian.
[Pale, and in a low voice.] Apollo has spoken. His temple was polluted: therefore he crushed it.
Bishop Maris.
And I tell you it was that Lord who laid the temple of Jerusalem in ruins.
Julian.
If it be so, then the churches of the Galilean shall be closed, and his priests shall be driven with scourges to raise up that temple anew.
320Bishop Maris.
Try, impotent man! Who has had power to restore the temple of Jerusalem since the Prince of Golgotha called down destruction upon it?
Julian.
I have the power! The Emperor has the power! Your God shall be made a liar. Stone by stone will I rebuild the temple of Jerusalem in all its glory, as it was in the days of Solomon.
Bishop Maris.
Not one stone shall you add to another; for it is accursed of the Lord.
Julian.
Wait, wait; you shall see—if you could see—you who stand there forsaken and helpless, groping in the darkness, not knowing where you next may place your foot.
Bishop Maris.
Yet I see the glare of the lightning that shall one day fall upon you and yours.
[He gropes his way out. Julian remains behind, surrounded by a handful of pale and terrified attendants.
321
ACT THIRD.
SCENE FIRST.
In Antioch. An open colonnade, with statues and a fountain in front of it. To the left, under the colonnade, a flight of steps leads up to the Imperial Palace.
A company of Courtiers, Teachers, Poets, and Orators—among them the court-physician, Oribases, and the poet, Heraclius—are assembled, some in the colonnade, some around the fountain; most of them are dressed in ragged cloaks, with matted hair and beards.
Heraclius.
I can endure this life no longer. To rise with the sun, plunge into a cold bath, run or fence oneself weary——
Oribases.
’Tis all very wholesome.
Heraclius.
Is it wholesome to eat seaweed and raw fish?
A Courtier.
Is it wholesome to have to devour meat in great lumps, all bloody, as it comes from the butcher?
322Heraclius.
’Tis little enough meat I have seen for the past week. Most of it goes to the altars. Ere long, methinks, we shall be able to say that the ever-venerable gods are the only meat-eaters in Antioch.
Oribases.
Still the same old mocker, Heraclius.
Heraclius.
Why, of what are you thinking, friend? Far be it from me to mock at the Emperor’s wise decrees. Blessed be the Emperor Julian! Does he not follow in the footsteps of the immortals? For, tell me, does not a certain frugality seem nowadays to reign, even in the heavenly housekeeping?
A Courtier.
Ha-ha-ha! ThereThere you are not far wrong.
Heraclius.
Look at Cybele, formerly so bounteous a goddess, whose statue the Emperor lately found in an ash-pit——
Another Courtier.
It was in a dunghill——
Heraclius.
Like enough; fertilising is Cybele’s business. But look at this goddess, I say;—in spite of her hundred breasts, she flows neither with milk nor honey.
[A circle of laughing hearers has gathered round him. While he is speaking, the Emperor Julian has come forward on the steps in the colonnade, unnoticed by 323those below. He wears a tattered cloak, with a girdle of rope; his hair and beard are unkempt, his fingers stained with ink; in both hands, under his arms, and stuck in his belt, he holds bundles of parchment rolls and papers. He stops and listens to Heraclius with every sign of exasperation.
Heraclius.
[Continuing.] It seems as though this wet-nurse of the world had become barren. We might almost think that she had passed the age when women——
A Courtier.
[Observing Julian.] Fie, fie, Heraclius,—shame on you!
[Julian signs to the courtier to be silent.
Heraclius.
[Continuing.] Well, enough of her. But is Ceres in the same case? Does she not display a most melancholy—I had almost said an imperial—parsimony? Yes, believe me, if we had a little more intercourse with high Olympus nowadays, we should hear much to the same tune. I dare swear that nectar and ambrosia are measured out as sparingly as possible. Oh Zeus, how gaunt must thou have grown! Oh roguish Dionysus, how much is there left of the fulness of thy loins? Oh wanton, quick-flushing Venus,—oh Mars, inauspicious to married men——
Julian.
[In great wrath.] Oh most shameless Heraclius! Oh scurvy, gall-spitting, venom-mouth——
324Heraclius.
Ah, my gracious Emperor!
Julian.
Oh ribald scoffer at all sacred things! And this must I endure—to hear your croaking tongue the instant I leave my library to breathe the fresh morning air!
[He comes nearer.
Know you what I hold under my left arm? No, you do not know. ’Tis a polemic against you, blasphemous and foolish Heraclius!
Heraclius.
What, my Emperor,—against me?
Julian.
Yes, a treatise against you. A treatise with which my indignation has this very night inspired me. Think you I could be other than wroth at your most unseemly behaviour yesterday? How strange was the licence you allowed yourself in the lecture-hall, in my hearing, and that of many other earnest men? Had we not to listen for hours together to the shameful fables about the gods which you must needs retail? How dared you repeat such fictions? Were they not lies, from first to last?
Heraclius.
Ah, my Emperor, if you call that lying, then both Ovid and Lucian were liars.
Julian.
What else? Oh, I cannot express the indignation that seized me when I understood whither 325your impudent address was tending. “Man, let nothing surprise you,” I was tempted to say with the comic poet, when I heard you, like an ill-conditioned cur, barking forth, not expressions of gratitude, but a string of irrational nursery-tales, and ill-written to boot. For your verses were bad, Heraclius;—that I have proved in my treatise.
How I longed to arise and leave the hall when I saw you, as in a theatre, making a spectacle both of Dionysus and of the great immortal after whom you are named! If I constrained myself to keep my seat, I can assure you ’twas more out of respect to the players—if I dare call them so—than to the poet. But ’twas most of all for my own sake. I feared it might seem as though I were fleeing like a frightened dove. Therefore I made no sign, but quietly repeated to myself that verse of Homer:
“Bear it, my heart, for a time; heavier things hast thou suffered.”
Endure, as before, to hear a mad dog yelp at the eternal gods.
Yes, I see we must stomach this and more. We are fallen on evil days. Show me the happy man who has been suffered to keep his eyes and ears uncontaminated in this iron age!
Oribases.
I pray you, my noble master, be not so deeply moved. Let it comfort you that we all listened with displeasure to this man’s folly.
Julian.
That is in nowise the truth! I read in the countenances of most of you something far different from displeasure while this shameless 326mountebank was babbling forth his ribaldries, and then looking round the circle with a greasy smile, just as though he had done something to be proud of.
Heraclius.
Alas, my Emperor, I am most unhappy——
Julian.
That you may well be; for this is, in truth, no trifling matter. Think you the legends of the gods have not a serious and weighty purpose? Are they not destined to lead the human spirit, by an easy and pleasant path, up to the mystic abodes where reigns the highest god,—and thereby to make our souls capable of union with him? How can it be otherwise? Was it not with that view that the old poets invented such legends, and that Plato and others repeated them, and even added to their number? Apart from this purpose, I tell you, these stories would be fit only for children or barbarians,—and scarcely for them. But was it children and barbarians, pray, that you had before you yesterday? Where do you find the audacity to address me as if I were a child? Do you think yourself a sage, and entitled to a sage’s freedom of speech, because you wear a ragged cloak, and carry a beggar’s staff in your hand?
A Courtier.
How true, my Emperor! No, no, it needs more than that.that.
Julian.
Ay? Does it indeed? And what? To let your hair grow, perhaps, and never clean your nails? Oh hypocritical Cleon! I know you, one and all. 327Here, in this treatise, I have given you a name which——; you shall hear——
He searches through the bundles of papers. At that moment Libanius enters from the right, richly clad, and with a haughty mien.
Oribases.
[In a low tone.] Ah, you come in the nick of time, most honoured Libanius!
Julian.
[Continuing his search.] Where can it be——
Libanius.
[To Oribases.] What mean you, friend?
Oribases.
The Emperor is much enraged; your coming will pacify him.
Julian.
Ah, here I have it——
[With annoyance.
What does that man want?
Oribases.
Sire, this is——
Julian.
No matter, no matter! Now you shall hear whether I know you or not. There are among the wretched Galileans a number of madmen who call themselves penitents. These renounce all earthly possessions, and yet demand great gifts of the fools who treat them as holy men and almost as objects of worship. Behold, you are like 328these penitents, except that I shall give you nothing. For I am not so foolish as those others. Yes, yes, were I not firm on that point, you would soon overrun the whole court with your shamelessness. Nay, do you not already do so? Are there not many among you who would come again, even if I drove them away? Oh my dear friends, what can this lead to? Are you lovers of wisdom? Are you followers of Diogenes, whose garb and habits you ape? In truth, you do not haunt the schools nearly so much as you besiege my treasurer. What a pitiful and despicable thing has not wisdom become because of you! Oh, hypocrites and babblers without understanding! Oh you—— But what is yonder fat man seeking?
Oribases.
Sire, it is the chief magistrate of the city——
Julian.
The chief magistrate must wait. The matters we have in hand must take precedence of all meaner affairs. How now? Why this air of impatience? Is your business so weighty——
Libanius.
By no means, sire; I can come another day.
[He is going.
Oribases.
Sire, do you not recognise this distinguished man? This is the rhetorician Libanius.
Julian.
What? Libanius? Impossible. Libanius here—the incomparable Libanius! I cannot believe it.
329Libanius.
I thought the Emperor knew that the citizens of Antioch had chosen me as their chief magistrate.
Julian.
Assuredly I knew it. But when I made my entrance into the city, and the magistrates came forth to greet me with an oration, I looked in vain for Libanius. Libanius was not among them.
Libanius.
The Emperor had uttered no wish to hear Libanius speak on that occasion.
Julian.
The orator Libanius ought to have known what were the Emperor’s wishes in that respect.
Libanius.
Libanius knew not what changes time and absence might have wrought. Libanius therefore judged it more becoming to take his place among the multitude. He chose, indeed, a sufficiently conspicuous position; but the Emperor deigned not to let his eyes fall on him.
Julian.
I thought you received my letter the day after——
Libanius.
Your new friend Priscus brought it to me.
Julian.
And none the less—perhaps all the more—you held aloof——?
330Libanius.
Headache and weighty business——
Julian.
Ah, Libanius, in bygone days you were not so chary of your presence.
Libanius.
I come where I am bidden. Ought I to be intrusive? Would you have me stand in the way of the Emperor’s much-honoured Maximus?
Julian.
Maximus never appears at court.
Libanius.
And for good reason. Maximus holds a court of his own. The Emperor has conceded him a whole palace.
Julian.
Oh my Libanius, have I not conceded you my heart? How can you envy Maximus his palace?
Libanius.
I envy no man. I do not even envy my colleagues Themistius and Mamertinus, although you have conferred on them such signal proofs of your favour. Nor do I envy Hekebolius, whose wealth you have increased by such princely presents. I even rejoice to be the only man to whom you have given nothing. For I well know the reason of the exception. You wish the cities of your empire to abound in everything, and most of all in oratory, knowing that it is that distinction which marks us off from the barbarians. Now you feared that I, 331like certain others, might, if you gave me riches, become lukewarm in my art. The Emperor has therefore preferred to let the teacher of his youth remain poor, in order to hold him the closer to his craft. Thus do I interpret a course of action which has astonished some whom I forbear to name. ’Tis for the honour and well-being of the state that you have given me nothing. I am to lack riches that I may abound in eloquence.
Julian.
And I, my Libanius, have also understood the reason why the teacher of my youth has let me pass many months here in Antioch without presenting himself. Libanius doubtless deemed that any services his former pupil may have rendered to the gods, to the state, or to learning, were not great enough to deserve celebration by the man who is called the king of eloquence. Libanius no doubt thought that meaner orators were better fitted to deal with such trivial things. Moreover, Libanius has remained silent out of care for the balance of my mind. You feared, doubtless, to see the Emperor intoxicated with arrogance, reeling like one who in his thirst has drunk too deeply of the leaf-crowned wine-bowl, had you lavished on him any of that art which is the marvel of Greece, and raised him, so to speak, to the level of the gods, by pouring out before him so precious a libation.
Libanius.
Ah, my Emperor, if I could believe that my oratory possessed such power——
332Julian.
And why should you not believe it, incomparable friend? Oh, leave me. I am wroth with you, Libanius. But it is the lover’s anger against the one he loves.
Libanius.
Is it indeed so? Oh my crowned brother, let me then tell you that not a day has passed since your coming hither on which I have not cursed the steadfastness that would not let me make the first advance. My friends assured me—not without some show of reason—that you had undertaken this long journey chiefly in order to see me and hear me speak. But Julian himself gave no sign. What was I to do? Should I flatter as Emperor him whom I loved as a man?
Julian.
[Embracing and kissing him.] My Libanius!
Libanius.
[Kissing the Emperor in return.] My friend and brother!
Oribases.
How honourable to both!
Courtiers and Teachers.
[Clapping their hands.] How beautiful! How sublime!
Julian.
Libanius, cruel friend,—how could you find it in your heart to balk me so long of this happy moment? During the weeks and months I have waited for you, my countenance has been veiled in Scythian darkness.
333Libanius.
Alas, you were in better case than I; for you had those to whom you could speak about your absent friend.
Julian.
Say not so. I had only the hapless lover’s comfort: that of sorrowfully repeating your name, and crying out: “Libanius, Libanius!”
Libanius.
Ah, whilst you spoke thus to empty air, I spoke to the four walls of my chamber. Most of the day I passed in bed, picturing to myself who was then with you—now this one, now that. “Once it was otherwise,” I said to myself,—“then it was I who possessed Julian’s ear.”
Julian.
And meanwhile you let me pine away with longing. Look at me. Have I not grown a century older?
Libanius.
Oh, have I not suffered as great a change? You did not recognise me.
Julian.
This meeting has been to both of us as a bath, from which we go forth healed.
[They embrace and kiss again.
And now, beloved friend, now tell me what has brought you hither to-day; for I cannot doubt that you have some special errand.
334Libanius.
To say nothing of my longing—so it is. Would that another had been sent in my stead! But the post of honour to which the confidence of the citizens has summoned me makes it my duty to perform all missions alike.
Julian.
Speak, my Libanius, and tell me how I can serve you.
Libanius.
Let me begin by saying that the inhabitants of this city are sunk in sorrow because you have withdrawn your favour from them.
Julian.
H’m——!
Libanius.
And this sorrow has been coupled with anxiety and disquiet since Alexander, the new governor, assumed office.
Julian.
Aha; indeed!
Libanius.
The exaltation of such a man could not but take us by surprise. Alexander has hitherto filled only trifling offices, and that in a manner little calculated to earn him either the respect or the affection of the citizens.
Julian.
I know that well, Libanius!
Libanius.
Alexander is violent in all his dealings, and justice is of little moment in his eyes——
335Julian.
I know it; I know all you tell me. Alexander is a rough man, without morals and without eloquence. Alexander has in no way deserved so great advancement. But you may tell the citizens of Antioch that they have deserved Alexander. Ay, they have, if possible, deserved a still worse ruler, covetous and intractable as they are——
Libanius.
It is, then, as we feared; this is a punishment——
Julian.
Hear me, Libanius! How did I come hither? With full confidence in the people of this city. Antioch, chosen by the Sun-King for his especial seat, was to help me to repair all the wrong and ingratitude which had so long been shown to the immortals. But how have you met me? Some with defiance, others with lukewarmness. What have I not to endure here? Does not that Cappadocian, Gregory of Nazianzus, still wander about the city, stirring up the ignorant Galileans by his audacious speeches? Has not a poet arisen among them—a certain Apollinaris—who, with his wild songs, inflames their fanaticism to the point of madness?
And what do I not learn from other places? In Caesarea, have they not carried out their threat, and wrecked the temple of Fortuna! Oh shame and infamy! Where were the goddess’s worshippers the while? Did they prevent it? No, they did not lift a finger, Libanius, though they should have laid down life itself to preserve the sanctuary.
336But wait, wait! The Galileans of Caesarea shall atone with their blood, and the whole city shall go up in flames as soon as I have time at my disposal.
Libanius.
My lord and friend,—if you would permit me——
Julian.
Permit me, first. Say yourself whether I ought to tolerate such things? Say whether my zeal can bear with such insults to the divinities who hover over and shield me? But what can I do? Have I not laboured through many a long night to disprove these unhappy delusions,—writing, Libanius, till my eyes were red, and my fingers black with ink? And what good, think you, has it done? I have reaped scorn instead of thanks, not only from the fanatics themselves, but even from men who pretend to share my opinions. And now, to crown all these mortifications, I find you acting as spokesman for the complaints of a handful of citizens against Alexander, who at least does his best to keep the Galileans in check.
Libanius.
Oh, my august friend,—that is precisely our ground of complaint.
Julian.
Do you tell me this?
Libanius.
’Tis not with my own good will that I do the city’s errands. I urged upon the council that they ought to choose for this task the most distinguished 337man in the town, thereby implying that I did not wish to be chosen. Despite this hint, the choice fell on me, who am certainly not——
Julian.
Well, well, well! But oh, Libanius, that I must hear from your mouth——!
Libanius.
I beg my crowned brother to remember that I speak in the name of the city! For myself, I prize the immortal gods as highly as any one. Where would the art of oratory be without the legends which the poets of bygone days have left to us? May not these legends be likened to a rich vein of ore, whence an accomplished orator can forge himself both weapons and ornaments, if only he understands how to work the metal skilfully? How flat and insipid would not the maxims of wisdom seem, expressed without images or comparisons borrowed from the supernatural?
But think, oh my friend—can you expect the multitude to take this view, especially in such an age as ours? I assure you that in Antioch, at any rate, ’tis not to be hoped for. The citizens—both Galileans and the more enlightened—have of late years lived at peace without greatly concerning themselves as to these matters. There is scarce a household in the city wherein people are of one mind upon things divine. But, until lately, domestic peace has nevertheless prevailed.
Now the case is altered. People have begun to weigh creed against creed. Discord has broken out between the nearest kinsmen. For example, a citizen, whose name I forbear to mention, has lately disinherited his son because the young man 338separated himself from the Galilean community. Commerce and social life suffer from all this, especially now, when scarcity reigns and famine stands at the door.
Julian.
Enough, enough,—more than enough, Libanius! You complain of scarcity. But tell me, has luxury ever been more rampant than now? Is the amphitheatre ever empty when it is reported that a new lion has arrived from Africa? Last week, when there was a talk of turning all idlers and vagabonds out of the city because of the dearth, did not the citizens loudly demand that the gladiators and dancing-girls should be exempted; for they felt they could not exist without them!
Ah, well may the gods desert you in wrath over, your folly! There are plenty of teachers of wisdom in this city, but where is wisdom? Why do so few tread in my footsteps? Why stop at Socrates? Why not go a few steps further, and follow Diogenes, or—if I dare say so—me, since we lead you to happiness? For is not happiness the goal of all philosophy? And what is happiness but harmony with oneself? Does the eagle want golden feathers? Or the lion claws of silver? Or does the pomegranate-tree long to bear fruits of sparkling stone? I tell you no man has a right to enjoy until he has steeled himself to forbear. Ay, he ought not to touch enjoyment with his finger-tips until he has learnt to trample it under foot.
Ah truly, we are far from that! But for that end will I work with all my might. For the sake of these things I will give up others which are also important. The Persian king—alarmed at my 339approach—has offered me terms of peace. I think of accepting them, that I may have my hands free to enlighten and improve you, intractable generation! As to the other matter, it must remain as it is. You shall keep Alexander. Make the best you can of him.
Yet, my Libanius, it shall not be said that I have sent you from me in disfavour——
Libanius.
Ah, my Emperor——
Julian.
You mentioned with a certain bitterness that I had given much to Themistius and Mamertinus. But did I not also take something from them? Did I not take from them my daily companionship? ’Tis my intent to give you more than I gave them.
Libanius.
Ah, what do you tell me, my august brother?
Julian.
’Tis not my intent to give you gold or silver. That folly prevailed with me only at first, until I saw how people flocked round me, like thirsty harvesters round a fountain, elbowing and jostling one another, and each stretching out a hollow hand to have it filled first, and filled to the brim. I have grown wiser since. I think it may be said in particular that the Goddess of Wisdom has not withdrawn her countenance from me in the measures I have taken for the good of this city.
Libanius.
Doubtless, doubtless!
340Julian.
Therefore I commission you, oh my Libanius, to compose a panegyric on me.
Libanius.
Ah, what an honour——!
Julian.
You must lay special stress on the benefits for which the citizens of Antioch owe me gratitude. I hope you will produce an oration that shall do honour both to the orator and to his subject. This task, my Libanius, shall be my gift to you. I know of nothing more fitting to offer to a man like you.
Libanius.
Oh, my crowned friend, what a transcendent favour!
Julian.
And now to the fencing-hall. Then, my friends, we will walk through the streets, to give these insolent townsfolk a profitable example of sobriety in dress and simplicity in manners.
Oribases.
Through the streets, sire? In this midday heat——
A Courtier.
Pray, sire, let me be excused; I feel extremely unwell——
Heraclius.
I too, most gracious lord! All this morning I have been struggling against a feeling of nausea——
341Julian.
Then take an emetic, and see if you cannot throw up your folly at the same time.
Oh Diogenes,—how degenerate are your successors! They are ashamed to wear your cloak in the open street.
[He goes out angrily through the colonnade.
SCENE SECOND.
A mean street in the outskirts of the city. In the row of houses to the left stands a small church.
A great multitude of lamenting Christians is assembled. The psalm-writer Apollinaris and the teacher Cyrillus are among them. Women with children in their arms utter loud cries. Gregory of Nazianzus passes along the street.
The Women.
[Rushing up to him and taking hold of his garments.] Ah, Gregory, Gregory—speak to us! Comfort us in this anguish!
Gregory.
Only One can give comfort here. Hold fast by Him. Cling to the Lord our Shepherd.
A Woman.
Know you this, oh man of God,—the Emperor has commanded that all our sacred scriptures shall be burnt!
Gregory.
I have heard it; but I cannot believe that his folly is so great.
342Apollinaris.
It is true. Alexander, the new governor, has sent out soldiers to search the houses of the brethren. Even women and children are whipped till they bleed, if they are suspected of hiding books.
Cyrillus.
The Emperor’s decree applies not to Antioch only, nor even to Syria; it applies to the empire and the whole world. Every smallest word that is written concerning Christ is to be wiped out of existence, and out of the memory of believers.
Apollinaris.
Oh ye mothers, weep for yourselves and for your children!
The day will come when ye shall dispute with those ye now carry in your arms, as to what was in truth written in the lost Word of God. The day will come when your children’s children shall mock at you, and shall not know who or what Christ was.
The day will come when no heart shall remember that once on a time the Saviour of the world suffered and died.
The last believer shall go in darkness to his grave, and from that hour shall Golgotha vanish away from the earth, like the place where the Garden of Eden lay.
Woe, woe, to the new Pilate! He is not content, like the first, to slay the Saviour’s body. He murders the word and the faith!
The Women.
[Tearing their hair and rending their garments.] Woe, woe, woe!
343Gregory.
And I say unto you, be of good cheer! God does not die. ’Tis not from Julian that the danger comes. The danger was there long ere he arose, in the weakness and contentiousness of our hearts.
Cyrillus.
Oh, Gregory, how can you ask us to remain steadfast amid these horrors?—Brethren and sisters—know you what has happened in Arethusa? The unbelievers have maltreated the old bishop Marcus, dragged him by the hair through the streets, cast him into the sewers, dragged him up again, bleeding and befouled, smeared him over with honey and set him in a tree, a prey to wasps and poisonous flies.
Gregory.
And has not God’s power been gloriously manifested in this very Marcus? What was Marcus before? A man of doubtful faith. When the troubles broke out in Arethusa, he even fled from the city. But behold—-no sooner had he heard in his hiding-place that the raging crew were avenging the bishop’s flight on innocent brethren, than he returned of his own free will. And how did he bear the torments which so appalled even his executioners, that in order to withdraw with some show of credit, they offered to release him if he would pay a very trifling fine? Was not his answer: No—and no, and again no? The Lord God was with him. He neither died nor yielded. His countenance showed neither terror nor impatience. In the tree wherein he hung, he thanked 344God for being lifted a few steps nearer heaven, while the others, as he said, crawled about on the flat earth.
Cyrillus.
A miracle must have happened to the resolute old man. If you had heard, as I did, the shrieks from the prison, that day in the summer when Hilarion and the others were tortured——! They were like no other shrieks—agonised, rasping, mixed with hissing sounds every time the white-hot iron buried itself in the raw flesh.
Apollinaris.
Oh, Cyrillus, have you forgotten how the shrieks passed over into song? Did not Hilarion sing even in death? Did not that heroic Cappadocian boy sing until he gave up the ghost under the hands of the torturers? Did not Agathon, that boy’s brother, sing until he swooned away, and then woke up in madness?
Verily I say unto you, so long as song rings out above our sorrows, Satan shall never conquer!
Gregory.
Be of good cheer. Love one another and suffer one for another, as Serapion in Doristora lately suffered for his brothers, for love of whom he let himself be scourged, and cast alive into the furnace!
See, see,—has not the Lord’s avenging hand already been raised against the ungodly? Have you not heard the tidings from Heliopolis under Lebanon?
345Apollinaris.
I know it. In the midst of the ribald feast of Aphrodite, the heathen broke into the house of our holy sisters, violated them, murdered them amid tortures unspeakable——
The Women.
Woe, woe!
Apollinaris.
——ay, some of the wretches even tore open the bodies of the martyrs, dragged forth the entrails and ate the liver raw!
The Women.
Woe, woe, woe!
Gregory.
The God of Wrath seasoned the meal. How have they thriven on it? Go to Heliopolis, and you shall see those men with a putrefying poison in all their veins, their eyes and teeth dropping out, bereft of speech and understanding. Horror has fallen on the city. Many heathens have been converted since that night.
Therefore I fear not this pestilent monster who has risen up against the church; I fear not this crowned hireling of hell, who is bent upon finishing the work of the enemy of mankind. Let him fall upon us with fire, with sword, with the wild beasts of the amphitheatre! Should his madness even drive him further than he has yet gone—what does it matter? For all this there is a remedy, and the path lies open to victory.
The Women.
Christ, Christ!
346Other Voices.
There he is! There he comes!
Some.
Who?
Others.
The Emperor! The murderer! The enemy of God!
Gregory.
Be still! Let him pass by in silence.
[A detachment of the Imperial Guards comes along the street. Julian follows, accompanied by courtiers and philosophers, all surrounded by guards. Another division of the Household Guard, led by Fromentinus, closes the procession.
A Woman.
[Softly to the others.] See, see, he has wrapped himself in rags, like a beggar.
Another Woman.
He must be out of his senses.
A Third Woman.
God has already stricken him.
A Fourth Woman.
Hide your little ones against your breasts. Let not their eyes behold the monster.
Julian.
Aha, are not these all Galileans? What do you here in the sunshine, in the open street, you spawn of darkness?
347Gregory.
You have closed our churches; therefore we stand without and praise the Lord our God.
Julian.
Ah, is that you, Gregory? So you still linger here. But beware; my patience will not last for ever.
Gregory.
I seek not a martyr’s death; I do not even desire it; but if it be allotted me, I shall glory in dying for Christ.
Julian.
Your phrases weary me. I will not have you here. Why cannot you keep to your stinking dens? Go home, I tell you!
A Woman.
Oh, Emperor, where is our home?
Another Woman.
Where are our houses? The heathen have plundered them and driven us out.
A Voice in the Throng.
Your soldiers have taken from us all our goods.
Other Voices.
Oh Emperor, Emperor, why have you seized upon our possessions?
Julian.
You ask that? I will tell you, ignorant creatures! If your riches are taken from you, ’tis out 348of care for your souls’ weal. Has not the Galilean said that you shall possess neither silver nor gold? Has not your Master promised that you shall one day ascend to heaven? Ought you not, then, to thank me for making your rising as easy as possible?
The Philosophers.
Oh, incomparably answered!
Apollinaris.
Sire, you have robbed us of what is more precious than gold and silver. You have robbed us of God’s own word. You have robbed us of our sacred scriptures.
Julian.
I know you, hollow-eyed psalm-singer! Are not you Apollinaris? I believe if I take away your senseless books, you are capable of making up others, just as senseless, in their stead. But you are a pitiful bungler, let me tell you, both in prose and verse! By Apollo! no true Greek would suffer a line of yours to pass his lips. The pamphlet you sent me the other day, which you had the effrontery to entitle “The Truth,” I have read, understood, and condemned.
Apollinaris.
’Tis possible you may have read it; but understood it you have not; for if you had, you would not have condemned it.
Julian.
Ha-ha! the rejoinder I am preparing will prove that I understood it.—But as to those books whose 349loss you lament and howl over, I may tell you that you will presently hold them cheaper when it is proved that Jesus of Nazareth was a liar and deceiver.
The Women.
Woe to us; woe to us!
Cyrillus.
[Stepping forward.] Emperor—what mean you by that?
Julian.
Did not the crucified Jew prophesy that the Temple of Jerusalem should lie in ruins till the end of time?
Cyrillus.
So shall it be!
Julian.
Oh fools! At this moment my general, Jovian, with two thousand workmen, is at Jerusalem, rebuilding the temple in all its glory. Wait, wait, you stiff-necked doubters—you shall learn who is the mightier, the Emperor or the Galilean.
Cyrillus.
Sire, that you yourself shall learn to your dismay. I held my peace till you blasphemed the Highest, and called him a liar; but now I tell you that you have not a feather-weight of power against the Crucified One!
Julian.
[Constraining himself.] Who are you, and what do you call yourself?
350Cyrillus.
[Coming forward.] I will tell you. First and foremost I call myself a Christian, and that is a most honourable name; for it shall never be wiped away from the earth.
Furthermore, I bear the name of Cyrillus, and am known by that name among my brethren and sisters.
But if I keep the former name unspotted, I shall reap eternal life as a reward.
Julian.
You are mistaken, Cyrillus! You know I am not unversed in the mysteries of your creed. Believe me—he in whom you put your trust is not the being you imagine. He died, in very truth, at the time when the Roman, Pontius Pilate, was governor in Judea.
Cyrillus.
I am not mistaken. ’Tis you, oh Emperor, who err in this. ’Tis you, who repudiated Christ at the moment when he gave you dominion over the world.
Therefore I tell you, in his name, that he will quickly take from you both your dominion and your life; and then shall you recognise, too late, how mighty is he whom in your blindness you despise.
Yea, as you have forgotten his benefits, he will not remember his lovingkindness, when he shall rise up to punish you.
You have cast down his altars; he shall cast you down from your throne. You have taken delight in trampling his law under foot, that very law which you yourself once proclaimed to believers. 351In like manner shall the Lord trample you under his heel. Your body shall be scattered to the wild winds, and your soul shall descend to a place of greater torments than you can devise for me and mine!
[The women flock around Cyrillus, with cries and lamentations.
Julian.
I would fain have spared you, Cyrillus! The gods are my witnesses that I hate you not for your faith’s sake. But you have mocked at my imperial power and authority, and that I must punish.
[To the Captain of the Guard.
Fromentinus, lead this man to prison, and let the executioner Typhon give him as many lashes with the scourge as are needful to make him confess that the Emperor, and not the Galilean, has all power upon earth.
Gregory.
Be strong, Cyrillus, my brother!