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?
Heraclius.
’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! There[There] 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 those 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——
Heraclius.
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 your 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 mountebank 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. Here, 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 these 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.
Libanius.
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——?
Libanius.
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, like 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——
Julian.
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.
Libanius.
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.
Libanius.
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——
Julian.
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.
But 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 man 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 separated 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 approach—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!
Julian.
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——
Julian.
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.
Apollinaris.
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!
Gregory.
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 God 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?
Apollinaris.
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!
Other 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?
Gregory.
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 of 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 loss 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?
Cyrillus.
[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. In 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!
Cyrillus.
[With upraised hands.] How blessed am I, to suffer for the glory of God!
[The soldiers seize and drag him out.
The Women.
[With tears and sobs.] Woe to us! Woe, woe, to the apostate!
Julian.
Disperse these maniacs! Let them be driven out of the city as rebels. I will no longer endure this defiance and scandal.
[The guard drives the lamenting crowd into the side streets. Only the Emperor and his suite remain behind. A man who has hitherto been hidden is now seen lying at the church door; he is in torn garments, and has ashes strewn on his head.
A Soldier.
[Stirring him with a lance-shaft.] Up, up; be off!
The Man.
[Looking up.] Tread under foot this salt without savour, rejected of the Lord!
Julian.
Oh everlasting gods!—Hekebolius——!
The Courtiers.
Ah, so it is,—Hekebolius!
Hekebolius.
That is no longer my name! I am nameless. I have denied the baptism that gave me my name!
Julian.
Arise, friend![friend!] Your mind is distempered——
Hekebolius.
Judas’s brother is pestiferous. Away from me——
Julian.
Oh feeble-hearted man——
Hekebolius.
Avaunt, tempter! Take back your thirty pieces of silver! Is it not written, “Thou shalt forsake wife and children for the Lord’s sake”? And I——? For the sake of wife and children have I betrayed the Lord my God! Woe, woe, woe!
[He casts himself down again on his face.
Julian.
Such flames of madness do these writings kindle over the earth!
And do I not well to burn them?
Wait! Ere a year has passed the Temple of the Jews shall stand again on Zion hill,—the splendour of its golden dome shining over the world, and testifying: Liar, liar, liar!
[He goes hastily away, followed by the philosophers.