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 the 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?
The 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.
Julian.
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——?
Medon.
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——
Medon.
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, having 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?
Julian.
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.
Julian.
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!
Julian.
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.
Gregory.
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.
Gregory.
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!
Gregory.
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——!
Julian.
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 to 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 younger 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 drought 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——?
Gregory.
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 undertake 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.
Julian.
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.
I 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!
Eunapius.
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.
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. In several places the townspeople have gathered into clusters, talking 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——
A 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!
One 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.
Publia.
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.
The 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?
Phocion.
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.
The 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 on 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 incomparable sanctuary, the very house of 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.
Phocion.
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 procession 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.
Julian.
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!
Julian.
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.
The 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?
A 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 starting 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.
Others 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——
Julian.
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?
Bishop 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!
Bishop 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.
Bishop 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.