II
For weeks I kept to myself except when absolutely needed, shocked at the implications of his conversion, and had not yet determined whether I could continue to serve an emperor who was no longer Christian. At least I had a choice in that regard; one does not, however, have the choice of living under a non-Christian emperor, when that emperor's dominions cover the entire known world. Word had spread quickly throughout the city of Julian's welcome of Maximus and his open apostasy, and the population was in an uproar, though a divided one. Bishops denounced him from the pulpit and Christian women openly wept as he passed in the streets, praying out loud for his salvation; but the city's pagans, who were still the vast majority, celebrated jubilantly and defiantly, and he was showered with invitations to attend the various celebrations of the ancient deities, and participate in the sacrifices, which he made every effort to do. He filled the gardens and rooms of the palace with statues and altars to the gods, to the point that they even resembled temples. Every morning he saluted the arrival of his titular deity, Helios the Sun, with the sacrifice of a white ox, and in the evening, at the moment the sun disappeared below the horizon, the blood of more victims was spilled. On days of public festivals the bloodletting was more extreme, involving sometimes dozens of bawling animals, and lasting throughout the entire morning until he had to be rushed from the altar by the eunuchs responsible for protocol, who washed him and changed his clothes in time for the more public ceremonies, when he received and rewarded his troops.
At these, as is traditional, his throne was encircled by the military ensigns of Rome and the republic. And while Christ's initials were surreptitiously removed from the labarum, the imperial standard which from Constantine's time had borne representations of those letters along with a crown and a cross, the symbols of pagan superstition were so cleverly embedded in the design and adornments of office that even a faithful Christian ran the risk of idolatry merely by respectfully saluting his sovereign. The soldiers passed before him in review, and each man, before receiving a generous donative from the hand of Julian himself, was required to cast a few grains of incense into the flame burning upon the altar. A few good Christians might refuse, or at the least confess and repent afterwards, but far greater numbers, attracted by the gold and awed by the emperor, entered into the diabolic contract. Since I myself refused even to view such atrocities, I found myself sadly contemplating a smaller role in Julian's inner circle — to his chagrin and wonder, as he could not imagine why I might be concerned with the religious beliefs of another, and to the evident pleasure of Maximus, who regarded me as a rustic interloper with a mere journeyman's education and culture. By now, the notion had formed in my mind of quitting Constantinople and finding my own path, yet I hesitated, thinking perhaps that Julian was merely passing through a phase, that he would return soon to his old self, and that I should not be too hasty in removing myself from his court.
Shortly after the new year, in an effort to combat the winter doldrums into which the city had fallen after the frenzy of the succession and the Christmas season, Julian determined to stage a series of games and combats in the circus. This prospect he at first looked upon with resignation, as a pastime unfitting for the mind of a philosopher. The entire time we were in Gaul he had never once attended the games, for in provincial cities such as Sens and Paris, in any case, only second-rate spectacles and gladiators would have performed. Even now, in the grandest city of the world, he was unsure whether they were worth his while. I reminded him of the danger of this attitude, for even the great Julius Caesar had once so offended the Roman people as to threaten a riot, when he demonstrated indifference by reading dispatches during the course of a race. Julian gradually warmed to the idea, however, and resolved to stage a three-day series of games, culminating in a gladiator battle that would be worthy of his accession to Constantius' throne.
And in this he begged my attendance. 'It's time for a diversion, Caesarius, if only for a day or two,' he said. 'You're disappointed in me, I know. A change of view is what we need.'
We were late arriving that day because of pressing business that had kept him at the palace — vastly late, to the irritation of the crowd, which typically looked forward as much to viewing the Emperor and his entourage in the box as the actual combat down below. The preliminary rounds had already been fought, and the mob had begun clamoring for the event for which it had paid, the battle between champions. It was only at this time that Julian arrived, followed by myself and a modest train of courtiers. The crowd erupted in cheers as he took his seat and nodded to the president of the circus to announce the climactic event.
There was at this time a Gallic champion with the unpronounceable nickname of Vercingetorix, in commemoration of the powerful Arverni chieftain who had so vexed Julius Caesar centuries before. He was said to have never been defeated in gladiatorial combat — which goes without saying, because all battles at this level were to the death. The man was huge — a good head taller than average, and solid muscle from head to toe, with long, auburn hair flowing loose to his waist and enormous mustaches streaming down the sides of his chin, a source of fascination to the crowd. As Vercingetorix was announced he sauntered into the arena to deafening cheers, as nonchalant as if returning from the market, his hands swinging freely at his sides, nodding casually up to acquaintances he recognized in the stands. He wore only a crimson loincloth and a dark, polished-leather helmet that obscured the entire top of his face, with openings for his eyes, serving the dual purpose of keeping his impressive hair out of his vision, and lending him a terrifying appearance, like that of an executioner. He wore sturdy sandals and a tiny string around his neck, which appeared all the more thin and fragile by contrast with the brawniness and rippling sinews of his shoulders and chest. A tiny object hung from the thread, which he kissed as if it were a talisman as he stopped short in front of the Emperor's box, his enormous sword hung casually at his right side from his broad belt. His shield, a custom-made affair of at least four thicknesses of ox hide overlayered with a sheet of bronze and studded with costly jewels and gold inlay, hung from its carrying strap across his shoulder, like a trophy on display. Although Vercingetorix was young, perhaps no more than twenty-five, one could tell at a glance that he was a showman as well as a supreme fighter, and he cultivated the appearance of a barbarian chieftain, much to the crowd's delight. He stood motionless before us, staring at the Emperor through his mask, his massive chest rising and falling slowly, and I marveled that a man could stand naked before a hundred thousand people, about to fight in combat to the death, and breathe so deeply and calmly.
'Where were men like that when we were fighting Chonodomarius, Caesarius? Julian asked in a whisper, gazing in amazement at the warrior's sheer bulk. The sun glinted off the tiny talisman hanging from his neck, almost buried in the mat of reddish hair covering his chest, and I saw that it was a cross.
The president of the circus then announced Vercingetorix' opponent, a Romanized Syrian giant, taller even than the Gaul, though less Herculean in build, with long, rangy arms and a quick, nervous spring to his step as he trotted across the arena to take his place at his rival's side, facing us. This man was darker, with deep olive skin and a head almost shorn but for a layer of short, bristly hairs. He was older than the Gaul by some ten or fifteen years, and his face was scarred like one who has survived many such battles, with his nose lying lopsidedly to one side. Perhaps the most salient feature about his physique was the inordinate size of his right biceps and forearm, his sword arm; the forearm alone bulged to almost twice the size of its comrade on the left, with a swell almost like that of a thigh muscle, from years of exercise and training in swordsmanship.
He, too, was naked but for a loincloth and a large sword and shield, though his weapons were completely unadorned, lacking even in polish, as of one who refrained from all external frills or distractions that might burden him in the task at hand. He looked like a military man, and indeed, a courtier nearby whispered to me that he was a former legionary, plucked from his army duties in the East by imperial scouts who had been impressed by his size and fighting ability. His reputation was as a scutarius, a gladiator favoring the large shield and sword. Leo, for that was the name he had chosen, was famed throughout the Empire for his long reach and his lightning speed; and the cheers of the crowd when his name was announced were soon drowned by the cries of the bookies and the bettors as they adjusted their odds and placed their final wagers on the match's outcome.
Side by side they stood, Vercingetorix and Leo, staring hard at Julian, until with a nod from the president, an orchestra blasted a cacophonous fanfare and the crowd fell silent. At another nod, the two warriors simultaneously raised their right arms in salute, and intoned the customary greeting in clear, confident voices: Ave, Imperator, morituri te salutant! 'Hail, Emperor, those who are about to die salute you!' They then retreated several paces in opposite directions to mount their shields, still keeping their eyes expectantly on the imperial box. At the final nod, this time from Julian himself, they drew their swords, turned away, and looked at each other for the first time.
A fever seemed to grip the stadium as the combatants warily circled each other, every man in the crowd standing and straining to see over the heads of those in front of him, bellowing at the top of his lungs the name of his favorite, or the action to be taken: 'Strike, Gaul!' 'Slaughter him, Leo!' 'I've bet my house on you!' 'I've wagered
