cooks, sweetmeat makers, bakers, butchers, wine stewards, water-drawers, furnace-stokers, fish purveyors, and all the rest of the mob that Constantius had somehow found necessary to prepare a meal.
The evening of the banquet began smoothly enough: The guests had been happily if benignly entertained by a number of choristers and musicians presenting excerpts from ancient classic dramas, and dancers in keeping with Julian's austere tastes — no fire jugglers or nude Syrian girl acrobats for him! Maximus, who attended with his usual stained tunic and unkempt beard, and whose position on the couch was just on the other side of the host from mine, maintained his customary sour grimace and piercing expression. This was despite the fact that out of deference to the evil little man's stature, Julian had taken care in advance to ban the usual troop of comic dwarves and buffoons that Constantius had often favored to lighten the mood of his guests. I stared at Maximus as he smirked and whispered sycophantically into the Emperor's ear, until he caught my glance and deflected it with a scowl. Despite my personal resentment of him, as a physician I still bore some concern for the man, for it seemed that his rash was spreading — the rough, angry-looking patch of pustules I had first noticed upon his arrival in the city had spread from beneath his left ear to down his jawline and was approaching his left cheek.
When the music and entertainment began to grow tiresome, and appetites had been appropriately whetted by the small tidbits served by the bustling table slaves, Julian looked up and nodded at the watchful usher at the door, who turned into the corridor and clapped his hands sharply. Conversation in the room fell silent in expectation, as a long parade of richly dressed palace eunuchs filed in, bearing silver platters on their shoulders steaming with the incredible results of the past four days' hard work in the kitchens. The head steward's and chef's repressed creativity had taken on full bloom.
The theme of the meal was the twelve signs of the zodiac, with the arrangement of each of the twelve courses focusing on a specific astrological sign. Julian looked on in dismay at the inventiveness of the representations depicted on the serving platters: for the Ram, headcheese of sheep; for the Twins, matching pairs of stuffed kidneys. The majestic African Lion was represented by a delicate plate of Numidian figs; Pisces by massive platters of poached mullet from Corsica and the finest lamprey from the Straits of Sicily; and Capricorn not by a goat, as one might first expect, but rather by huge shelled lobsters garnished with fresh asparagus, and with their foreclaws mounted on their heads in such a way as to look like a goat. Virgo was rather tastelessly depicted by the paunch of a barren sow that inexplicably lay writhing and heaving on a tray in front of us, until the bearded slave who served it drew a hunting knife and plunged it into the foul-looking organ, whereupon a brace of live thrushes burst out, startling the diners. Sagittarius the Huntress was represented by plates of fresh game garnished by — what else? — bulls' eyes, which were nauseating both in themselves and in contemplation of the poor quality of the pun. Between each course, slaves dispersed among the couches with ewers and poured warm, perfumed water over our hands to remove the odor and detritus of the previous course. The palate-cleanser was Libra, an enormous pair of scales set in the middle of each table bearing sweet muffins on one side and delicate cakes on the other, white as snow and kneaded of the finest flour.
The dinner was concluded with the dessert: an enormous, dripping Priapus carved of ice, with cored apple slices chilling as they ringed his tumescent organ, and surrounded by peaches, grapes, and flavored ice. The effect, to my mind, was thoroughly disgusting, though received appreciatively by the other diners. Throughout, copious quantities of Falernian wine were consumed, so old the date had been effaced by the dust that time had gathered on the aged jars but which could not have been less than a century. The mix of water gradually became less and less substantial, 'in order,' Julian said, 'to better appreciate the fine vintage,' until against all custom, and particularly his own personal practice, almost the entire party was consuming it neat, with growing gusto.
Appreciative belches were politely emitted, in keeping with the philosophical doctrine that the highest wisdom is to follow the dictates of nature. Under Constantius this practice had been pushed to its logical extreme, and several of the more uninhibited guests engaged robustly in other emissions of wind, but a disapproving glance from the Emperor quickly put an end to music of this kind. Even Trimalchio had had the decency to leave his couch and exit the triclinium when pressed by urgent need. Even more flatulent than the reaction to the dinner, however, was the conversation of the immediate guests around Julian's table. It began with the most prosaic remarks about the new Emperor's liking of Constantinople's weather and his appreciation of various historical points of interest, and soon touched upon more sensitive topics of Constantius' past policies and the political stances of certain individuals not present at the dinner.
All this I politely ignored, smiling pleasantly and picking halfheartedly at my headcheese. It was when the topic turned to religion, however, that my interest was piqued, though I remained wary of entering into any serious discussion, for all present had by this time consumed ample quantities of wine and were not above spouting the first ill-considered thoughts that came to mind concerning such-and-such religious practices. Julian, too, became a more animated participant in the discussion, looking to me often for confirmation of his points of theology concerning Christian doctrine and increasingly attempting to draw me into the lively conversation, even baiting me to do so.
'What was it the Apostle Paul said?' he asked, looking at me, his words slightly slurred.
'My lord, I am no Scriptures scholar. Even had I memorized all of Paul's writings, would you have me repeat them to you now?'
He waved me off impatiently. 'Ah, my friend, I won't let you shirk your conversational duties so easily. You know perfectly well what the great man said about salvation — you were raised among bishops as a child, just as I was. 'If you confess with your lips that Jesus is lord, and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.' Was it not that?'
'Indeed it was. His letter to the Romans, too. Very appropriate.'
Julian chuckled as he saw I was warming to the topic — but still I remained chary. 'And that statement is, in fact, the very essence of Christianity, is it not?'
'Of course.'
'And one who acknowledges its truth and is witnessed to have accomplished those two things might rightly be said to be a proper Galilean, correct?'
'A proper Christian — yes, my lord.'
He waited a moment, giving me an opportunity to expand upon my responses, yet all I could feel was the heat of the room, the uncut wine making my head swim, and I knew I had no desire to participate in a farcical discussion in the presence of senators and palace toadies. Julian's eyes narrowed slightly at my clear refusal to play along with his attempts at a debate.
'Then why,' he said, feigning a look of puzzlement, 'are Christians said to fear and despise me, and claim I am not one of them? Here, I shall say it: 'Jesus is lord.' Now am I saved?'
I felt all eyes at our table upon me, and noticed that all other conversation in the room had fallen silent. I spoke clearly and evenly. 'I do not know of any Christians who despise you, though they might doubt your commitment to their faith. By merely speaking those words, you have fulfilled only half the requirement. You must also believe in your heart.'
'Ah — so whether or not I am saved is contingent upon whether or not I believe. If I believe I will receive salvation, then I will receive salvation. Circular logic, is it not? What if I do not, or cannot completely believe — will I be partially saved?'
'No, my lord,' I said. 'You can no more be partially saved than can a woman be partially pregnant.'
A few of the diners tittered appreciatively at the weak witticism, but were quickly silenced by Julian's stony face.
'So in other words, my entire fate is based on whether or not I believe. Not on good works, not on charity, not on love. I need only utter the magic words and believe them, whether I am an illiterate peasant, a king, or a scholar, although, in fact, the more I am the latter, the less likely I am to believe. What kind of a religion are we establishing here, that is based so much on the vagaries of one's heart rather than on one's actions in the world?'
'My lord, you belittle our faith,' I rejoined, striving to contain my anger at his mocking tone. 'You cast it in overly simplified terms, to which no religion could stand up. This is not the proper venue for a discussion of this kind. If you insist, we shall talk of these things tomorrow, in private, when you are not so-'
'Calm, calm, Caesarius, I meant no offense,' he interrupted, smiling lightheartedly. 'I call our other guests to witness that I have said nothing vicious or untrue, have I?' Most of the others at the table diverted their gaze or laughed uneasily. 'Here, on my honor, I confess my belief that God raised Christ from the dead, for I truly do believe that, Caesarius, as much as I believe that Athena appeared personally to Odysseus to assist him on his return
