Studies in Late Antiquity (Variorum Collected Studies) 1032563893, 9781032563893

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Studies in Late Antiquity

Late Antiquity was an era of remarkable change as beliefs were shaped and reshaped by the competing philosophies of traditional Greco-Roman religion, Middle and Neoplatonist philosophy, and the theology of the early Church. Current narratives of both peaceful competition and violent struggle between Christianity and paganism are reductive. The research presented in this Variorum volume, originally published between 2013 and 2018 in the fields of history, divinity, and philosophy, demonstrates the complexity of the age and provides a more complete picture of major actors including the emperor Julian, Porphyry of Tyre, and Celsus. From the second to the fourth centuries, these were some of the major players in attempting to define the terrain in the conflict between their philosophies and the Christian religion. While the timeframe remains consistently within the late second to the mid-fourth centuries A.D., the sources range between inscriptions, literature, and historical accounts. The particular focus is the emperor Julian (Flavius Claudius Julianus, d. 363), a figure of perennial interest, as not only the last pagan emperor, but the last anti-Christian polemicist of real significance in antiquity. This volume offers a new perspective on Julian, bringing together research from ancient history, Neoplatonist philosophy, and patristic theology, and will be useful to students and scholars alike. David Neal Greenwood took his Ph.D. in Patristics and Classics from the University of Edinburgh, UK and is currently an honorary fellow on the Classics faculty of the University of St. Andrews, UK. He is the author of books and numerous articles in theology, philosophy, and history. He was elected a Fellow of the Royal Historical Society in 2021.

Variorum Collected Studies Also in the Variorum Collected Studies series:

DAVID NEAL GREENWOOD Studies in Late Antiquity (CS1123)

ARTHUR HOLDER Biblical Exegesis and Mystical Theology in the Venerable Bede (CS1122)

WOLFHART HEINRICHS edited by HINRICH BIESTERFELDT AND ALMA GIESE Wolfhart Heinrichs’ Essays and Articles on Arabic Literature Authors, Semitic Studies, and Islamic Jurisprudence (CS1121)

WOLFHART HEINRICHS edited by HINRICH BIESTERFELDT AND ALMA GIESE Wolfhart Heinrichs’ Essays and Articles on Arabic Literature General issues, Terms (CS1120)

SONJA BRENTJES The Sciences in Islamicate Societies in Context Patronage, Education, Narratives (CS1119)

MICHAEL LECKER Studies on the Life of Muhammad and the Dawn of Islam Idol Worshippers, Christians and Jews in Pre- and Early Islam (CS1118)

DONALD F. DUCLOW Engaging Eriugena, Eckhart and Cusanus (CS1117)

VICTOR MALLIA-MILANES The Winged Lion and the Eight-Pointed Cross Venice, Hospitaller Malta, and the Mediterranean in Early Modern Times (CS1116)

SVETLANA KUJUMDZIEVA Studies on Eastern Orthodox Church Chant (CS1115)

SONJA BRENTJES Historiography of the History of Science in Islamicate Societies Practices, Concepts, Questions (CS1114)

AVERIL CAMERON From the Later Roman Empire to Late Antiquity and Beyond (CS1113) For more information about this series, please visit: www.routledge.com/ Variorum-Collected-Studies/book-series/VARIORUM

Studies in Late Antiquity

David Neal Greenwood

VARIORUM COLLECTED STUDIES

First published 2024 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2024 David Neal Greenwood The right of David Neal Greenwood to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-032-56389-3 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-56393-0 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-43531-0 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003435310 Typeset in Times New Roman by Apex CoVantage, LLC VARIORUM COLLECTED STUDIES SERIES CS1123

CONTENTS

Introduction: A Decade With the Emperor Julian 1 ‘Pollution Wars: Consecration and Desecration from Constantine to Julian,’ 289–296 in Studia Patristica, Vol. LXII – Papers Presented at the Sixteenth International Conference on Patristic Studies Held in Oxford 2011, ed. Markus Vinzent. Leuven: Peeters Publishing, 2013

1

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2 ‘A Cautionary Note on Julian’s Pagan Trinity,’ Ancient Philosophy 33 (2013): 391–402

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3 ‘Crafting Divine Personae in Julian’s Or. 7,’ Classical Philology 109 (2014): 140–149

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4 ‘A Pagan Emperor’s Appropriation of Matthew’s Gospel,’ The Expository Times 125 (2014): 593–598

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5 ‘The Alethes Logos of Celsus and the Historicity of Christ,’ Anglican Theological Review 96 (2014): 705–713

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6 ‘Five Latin Inscriptions from the Pagan Restoration of Julian,’ Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 57 (2014): 101–119

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7 ‘Celsus, Origen, and Julian on Christian Miracle-Claims,’ Heythrop Journal 57 (2016): 99–108

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8 ‘Christianizing Translations in the Loeb Editions of Julian and Libanius,’ Translation and Literature 25 (2016): 222–227

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9 ‘Porphyry, Rome, and Support for Persecution,’ Ancient Philosophy 36 (2016): 197–207

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10 ‘Plato’s Pilot in the Political Strategy of Julian and Libanius,’ Classical Quarterly NS 67 (2017): 607–616

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11 ‘Constantinian Influence upon Julian’s Pagan Church,’ Journal of Ecclesiastical History 68 (2017): 1–21

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12 ‘Celsus, Origen, and the Eucharist,’ 187–194 in Studia Patristica, Vol. XCIV – Papers Presented at the Seventeenth International Conference on Patristic Studies Held in Oxford 2015, ed. Markus Vinzent. Leuven: Peeters Publishing, 2017

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13 ‘Julian’s Use of Asclepius against the Christians,’ Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 109 (2017): 491–509

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14 ‘Porphyry’s Influence upon Julian: Apotheosis and Divinity,’ Ancient Philosophy 38 (2018): 421–434

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15 ‘New Testament Christology, Athanasian Apologetic, and Pagan Polemic,’ Journal of Theological Studies NS 69 (2018): 101–105

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Index

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INTRODUCTION A Decade with the Emperor Julian

My association with the Roman Emperor Flavius Claudius Julianus began in the university years – mine, not his. One of my favourite undergraduate lecturers was the erudite and charismatic Joe Hoffmann, who made the material in his course on Ancient Greece come alive. All the male students wanted to emulate Joe Hoffmann, which likely was connected with the stated wish of some of the female students to be the future Mrs. Joe Hoffmann. We young men all came up short in the moustache department, however. Though Joe Hoffmann departed our university soon after, he remained an almost legendary figure among the humanities students. Fast forward many years to reading about the Emperor Julian, an exercise that included a volume entitled Julian’s Against the Galileans, by R. Joseph Hoffmann. To my great surprise the author and my professor turned out to be one and the same. I found myself disagreeing with aspects of his portrayal of the emperor and reflected that perhaps someday I ought to write something about Julian myself. Not long afterwards, at a visit to the marvellous University of Virginia bookstore in Charlottesville, I found a copy of the third of the little green Loeb Classical Library volumes on Julian and made it mine. It was the beginning of two fruitful associations, one with Julian and one with his translator in the Loeb series, Mrs. Wilmer Cave Wright. The two would become the subjects of many articles and my first two monographs: Julian and Christianity: Revisiting the Constantinian Revolution, from Cornell, and Steely-Eyed Athena: Wilmer Cave Wright and the Advent of Female Classicists, from the Cambridge Philological Society.1 I purposed to do some research into Julian myself and undertook a master’s degree at Gordon-Conwell Seminary outside of Boston. Under the patient tutelage of Gwenfair Walters Adams, I wrote my thesis on Julian. I had managed to scrape together the funds to purchase the other two volumes of Julian in the Loeb series and had begun to fill them with marginal notes. It is fortunate that the Loeb volumes are so compact, as one or another of them accompanied me everywhere that year, on train commutes to classes at Harvard and Boston College, and to the Museum of Science with my young family. The compactness of the volumes and 1 Greenwood 2021, 2022.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003435310-1

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my writing in them as we walked around the Tyrannosaurus Rex at the Museum of Science rendered those notes less than fully legible, but that continuous immersion in Julian’s writings, something which I suspect has been lacking in many who have undertaken to write about him, was invaluable. As I spent more time with Julian and his words, I began to ask what he was up to, as many authors in the secondary literature seemed to find him completely straightforward and, indeed, rather like themselves in some capacity. It would not be going too far to state that studies of Julian have suffered very much from projection – projection of the modern author’s philosophical commitments onto Julian and projection of the concerns of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries onto his actions. Regarding that projection and its evil twin, reaction formation, I would like to state that I am aware of the pitfalls of both and have consciously sought to avoid both. In the interest of full disclosure, I am an Episcopal priest, one who would have run afoul of Julian the Emperor, but one who can find some sympathy for Julian the man. I have sought to take myself out of the equation and render a disinterested analysis of Julian, and ironically, many people have reacted against my portrayal of Julian’s campaign of pagan restoration in amusing ways, with some evidently concluding that anyone attempting to be fair to Julian must be a twenty-firstcentury pagan apologist. Ah, the dangers of projection. Returning to Julian, my research indicated that he was not a starry-eyed idealist (contra the portrait drawn by Polymnia Athanassiadi), not isolated and unhinged (contra Glen Bowersock), and certainly not a noble fourth-century John Fitzgerald Kennedy analogue, cut down before the full flowering of his promise (contra the breathless Robert Browning). While Julian may not have been a charismatic leader, his high intelligence and his evident commitment won him adherents. If Julian was not as simple a reformer, a reactionary, or an ideal benevolent ruler as he has been portrayed, then what was he up to and why are there apparent contradictions in his writings? A starting point seemed to be his reaction against Constantius II, the cousin whom he blamed for the murder of much of his family in A.D. 337. I argued in my master’s thesis that Julian was not just taking random potshots at Jesus Christ, frequently with unflattering comparisons to Asclepius the god of healing but was actually engaging in supplanting Jesus of Nazareth with the Greek god, in order to unpick Christianity. I identified passages of the Christian Scriptures that Julian co-opted to reconfigure Asclepius into a remarkably Christ-like Hellenic god. There seemed to be more happening than simply this, but I had to tie off my thesis and did so there in 2009, entitling it No Room for Jesus in the Pantheon: Julian the Apostate and the Recrafting of the Gods. I would expand considerably upon that work in my doctoral thesis at the University of Edinburgh, supervised by the Patrist Sara Parvis and the Classicist Gavin Kelly. Having to sort out supervisors from two different schools within the bureaucracy of the university meant that my acceptance came rather late, leading to a rather frenzied cross-Atlantic move. The other feature of being in a dual programme was that my advisors were in different parts of the city, resulting in their very humane decision to have monthly meetings in neither of their offices, 2

INTRODUCTION

but at a point equidistant between them, which turned out to be the wonderful Café Lucano. I was very fortunate to find friends wherever I went, in the Classics Department, in the Divinity School, and in the Scottish Episcopal Church, all of whom made our time in Edinburgh not only bearable, but beautiful. Edinburgh has top-flight faculty that I would stack up against any in Britain, but does not have the same level of support in terms of library materials, so I made frequent trips to the Bodleian and Sackler libraries at the University of Oxford, The British Library in London, and the Joint Library at the Institute of Classical Studies at the University of London. These both rounded out my research and provided my wife and children with more zoos, museums, and newness to experience. The missing piece of Julian’s programme came when I traced Julian’s efforts to supplant Jesus with Asclepius back further, realizing that he did the same thing with Heracles. More significantly, Julian assimilated Heracles to himself. This was the argument of my article, ‘Crafting Divine Personae in Julian’s Or. 7’, published in Classical Philology in 2014.2 In other words, Julian was setting himself up to be a pagan analogue to Jesus, in his newly Heraclean guise. Similarly, he had not only crafted Asclepius into a pagan version of Christ, but assimilated himself to Asclepius, as I argued in ‘Julian’s Use of Asclepius against the Christians’, which was published after long delays in Harvard Studies in Classical Philology in 2017.3 The last central piece of my research involved the recapitulation theology of Irenaeus of Lyons, who had portrayed Jesus as taking his people with him as he recapitulated, revisited and overwrote Adam’s failures, writing his own narrative of obedience and atonement over them. Julian had adapted this by portraying himself as the representative of his people, who revisited the key failures of Constantine, whom he viewed as an apostate from Helios, and overwriting them with his tale of obedience as a loyal son of Helios, who would bring salvation to the empire. These things were the core of my thesis, which I defended in 2013, with Lucy Grig as my Internal Examiner and David Hunt as my External Examiner. I did not rush into publishing my thesis as a monograph just then, as it seemed there was much that could still be added. Recognizing that a possible criticism of such a multi-disciplinary thesis was that it did not make sense from the standpoint of one discipline or another, I desired to publish the more controversial aspects of it in the leading journals in the fields of classics, philosophy, and theology. I continued to add to and reshape the material over the next few years, and I feel that it profited from being the result of over a decade spent continuously with Julian. In 2013, two pieces appeared, the first, ‘Pollution Wars: Consecration and Desecration from Constantine to Julian’, being published in Studia Patristica, the proceedings of the Oxford Patristics Conference.4 While I enjoy the Oxford Patristics Conference, I take pains to clarify the status of Studia Patristica, as too 2 Greenwood 2014. 3 Greenwood 2017. 4 Greenwood 2013.

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INTRODUCTION

many slyly list it as a journal in their bibliographies, when, like most proceedings volumes, it does not offer the double blind peer review of the typical academic journal. Nevertheless, a wonderful experience, and a first publication that brought a pint of Innis and Gunn, courtesy of my good friend and Severan specialist, Alex Imrie. The second was a clarification of what Julian was not doing, namely, not trying to duplicate the Trinity for his pagan restoration, an article entitled ‘A Cautionary Note on Julian’s Pagan Trinity’, published in Ancient Philosophy, the first of what is now four articles there with their careful but always helpful editor, Ron Polansky.5 The following year, developing a discussion from a paper I gave in the postgraduate series at Edinburgh, I published ‘A Pagan Emperor’s Appropriation of Matthew’s Gospel’.6 In that piece, which appeared in the Expository Times in 2014, I demonstrated Julian’s indebtedness to and clever use of the Matthean account of Jesus’ Temptation in the Wilderness. While still in Edinburgh, I began tackling some of the remaining threads brought out in my thesis, but not followed to their full conclusion. In 2014, one of these was published in the Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies, entitled ‘Five Latin Inscriptions from Julian’s Pagan Restoration’.7 That article placed those inscriptions into context, showing that support for the emperor’s pagan restoration was broader than had been previously assumed. I changed direction a bit in 2016, in my article ‘Christianizing Translations in the Loeb Editions of Julian and Libanius’, in Translation and Literature, published by Edinburgh University Press.8 In it, I examined translational issues in the Loeb editions of Julian, authored by Wilmer Cave Wright, and of Libanius of Antioch, authored by A. F. Norman. Despite my respect for both translators, I argued that both of the translations included inappropriate glosses and occasionally, additions not warranted by the underlying Greek text, problems which could seriously mislead the English-only readers of these ancient authors. After a long gestation, I brought in new material and published a study of Julian’s attempts to co-opt aspects of the Christian Church. This ‘pagan church’ of Julian’s was an issue first recognized in a series of articles in the late 1920s by Wilhelm Koch. The idea was revisited and further developed by Oliver Nicholson in his 1994 article, ‘The ‘Pagan Churches’ of Maximinus Daia and Julian the Apostate’. Those familiar with the secondary literature will know that there has been a recent pushback against this idea and claiming that Julian was too interested in religious toleration to do such a thing. In 2017, my ‘Constantinian Influence upon Julian’s Pagan Church’, in the Journal of Ecclesiastical History, argued against that newer view, pointing out similarities not only between Julian’s 5 6 7 8

Greenwood 2013b. Greenwood 2014b. Greenwood 2014c. Greenwood 2016.

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INTRODUCTION

revised paganism and Christianity, but specifically with the Constantinian portrayal of his imperial role within the Christian Church.9 A feature of Julian’s rhetoric, then, was that he supplanted Christ with deities such as Heracles and Asclepius, both of which he simultaneously rendered more Christ-like in his portrayal, and to both of which he assimilated himself. He also wrote of himself as the ‘pilot’ or ‘helmsman’ figure from Platonic philosophy. Plato had described a semi-divine figure who would come down and set things right in the chaotic world, and one can readily see how that figure bore some similarity to the Christian Son of God, as well as how such a figure could be advantageous in the emperor’s presentation of himself. In ‘Plato’s Pilot in the Political Strategy of Julian and Libanius’, published by Classical Quarterly in 2017, I argued that Julian not only deliberately attempted this, but was followed by his associate, the rhetor Libanius of Antioch, who wrote similarly of him.10 Finally, as pertaining to Julian, in 2018, I traced Julian’s use of certain language that was familiar from the Epistle to the Hebrews in an article published in the Journal of Theological Studies, ‘New Testament Christology, Athanasian Apologetic, and Pagan Polemic’.11 This language was originally chosen in that Epistle to highlight the divine attributes of Jesus. I realized that, more likely, the emperor had found that language when engaging with a contemporary or nearcontemporary and discovered that Athanasius had used the same passage. While Athanasius had used the passage similarly, emphasizing his high Christology, I argued that Julian appropriated it to apply to his recrafting of Heracles in a remarkably Christ-like fashion. During this same general period, my research had also led me into studies of Celsus and Porphyry of Tyre. This was not only from a need to compare and contrast them with Julian, but also because the long intellectual exchange between pagans and Christians interested me as a whole. The finest minds of a culture on both sides have left much for us to consider, and not all of that material from across several centuries is without controversy. In 2014, I first began publishing on Celsus specifically, although comparing him with Porphyry and Julian in terms of the response to Jesus of Nazareth as a historical figure. In contrast to the twenty-first-century controversialists who assert that Jesus was a fictional character invented in the mid-second century, Celsus, Porphyry, and Julian all engaged with him as a historical person. As I argued in ‘The Alethes Logos of Celsus and the Historicity of Christ’, Celsus was extraordinarily significant regarding this issue, as he was writing in the mid to late second century himself, far too contemporary not to recognize and dismiss Jesus as a recent fictional invention.12 9 10 11 12

Greenwood 2017b. Greenwood 2017c. Greenwood 2018. Greenwood 2014d.

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From there, I looked at the way Christians’ claims of miraculous intervention in history were handled by the major opponents of the third and fourth centuries, in ‘Celsus, Origen, and Julian on Christian Miracle-Claims’.13 Here, I found Celsus dismissing Jesus’ alleged miracles as sorcery, rather than the intervention of a deity in the material world. Origen responded successfully to this gambit, pointing out that the same sources claiming to record Christ’s miraculous actions also prohibited sorcery. Origen’s wider point, much used in the subsequent eighteen centuries, was to look at the changed lives of the apostles following the most impressive of Christ’s miracles, his resurrection from the dead. Julian waded into the fray with a different approach. The emperor focused on the contemptibly low people Christ’s tawdry miracles were done amongst, a sneer based on social strata, but one that acknowledged these miraculous events as what they claimed to be, and not deception, sorcery, or sleight-of-hand. While I have recognized Julian for the cleverness of his supplanting of Christian theology and his flair for synthesis, his argumentation here backfired by inadvertently admitting miracles into evidence. At the Oxford Conference in 2015, I presented a paper which was published two years later as ‘Celsus, Origen, and the Eucharist’.14 I argued there that Celsus had made a previously unrecognized attack on the Christian Eucharist, the symbolic meal commemorating the death of Christ for his people, and which in some undefined sense communicated the benefits of that sacrifice. Celsus, recognizing the centrality of the Eucharist, responded to Christianity in general and likely Justin in particular, claiming that partaking of the Eucharistic elements was akin to eating food sacrificed to demons. Celsus drew upon the language of Paul in this attack, which Origen responded to with similar language, indicating that he, too, understood Celsus’ thrust as targeting the Eucharist. Although my previous research had touched on Porphyry, largely in relation to Julian, I began now to focus in on the philosopher of Tyre and his historical significance. In the first Porphyrian article, ‘Porphyry, Rome, and Support for Persecution’, published in Ancient Philosophy in 2018, I considered some of the issues surrounding his connection to the Great Persecution of Diocletian.15 While this has been treated well in detail in recent monographs by Digeser and Simmons, I examined the matter of Porphyry’s stated philosophy and how congruent it was with either dissociation or encouragement of persecution.16 Some recent efforts by classicists that seem to me to cite Porphyry while avoiding uncomfortable Porphyryian texts have absolved him of any involvement in or support of persecution. Based on Porphyry’s support of the Roman state, his support for Roman civic religion, and the support of both himself and his mentor Plotinus for engagement in civil affairs, I concluded that Porphyry’s philosophy actually supported proactive

13 14 15 16

Greenwood 2016b. Greenwood 2017d. Greenwood 2016c. Digeser 2012; Simmons 2015.

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engagement of Christianity by the Roman State, or as I put it, it was ‘exactly the kind of action one might expect of someone with Porphyry’s commitments’. In the second of these articles, again for Ancient Philosophy, I examined ‘Porphyry’s Influence upon Julian: Apotheosis and Divinity’.17 Therein, I researched the connection between Julian and Porphyry, which many have minimized. Closely reading Julian’s autobiographical myth in his Or. 7, To the Cynic Heracleios and his crafting of his patron and ‘father’ Helios in Or. 11, Hymn to King Helios demonstrated to my satisfaction that Julian was drawing upon Porphyrian texts for these portrayals, a deliberate process that, given Julian’s interest in aggressively supplanting Christianity, suggests that Porphyry’s perceived intent may not have been too dissimilar. Looking back over this research across a decade of publishing, I am reminded of the ways in which our academic world is so fragmentary. I am grateful to Routledge and my editor, Michael Greenwood (no relation), for providing the opportunity to bring this collection together for the benefit of future researchers, but I am primarily referring here to something else. It is all too easy in the milieu of hundreds of academic journals to publish atomistic studies that do not engage the breadth of a historical figure’s thoughts or life. For that matter, it is far too easy to get a piece published, then refer back to it as ‘proved’ or ‘demonstrated’, when we should more accurately write that the case had been ‘asserted’ or ‘argued’. Certainly, I do not think my own arguments are infallible. With the welter of information to sift through, it becomes entirely too convenient to let the secondary literature tell us how things were, which is uncomfortably close to letting the secondary literature do our thinking for us. While researchers must occasionally drill down to a very detailed level, these studies must remain engaged with primary source material and viewed in a wider context as well. I have not made changes to these articles, other than the uniform bibliographic style requested by the publishers. Though I may have refined my views at points, or might articulate them in a different way, there has been no drastic shift in my thought. I am grateful to the publishers of these articles and chapters, not only for permission to reprint, but also for publishing my research in the first place. I expect that others will take my points of research further, and still others will disagree and take the dialogue in different directions altogether. Though one can never anticipate the specifics, I look forward to reading the literature of the field in years to come.

Bibliography Digeser, E. DeP. 2012. A Threat to Public Piety: Christians, Platonists, and the Great Persecution. Ithaca and London. Greenwood, D. N. 2013. ‘Pollution Wars: Consecration and Desecration from Constantine to Julian,’ 289–296 in Studia Patristica, Vol. LXII – Papers Presented at the Sixteenth 17 Greenwood 2018b.

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International Conference on Patristic Studies Held in Oxford 2011, ed. M. Vinzent. Leuven. Greenwood, D. N. 2013b. ‘A Cautionary Note on Julian’s Pagan Trinity,’ Ancient Philosophy 33: 391–402. Greenwood, D. N. 2014. ‘Crafting Divine Personae in Julian’s Oration 7,’ Classical Philology 109: 140–149. Greenwood, D. N. 2014b. ‘A Pagan Emperor’s Appropriation of Matthew’s Gospel,’ The Expository Times 125: 593–598. Greenwood, D. N. 2014c. ‘Five Latin Inscriptions from Julian’s Pagan Restoration,’ Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 57: 101–119. Greenwood, D. N. 2014d. ‘The Alethes Logos of Celsus and the Historicity of Christ,’ Anglican Theological Review 96: 705–713. Greenwood, D. N. 2016. ‘Christianizing Translations in the Loeb Editions of Julian and Libanius,’ Translation and Literature 25: 222–227. Greenwood, D. N. 2016b. ‘Celsus, Origen, and Julian on Christian Miracle-Claims,’ Heythrop Journal 57: 99–108. Greenwood, D. N. 2016c. ‘Porphyry, Rome, and Support for Persecution,’ Ancient Philosophy 36: 197–207. Greenwood, D. N. 2017. ‘Julian’s Use of Asclepius against the Christians,’ Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 109: 491–509. Greenwood, D. N. 2017b. ‘Constantinian Influence upon Julian’s Pagan Church,’ Journal of Ecclesiastical History 68: 1–21. Greenwood, D. N. 2017c. ‘Plato’s Pilot in the Political Strategy of Julian and Libanius,’ Classical Quarterly NS 67: 607–616. Greenwood, D. N. 2017d. ‘Celsus, Origen, and the Eucharist,’ 187–194 in Studia Patristica, Vol. XCIV – Papers Presented at the Seventeenth International Conference on Patristic Studies Held in Oxford 2015, ed. M. Vinzent. Leuven. Greenwood, D. N. 2018. ‘New Testament Christology, Athanasian Apologetic, and Pagan Polemic,’ Journal of Theological Studies NS 69: 101–105. Greenwood, D. N. 2018b. ‘Porphyry’s Influence upon Julian: Apotheosis and Divinity,’ Ancient Philosophy 38: 421–434. Greenwood, D. N. 2021. Julian and Christianity: Revisiting the Constantinian Revolution. Ithaca. Greenwood, D. N. 2022. Steely-Eyed Athena: Wilmer Cave Wright and the Advent of Women Classicists. Cambridge. Simmons, M. B. 2015. Universal Salvation in Late Antiquity: Porphyry of Tyre and the Pagan-Christian Debate. New York and Oxford.

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1 ‘P O L L U T I O N WA R S: C O N S E C R AT I O N A N D D E S E C R AT I O N F R O M C O N S TA N T I N E TO J U L I A N,’ 289–296 I N S T U D I A PAT R I S T I C A, VO L. L X I I – PA P E R S P R E S E N T E D AT T H E S I X T E E N T H I N T E R N AT I O N A L C O N F E R E N C E O N PAT R I S T I C S T U D I E S H E L D I N O X F O R D 2011, E D. M A R K U S V I N Z E N T. L E U V E N: P E E T E R S P U B L I S H I N G, 2013

Introduction Both Constantine the first Christian emperor and Julian the last pagan emperor used building works as a means to support their religious programmes, using both church and temple construction and demolition. Constantine consecrated Christian churches using riches from temples he desecrated. Julian attempted to wipe out the incursion of what he saw as Constantine’s apostasy by responding with a similar pattern. While the two religions struggled over a much wider period of time, this period during the fourth century is instructive. In 324, Constantine wrote to the provincials of Palestine that, following persecutions of Christians, he had been chosen by God to restore both the state and his religion.1 The outworking of this is seen in two laws recorded in Eusebius’ Life of Constantine, a work of apologetic, but which can be carefully used for its historical content.2 The laws themselves were not included in the Codex Theodosianus, 1 Eus., Vita Const. II 28.1–29.1. For dating, see Cameron and Hall 1999, 16–18. 2 Barnes 1981; Cameron and Hall 1999.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003435310-2

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but were referred to by Constans in his law of 341.3 In keeping with the Christian abhorrence of idol worship, one law ‘restricted the pollutions of idolatry’ (τὰ μυσαρά), and banned pagan sacrifice though this may not have been strictly or universally enforced.4 Concurrently issued, the next law ‘dealt with erecting buildings as places of worship and extending in breadth and length the churches of God’.5 In line with this law, Constantine gave state funds and instructions to build, restore, or add on to area churches, proclaiming as Armstrong notes, ‘a new order whose importance even the commonest citizen could sense’.6 Constantine’s language revealed his view of the desecrating presence of pagan sacrifice. In a letter to the bishop of Jerusalem, Constantine wrote that pagan sacrifices at Mamre, the site of the lord’s revelation of himself to Abraham, were, ‘sacrilegious abominations’ (ἀνοσίων μιασμάτων).7 Eusebius recounted the humiliation of the priests by Constantine’s agents, as they were ‘ordering the consecrated officials themselves to bring out their gods with much mockery and contempt’. 8 Eusebius’ account also stressed the desecration of the temples, writing that ‘forbidden innermost sanctuaries of temples were trodden by soldier’s feet’.9 Awareness of these activities and Constantius’ later anti-pagan laws motivated Julian’s condemnation of Constantine and his son for denuding and demolishing the temples.10 Constantine’s view of pagan desecration was further revealed in his demolishing of temples. In three locations, Aphaca, Cilicia, and Heliopolis, this was motivated by specific and unusual circumstances.11 The Shrine of Aphrodite at Aphaca was described by Eusebius as a ‘school of vice for all dissolute persons’, where the rites included ‘stolen and corrupt sexual relations, and unspeakable, infamous practices’ (ἄρρητοί τε καὶ ἐπίρρητοι πράξεις).12 Constantine ordered the temple destroyed and the site cleared by soldiers.13 The Cilician Temple of Asclepius was completely 3 4 5 6 7

8 9 10

11 12 13

C. Th. XVI 10.2. Eus., Vita Const. II 45.1, trans. Cameron and Hall. Eus., Vita Const. II 45.1, trans. Cameron and Hall. Eus., Vita Const. II 46.3; Armstrong 1967, 3–17. Eus., Vita Const. 3.52, trans. Cameron and Hall. Eusebius used the same language at Laus Const. 8, Or. ad sanct. coet. 13. Eusebius also wrote on the theophany at Dem. Ev. V 9.5–8, Hist. eccl. I 2.7–8; see Justin, Dialogue 56. This hearkens back to Ezekiel 14:6: ‘Repent and turn away from your idols; and turn away your faces from all your abominations’ (NRSV). Eus., Vita Const. III 54.6. Eus., Vita Const. III 57.4, trans. Cameron and Hall. Constantius’ anti-pagan laws: C.Th. XVI 10.3 (1 Nov 342, censured superstition but guaranteed temple structures), XVI 10.5 (23 Nov 353, banned nocturnal sacrifice), XVI 10.4 (1 Dec 354, closed temples, banned sacrifice), XVI 10.6 (20 Feb 356, extended ban to idolatry), IX 16.4 (25 Jan 357, banned divination), IX 16.5 (4 Dec 357, banned necromancy), IX 16.6 (5 Jul 358, outlawed augurs, soothsayers). Julian’s condemnation: Or. 7, 228b-d, in which he referred to churches as ‘tombs’ (μνήματα), and added, ‘since they thought so little of the gods they would soon need many such tombs’. Eus., Vita Const. III 55–58. Eus., Vita Const. III 55.3, trans. Cameron and Hall. Eus., Vita Const. III 55.4–5.

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razed, again by a military detachment.14 Eusebius described Constantine’s motivation as due to the role similar to Christ’s played by Asclepius in the pagan pantheon: ‘Countless people got excited about him as a saviour and a healer . . . though when it came to souls he was a destroyer, drawing the gullible away from the true Saviour’.15 Eusebius also described the destruction of the shrine of Aphrodite at Heliopolis, where the worshippers drew a personal letter from the emperor as they ‘allowed their wives and daughters without restraint to act as prostitutes’.16 However symbolically important these desecrations were, it is important to note that they only happened in a minority of cases. Constantine ordered numerous churches built, but turning from desecration to consecration, we have specific information on some that indicates his interest in consecrating churches over the pagan sites. Eusebius records that after destroying the shrine of Aphrodite at Heliopolis, Constantine erected a church in its place, though not necessarily on the same site.17 Constantine built the martyr church of St. Mocius at Constantinople, and according to tradition converted a temple of Jupiter to do so.18 At Jerusalem, Constantine restored the site of the Resurrection by demolishing the Temple of Aphrodite at the site with its ‘defiled and polluted altars’ (βεβήλων καὶ ἐναγῶν βωμῶν), and removing the rubble and earth.19 His Church of the Holy Sepulchre was formally dedicated there in September 335 for his Tricennial celebration.20 Perhaps the culmination of Constantine’s interest in this area lies in his consecration of the palace in Constantinople, the city which he ‘consecrated . . . to the martyr’s God’.21 He placed the Saviour’s sign (likely the cross or labarum) over the palace gate and installed a large cross in his quarters ‘to be as it were the safeguard of the empire’.22 In addition, Constantine’s mother Helena and mother-in-law Eutropia traveled to Palestine and were instrumental in arranging for church construction at Mamre, Bethlehem, and the Mount of Olives. Regarding Mamre, Constantine instructed Macarius and the other bishops to build a basilica at the site, ‘as soon as you learn that all the defilements (τὰ μυσαρά) there have been completely removed’, which was done prior to AD 330, using one wall of the old enclosure.23 At a cave in Bethlehem, Helena consecrated a shrine at the supposed site of Christ’s birth, which both Helena and Constantine enriched with monuments, treasures, artwork, 14 15 16 17 18

19 20 21 22 23

Eus., Vita Const. III 56.2–3. Eus., Vita Const. III 55.1, trans. Cameron and Hall. Eus., Vita Const. III 58.1–2, trans. Cameron and Hall. Method not described here. Eus., Vita Const. III 58.3, trans. Cameron and Hall. Sozomen, Hist. eccl. VIII 17.5; see Mango 2004, 35f. Mango locates the church outside old Byzantium, but inside Constantine’s new city. Local tradition held that Constantine built Mocius’ martyrium from a temple of Jupiter. Barnes 1981, 222; Preger 1901–07, 19, 214. Eus., Vita Const. III 25–27. Eus., Vita Const. IV 43; Tricennial Orations. Eus., Vita Const. III 48.1. Eus., Vita Const. III 2–3; 3.49. Cameron and Hall 1999, 299, note, ‘Eusebius presents the cross explicitly as a talisman’. Eus., Vita Const. III 53.2, trans. Cameron and Hall; Krautheimer and Ćurčić 1986, 59.

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and curtains.24 Helena also ‘raised the sacred house of the church’ on the Mount of Olives, where Christ was reported to have ascended to heaven.25 Adding insult to injury, Constantine also funded his building works by raiding pagan temples. According to Eusebius, Eunapius, and Libanius, the emperor had metal doors and roofing stripped from the temples, gold statues melted down for the precious metal, and bronze statues removed to Constantinople.26 As more than one modern author has pointed out, Constantine forced the pagans to finance their own destruction.27 Constantine’s death in 337 touched off a massacre of lesser members of the dynasty, including Julian’s father Julius Constantius. Soldiers entered the residence and murdered the males present, save for young Julian and his ill halfbrother Gallus.28 Julian blamed his cousin Constantius II, and based on Burgess’ research, Julian was almost certainly correct in this.29 Julian and Gallus lived at their cousin’s whim, with Gallus eventually serving as Constantius’ Caesar. Constantius made Julian Caesar in 355 in Gallus’ place, following his execution of Gallus for instability and insubordination. This lasted until Julian’s troops declared him emperor, Constantius conveniently fell ill and died, and Julian found himself sole ruler and able to shrug off his Christian façade. Julian, hailed in an inscription as ‘born for the good of the state . . . on account of the wiping away of the ills of the former time’, thought that he could suppress or overwrite Constantine’s Christianization.30 In his 361 satire The Caesars, Julian mocked Constantine’s ephemeral accomplishments which would bloom briefly and disappear, an impermanence which Julian planned to ensure.31 In Spring 362, Julian included an autobiographical myth in his Oration to the Cynic Heraclius, making clear his belief that Constantine’s apostasy from Helios was what had 24 Eus., Vita Const. III 41.1, III 43.1–2. 25 Eus., Vita Const. III 43.3, trans. Cameron and Hall. Constantine wrote that the situation at Mamre was ‘alien to our times’. This kind of language was similar to the aggressive-sounding laws which were not strictly enforced, written rather with a ‘moralizing ideology and operative clauses indicating what was actually to be done’. Bradbury 1994, 120–139. Such constructions allowed the emperor to mollify rigorists and at the same time proclaim that the new paradigm for the empire was Christianity. 26 Eus., Vita Const. III 54.1–6; see Eunapius, Vita soph. 472. Lib., Or. 30.6, trans. Norman, datable between 381, when Flavianus (30.15) was appointed bishop of Antioch, and 391, when the Serapeum (30.44) was destroyed; see discussion in Norman 1992, 95–97. 27 MacMullen 1981, 136; see Smith 1995, 211; Brown 1982, 97f. 28 Julian, Or. 7 228b, 230a; Ep. Ath. 270cd, 275a, 281b; Eunapius, Vita soph. 473. 29 Burgess 2008, 5–51. Of course, Constantius may not have been alone in this decision, as he was only twenty, and may have been influenced by others. 30 ILS 946 (Mursa, Pannonia), trans. Smith. 31 Julian, Caesars 329cd. Julian composed The Caesars for the week-long feast of Saturnalia, which began 17 December. As Lacombrade’s and Baldwin’s late dates are based upon rather arbitrary assumptions regarding phraseology ‘gardens of Adonis’ or an ‘artistically crude’ use of Christ, I agree with Wright regarding the Dec 361 date, especially as Julian likely had the legacy of Constantine and Constantius in mind as he entered Constantinople. Baldwin 1978, 449–466; Lacombrade 1964, 27–30.

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brought such great suffering on his people.32 Helios offered to make Julian steward of the empire in place of Constantius II, the murderer of Julian’s family.33 Helios instructed the young man that he must ‘return and cleanse all the impiety’, as ‘we (the gods) wish your ancestral house to be cleansed’.34 Julian confirmed his intent by privately writing to his uncle in 361: ‘The gods command me to restore their worship in its utmost purity’.35 Libanius wrote that it was the desire to restore sacrificial worship of the gods that motivated Julian’s desire to depose Constantius.36 As Gibbon wrote, ‘the names of Christ and Constantius . . . were soon associated in a youthful imagination’.37 Like most pagans, Julian found the proximity of Christian worship and the bodies of the dead appalling. We know from inscriptions that pagans believed the presence of dead bodies was polluting and required purification.38 Eunapius described the collection of martyr’s relics, and how Christians ‘haunted their sepulchers (μνήμασι), and thought that they became better by defiling (μολυνόμενοι) themselves at their graves’ as churches were frequently built over martyr’s remains.39 Eusebius attributed many martyr shrines to Constantine, and the later historians Socrates and Sozomen specify two, St. Mocius, and St. Acacia.40 Julian also described Christian churches as, ‘tombs and sepulchres’ (τάφων καὶ μνήματα), and attempted to end the transportation of relics by outlawing tomb violation.41 In a similar vein, Julian undid the work of his half-Christian brother Gallus Caesar, who had moved the remains of the martyr Babylas to a shrine of Apollo at Daphne

32 33 34 35

36

37 38 39 40

41

Julian, Or. 7 228d. Julian, Or. 7 228d. Julian is also titled the ‘offspring’ of Helios. Julian, Or. 7 231d, 234c. Written in Nov or Dec 361, following the death of Constantius. Julian, Ep. 9 415cd, trans. Wright; Julian also wrote more officially to one of his priests, ‘we must maintain such rituals of the temples as ancestral custom prescribes’, Letter to a Priest 302bc = Bidez 89b. Lib., Or. 18. 22–23 trans. Norman: ‘It was this that shook him to the core, as he saw their temples in ruins, their ritual banned, their altars overturned, their sacrifices suppressed, their priests sent packing, and their property divided between a crew of rascals’. Gibbon 1905, 433. Demonstrated by inscriptions from Kos and Athens (LSCG 154 B 17–32; IG II-III 2nd ed., 659 = LSCG 39). Eunapius, Vita soph., VI 11.5.6 = Loeb 425. Eus., Vita Const. 3.47, although re. ‘many’ it is difficult to discern between Constantinian and Constantian construction, for which see C. Mango 1990; Dagron 1984; Barnes 1981, 222; Sozomen, Hist. eccl. VIII 17.5; Socrates, Hist. eccl. VI 23. C. Gal. 335c; C.Th. IX 17.5. Ironically, following Constantius II’s similar prohibition at C.Th. IX 17.4 (357), at roughly the same time as his translation of the relics of Timothy, Andrew and Luke to Constantinople. Jerome, Chronicle, Helm, 240–241. Julian equated Christian martyr veneration with polytheism, C. Gal. 201c.

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near Antioch, the first recorded case of transportation of relics.42 Julian ordered Babylas’ body removed and had the site ritually purified.43 As opposed to Constantine, Julian seemed to prefer an indirect approach to church desecration. Julian’s refusal to punish the mob that killed the bishop of Alexandria in 361 demonstrated a clear lack of interest in protecting Christians under the law.44 Further rioting and murder in Gaza and Emesa also won praise instead of punishment, with Julian hinting threateningly to the Antiochenes that church burnings in Emesa could be repeated in Antioch as well.45 Julian himself suggested in early 363 that he was offering more than passive encouragement to those desecrating Christian churches with these words. I know well that those cities love me more than their own sons, for they at once restored the shrines of the gods and overturned all the shrines of the godless, on the signal that was given by me the other day; and so excited were they in mind and so exalted in spirit that they even attacked those who were offending against the gods with more violence than I could have wished.46 Julian responded to Constantine’s robbery of the sacred contents of the temples with building works of his own.47 He issued an edict which unfortunately has not been preserved in the Codex Theodosianus, but is preserved in the Historia Acephala, a work recording events in the life of Bishop Athanasius of Alexandria. It recorded that Julian issued a law which was subsequently published in Alexandria on 4 February 362, ‘commanding those things to be restored to the idols and temple attendants and the public account, which in former times had been taken away from them’.48 Julian made the rebuilding of temples a priority, for which he was recognized in an inscription as the ‘Restorer of the Temples’.49 This was demonstrated by a law which did survive in the Codex Theodosianus, showing that Julian made temple construction the top priority of public construction throughout the Empire. 42 Per Chrysostom, Gallus had interred Babylas at Daphne, believing that his presence would deter the debauchery of that pleasure resort, which it did as well as silencing the oracle. John Chrysostom, Babylas 14.67, 69. Julian’s efforts were unable to restore the glory or function of the oracle, Misopogon 346b, see Sozomen, Hist. eccl. V 19.15f.; Mango 1990, 51–61; see Downey 1961, 364, 387f. 43 Ammianus Marcellinus XXII 12.8. Although in the late fourth century Ammianus wrote of the removal of corpora, ‘bodies’, buried around the spring, Julian himself referred to the singular τὸν νεκρόν ‘the corpse’. John Chrysostom also has μόνον τὸν μάρτυρα ‘the martyr alone’. Julian, Misopogon 361b; John Chrysostom, Babylas 16.87. After the temple of Apollo burned down, Julian responded by immediately closing the great church of Antioch. Ammianus held that it was accident, not arson. Ammianus Marcellinus XXII 13.2–3. 44 As noted by Bowersock 1978, 81. 45 Greg. Naz., Or. 4.93 (PG 35,625a-c); Julian, Misopogon 357c (early 363). 46 Julian, Misopogon 361a. 47 For his response, Or. 7 228b-d. 48 Historia Acephala 9, trans. NPNF. 49 AE (1969/70) 631, ‘templorum (re)stauratori’. see Ammianus Marcellinus XXII 5.2.

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We direct that judges of the provinces shall be admonished that they must know that they shall not arrange for any new work until they have completed those works which were commenced by their predecessors, excepting only the construction of temples.50 Julian’s interest in overwriting may be seen in a slightly different fashion in a response to Constantine’s consecration of his palace in Constantinople with the cross or labarum. According to Libanius, when Julian was emperor in Constantinople, ‘a temple to the god who governs the day was built in the middle of the palace, and he took part in his mysteries, initiated and in turn initiating’.51 Like Constantine, Julian forced his opponents to pay for the construction of his religious edifices. Julian’s edict is also supported by Libanius, who confirmed that Julian built, restored, and refurbished temples, and that those who had plundered the temples had to contribute money.52 Julian also had priests oversee such cases, indicated by Libanius’ letter on behalf of an Antiochene whose fine villa built from a temple was on the verge of being dismantled to repair the temple.53 In conclusion, both Constantine and Julian engaged in a similar series of actions. The evidence may not be sufficient to extrapolate from these cases to a regular policy for all cases of desecration and consecration involving these two rulers. But what we do have illuminates religious conflict in the fourth century. More specifically, the stated intentions of the two rulers reveal Julian’s similar efforts as not mere coincidence, but a direct attempt to reverse his hated uncle’s Christianization.54 Julian’s actions in this regard highlight the contrast he drew between Constantine, ‘the forsaker of Helios’ and failed representative of his people, and himself as the chosen ‘child of Helios’ who would set things right, and suggest other lines of inquiry into Julian’s thought and action.55

50 C.Th. XV 1.3, 29 June 362 (italics mine). 51 Lib., Or. 18.127; see Lib., Or. 12 80–81; trans. Norman. Julian supported his claim to be a follower of Helios by writing, ‘the most clear evidence I can produce for this is at home’. Or. 4 130c, trans. Athanassiadi 1977, 362; see Himerius Or. 41.8, ‘He has raised up temples to the gods, has established religious rites from abroad in the city, and has made sacred the mysteries of the heavenly gods introduced into the city’. 52 Lib. Or. 18.126, trans. Norman. 53 Lib., Ep. 724 (Foerster) = 182b (Bradbury). Libanius defended the man’s legal purchase of building material that was legal at the time, and counseled moderation and reason to the priest Hesychius overseeing the case. 54 As noted by others in a broader context: ‘Indeed, it might almost be said that the policy of Julian was modeled upon that of his predecessor, whose actions he endeavored, in a spirit of slavish imitation, to reverse’. Cochrane 1940, 263. Smith 1995, 187 notes: ‘In his writings his hatred of Christianity is manifestly linked to his hatred of members of the Second Flavian dynasty’. 55 Julian, Or. 7 229c, 228d.

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Bibliography Armstrong, Gregory T. 1967. ‘Imperial Church Building and Church-State Relations A.D. 313–363’, Church History 36, 3–17. Athanassiadi, Polymnia. 1977. ‘A Contribution to Mithraic Theology’, Journal of Theological Studies 28, 360–371. Baldwin, Barry. 1978. ‘The Caesares of Julian’, Klio 60, 449–466. Barnes, Timothy D. 1981. Constantine and Eusebius. Cambridge, MA. Bowersock, Glen. 1978. Julian the Apostate. Cambridge, MA. Bradbury, Scott. 1994. ‘Constantine and the Problem of Anti-Pagan Legislation in the Fourth Century’, Classical Philology 89, 120–139. Brown, Peter. 1982. Society and the Holy in Late Antiquity. Berkeley. Burgess, Richard. 2008. ‘The Summer of Blood: The “Great Massacre” of 337 and the Promotion of the Sons of Constantine’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 62, 5–51. Cameron, Averil, and Stuart G. Hall, trans. 1999. Life of Constantine. New York. Cochrane, Charles. 1940. Christianity and Classical Culture: A Study of Thought and Action from Augustus to Augustine. Oxford. Dagron, Gilbert. 1984. Naissance d’une capitale: Constantinople et ses institutions de 330 à 451, 2nd ed. Paris. Downey, Glanville. 1961. A History of Antioch in Syria: From Seleucus to the Arab Conquest. Princeton. Gibbon, Edward. 1905. The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. 2. London. Krautheimer, Richard, and Slobodan Ćurčić. 1986. Early Christian and Byzantine Architecture, 4th ed. New Haven. Lacombrade, Christian. 1964. L’empereur Julien. Oeuvres complètes, vol. 2. Paris. MacMullen, Ramsay. 1981. Paganism in the Roman Empire. New Haven. Mango, Cyril. 1990. ‘Constantine’s Mausoleum and the Translation of Relics’, Byzantinische Zeitschrift 83, 51–61. Mango, Cyril. 2004. Le Développement urbain de Constantinople IVe – VIIe siècles. Paris. Norman, Albert F., ed. and trans. 1992. Libanius, Selected Works, vol. 2. London. Preger, Theodor. 1901–07. Scriptores Originum Constantinopolitanarum. Leipzig. Smith, Rowland. 1995. Julian’s Gods. London.

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Introduction In his classic biography La Vie de l’Empereur Julien, Bidez 1930, 253 wrote that Julian’s triadic presentation of God uniquely contained ‘des reminiscences de la trinité chrétienne’. This established something of a trend in studies of Julian, followed firmly by Nesselrath 2008, 214, who identifies a ‘paganer Trinität’ in Julian’s seventh oration, and more vaguely by Chadwick 2001, 175, who reflects on Julian’s triadic Neoplatonist language and concludes: ‘Some Christian influence may reasonably be discerned here’. The implication is that Julian was borrowing from Christianity to co-opt the concept of the Trinity. It is absolutely correct to claim that Julian altered existing theology and crafted his writings to confront or co-opt Christianity, but I believe that the perception of his Trinitarian use of Helios is a modern phenomenon that breaks down at certain points. It is noteworthy that works by those specialising in Neoplatonism such as Dillon 1999 and Smith 2012 have examined the relevant passages without mention of any ‘pagan Trinity’. I have argued that in his writings the pagan emperor Julian strove to recapitulate the Christianising gains of the Constantinian revolution, responding not only by physically countering his uncle Constantine’s inscriptions and building programmes, but theologically confronting Christianity by crafting Heracles and Asclepius into rival saviours.1 It is tempting to see Julian’s use of Helios in the same vein, as a deliberate paralleling of the Christian Trinity, but I believe that the evidence suggests otherwise in all but one case, and that even there caution is called for. Although some writers have suggested Trinitarian parallels for many individual Julianic texts, the comparison works more plausibly in the aggregate, as when examined individually many of the passages appear to be incidental, not intentional, parallels to the Christian Trinity.

1 Greenwood 2013, 289–296. The numbering and Greek text of Julian follows the Budé edition of Bidez, Rochefort, and Lacombrade 1924–64, and the translations are my own.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003435310-3

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I should like to be very clear about the terminology used herein. When I refer to Trinitarian thought in Christianity, I make reference to the concept of a God existing in three ὑπόστασες: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. In this relational framework, each person plays a different role in the economic Trinity, in which the Son is begotten by the Father and incarnates in the world. In contrast, I refer to monotheistic or henotheistic Neoplatonic thought as triadic, describing God as existing in three ὑπόστασες on three levels of reality. In Julian’s unique variation on the Neoplatonic structure, either Zeus or Helios begot a son (Heracles or Asclepius) who incarnated in the world, but significantly, was outside the Neoplatonic triad. I therefore distinguish Julian’s presentation of Zeus-Helios the Father and either Heracles or Asclepius the Son as binitarian, reflecting Julian’s attempt to supplant Christ without being bothered to provide a complete Trinity with a pagan Holy Spirit analogue. Julian does not claim equality and identity between Helios and Asclepius in the Christian fashion. As Smith 2009, 43 points out, ‘One of the chief complaints of all anti-Christian polemic is the identification of Christ as God’.

I. Julian’s Education It is important to understand where Julian’s exposure to Christian theology came from, as modern scholars must look back from the other side of the writings of the Cappadocian fathers and the Niceno-Constantinoplitan Creed. Julian was educated by Eusebius, bishop of Nicomedia, and George, later bishop of Alexandria, and under the authority of Constantius II (Julian, Ep. 106, Ep. 107; Ammianus xxii 9.4). All three of these men rejected the Nicene definition. Julian’s most influential teacher was his pagan tutor Mardonius (xii 352c), who was followed by men of similar background like the pagan Nicocles and the apostate Hecebolius (Libanius, Or. xv 27; xviii 12), and later the pagan Themistius (vi 257d, 258a-d). Although Constantine had supported and contributed to the Nicene settlement in 325, from that point until after Julian’s death in 363, those rejecting Nicaea were in the political ascendancy, with the conflict not truly subsiding until after the formulation of the Niceno-Constantinopolitan Creed in 381. Prior to becoming sole ruler, Julian supported the Catholic Christians in 360–361 in the West, not from conviction, but for political expediency. He realised that the Nicene and non-Nicene parties were committed enemies, and offered an amnesty to the exiled Nicenes as a means of sowing dissent. He continued stirring this pot in late 362 with his exhortation to Photinus the non-Nicene Christian (Ep. 90). The conflict during Julian’s lifetime focused on the nature and origination of Christ, and with minor exceptions, debates on the Holy Spirit were not on the agenda until well after Julian. This means that the Christian tradition Julian was familiar with and reacted against did not emphasise the concept of the Trinity as three, but was focused on the relation of Father and Son within it. Given this, it is only reasonable to expect that Julian’s ‘mental furniture’ was the product of a binitarian Christian theology. Indeed, despite Julian’s scathing attacks on Christianity and particular aspects such as the Incarnation in his Contra Galilaeos, one can search the surviving remnants of the work in vain 18

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for any overt criticism of the Trinity. Julian’s exposure to and interest in engaging Christian Trinitarian concepts should not be overstated.

II. Neoplatonic Language Evaluating authorial intent in Julian’s passages at hand is made more difficult by virtue of Julian’s frequent presentation of gods in threes, which suggests to some readers a connection with the Christian concept of the Trinity. As an example, Hoffmann 2004, 67 cites Julian’s late 361 letter to his spiritual advisor Maximus as invoking a ‘trinity of powers’: Ἴστω Ζεύς, ἴστω μέγας Ἥλιος, ἴστω Ἀθηνᾶς κράτος καὶ πάντες θεοί, ‘Zeus, great Helios, and powerful Athena be my witnesses, and all the gods’ (Ep. 26.415a). However, mere citing of gods in threes does not justify a Trinitarian reference, especially when it consists of three named gods invoked amidst a host of others. It is important to recall the triadic nature of Neoplatonism’s reality. As far back as Naville 1877, 103, we have warnings that Julian’s triad originated from Neoplatonism, not Nicaea.2 The seminal Neoplatonist thinker Plotinus divided reality into three hypostases, the first being τὸ ἕν or ‘the One’, the second νοῦς or Intelligence, and the third, ψυχή or the Soul. The combination of monotheistic religion and three levels of reality suggests a god existing in some sense on three levels. The Chaldean Oracles outline a divine triad of the πατήρ or Father, his δύναμις or power, and his νοῦς or intellect (Chaldean Oracles, fr. 4 Majercik).3 Porphyry further developed a triad within the hypostasis of the νοῦς that consisted of Being, Life, and Intellect proper (Commentary on Timaeus, fr. 79), one which Dillon 1989, 9 points out most closely resembles the Christian Trinity with its co-ordinate, rather than hierarchical structure. While that creates some interesting coincidences, it does not demonstrate intentional paralleling of Christian theology on Julian’s part, as his writings reflect more of the Neoplatonic triad than the Nicene Trinity. Smith 2009, 43 notes: ‘Now this grouping of three realities or hypostases was sufficiently similar to the Christian Trinity to be exploited by Christian theologians. But it differed, of course, fundamentally in that the Neoplatonic hypostases were subordinate to each other

2 Bidez 1930, 253 offers a paragraph with remarkably similar wording to Naville’s, but excludes Naville’s caveat regarding Neoplatonism as the font rather than Nicaea. Bidez: ‘Il y a de la parenté entre son Roi-Soleil et le dieu secondaire, auteur de la creation, que les Peres au deuxieme siècle avaient defini sous le nom de Logos, puis au concile de Nicee sous le nom de Fils consubstantiel. Julien esperait peut-etre substituer dans l’adoration populaire son demiurge mediateur au Verbe-Jesus’. Naville 1877, 104–105: ‘Il y a une parente evidente entre son Roi Soleil et ce dieu secondaire, organe de la creation, que les Peres du deuxieme sicle avaient proclame sous le nom de Logos et le Concile de Nicee sous le nom de Fils . . . Julien esperait peut-etre substituter le Roi Soleil au Verbe-Fils dans l’adoration populaire.’ 3 Cf. Wallis 1972, 106, 116; Athanassiadi and Frede 1999, 14, who write of the Chaldean Oracles, ‘here too we have a monotheistic theology, though there is some dispute about the nature of the one God: is it trinitarian, and if so, are we dealing with a subordinationist or a co-ordinationist trinitarianism?’

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and not co-ordinate as orthodox Trinitarian doctrine eventually demanded’. Both Dillon 1999, 107 and Wright recognise Julian’s triadic framework as normative. Wright 1896, 52 wrote, ‘Julian follows him [Iamblichus] in the main with his trinity of the κόσμος ὁρατός or visible universe, the κόσμος νοερός, its model, relieved from the imperfections of matter, and represented in the ὁρατὸν by the planets, and, thirdly, the κόσμος νοητός, over which rules the supreme principle of the Good, or the One (τὸ ἕν) not to be grasped by the intelligence’. Along these lines, Wright 1896, 90 identified a number of technical Neoplatonist terms used by Julian, including: θεουργός, ‘performer of sacramental rites’ (Julian viii 173a, Iamblichus De mysteriis iii 18); ἀποπλήρωσις, ‘filling, satisfying’ (Julian xi 144d, Porphyry De abstinentia iii 18, Iamblichus De mysteriis v 26); ἀποπληρωτής, ‘one who completes or fulfills’ (Julian iii 90c, Plato Republic 620e, Iamblichus De mysteriis v 10); ἀποπληρωτικός, ‘completing or fulfilling’ (Julian xi 137b, Iamblichus De mysteriis v 26); ἑνοειδής/ἑνοειδῶς, ‘resembling, having the form of unity’ (Julian xi 139b, Plotinus Enneads vi 9.5); περικόσμιος, ‘mundane’ (Julian xi 138d, 145d, Iamblichus De mysteriis ii 1, 4); and αὐτοψυχή, ‘absolute soul’ (Julian Ep. 89b; Plotinus Enneads v 9.13). The use of such vocabulary demonstrates the thoroughgoing Neoplatonist strain permeating Julian’s writings. Julian’s language of begetting, procession, and sonship has definite affinities to Christian writings, but is not radically different in principle from other writings within Neoplatonism. This filial language has some parallels in the Chaldean Oracles (late second-century), and the writings of Proclus (412–485), and Damascius (c. 458-after 538). The Chaldean Oracles refer to the Supreme Deity as the ‘Father’ (e.g., fr. 7 Majercik). Proclus, in arguing against Iamblichus’ redefinition of the One as ‘God and the gods’, also refers to the first god as ‘father’ (Commentary on Parmenides 1070.15ff.). Damascius, commenting on Porphyry, wrote of the τῆς νοητῆς τριάδος, ‘Father of the Noetic triad’ (De principiis i 86.8–15 Ruelle = Porphyry fr. 367 Smith). These are examples of passages in which Julian might be drawing upon either Christian or Neoplatonic thought. Nevertheless, if Julian was attempting to draw a Christian inference, the emphasis was on paralleling Christ, not the Trinity. Julian provided an example in his Letter to the Alexandrians of late 362, where he chided the Alexandrians for their recalcitrant attachment to Christ and compared him with Helios (Ep. 111.434d):4 τὸν μέγαν Ἥλιον λέγω, τὸ ζῶν ἄγαλμα καὶ ἔμψυχον καὶ ἔννουν καὶ ἀγαθοεργὸν τοῦ νοητοῦ πατρός I speak of great Helios, his intelligible father’s living image, endowed with soul and intelligence, maker of all good.5

4 This letter can be dated to November or December 362, by Julian’s reference to the banishment of Athanasius, who left 24 October 362 (Ep. 111.435c). 5 There is a lacuna in the manuscripts.

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Julian referred to Helios as his father’s living image, which is interesting in light of the fact that Christ, whom Julian is comparing Helios to, is described similarly in Col. 1:15–16, albeit in a different language, as ‘the image (εἰκών) of the invisible God . . . in him all things in heaven and on earth were created’(ἐκτίσθη). Here Helios is cast in the role of the Son, as opposed to the other passages in which he plays the role of the Father and is the begetter of Heracles and Asclepius (vii 220a; xi 144a). If Julian both portrayed Zeus-Helios as the father of the gods and compared him directly to Christ, this suggests he was not trying to formulate a consistent ‘pagan trinitarian theology’, but responding ad hoc for specific purposes, which suggests uniqueness for Or. vii 228d. This sort of language also appears in Julian’s Hymn to King Helios, in which he wrote that Helios was begotten in the likeness of the Good (xi 133a), and proceeded from the Good in eternity past (xi 142a, 146b, 156c). Julian reinforced this by repeatedly writing that Helios was the son of the Good (xi 133a, 144d; vii 228d).6 While it is indeed suggestive language that recalls Christian theological writings, much of Julian’s terminology here may be properly categorised as interested in engaging Christ, rather than the concept of the Trinity.

III. Possible Trinitarian Parallels There are four remaining possible parallels, examples drawn from two of Julian’s orations. Julian presented Or. vii in spring 362 in Constantinople, for the upcoming festival of Cybele in March (Lib., Or. xviii 157). While Julian was ostensibly responding to a disrespectful oration by the Cynic Heraclius (Julian, vii 234c-d), he used that opportunity as a vehicle for his criticisms of Constantine, Constantius II, and Christianity. In it, Julian recalled in mythic format his upbringing and the horrific realisation that his cousin Constantius II was behind the deaths of his father and most of his siblings, and laid out a response in which he was divinely commissioned to redress these grievances. We have first the passage regarding Julian’s unique portrayal of Heracles, which Nesselrath 2008, 214 describes as containing a pagan Trinity unmistakably borrowed from Christianity.7 Julian wrote (vii 219d-220a): βαδίσαι δὲ αὐτὸν ὡς ἐπὶ ξηρᾶς τῆς θαλάττης νενόμικα. Τί γὰρ ἄπορον ἦν Ἡρακλεῖ; Τί δ’ οὐχ ὑπήκουσεν αὐτοῦ τῷ θείῳ καὶ καθαρωτάτῳ σώματι, τῶν λεγομένων τούτων στοιχείων . . . δουλευόντων αὐτοῦ τῇ δημιουργικῇ καὶ τελεσιουργῷ τοῦ ἀχράντου καὶ καθαροῦ νοῦ δυνάμει; Ὃν ὁ μέγας Ζεὺς διὰ τῆς Προνοίας Ἀθηνᾶς, ἐπιστήσας αὐτῷ φύλακα τὴν θεὸν ταύτην ὅλην ἐξ ὅλου προέμενος αὐτοῦ, τῷ κόσμῳ σωτῆρα ἐφύτευσεν. 6 This of course sets up an interesting conflict by Julian’s casting both Asclepius (xi 144b, 153b; Contra Galilaeos 200a-b) and Helios (vii 228d; xi 133a, 144d) in the role of pre-existent begotten son, but such inconsistencies did not overly trouble Julian. 7 ‘Herakles hier nicht als christusgleiche Figur dargestellt zu sehen, die noch dazu in eine Art paganer Trinität (Zeus – Athena – Herakles) eingebaut wird, deren Inspiration durch die christliche unverkennbar ist.’

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I believe he walked on the sea as upon dry land. For what was impossible to Heracles? What of the so-called elements enslaved to the creative and consummating power of his immaculate and pure mind did not hearken to his divine and most pure flesh? Him great Zeus through foreseeing Athena begat to be the saviour of the world, and assigned to him as guardian this goddess he had brought forth whole from the whole of himself. Julian’s presentation of the origin and parentage of Heracles is unique. Julian is indeed supplanting Christian theology with an analogue of his own, but the key question here is whether he is using Athena to parallel the Holy Spirit in the Christian Trinity. Marcel Simon 1973, 398 writes that ‘the divine triad thus sketched out closely resembles a Trinity’, while Jean Bouffartigue 1992, 167 is even more adamant regarding Athena’s role as analogous to the third person of the Christian Trinity.8 Guido 2000, 156 suggests that as Athena in Julian’s hands was not extruded from Zeus’ head but rather taken whole from the whole of him, she was in essence an identical replica.9 Despite Nesselrath’s assertion of an ‘unmistakeable’ inspiration from the Christian Trinity for this passage, I believe that caution is still appropriate. Julian posits no overt equality between Athena and the other two gods, leaving the Trinitarian parallel somewhat incomplete, as Athena fulfils no role similar to that of the Holy Spirit in Christian theology. Instead, as Barnes 1998, 147–148 notes in an aside in his work on the historian Ammianus Marcellinus, Athena is a ‘virgin mother’ analogue. I argue that, here, Julian was borrowing elements from Christianity to draw a triple parallel with Heracles the saviour of the world and child of Zeus-Helios and the virgin goddess Athena (vii 219d-220a), Jesus the saviour of the world and child of God and the virgin mother Mary, and Julian himself as the divinely chosen saviour of the empire and child of Zeus-Helios and the virgin goddess Athena (vii 229c-230a; 232d).10 While there is no specific Biblical textual parallel, it is not necessary for Julian to have copied a text, rather than a concept. Dependence upon strict verbal parallels to exact passages will only take us so far, and as Bouffartigue 1992, 113 notes, the bulk of Julian’s material lacks such.11 The specific focus in this passage on Christ sets it apart from the others cited below from Or. xi and C. Gal. Allisson 2002, 35 finds ‘la trinité chrétienne’ in the passage recalling Julian’s rescue from the disease of Christianity (vii 229c-230a): 8 ‘Comme le Saint-Esprit, Athena intervient en tiers pour realiser la procreation d’un fils dont la mere est une femme et le pere un principe transcendant.’ 9 ‘Secondo la sua opinione Atena è stata generata, nella sua interezza, non dalla parte superiore, ma dalla totalità de Helios re. Infatti non vi è nessuna differenza fra Helios e Zeus.’ 10 The following authors recognise the parallel between Christ and Heracles in this passage: Wright 1913, 111n4; Lacombrade 1964, 131n3; Simon 1973, 398; Athanassiadi 1981, 133, 197; Barnes 1998, 147–148; Nesselrath 2008, 213–214. 11 ‘Les allusions exprès aux textes scripturaires sont évidemment constantes dans le traité Contre les Galiléens. Elles sont quasi-inexistantes dans le reste de l’oeuvre.’

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Λέγειν δὲ ὁ Ζεὺς ἄρχεται πρὸς τὸν Ἥλιον· ‘Τουτὶ τὸ παιδίον’ἔφη· ξυγγενὲς δὲ ἦν αὐτῶν ἄρα παρερριμμένον που καὶ ἀμελούμενον, ἀδελφιδοῦς ἐκείνου τοῦ πλουσίου καὶ ἀνεψιὸς τῶν κληρονόμων· ‘τοῦτο’, ἔφη, “σόν ἐστιν ἔκγονον. Ὄμοσον οὖν τὸ ἐμόν τε καὶ σὸν σκῆπτρον, ἦ μὴν ἐπιμελήσεσθαι διαφερόντως αὐτοῦ καὶ ποιμανεῖν αὐτὸ καὶ θεραπεύσειν τῆς νόσου. Ὁρᾷς γὰρ ὅπως οἷον ὑπὸ καπνοῦ ῥύπου τε ἀναπέπλησται καὶ λιγνύος, κίνδυνός τε τὸ ὑπὸ σοῦ σπαρὲν ἐν αὐτῷ πῦρ ποσβῆναι, ‘ἢν μὴ σύ γε δύσεαι ἀλκήν’. Σοὶ δὲ ἐγώ τε ξυγχωρῶ καὶ αἱ Μοῖραι· κόμιζε οὖν αὐτὸ καὶ τρέφε’. Ταῦτα ἀκούσας ὁ βασιλεὺς Ἥλιος ηὐφράνθη τε ἡσθεὶς τῷ βρέφει, σωζόμενον ἔτι καθορῶν ἐν αὐτῷ σπινθῆρα μικρὸν ἐξ ἑαυτοῦ, καὶ τὸ ἐντεῦθεν ἔτρεφεν ἐκεῖνο τὸ παιδίον, ἐξαγαγὼν “Ἔκ θ’ αἵματος ἔκ τε κυδοιμοῦ ἔκ τ’ ἀνδροκτασίης”· ὁ πατὴρ δὲ ὁ Ζεὺς ἐκέλευσε καὶ τὴν Ἀθηνᾶν, τὴν ἀμήτορα τὴν παρθένον, ἅμα τῷ Ἡλίῳ τὸ παιδάριον ἐκτρέφειν. And then Zeus started to speak to Helios, ‘This is the child’, he said. And the child was a blood-relation of theirs, who had been cast out and uncared for, a nephew of that rich man and first cousin of the heirs. He said, ‘This is your offspring. Swear by my sceptre and yours to take care of him, to shepherd him, and to heal him of his illness. For you see how he is as if stricken by smoke, filth, and soot, and there is a danger that the fire sowed in him by you will be extinguished, “if you will not exert your strength”. But the Fates and I will give place to you, therefore save and rear him.’ King Helios heard this and was cheered and took pleasure in the babe, seeing that in him a small spark of himself was saved. And from then he reared that child he had brought forth ‘from the blood and tumult and slaughter of men’. And Father Zeus commanded motherless Athena the virgin to rear the child together with Helios. While this passage does indeed name three gods, Zeus, Helios, and Athena, Allisson instead finds the Trinity in the three elements Julian described his being stricken with, namely, καπνός, ῥύπος, and λιγνύς.12 As the overriding purpose of this passage appears to be depicting Julian as the son of God in parallel with both Heracles and Christ, that suggests to me other solutions than Allisson’s. The passage is certainly rich with metaphoric use of language, as for example Julian primarily uses νόσος in his writings to refer to his Christian upbringing (Contra Galilaeos 327b; Ep. 61.424b; Ep. 98.401c) in the sense of ‘illness’ or ‘disease’. However, metaphor does not excuse the extent to which Allisson reads theological

12 ‘La fumée, la crasse et la suie, c’est le christianisme dans lequel Julien a été élevé et auquel il a voulu montrer sa fidélité jusqu’à l’âge de vingt ans; peut-être faut-il voir dans cette utilisation de trois termes une critique de la trinité chrétienne, concept qui a fait beaucoup parler de lui dans les querelles théologiques contemporaines de Julien.’

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meaning into the passage without textual warrant.13 In Or. vii, Julian was very definitely playing with Christian-oriented metaphor in the passages cited. In his attempt to present Heracles as a parallel to Christ and himself as a second Heracles, he altered not only Heracles, but Helios and Athena as well. Drawing Athena from Zeus’ substance, and making Heracles their (virgin-born) son, indeed suggests equality of substance. However, Athena’s role as the ‘virgin mother’ rather than as the Holy Spirit dictates that caution be used in presenting even this closest passage as an ‘unmistakable’ pagan trinity. Julian’s overt binitarian purpose makes it ultimately less likely that Julian is making an allusion to the Trinity here. The next alleged Trinitarian parallels are found in the Hymn to King Helios, which Wright 1913, 351 introduced by writing that in it, Julian’s ‘aim was to provide the Hellenic counterpart of the positive revealed religion of Christianity’. Julian’s triad in Or. xi includes the One, Helios-Mithras, and the physical sun (xi 132c-d). Dillon 1999, 107 evaluates Julian’s Neoplatonic triad as ‘a pretty simple scenario’. Julian composed this for the festival of Sol Invictus on 25 December 362. The Hymn is Julian’s exposition for a Hellenic audience of the monotheistic or henotheistic pagan faith he offered. In this oration, Julian cited an oracle of Apollo declaring the kinship of Helios and Zeus (xi 135d-136a): εἰ δὲ οὐκ ἔστιν οὐδὲν αὐτῷ κοινὸν πρὸς τοὺς ἄλλους ἔξω τῆς ἀγαθοεργίας, ἧς καὶ αὐτῆς μεταδίδωσι τοῖς πᾶσι, μαρτυράμενοι τούς τε Κυπρίων ἱερέας, οἳ κοινοὺς ἀποφαίνουσι βωμοὺς Ἡλίῳ καὶ Διί, πρὸ τούτων δὲ ἔτι τὸν Ἀπόλλω συνεδρεύοντα τῷ θεῷ τῷδε παρακαλέσαντες μάρτυρα (φησὶ γὰρ ὁ θεὸς οὗτος· Εἷς Ζεύς, εἷς Ἀίδης, εἷς Ἥλιός ἐστι Σάραπις), 13 The Homeric phrase ‘if you will not exert your strength’, or literally, ‘if you will not put on strength’ (Iliad ix 231) suggests another possible provenance for the καπνός, ῥύπος, and λιγνύς. This phrase is far more likely drawn from Julian’s favourite source of allusion, the Iliad. My thanks to Joe Walsh who reminded me of the scene in which Antilochus informed Achilles of the death of his beloved Patroclus (Iliad xviii 22–25): ὣς φάτο, τὸν δ ̓ ἄχεος νεφέλη ἐκάλυψε μέλαινα: ἀμφοτέρῃσι δὲ χερσὶν ἑλὼν κόνιν αἰθαλόεσσαν χεύατο κὰκ κεφαλῆς, χαρίεν δ ̓ ᾔσχυνε πρόσωπον: νεκταρέῳ δὲ χιτῶνι μέλαιν ̓ ἀμφίζανε τέφρη. ‘He spoke, and the black cloud of sorrow closed on Achilleus. In both hands he caught up the grimy dust, and poured it over his head and face, and fouled his handsome countenance, and the black ashes were scattered over his immortal tunic’. The text of the Iliad is that of West 1998–2000, and the translation that of Lattimore 1961. Achilles, sitting amidst the Achaian ships and the smoke and fire of battle, was overwhelmed and utterly grief-stricken at the death of Patroclus. It is expressed in slightly different terms, as Achilles is stricken with a ‘black cloud’ instead of ‘smoke’, with ‘grimy dust’, the filthy nature of which is revealed when Achilles used it to ‘befoul’ his face, and ‘black ashes’ rather than ‘soot’. Despite the different vocabulary, the imagery and word order strongly suggest an allusion to Iliad xviii 20–22. Julian had already cast himself as the New Achilles in his Or. iii, composed in 358 while he was Caesar under his cousin Constantius II. Julian hinted at future unrest when he opened his panegyric to Constantius II with King Agamemnon’s failure to treat his general Achilles well (iii 49c-50a). With this new allusion to himself as Achilles in A.D. 362, Julian conveyed the depth of his grief at the loss of his family to his audience. Simultaneously, he cast himself again in the role of the new Achilles, whose deep sorrow was paralleled by a terrible wrath. The actions of Constantius II’s soldiers in A.D. 337 created an implacable enemy, whose vengeance would be complete.

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κοινὴν ὑπολάβωμεν, μᾶλλον δὲ μίαν Ἡλίου καὶ Διὸς ἐν τοῖς νοεροῖς θεοῖς δυναστείαν. But if he has nothing in common with those others beyond his beneficial power, and of this he gives a part to all, we invoke the priests of Cyprus, who produce common altars to Helios and Zeus, but yet before this call to witness Apollo, sitting in council with this god. For this god declares: ‘One Zeus, One Hades, One Helios Serapis’. Let us receive then, truly one power in common of Helios and Zeus among the intellectual gods. The original oracle referred to Zeus, Hades, and Dionysus (Macrobius, Saturnalia i 18.18). Although Serapis was associated with Dionysus, if Julian was trying to assemble a ‘pagan Trinity’ from an established oracle, it would have been to his benefit to stay with a more consistent triad. Further, the modern history of interpretation may have been influenced by the more suggestive standard English translation by Wright 1913, 369: ‘Zeus, Hades, and Helios Serapis, three gods in one godhead!’ This is somewhat misleading, suggesting a parallel textual connection to Christian theological writings, which is not evident. Lacombrade 1964, 93 described this passage as containing Julian’s ‘conception d’une divinité trinitaire’, but sensibly attributed the impulse behind it solely to Iamblichean Neoplatonism.14 Julian discussed the νοερός ἥλιος, and concluded with language that, as both Naville 1877, 104–105 and Athanassiadi 1977, 366 point out, echoed the Nicene creed.15 15 ‘King Helios is one and proceeds (προῆλθε) from one god . . . he gathers together the last and the first’ (τὰ τελευταῖα τοῖς πρώτοις) (xi 141d-142a). Here Helios προῆλθε, or ‘proceeds’ from the One much as does the Holy Spirit ἐκπορεύεται, or ‘proceeds from’ the Father in John 15.26 and the third clause of the Nicene Creed. The last and the first recalls the statement attributed to Christ: ‘I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end’ (Rev. 22:13, NRSV). Such an echo of Christian theological language suggests intentionality to some, although procession is a concept well known within Neoplatonism. Julian himself explained this passage as plural gods of like substance who sum up Helios, but in him are one (xi 143b). The emperor thereafter posited another three-in-one unity of Helios, Apollo, and Dionysus (xi 144a): Ἀλλὰ καὶ τὴν Διονύσου μεριστὴν δημιουργίαν οὐδαμοῦ φαίνεται χωρίζων ὁ θεὸς Ἡλίου· τούτῳ δὲ αὐτὴν ὑποτάττων ἀεὶ καὶ ἀποφαίνων σύνθρονον, ἐξηγητὴς ἡμῖν ἐστι τῶν ἐπὶ τοῦ θεοῦ καλλίστων διανοημάτων. Πάσας δὲ ἐν αὑτῷ περιέχων ὁ θεὸς ὅδε τὰς ἀρχὰς τῆς καλλίστης νοερᾶς συγκράσεως

14 ‘La thèse majeure de son propos: sa division ternaire de l’univers, ne l’a-t-il pas tirée du théosophe syrien? De même, sa conception d’une divinité trinitaire n’a pas d’autre origine.’ 15 Naville 1877, 104–105, compared xi 141–142 to the Nicene Creed and wrote that Julian’s Helios shared an ‘obvious kinship’ with the Son, and speculated that perhaps Julian was hoping ‘to replace the Word-Son with the Sun King’; cf. Athanassiadi 1977, 366.

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Ἥλιος Ἀπόλλων ἐστὶ Μουσηγέτης. Ἐπεὶ δὲ καὶ ὅλην ἡμῖν τὴν τῆς εὐταξίας ζωὴν συμπληροῖ, γεννᾷ μὲν ἐν κόσμῳ τὸν Ἀσκληπιόν, ἔχει δὲ αὐτὸν καὶ πρὸ τοῦ κόσμου παρ’ ἑαυτῷ. And Apollo too never appears to distinguish the divided creativity of Dionysus from Helios. Always subordinating Dionysus to this one [Helios] and declaring him enthroned with him, Apollo is interpreter for us of the most beautiful thoughts of God. Moreover, since he contains in himself all the principles of the finest intellectual synthesis, he is known as Helios-Apollo, who leads the Muses. And since he fills the whole of our existence with good order, he begat Asclepius in the world, though before the world he had him beside himself. The last sentence bears a resemblance to a common proof-text used in the Christological controversies of the mid-fourth century, in which ‘wisdom’ was claimed as a pre-incarnate Christ: ‘The Lord created me at the beginning of his work, the first of his acts of long ago. Ages ago I was set up, at the first, before the beginning of the earth’ (Prov. 8:22–23 NRSV). Yet, again, the Neoplatonic triad is evident, a concept not unique to Julian, and the distinguishing characteristics of the Christian Trinity are not present. As the ‘son’ in this case appears not to be a member of the ‘three-in-one’ triad, that places the focus on binitarian parallels. This emphasis on the begotten Asclepius as Christ is recognised by some modern scholars, although not usually in extensive detail.16 The references in Or. xi taken by some as deliberate parallels of the Christian Trinity turn out to be more revealing of Neoplatonism’s triadic framework of reality, a structure shared with other Neoplatonists not attempting to parallel Christianity. Within this framework, Julian made reference to multiple gods sharing the substance of Helios, specifically mentioning in this oration Zeus, Hades, Helios, Serapis, Apollo, Asclepius, and Dionysus. I would suggest that in these passages, Julian reveals his intention at points to mimic Christ with pagan alternatives, such as Asclepius, but expends little or no effort to co-opt the Christian concept of the Trinity.

Conclusion Given Julian’s interest in co-opting Christian theology, it sounds quite reasonable that he would want to do so in regards to the Christian Trinity as well. However, that founders when examining the individual passages to which it has been applied. Even if Julian was attempting to compose a consistent Trinitarian parallel on a broad level, combining elements from different documents, he produced a distinctly wobbly Trinity. In such a scenario, this makes Helios at various points the Son and ‘living image’ of the One (Ep. 111.434c-d), the Spirit 16 Wright 1913, 419n1, 1923, 315; McKenzie 1958, 156; Lacombrade 1964, 131; Athanassiadi 1981, 167; Bouffartigue 1992, 649; Dillon 1999, 113–114.

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who ‘proceeds’ from the One (xi 141d-142a; cf. 146b, 156c), and the Father who ‘begets’ his son Asclepius (xi 144a), language that, again, is not inconsistent with Neoplatonism. It is worth noting that when Julian drew his deliberate parallels between Heracles and Christ (vii 219d-220a) and Asclepius and Christ (xi 144b, 153b; Contra Galilaeos 200a-b), he did so with much clearer intention than this. Crucially, it is possible to find contemporary literary reaction to Julian’s binitarian motif of the Father God and his incarnate divine son, but such contemporary reaction to supposed Trinitarian themes in Julian’s writing remains elusive.17 A superior explanation would be that Julian wrote of his existing triadic Neoplatonic structure, while making various binitarian allusions, thereby creating incidental similarities to, rather than deliberate parallels of, the Christian Trinity.18

Bibliography Allisson, Martin. 2002. Les religions de l’empereur Julien: pratiques, croyances et politiques. M.A. thesis, Université de Neuchâtel. Athanassiadi, Polymnia. 1977. ‘A Contribution to Mithraic Theology: The Emperor Julian’s Hymn to King Helios’ Journal of Theological Studies 18, 360–371. Athanassiadi, Polymnia. 1981. Julian and Hellenism: An Intellectual Biography (as Polymnia Athanassiadi-Fowden). Oxford. Reprinted in 1992 with new introduction as Julian: An Intellectual Biography. London. Athanassiadi, Polymnia and Frede, Michael, eds. 1999. Pagan Monotheism in Late Antiquity. Oxford. Barnes, Timothy. 1998. Ammianus Marcellinus and the Representation of Historical Reality. Ithaca, NY and London. Bidez, Joseph. 1930. La vie de l’empereur Julien, 3rd edn. Paris. Bidez, Joseph, Gabriel, Rochefort, and Christian, Lacombrade, eds. and trans. 1924–1964. L’Empereur Julien. Œuvres complètes), 4 vols. Paris. Bouffartigue, Jean. 1992. L’Empereur Julien et la culture de son temps. Paris. Chadwick, Henry. 2001. The Church in Ancient Society: From Galilee to Gregory the Great. Oxford. Dillon, John. 1989. ‘Logos and Trinity: Patterns of Platonist Influence on Early Christianity’ 1–13 in The Philosophy in Christianity, ed. G. Vesey. Cambridge. Dillon, John. 1999. ‘The Theology of Julian’s Hymn to King Helios’ Ítaca: Quaderns Catalans de Cultura Classica 14–15, 103–115. Dillon, John. 2007. ‘What Price the Father of the Noetic Triad? Some Thoughts on Porphyry’s Doctrine of the First Principle’ 51–59 in Studies on Porphyry, eds. G. Karamanolis and A. Sheppard. London. Elm, Susanna. 2012. Sons of Hellenism, Fathers of the Church: Emperor Julian, Gregory of Nazianzus, and the Vision of Rome. Berkeley.

17 Himerius, Or. xli 92–93; Eunapius fr. 28, 29 Blockley; Libanius Or. xii 28, 44; xiii 42; xv 36, 69; xvii 36; Gregory Nazianzen, Or. iv 94. 18 I would like to thank Gavin Kelly and Sara Parvis for their assistance, as well as the anonymous reviewer.

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Greenwood, David. 2013. ‘Pollution Wars: Consecration and Desecration from Constantine to Julian’ 289–296 in Studia Patristica, Vol. LXII – Papers Presented at the Sixteenth International Conference on Patristic Studies Held in Oxford 2011, ed. M. Vinzent. Leuven. Guido, Rosanna, ed. 2000. Giuliano l’Apostata, Al cinico Eraclio. Lecce. Hoffmann, R. Joseph, trans. 2004. Julian’s against the Galileans. Amherst. Lacombrade, Christian, ed. 1964. L’empereur Julien. Oeuvres complètes, t. 2.2. Paris. Majercik, Ruth, ed. 1989. Julianus, the Chaldean Oracles: Text, Translation, and Commentary. Leiden. McKenzie, Alasdair M. 1958. The Reaction to Christianity in Pagan thought from Celsus to Julian. Ph.D. thesis, University of Glasgow. Naville, H.-Adrien. 1877. Julien l’Apostat et sa philosophie du polythéisme. Paris. Nesselrath, Heinz-Gunther. 2008. ‘Mit “Waffen” Platons gegen ein christliches Imperium: Der Mythos in Julians Schrift Gegen den Kyniker Herakleios’ 207–219 in Kaiser Julian “Apostata” und die philosophische Reaktion gegen das Christentum, ed. C. Schäfer. Berlin. Rochefort, Gabriel, ed. 1963. L ‘empereur Julien. Oeuvres complètes, t. 2.1. Paris. Simon, Marcel. 1973. ‘Early Christianity and Pagan Thought: Confluences and Conflicts’ Religious Studies 9, 385–399. Smith, Andrew, ed. 1993. Porphyrii Philosophi fragmenta. Leipzig. Smith, Andrew. 2009. ‘Philosophical Objections to Christianity on the Eve of the Great Persecution’ 33–48 in The Great Persecution, eds. V. Twomey and M. Humphries. Dublin. Smith, Andrew. 2012. ‘Julian’s Hymn to King Helios: The Economical Use of Complex Neoplatonic Concepts’ 229–235 in Emperor and Author: The Writings of Julian the Apostate, eds. N. Baker-Brian and S. Tougher. Cardiff. Wallis, Richard T. 1972. Neoplatonism. New York. Wright, Wilmer. 1896. The Emperor Julian’s Relation to the New Sophistic and NeoPlatonism. Ph.D. dissertation, University of Chicago. Wright, Wilmer, trans. 1913. The Works of the Emperor Julian, vol. 2. Cambridge, MA. Wright, Wilmer, trans. 1923. The Works of the Emperor Julian, vol. 3. Cambridge, MA.

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3 ‘C R A F T I N G D I V I N E P E R S O N A E I N J U L I A N’S O R. 7,’ C L A S S I C A L P H I L O L O G Y 109 (2014): 140–149

Introduction In Spring 362, the Cynic Heracleios had delivered an offensive lecture in the Emperor Julian’s court in Constantinople, playing the role of Zeus chastising the emperor as Pan (Julian, Or. 7.234cd).1 Julian responded swiftly with To the Cynic Heracleios, in which he included his plan for action regarding Constantine’s Christianization of the empire.2 In Julian’s oration, Helios instructed the young emperor “to cleanse all the impiety” (καθαίρειν ἐκεῖνα πάντα τὰ ἀσεβήματα, Or. 7.231d),3 although Julian moved well beyond the justification for a housecleaning. I will demonstrate the extent of Julian’s synthesis, making use of pagan elements of emperor worship, his family association with the gods Helios and Heracles, and features co-opted from Christian theology in order to present himself as both a prophetic guide to paganism and a pagan son of God rivalling Christ and Constantine.4

* I am grateful for the helpful comments of Gavin Kelly, Sara Parvis, Lucy Grig, Calum Maciver, and the two anonymous Classical Philology reviewers. The translations are my own unless otherwise noted. 1 Cf. Rochefort 1963, 36; Smith 1995, 89; Guido 2000, viii. Julian mentions that Heracleios profaned Helios and wrote of someone (presumably himself) being cast as Phaethon, Or. 7.208ab. From this, Athanassiadi 1981, 131–132, plausibly reconstructs Heracleios’ allegory as a parody of Julian as the inept son of Helios trying to drive his father’s chariot. 2 Rosen 2006, 57, refers to this as the revealing of Julian’s state programme (Regierungsprogramm) embedded in a mythic personal narrative. Julian reportedly composed his response in a single night, and internal evidence suggests that it too was delivered publicly (Lib., Or. 18.157; Julian, Or. 7.205b, 235a), R. Smith 1995, 49; Marcone 2012, 240. The claim of composition in one night should be qualified by the sophisticated layers of the work, suggesting that we may be dealing with the panegyrical topos of a composition tossed off quickly with great facility; cf. Lib., Or. 12.94. 3 I use the Budé numbering system and Greek text (from Rochefort 1963) for Julian’s works throughout. 4 Regarding the terminology “pagan,” I realize keenly the imperfect nature of this term, although the other choices seem equally problematic.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003435310-4

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I. Heracles and Christ Julian first laid the groundwork at Oration 7.219d-220a by recrafting the divine hero Heracles into the image of Christ.5 Julian’s revised version of Heracles had developed many Christ-like attributes, including demonstrating control of the elements through a miraculous ability to walk on water: “but I believe he walked on the sea as on dry land” (βαδίσαι δὲ αὐτὸν ὡς ἐπὶ ξηρᾶς τῆς θαλάττης νενόμικα, Or. 7.219d). Lucian reminds us that water-walking to pagans suggested magic (Philops. 13), but in Julian’s hands, Heracles was able to walk on water specifically because the elements were controlled by his immaculate mind and divine body.6 This is paralleled in the Christian scriptures in a pericope found in three gospels (Mt. 14.22–33, Mk. 6.45–52, Jn. 6.16–21), wherein Christ was seen walking on the water (περιπατοῦντα ἐπὶ τῆς θαλάσσης) and demonstrating a command of the elements.7 This caused his disciples to worship him as divinity (Mt. 14.33), a divine recognition based on the recalling of God’s creative power over the elements (Gen. 1) and his control over the parting of the Red Sea (Ex. 14–15). Most significantly, Heracles was now begotten to be the saviour of the world. Heracles, originally the son of Alcmene and Zeus via sexual intercourse, became the son of Athena the virgin goddess and Zeus, whom Julian in Neoplatonic fashion equated with Helios.8 Julian explained the origins and purpose of the new-model Heracles: “Him great Zeus begat to be the savior of the world through Athena who is forethought, and placed as guardian over him this goddess he had brought forth whole from the whole of himself” (Ὃν ὁ μέγας Ζεὺς διὰ τῆς Προνοίας Ἀθηνᾶς, ἐπιστήσας αὐτῷ φύλακα τὴν θεὸν ταύτην ὅλην ἐξ ὅλου προέμενος αὐτοῦ, τῷ κόσμῳ σωτῆρα ἐφύτευσεν, Or. 7.220a).9 This new begetting for Heracles recalled Christ’s virgin birth in the gospels and the early third-century Roman Creed (cf. Mt. 1.18–23, Lk. 1.26–35).10 While the title σωτήρ had been used to describe rul-

5 Heracles is a significant choice, as the national god of Hellenism, and “the Roman hero par excellence.” Athanassiadi 1981, 133, 197; cf. Livy 1.7; Vergil, Aeneid 8.102–304. 6 Guido 2000, 142–143. 7 The text of the New Testament is Nestle-Aland, 27th ed. (1993). 8 Julian wrote of Zeus and Helios as equivalent in a fairly typical triadic Neoplatonic structure, with The One, Zeus, and Helios occupying the three hypostases or realities, with Helios being the high god of the intelligible realm. In the Hymn to King Helios, Julian equated Zeus, Helios, Apollo, and Mithra (Or. 11.132cd, 135d-136a, 144a). Julian’s Neoplatonism is recognised as normative by Dillon 1999, 107; and A. Smith 2012, 229–237. 9 Guido 2000, 156, points out that Athena in Julian’s hands is not extruded from Zeus’ head, but taken whole from the whole of him, in essence a replica (cf. Julian, Hymn to King Helios, Or. 11.149b). Here, Zeus and Athena are presented as identical in substance and separate in person. Πρόνοια Ἀθηνᾶ was the goddess’ cult title at Delphi and Delos, LSJ 1491, s.v.: πρόνοια. 10 See Kelly 1972, 100–130 for the text of the Old Roman Creed or R, in which Christ was described as being born via the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary (qui natus est Spiritu sancto ex Maria virgine, τὸν γεννηθέντα ἐκ πνεύματος ἁγίου καὶ Μαρίας τῆς παρθένου.) While Hippolytus’ authorship of the Apostolic Traditions, primary source of R, has recently come under fire, this point regarding the Virgin Birth is also supported by the use of the proto-creed or “Rule of Faith” in other authors,

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ers from Ptolemy to Augustus (OGI 458), the term had also become a fixed theological title for Christ by the close of the first century. Julian’s statement here that Heracles was begotten to be the saviour of the world is quite close to that found in the New Testament, which stated, “the Father has sent his son to be the saviour of the world” (σωτῆρα τοῦ κόσμου, 1 Jn. 4.14).11 Modern scholars are aware that Julian’s presentation here is at least unusual, although their comments range from footnotes to brief summaries.12 Both Heracles and Zeus-Helios had relationships with the Constantinian dynasty and were key figures in the imperial cult. Diocletian had given members of the Tetrarchy relationships with the gods Jupiter and Hercules, creating “Jovian” and “Herculian” lines in which the earthly rulers were mimetic images of the divine, a father/son relationship which Marcel Simon has argued was a deliberate engagement with Christianity.13 From Julian’s perspective, Constantius I’s son Constantine was an apostate Herculian, who had abandoned the worship of Helios for the Christian God, whereas Constantius I’s grandson Julian would loyally serve Helios, the god of his grandfather. Julian sought to supplant Constantine, whose apostasy from Helios he saw as the root of the empire’s current troubles. Constantine had been publicly praised by Eusebius as a mimetic Christfigure (De laudibus Constantini 2.2–5), and in our next passage, we see that Julian co-opted that characteristic as well.14

II. Julian and Heracles In response to Heracleios’ irreverent use of myth, Julian crafted his own myth, a thinly veiled version of his early life, in which he outlined his personal history and future plans (Or. 7.227c-234c). In Julian’s narrative, a rich man (manifestly Constantine) apostatised away from Helios, bringing consequences upon his people. When he died his nephew (described only as a boy but clearly Julian) ran afoul of one of the heirs, his cousin (Constantius II), who murdered his family and

11 12 13 14

e.g. Irenaeus, Adv. haer. 1.10.1 (c. A.D. 180); Tert., De praescr. haeret. 13 (c. A.D. 200); Origen, De princ. 1.4 (c. A.D. 220). Cf. Jn. 3.16–17. E.g. Athanassiadi 1981, 133, 197; Nesselrath 2008, 213–214. Simon 1973, 398; cf. Simmons 1996, 69; Rees 2004, 54–55. It is important to note that Julian was educated by those associated closely with Eusebius, and that Julian evidently knew Eusebius’ writings well. Julian’s education had been supervised by Eusebius, bishop of Nicomedia and Constantinople, and George, later bishop of Alexandria, two figures chosen by Constantine’s son Constantius II and broadly in sympathy with Eusebius’ theology. Since Eusebius of Caesarea was a major writer of the previous generation, it is highly likely that Julian was exposed to much of Eusebius’ work. We know for certain that Julian was familiar with one work of Eusebius, as in Julian’s C. Gal. he cited Eusebius’ large work Praep. evang. Indeed, the nature of Julian’s assessment of Eusebius implies a familiarity with the author and his overall work, as the young emperor, a rather harsh reviewer, titled him “the wretched Eusebius” (C. Gal. 222a, Praep. evang. 11.5.5). Bouffartigue 1992, 385–386, has demonstrated the extent of Julian’s “direct consultation” of the Praep. Evan., showing that he followed Eusebius’s argument in his own C. Gal.

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imprisoned him.15 The boy was revealed to be the son of Athena the virgin goddess and Helios, whom Julian equated with Zeus. Zeus informed Helios that the youth (Julian) was his “offspring” (ἔκγονος, Or. 7.229c). In consequence, Julian wrote that King Helios was pleased that in the boy “a small spark of himself was saved” (ἐν αὐτῷ σπινθῆρα μικρὸν ἐξ ἑαυτοῦ, Or. 7.229d). Julian’s associate Libanius of Antioch responded specifically to the above excerpt when he described young Julian: “There was hidden there a spark of prophetic fire that had barely escaped the hands of the disbelievers” (ἦν γάρ τις σπινθὴρ μαντικῆς αὐτόθι κρυπτόμενος μόλις διαφυγὼν τὰς χεῖρας τῶν δυσσεβῶν, Lib., Or. 13.11). Julian’s representative relationship with the divine was strengthened, as he portrayed himself as not only the representative of the gods, but having a special relationship with his personal god, much as did Constantine. While Julian wrote elsewhere that Helios was “the common father of all mankind” (Hymn to King Helios, Or. 11.131c), his treatment in the myth in Or. 7 highlights a special and unique relationship between the god and himself. Julian reinforced this dichotomy, writing that Helios cared for the whole race in common, but created Julian’s soul from eternity and made him his follower (Or. 11.157a). It is significant that Julian presented Helios as not only his patron deity, but also the one from whom Constantine had apostatised. Julian continued, writing: “And Father Zeus commanded motherless Athena the virgin to rear the child together with Helios” (ὁ πατὴρ δὲ ὁ Ζεὺς ἐκέλευσε καὶ τὴν Ἀθηνᾶν, τὴν ἀμήτορα τὴν παρθένον, ἅμα τῷ Ἡλίῳ τὸ παιδάριον ἐκτρέφειν, Or. 7.230a). The added relationship to Athena further paralleled Julian’s Heracles myth and Christian theology of the virgin mother of God. Julian strengthened this language of “rearing” in a discourse he placed in the mouth of Athena, addressing the boy, shortly thereafter: “Understand, dearest, offspring of myself and of this good god your father!” (Μάνθανε . . . ὦ λῷστε, πατρὸς ἀγαθοῦ τουτουὶ τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ ἐμὸν βλάστημα, Or. 7.232d). In claiming to be the βλάστημα of Zeus-Helios, Guido points out that Julian was himself making a claim to be divine.16 In this, Julian was following Horace’s treatment of Augustus as Heracles (Carm. 3.14.1). Those who knew Julian well reflected back his rhetoric in their own writings, repeatedly attributing characteristics of Heracles to Julian. Himerius was a Bithynian rhetorician educated at Athens, and an enthusiastic supporter of Julian (Him., Or. 41.2; Eun., VS 14.1).17 In his oration given in Constantinople in 361 but not in Julian’s presence, he claimed to have engaged in Mithraic ritual with 15 On scholarly recognition of Julian as the boy, see esp. R. Smith 1995, 185; for the murders, see Burgess 2008, 5–51. 16 Guido 2000, xiii: “Qui, lungi dall essene un Pan rustico e deforme, egli si presenta come l’erede legittimo dell’Impero dei Cesari, come βλάστημα di Helios-Zeus, e dio a sua volta.” 17 Jones, et al. 1971, 436. The association of Himerius and Julian may have extended farther back than most would assume. Barnes 1987, 209 notes the likelihood that a fragment of an oration of Himerius (fr. 1.6) was given at Sirmium on 15 March 351, with oblique references identifying the presence of Gallus and Julian for Gallus’ elevation to Caesar. Himerius also was teaching in Athens in 355 when Julian resided in the city and likely attended his lectures (Socrates, Hist eccl. 4.26.6; Sozom., Hist. eccl. 6.17.1).

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the emperor in Constantine’s city, equating Mithra, Apollo, and Helios (Him., Or. 41.1), a synthesis similar to Julian’s in his Hymn to King Helios (Or. XI).18 Himerius wrote that due to Julian’s sharing his nature with Helios, he was able to enlighten people and show them a better way: “After all, one would have expected someone who links his nature with the Sun both to give light and to reveal a better life” (ἔδει γὰρ αὐτὸν ἡλίῳ φύσιν συνάπτοντα ὁμοῦ τε λάμψαι καὶ φῆναι βίον τὸν κρείττονα, Him., Or. 41.92–93).19 The sophist Eunapius of Sardis, who utilised material from the “detailed memorandum” of Julian’s personal physician Oribasius of Pergamon in his Universal History (Eun., frag. 15 Blockley), confirmed that in his letters, Julian “called the Sun (Helios) his own father” (ἴδιον πατέρα ἀνακαλεῖ τὸν ἥλιον, Eun., frag. 28.5 Blockley).20 Unless we are to consider Julian’s letters (ἐπιστολαῖς) as including his orations, this suggests that what Julian put forth in his public orations about his relationship with Helios also existed in private correspondence to which Oribasius or Eunapius had access. Eunapius emphasised the divine recognition of this special claim to being the son of Helios, who rode his chariot across the heavens, addressing Julian as: “O child of the charioteer god, who is ruler of all.” (Ὦ τέκος ἁρμελάταο θεοῦ, μεδέοντος ἁπάντων, Eun., frag. 28.4 Blockley). Eunapius also related that when Julian prayed and made sacrifice on his expedition in Persia, he received a prophecy of a glorious end that following victory over the Persians he would be taken by fiery chariot to his “father’s halls of heavenly light” on Olympus (Eun., frag. 28.6 Blockley).21 Again, we see the reference to Julian’s heavenly father Helios, familiar from the emperor’s pen in Oration 7.230a and 232d. While a single instance of such language could be easily dismissed as rhetorical excess for a beloved figure, the entire pattern of such indicates a motif of Julian as Heracles, the deity whom he had crafted into a counterweight to Christ. To ensure that literate readers did not miss the relationship between the recrafted Heracles and himself, Julian also had the youth enact the part of Heracles in Prodicus’ myth of Heracles at the crossroads. The boy fled into the wilderness 18 This equivalency was not unusual, as implied by Mithra’s cult title Deus, Sol Invictus Mithras, as well as Julian’s similar equivalency, cf. Beck 2006, 5. Penella 2007, 35 notes that Julian was in the city, but not present, as Himerius closed by stating he needed to go and “set eyes upon the emperor.” 19 The text of Himerius is that of Colonna 1951, and the translation that of Penella 2007. 20 The text and translation of the fragments of Eunapius are from Blockley 1983. Oribasius was Julian’s confidante from the beginning of his quest for the throne through to his death in Persia (Amm. Marc. 25.5.1). Though exiled following Julian’s death, he provided Eunapius with the Julianic material for his Universal History, produced in various editions from perhaps as early as A.D. 380. Bowersock 1978, 8; cf. Baldwin 1975, 85–97. Eunapius clarified that Julian was by no means claiming that Helios had impregnated his mother Basilina, but was asserting divine ancestry as numerous emperors had done before him. 21 The hexameter passage, in Blockley’s translation: “But having driven the Persian race headlong with your sceptre / Back to Seleucia conquered by your sword, A fire-bright chariot whirled amidst storm clouds / Shall take you to Olympus freed from your body / And the much-enduring misery of man. / Then you shall come to your father’s halls / of heavenly light, from which you wandered / Into a human frame of mortality.”

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alone,22 where he met Hermes, who told him: “Come, I shall be your guide to a smoother and leveler road, as soon as you have scaled the crooked and steep place where you see all failing and hence heading back” (Δεῦρο, εἶπεν, ἡγεμών σοι ἐγὼ ἔσομαι λείας καὶ ὁμαλεστέρας ὁδοῦ τουτὶ [τὸ] μικρὸν ὑπερβάντι τὸ σκολιὸν καὶ ἀπότομον χωρίον, οὗ πάντας ὁρᾶς προσπταίοντας καὶ ἀπιόντας ἐντεῦθεν ὀπίσω, Or. 7.230c). Prodicus’myth, preserved in Xenophon’s paraphrase (Mem. 2.21–33), focused upon Heracles’ choice between virtue and vice, personified by two women, but also metaphorically represented by two paths.23 In Julian’s myth, the divine messenger Hermes provided the youth guidance at a crossroad where, like Heracles, he had to choose between the easy and the virtuous paths. Therefore, Julian’s identification with the newly Christ-like Heracles is not due only to the birth of both to Athena the virgin goddess and Zeus/Helios, but also Julian’s role as the new Heracles who would be the champion of a reinvigorated paganism.24 As the youth, Julian was returned to earth by Helios to fulfil his divine mission of cleansing the “impiety” (ἀσέβεια, Or. 7.231d) of Christianity.25 As the panegyrist said about the role of Herculius during Diocletian’s reign, Hercules was Jupiter’s champion, fulfilling his chosen tasks (Pan. Lat. 3.6–9). This theme is reflected in the writings of Libanius of Antioch, whose lectures Julian had transcribed for him circa 348, although the two only enjoyed a closer association in Antioch from July 362 onwards. 26 During the one year of their acquaintance, Libanius wrote of Julian as Heracles a number of times. According to Libanius, Julian, who had the soul of a god in the body of a man (Or. 13.47), played Heracles in Gaul to the inferior man Constantius (Or. 12.44), and would someday receive sacrifice and prayer, just as Heracles did (Or. 15.36).27 However, the key passage in the writings of Libanius is found in his oration on the occasion of Julian assuming the consulship on 1 January 363. Libanius associated the young emperor with the myth of Heracles at the crossroads, writing that once constraints were removed, this “made him master of will, even as Heracles. Though it was possible to take himself down the smooth way, and there was none to hinder him from carrying himself away to wine, gaming, and flesh, upon the steep and 22 Wright 1913, 139 noted Julian’s parallel of himself here at Or. 7.230b with Heracles, isolated, hungry, and facing the elements at Or. 7.219d. Both Rochefort 1963, 63 and Guido 2000, 142 note that the description of Heracles’ poverty and isolation are unique to Julian. 23 The tale of Heracles at the crossroads also appears in Antisthenes, Antisthenes fragmenta 94–97, Caizzi; Cic., Off. 1.118; as well as Christian authors such as Justin Martyr, 2 Apol. 11.2–5; Basil of Caesarea, On the Value of Greek Literature 5.55–77. 24 Wright 1913, 70 also sees Julian in this oration as a “second Heracles,” Athanassiadi 1981, 133 as “a second Heracles-Mithra.” 25 Julian frequently avoided using Christian terminology, but here paralleled Eusebius’ frequent references to ἀσέβεια. For Eusebius, the members of the Tetrarchy except for Constantius I were exemplars of ἀσέβεια (Vit. Const. 1.13.2, 1.47.2), a role which Constantine fulfilled for Julian (Caesars, Or. 10.336b). 26 Jones, et al. 1971, 505; cf. Lib., Or. 1.51. 27 Wiemer 1995, 110, 235. The text of Libanius is that of Foerster 1904. Contra Nock 1957, 122–123, Libanius’ comparisons appear to be something more than typical emperor worship.

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jagged path he went” (βουλῆς δὲ κύριον ἐποίησεν, ὥσπερ τὸν Ἡρακλέα, ὑπῆρχε δὲ καὶ διὰ τῆς λείας ἔρχεσθαι καὶ οὐκ ἦν ὁ κωλύσων εἰς οἶνον ἐκφερόμενον καὶ κύβους καὶ σωμάτων ἔρωτας, ἐπὶ τὸν ὄρθιον καὶ τραχὺν οἶμον ὁρμᾷ, Lib., Or. 12.28). This is recognised by A. F. Norman as a reference to the Prodicus myth of Heracles.28 The similarities between this and Julian’s myth in Oration 7 are significant. Libanius reflected upon the same scenario, and drew the same conclusion, namely that Julian, the new Heracles, would make the proper and pious choice. The writings of the rhetorician Libanius of Antioch fulfilled a role for Julian similar to that of Eusebius for Constantine. These comparisons found purchase with Julian’s opponents as well, as demonstrated in two orations by Julian’s opponent Gregory Nazianzen in 363–365. Gregory referred to Libanius and those like him as “Those worshipping the speech of that man, and recasting him for us as the new god, pleasant and benevolent” (φασὶν οἱ τὰ ἐκείνου σέβοντες, καὶ τὸν νέον ἡμῖν θεὸν ἀναπλάττοντες, τὸν ἡδὺν καὶ φιλάνθρωπον, Greg. Naz., Or. 4.94).29 The parallel did not seem to have escaped the Antiochenes, either, as Gregory noted in several places that when they chose to mock Julian’s excessive penchant for sacrifice, they labelled him with one of the epithets of Hercules, “bull-burner” (Καυσίταυρος, Greg. Naz., Or. 4.77; cf. 4.103, 122). Gregory sustained this veiled mockery in the conclusion of his Oration 5, a stelographia or proclamation detailing Julian’s failures.30 Gregory’s assertion that his stelae would be “higher and more obvious than the Pillars of Hercules,” (τῶν Ἡρακλείων στηλῶν ὑψηλοτέρα τε καὶ περιφανεστέρα, Greg. Naz., Or. 5.42) may be a subtle jab in the same vein.

III. Julian and Hermes Julian’s divine parallels are complicated further by his subtly characterising himself as Hermes, son of Zeus and the nymph Maia, and the divine guide (διάκτορος, Iliad 24.339). 31 Most importantly for our purposes here, Jean Bouffartigue highlights that Hermes the “master of speech” was associated with the concept of the logos, positioning him as a potential rival to Christ.32 In approximately 342, Julian was removed to remote Cappadocia and re-united with his older half-brother Gallus (Julian, Epistle to the Athenians, Or. 5.271c; Ep. 4.427c; cf. Amm. Marc. 15.2.7, 22.9.4; Lib., Or. 18.12; Sozom., Hist. eccl. 5.2).33 Julian described himself at this time being “a mere boy” (μειράκιον, Epistle to the Athenians, Or. 5.271b). 28 29 30 31

Norman 1969, 52–53. The text of Gregory is that of Bernardi 1983. Elm 2012, 346–347. The title is also used at Iliad 2.103; 21.497; 24.378, 389, 410, 432, 445; Odyssey 1.84; 5.43, 75, 94, 145; 8.335, 338; 12.390; 15.319; and 24.99. 32 Bouffartigue 1992, 649. 33 The dating of Julian’s residence at Macellum in Cappadocia is debated, but I take it as 342–348. As argued by Norman 1969, ix, Julian’s time in Nicomedia coincided with that of Libanius (Lib., Or. 18.13), who came in 344 and departed for Constantinople in 349, but Julian was only of the

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In the Epistle to the Athenians, Julian explained that at some undefined point during his confinement at Macellum he came to understand his family’s fate, although with the reintroduction of the older Gallus I would suggest this happened rather promptly.34 Despite his youth, when in To the Cynic Heracleios he portrayed himself contemplating suicide and fleeing into the wilderness, he described himself as follows: “But later, when he became a young man newly bearded, with all the grace of youth” (Ἐπεὶ δὲ ἐτράφη καὶ νεανίας ἐγένετο πρῶτον ὑπηνήτης, τοῦπερ χαριεστάτη ἥβη, Or. 7.230a).35 It is possible that Julian’s description of himself as newly bearded was an accurate recollection, but rather unlikely given his probable age.36 I suggest that his purpose was to use a carefully chosen quotation which opened a window onto Homeric myth. Julian’s writing is rich with literary allusions, and here he made use of Homer, his favourite author. In Iliad 24.348, Zeus sent Hermes to Priam, where the god appeared in the likeness of a young prince. βῆ δ᾽ ἰέναι κούρωι αἰσυμνητῆρι ἐοικὼς πρῶτον ὑπηνήτηι, τοῦ περ χαριεστάτη ἥβη. and there took the likeness of a youth, a prince, newly bearded, with all the grace of youth. In Odyssey 10.279, Hermes manifested to equip Odysseus for his confrontation with Circe. This was a particularly appropriate conjunction of the two tricksters, one Olympian, one Achaean. ἔνθα μοι Ἑρμείας χρυσόρραπις ἀντεβόλησεν ἐρχομένῳ πρὸς δῶμα, νεηνίῃ ἀνδρὶ ἐοικώς, πρῶτον ὑπηνήτῃ, τοῦ περ χαριεστάτη ἥβη there Hermes with his golden staff met me, coming to the house, in the likeness of a young man, newly bearded, with all the grace of youth. In both epics, the clever Hermes was a representative of the gods sent to guide worthy characters and move the literary action forward. Past scholars have noted the obvious Homeric verbal parallels, but focusing on physical description, they have not addressed the significance of the function of Julian’s quotation within

age of rhetor training at the end of that period, meaning that Julian’s six years in Cappadocia must run from 342 to 347–348; Gallus had been at Tralles (Julian, Or. 5.271b). 34 Hadjinicolau 1951, 15–22, locates Macellum seven kilometers south of Caesarea. 35 The Greek text of Homer’s Iliad is that of M. L. West 2000, and of Homer’s Odyssey that of P. von der Mühll 1993. 36 While Julian also had an attachment to his beard in general, as a mark of contrast with the cleanshaven Constantinian dynasty, this is a much more specific reference.

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the passage.37 This was hardly a popular phrase, used by only four authors (aside from Homeric scholia) between Homer and Julian.38 Shortly thereafter, Julian makes a play on words marking this identification for the audience, referring to Hermes as being “akin” to himself. Helios and Athena diverted the despondent Julian by casting him into a trance, after which he wandered away into the wilderness. When he rested upon a stone, Hermes the divine guide came to him in auspicious form to lead him to the gods, picking up on Julian’s description earlier at Or. 7 230a: “Therefore, Hermes (being akin to himself, appearing as a young man of the same age) greeted him kindly” (Ἑρμῆς οὖν αὐτῷ, καὶ γὰρ εἶχεν οἰκείως πρὸς αὐτόν, ὥσπερ ἡλικιώτης νεανίσκος φανεὶς ἠσπάσατό τε φιλοφρόνως, Or. 7.230c).39 In Julian’s portrayal of Hermes as οἰκείως to himself, Julian utilised a double meaning, having just deliberately described himself using Homer’s description of Hermes. 40 Hermes the “young prince” of Iliad 24.348 appeared to the young prince of the house of the descendants of Constantine, and led him to his audience with Zeus-Helios with the admonition to “choose the best” (ἕλοιο . . . τὰ βέλτιστα, Or. 7.231a). To listeners with a classical education, Julian was subtly identifying himself with Hermes the divine guide or διάκτορος, and reinforcing his identification as both the “young prince” and the chosen one of the Hellenic gods who received their messenger. At the myth’s conclusion, Julian was confirmed in this role as divine guide, as Helios directed the gods to give Julian standards to bear as his symbols of their divine authority. Julian’s divine encounter ended with his receiving divine tokens from the gods: the gorgon’s breastplate from Athena, a torch from Helios, and most importantly here a “golden staff” (χρυσῆ ῥάβδος, Or. 7.234b) from Hermes. This golden staff of Hermes, sometimes known as the κηρύκειον or caduceus, was a significant component of Hermes’ identity, and the source of his title Argeiphontês, as he used it to slay the giant Argus. Julian’s self-comparison to Hermes follows the precedent set for the recreator of the Roman state, Augustus, who was also Mercury/Hermes (Horace, Carm. 1.2.41–44). Thus, Julian reinforced his portrayal as the divine guide, and as Smith described him in this context, the “divine intermediary.”41 By making such an allusion for himself, Julian benefited by reinforcing his consistent presentation of himself elsewhere. In letters to his priests, Julian emphasised his role as “high priest” (ἀρχιερέα μέγιστον, Ep. 89b.298c; Ep. 88.451b) a 37 E.g., Wright 1913, 137; Rochefort 1963, 78. 38 Searching TLG for πρῶτον ὑπηνήτης only turns up four uses between Homer and Julian: Plato, Prt. 309b1; Claudius Aelianus, Varia historia 10.18.8; Clem. Al., Paedagogus 3.3.23.2.4; Them., Ἐρωτικὸς ἢ περὶ κάλλους βασιλικοῦ 164d3. 39 In Caesars, Julian claimed it was Hermes who granted him knowledge of his father Mithras, whom Julian equated with Zeus and Helios (Or. 10.336c). 40 Wright 1913, 139, recognized the similarity Julian was drawing attention to, but evidently seeing this passage in isolation from the other two I cite, held that Hermes’ “affinity” for Julian was because he was “the god of eloquence.” 41 R. Smith 1995, 134.

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term equivalent to the Latin pontifex maximus.42 In early 362, Julian also described himself as ‘having received the direct function of prophecy’ from Apollo (Ep. 88.451b). In July 362, Libanius praised Julian for disdaining to wait for Oracles, but sitting in the place of the Pythia (Lib., Or. 13.48). Finally, Sozomen recorded that Julian appeared in public images with Hermes, as well as Ares and Zeus (Soz., Hist. eccl. 5.17.3). Julian’s allusive cleverness is meant to lead us to a Homeric framework, one in which he locates himself as a prophetic voice of paganism. In his role as guide, Hermes would have had appeal to Julian, called upon to guide his people back to pagan religion (Julian, Or. 7.231d). In fact, although using different terminology, Julian had Helios tasking the young prince with “guiding [his subjects] to the best” (ἡγούμενος ἐπὶ τὰ βέλτιστα, Or. 7.234a). Hermes would also be the divine guide of Julian’s Caesares (Or. 10), in which he gave the tale to Julian (Or. 10.307a), directed emperors to look to their chosen gods, and directed Julian to follow his father Mithras (Or. 10.336a), equated elsewhere with Zeus and Helios. This is a minor motif within a multilayered myth, but it is a telling one, revealing Julian’s desire to portray himself as a divine guide to those with an ear to hear.

Conclusion In this aspect of Julian’s effort to cleanse the impiety of Christianity, he utilised a long lineage of older traditions, combining elements of emperor worship, Sol Invictus worship, and Diocletian’s imperial theology. He responded to and recapitulated the Christianized mimetic ruler theology of Constantine, who had apostatised from Helios. The focus on Constantine and his heirs is clear, as in Julian’s myth, Helios told him that the desired cleansing was also of “your ancestral house” (τὴν προγονικὴν οἰκίαν, Or. 7.234c).43 Julian responded to this, first recrafting Hercules into a likeness of Christ, then casting himself in the image of Heracles. Julian made use of this literary construct in his campaign to reverse the Constantinian revolution, having Helios give Julian, the new Heracles, a divine commission to purge the impiety instituted by Constantine, the mimetic messiah. Julian positioned himself as an emperor with a divine lineage, made himself the son of a god, and specifically Helios, thereby redressing Constantine’s apostasy. While Julian’s actions are evidence enough, statements from his contemporaries provide further support, responding as they did to his presentations of Heracles and of himself, portraying Julian as the son of Helios with a human/divine nature, sent to earth by Helios as the healer of the world and recalled to Helios’ halls at the end of his life. Coming before his planned invasion of Persia, this was particularly pertinent given Julian’s connection between Alexander the conqueror of the East and Heracles (Julian, Caesars, Or. 10.325a). Julian’s premature death on

42 LSJ, 252, s.v.: ἀρχιεράομαι; cf. SIG 832. 43 Compare to Constantine’s house-cleaning mission in Vit. Const. 2.55.2.

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the Persian campaign in 363 forestalled further development of his theme, which, had it borne fruit, would have redefined the apologetic battles between Christianity and paganism in the fourth century. Moving beyond Christian Lacombrade’s assessment that Julian used Heracles as a pagan counter to Christ, Julian not only presented Heracles as a pagan alternative to Christ, but presented himself as a divine avatar, the alternate mimetic ruler diametrically opposed to Constantine.44

Bibliography Athanassiadi, Polymnia. 1981. Julian and Hellenism: An Intellectual Biography. Oxford. Baldwin, Barry. 1975. “The Career of Oribasius,” Acta Classica 18, 85–97. Barnes, Timothy D. 1987. “Himerius and the Fourth Century,” Classical Philology 82, 206–225. Beck, Roger. 2006. The Religion of the Mithras Cult in the Roman Empire: Mysteries of the Unconquered Sun. Oxford. Bernardi, Jean, ed. and trans. 1983. Grégoire de Nazianze, Discours 4–5. Paris. Blockley, Roger C. 1983. The Fragmentary Classicising Historians of the Later Roman Empire, vol. 2. Liverpool. Bouffartigue, Jean. 1992. L’Empereur Julien et la culture de son temps. Paris. Bowersock, Glen. 1978. Julian the Apostate. Cambridge, MA. Burgess, Richard. 2008. “The Summer of Blood: The ‘Great Massacre’ of 337 and the Promotion of the Sons of Constantine,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 62, 5–51. Caizzi, Fernanda, ed. 1966. Antisthenis fragmenta. Milan. Colonna, Aristide. 1951. Himerii declamationes et orationes cum deperditarum fragmentis. Rome. Dillon, John. 1999. “The Theology of Julian’s Hymn to King Helios,” Itaca 14–15, 103–115. Elm, Susanna. 2012. Sons of Hellenism, Fathers of the Church: Emperor Julian, Gregory of Nazianzus, and the Vision of Rome. Berkeley. Foerster, Richard, ed. 1904. Libanii Opera, vol. 2: Orationes XII-XXV. Leipzig. Guido, Rosanna, ed. and trans. 2000. Giuliano l’Apostate, Al cinico Eraclio. Galatina, Lecce. Hadjinicolau, Anne. 1951. “Macellum, lieu d’exil de l’empereur Julien,” Byzantion 21, 15–22. Jones, Arnold H.M., John R. Martindale, and John Morris. 1971. The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire, vol. 1, A.D. 260–395. Cambridge. Kelly, John N.D. 1972. Early Christian Creeds. London. Lacombrade, Christian, ed. and trans. 1964. L ‘empereur Julien. Oeuvres complètes, vol. 2.2. Paris. Marcone, Arnaldo. 2012. “The Forging of a Hellenic Orthodoxy: Julian’s Speeches against the Cynics,” in Emperor and Author: The Writings of Julian the Apostate, eds. Nicholas Baker-Brian and Shaun Tougher, 239–250. Cardiff and Swansea. Mühll, Peter von der, ed. 1993. Homeri, Odyssea. Munich and Leipzig. Nesselrath, Heinz-Günther. 2008. “Mit ‘Waffen’ Platons gegen ein christliches Imperium: Der Mythos in Julians Schrift Gegen den Kyniker Herakleios,” in Kaiser Julian “Apostata” und die philosophische Reaktion gegen das Christentum, ed. Christian Schafer, 207–219. Berlin.

44 Lacombrade 1964, 131.

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Nestle, Eberhard, and Kurt Aland, eds. 1993. Novum Testamentum Graece, 27th ed. Stuttgart. Nock, Arthur D. 1957. “Deification and Julian,” Journal of Roman Studies 47, 115–123. Norman, Albert F., ed. and trans. 1969. Libanius, Selected Works, vol. 1, The Julianic Orations. Cambridge, MA and London. Penella, Robert J., trans. 2007. Himerius, Man and the Word: The Orations of Himerius. Berkeley. Rees, Roger. 2004. Diocletian and the Tetrarchy. Edinburgh. Rochefort, Gabriel, ed. and trans. 1963. L ‘empereur Julien. Oeuvres complètes, vol. 2.1. Paris. Rosen, Klaus. 2006. Julian. Kaiser, Gott und Christenhasser. Stuttgart. Simmons, Michael Bland. 1996. Arnobius of Sicca: Religious Conflict and Competition in the Age of Diocletian. Oxford. Simon, Marcel. 1973. “Early Christianity and Pagan thought: Confluences and Conflicts,” Religious Studies 9, 385–399. Smith, Andrew. 2012. “Julian’s Hymn to King Helios: The Economical Use of Complex Neoplatonic Concepts.” In Emperor and Author: The Writings of Julian the Apostate, eds. Nicholas Baker-Brian and Sean Tougher, 229–237. Cardiff. Smith, Rowland. 1995. Julian’s Gods: Religion and Philosophy in the Thought and Action of Julian the Apostate. London. West, Martin L., ed. 2000. Homeri, Ilias XIII-XXIV. Munich and Leipzig. Wiemer, Hans-Ulrich. 1995. Libanios und Julien, Studien zum Verhältnis von Rhetorik und Politik im vierten Jahrhundert. Munich. Wright, Wilmer C., ed. and trans. 1913. Julian, vol. 2. Cambridge, MA and London.

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4 ‘A PA G A N E M P E R O R’S A P P R O P R I AT I O N O F M AT T H E W’S G O S P E L,’ T H E E X P O S I TO RY T I M E S 125 (2014): 593–598

Introduction Matthew’s infancy narrative contains a powerful and enduring story. Jesus, the son of David and rightful king of Israel, was hunted down by the unrighteous reigning king Herod, was miraculously spared the slaughter of the innocents, and was subsequently declared the Son of God who would restore righteousness. It would be small wonder if young Flavius Claudius Julianus, the future emperor, had not seen his own circumstances reflected in this narrative. Julian was born in A.D. 331 or 332 to a branch of the imperial dynasty, but slightly removed from the then-reigning Emperor Constantine I. However, when Constantine I died in 337, Julian’s branch of the dynasty was all but eliminated in a purge, almost certainly by the man Julian later blamed, his cousin Constantius II.1 Soldiers slaughtered Julian’s family, but Julian was spared because of his young age, and his older halfbrother Gallus because he appeared mortally ill anyway.2 As Julian grew older, he felt he had been providentially spared and called to right the wrongs of the past. That divine providence, however, was not a Christian one, as Julian had privately rejected the faith of his uncle and cousin for paganism.3 Following Constantius II’s unexpected terminal illness, the pagan Julian became sole ruler of the empire, and attempted to roll back Constantine’s Christianisation of the empire, borrowing the account of Christ’s temptation from the fourth chapter of Matthew’s Gospel to do so. He portrayed himself as a Christ-figure, tempted but accepting the offered kingdoms of the world, a unique example of imperial reception of the New Testament. Julian was faced with having to undo the Constantinian revolution and two generations of state-supported Christianisation. Julian would identify the root

1 See Burgess 2008: 5–51; contra Rosen 2006, who credits military leaders with independent action. 2 Julian, Or. 5.270d; Lib., Or. 18.10; cf. Socr., Hist. eccl. 3.1; Soz., Hist. eccl 5.2.9; Amm., 25.3.23. 3 Julian, Ep. 111; Lib. Or. 18.19. For the clearest rationale for use of the term ‘pagan’ rather than ‘polytheist’ or ‘Hellene,’ Cameron 2011.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003435310-5

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problem as the apostasy of Constantine to Christianity. In his Letter to the Provincials of Palestine in autumn 324, Constantine had issued what scholars have recognised as a public policy statement, claiming that God in his providence had raised him up to deliver humanity and the state from the ‘pestilential disease’ of paganism.4 Julian’s chastising of a Cynic philosopher, Or. 7, To the Cynic Heracleios, was an ideal opportunity for him to lay out his ‘government programme,’ a framework for overturning the Constantinian revolution.5 As an example, Julian crafted his own myth, a thinly veiled version of his early life. Although Libanius claimed that the emperor composed the oration in one night, the sophisticated layering of the autobiographical myth embedded within the oration suggests it was composed earlier and awaiting an excuse to be put into play.6 In Julian’s narrative, he cast Constantine as an apostate, whose faithlessness towards Helios had brought ruin on the empire.7 In the tale, the central character (whom I shall henceforth refer to as Julian to avoid confusion) is referred to merely as ‘the youth,’ but is, as one scholar points out ‘patently Julian.’8 After the dynastic murders, Julian and his half-brother Gallus were removed to the estate of Macellum, from which Julian fled when he learned of the true nature of his family’s deaths.9 In the wilds, he was met by Hermes, disguised as a young man, who led him to Helios and Athena, who informed him he had been chosen to restore a traditional pagan cult and replace Constantius II as the steward of the empire.10 On the surface, it appears to be a personal narrative of Julian’s rise to the throne enlivened by some divine intervention. However, when examined in more detail, it supports the possibility that Julian framed his counter-revolution against his uncle Constantine in Christian terminology designed to rankle Christians by placing himself in the role of an anti-Christ, one who had accepted the stewardship on behalf of the gods and been rewarded with the Roman Empire. On this key topic, Julian borrowed from Matthew’s Gospel the account of Christ’s testing in the wilderness. Julian needed a way to communicate to his subjects his intention to overwrite the Christianisation of the past two emperors and return to the pagan religion. I argue that he did so by making use of this passage above and presenting himself as the Christfigure, reversing the gospel passage. Julian was well equipped to do so, as although his most revered tutors had been pagan, he had received a thorough Christian education. Julian’s most influential teacher had been his pagan tutor Mardonius, who was followed by men of similar background like Nicocles and Hecebolius, and later Themistius.11 Overall, however, Julian’s development was framed by three non-Nicene 4 Eus., Vit. Const. 2.28.1; cf. Barnes 1981, 209; Millar 1977, 222, 319. 5 Rosen 2006, 57: ‘Regierungsprogramm . . . eingebettet in eine Erzählung voll autobiographischer Anspielungen.’ 6 Lib., Or. 18.157. 7 Julian, Or. 7.228d. 8 Bowersock 1978, 17; see also Smith 1995, 185. 9 Julian, Or. 7.230b. 10 Julian, Or. 7.230c, 232c. 11 Mardonius: Julian, Or. 12.352c; Nicocles and Hecebolius: Lib., Or. 15.27; 18.12; Themistius: Or. 6.257d, 258a-d; Smith, Julian’s Gods, 26. Hecebolius left Christianity in A.D. 363.

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Christians: educated first under the oversight of Eusebius, bishop of Nicomedia, and later George, later bishop of Alexandria, and under the authority of Constantius II.12 Further, Julian had experience interacting with Christian theological issues when he served as Constantius’ Caesar from 355 to 360. In the contentious fourth century, Julian would surely have dealt with ecclesiastical issues and councils, and Smulders and Beckwith have argued convincingly for a specific role for Julian in the Synod of Beziers in 356.13 In 359, Hilary of Poitiers wrote to Constantius complaining of his mistreatment by a cabal led by the non-Nicene Saturninus of Arles, and offering to forward letters of support from the Caesar which would confirm to Constantius that he had been misled.14 The Caesar Julian had reviewed the case made by Saturninus and his compatriots, judged it inadequate, and wrote letters supporting Hilary. Julian had wintered at Vienne from 6 November 360 to approximately March 361, and as an ordained reader, participated in Epiphany services at Vienne in January 361. 15 In a move more likely motivated by a desire to destabilise Constantius’ relationship with the Western Church, Julian allowed the Council of Paris in 361, which excommunicated the non-Nicene Saturninus under the firmly Nicene Hilary’s leadership. Armed with this background and education, what better way to make clear to his subjects familiar with the Christian narrative that he would overwrite that narrative with his own? In the passage in Matthew’s Gospel, Christ is led by the Spirit into the desert and tempted by Satan, including a trip to ‘a very high mountain’ to be offered the world: Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. . . . Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendor; and he said to him, ‘All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Away with you, Satan! for it is written, “Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.”’ (Matt. 4: 1, 8–10 NRSV)16 Theologically speaking, this was a testing of Christ, replacing human failure with divine success. As Davies and Allison point out, Deuteronomy 8:2–3 and the forty years in the wilderness including hunger and fasting are the proper context to understand Matthew 4:1–11.17 With this background, Christ has been seen as symbolically representing both Israel and Adam.

12 13 14 15

Julian, Ep. 106, 107; Amm. 22.9.4. Beckwith 2005, 34–35; Smulders 1995, 131; cf. Barnes 1992, 129–140. Ad Constantium 6 (CSEL 65): 201–202; Wickham 1997. Julian wintered at Vienne from 6 November to approximately March 361 (Amm. 20.10.3; 21.1, 2.5, 3.1); Barnes 1993, 228. 16 Julian’s use of the gospel pericope in his Or. 7 follows the order of Mt. 4:1–11, rather than the parallel passage in Luke 4:1–13, which has the first high place, the ‘pinnacle of the temple,’ following the ‘very high mountain.’ 17 Davies and Allison 1988, 352.

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France notes the weight placed here on the typological presentation of Christ as the true Israel.18 There is a parallel to the testing of Israel: ‘testing you to know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commandments (Deut. 8:2 NRSV).’ All three of the Old Testament quotations in Mt. 4: 1–11 are from Deut. 6–8, where Moses reminded the Israelites of the desert experiences in which God proved his faithfulness. Here, Christ was in the wilderness for forty days instead of forty years.19 Christ’s refusal of Satan with the quotation of Deuteronomy 6:13 calls to mind Israel’s basic confession to the ‘one God’ of Dt. 6:4.20 Like Israel in the wilderness, Christ was tempted by both hunger and idolatry but passed the test.21 Isaiah records that national Israel had failed to fulfil God’s plans, but the servant of God known as Israel (Isa. 49:3) would restore his people and bring salvation to the Gentile nations (Isa. 49:5–6). Christ as the new Israel would both worship God in truth and rescue the nation. Christ was also seen as the typological fulfilment of Adam, who Paul described as ‘a type of the one who is to come’ (Rom. 5:14). The second-century theologian Irenaeus of Lyons developed that line of thought, writing that the first Adam’s actions were reiterated by Christ, the second Adam, turning failure into success.22 J. N. D. Kelly has indicated how very influential this theology was, concluding that all the theologians of this period reproduced this theological theme.23 As Adam was the father of all humanity, his sin had affected all humanity.24 In this case, Irenaeus wrote that Adam’s transgression of eating the fruit at Satan’s behest was rectified when Christ was taken to the wilderness to be tempted, and refused to eat at Satan’s behest.25 Indeed, Taylor points out that as the mountaintop was traditionally associated with divine presence in both Judeo-Christian and pagan religions, it was an ideal setting for a choice between God and Satan.26 Christ the obedient ‘son of God’ (Lk. 3:22) would overwrite the actions of the disobedient ‘Adam, son of God’ (Lk. 3:38–4:3). Irenaeus held that Luke’s genealogy (Lk. 3.23–38) ran back from Jesus to Adam to demonstrate that Jesus gathered up and redeemed Adam and all in between, a representative theology likely drawing upon Ephesians 1:10.27 In Matthew 4, Christ was loyal to his father and passed the test of the temptation. This is certainly a theologically rich passage, but for my historical purposes, I would like to draw attention to five points in this portion of Matthew. First, Jesus went into the wilderness. Second, he was led by the Holy Spirit. Third, he was 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

France 2007, 128. France 2007, 128. Luz 2007, 153. Davies and Allison 1988, 352. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 3.18.1; cf. Lawson 1948, 143. Kelly 1968, 376–377. Pittenger 1952, 33. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 5.21.2; Gen. 3:1–7; Mt. 4:1–11; Lk. 4:1–13. Taylor 2001, 35–36; cf. 1 En. 35:3; 2 Bar. 76:3. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 3.22.3. Ephesians refers to the plan: ‘to recapitulate all things in him’ (ἀνακεφαλαιώσασθαι τὰ πάντα ἐν τῷ Χριστῷ, Eph. 1.10); Houssiau 1955, 217; Osborne 2001, 115.

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taken by Satan to ‘a very high mountain.’ Fourth, he was offered the kingdoms of the world and asked to worship Satan. Fifth, he rejected Satan’s offer. In Julian’s myth in Or. 7, he portrayed himself as the ‘offspring’ of Helios and the virgin goddess Athena, corresponding to Mt. 3:7’s depiction of Christ as the son of God.28 As Adam’s fall away from God had been made right by Christ’s obedience to God, so Helios would send his son Julian to make right the apostasy of Constantine. His use of the temptation narrative began at the moment of discovery of his family’s true fate, despairing and considering suicide. However, Helios cast him into a trance, and ‘he was sent into the wilderness.’29 There, he was met by Hermes, who ‘led him upon a great and high mountain,’ and warned him ‘Upon this summit, the father of all the gods sits.’30 There Helios denied the boy’s request to stay there with the gods and revealed that his destiny was an earthly mission on their behalf.31 Helios explained the ramifications of this destiny as the chosen one of the gods, saying, ‘You must return and cleanse all the impiety, and summon me, Athena and the other gods. Having heard this, the youth stood silent, and great Helios led him to a high peak.’32 He showed the boy his cousin the heir and his dominions and posed a question to him. What if the mission to cleanse away impiety required him to take a public role and depose the current ruler? Showing him the empire far below him, Helios asked, ‘What then, if on Zeus’ orders, Athena here and I replaced this heir as steward of all this with you?’33 In the myth, Julian struggled before acquiescing to this destiny, one which gave him the resources, opportunity, and freedom of action to act decisively on behalf of paganism. Helios directed Julian not merely to cleanse away impiety, but as he reiterated in closing, ‘to cleanse his ancestral house,’ an interesting turn of phrase that Julian, emperor and pontifex maximus, also used when exhorting one of his priestesses that a reverent believer must purify their household of unbelieving servants.34 The significant change to this narrative came in Julian’s answer to Helios: ‘make what use of me you wish.’35 Although initially tempted to remain with the gods, Julian accepted his mission, and they judged that he was obedient in all things towards the gods.36 Returning to the salient points I identified from Mt. 4:1–11, first, Julian went into the wilderness. Second, he was led by the god Hermes. Third, he was taken by

28 ἔκγονος, Julian, Or. 7.229cd. Treated fully in Greenwood 2014, 140–149. 29 Julian, Or. 7.230b. Interestingly, there appears to be a further parallel to Jesus in the wilderness in Julian’s tale of a very Christ-like Heracles experiencing hunger in the wilderness (ἐρημία) at Or. 7.219d. Nesselrath 2008, 207–219. 30 Julian, Or. 7.230d. 31 Julian, Or. 7.231b. 32 Julian, Or. 7.231d. 33 Julian, Or. 7.232c. Julian’s narrative must have been attractive to his contemporaries, as his associate Libanius reflected his story in an oration in 362, note the parallels at Lib., Or. 13.20, 35–36. 34 Julian, Or. 7.234c; Ep. 33. 35 Julian’s χρῆσθαι as a possible pun on χριστός of course calls to mind Paul description of Onesimus in Philemon 11. 36 Julian, Or. 7.233d.

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Table 4.1 Testing Christ and Julian Julian was the son of the high god Helios (Or. 7.229cd). Julian was sent by Helios into the ‘wilderness’ (Or. 7.230b). Julian was led by Hermes to a ‘great and high mountain’ (Or. 7.230d). Julian was taken to a higher ‘mountain peak’ by Helios to view the land below and be offered it (Or. 7.232a). Julian, obedient to his father, accepted the offer (Or. 7.233d).

Christ was the son of God (Mt. 3:7). Christ led by the Spirit into ‘the wilderness’ (Mt. 4:1). Christ was taken by Satan to the ‘pinnacle of the temple’ (Mt. 4:5). Christ was taken to a ‘very high mountain’ to view the world below and be offered it (Mt. 4:8). Christ, obedient to his father, rejected the offer (Mt. 4:10).

Hermes to Helios on ‘a very high mountain.’ Fourth, he was offered the kingdoms of the world and asked to worship Helios. Fifth, in contrast to Christ, he accepted Helios’ offer.

Conclusion Most analyses of Julian’s Or. 7 have focused on his response to Constantius II, the murderer of his family, but while that suffering was undoubtedly a motivating factor, he identified the underlying problem as the apostasy of Constantine to Christianity. Julian addressed that with his parallel to Matthew 4:1–11, sending notice to his audience in Constantinople that Constantine’s new religion was no longer the order of the day. Moreover, he did so in a display of rhetorical skill that likely delighted educated pagans in his audience with his presentation of himself as a pagan counterpart to Christ. While Constantine was contemptuous of the gods and deserted Helios, Julian was the offspring of and demonstrated his devotion to Helios.37 As the gods cursed Constantine for his failure, Julian was chosen as the steward of the gods.38 The gospel narrative is a powerful one, but Julian’s use of the temptation demonstrates the varied ends that power could be put to. This tale of two temptations is an interesting one, but the tale of Julian himself which lies behind the first is of a more cautionary sort. His bitter anger was the product of the purge of his family by his cousin Constantius II. The comfort that Christians today can draw from pointing out that Constantius II professed a hardline nonNicene Christianity should be tempered with the awareness that few Christians of any stripe stepped forward to condemn this injustice, thus creating the ancient church’s most committed enemy. 39

37 Julian, Or. 7.227c, 228d; 229cd, 231. 38 Julian, Or. 7.228b; 232c. 39 I would like to thank Tim Barnes, Sara Parvis, and Gavin Kelly for their assistance and suggestions.

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Bibliography Barnes, Timothy D. 1981. Constantine and Eusebius. Cambridge, MA. Barnes, Timothy D. 1992. ‘Hilary of Poitiers on His Exile,’Vigiliae Christianae 46, 129–40. Barnes, Timothy D. 1993. Athanasius and Constantius: Theology and Politics in the Constantinian Empire. Cambridge, MA. Beckwith, Carl L. 2005. ‘The Condemnation and Exile of Hilary of Poitiers at the Synod of Béziers (356 C. E.),’ Journal of Early Christian Studies 13, 21–38. Bowersock, Glen W. 1978. Julian the Apostate. Cambridge, MA. Burgess, Richard W. 2008. ‘The Summer of Blood: The “Great Massacre” of 337 and the Promotion of the Sons of Constantine,’ Dumbarton Oaks Papers 62, 5–51. Cameron, Alan. 2011. The Last Pagans of Rome. New York and Oxford. Davies, William D. and Dale C. Allison, Jr. 1988. A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew, vol. 1. Edinburgh. France, Richard T. 2007. The Gospel of Matthew. Grand Rapids and Cambridge. Greenwood, David Neal. 2014. ‘Crafting Divine Personae in Julian’s Or. 7,’Classical Philology 109, 140–149. Houssiau, Albert. 1955. La Christologie de Saint Irénée. Ph.D. thesis: University of Louvain. Kelly, John N. D. 1968. Early Christian Doctrines. London. Lawson, John. 1948. The Biblical Theology of Saint Irenaeus. London. Luz, Ulrich. 2007. Matthew 1–7: A Commentary. Minneapolis. Millar, Fergus. 1977. The Emperor in the Roman World. London. Nesselrath, Heinz-Günther. 2008. ‘Mit “Waffen” Platons gegen ein christliches Imperium: Der Mythos in Julians Schrift Gegen den Kyniker Herakleios,’ 207–219 in Kaiser Julian ‘Apostata’ und die philosophische Reaktion gegen das Christentum, ed. Christian Schafer. Berlin. Osborne, Eric. 2001. Irenaeus of Lyons. Cambridge. Pittenger, W. Norman. 1952. ‘St. Irenaeus,’ Anglican Theological Review 34, 30–34. Rosen, Klaus. 2006. Kaiser, Gott und Christenhasser. Stuttgart. Smith, Rowland. 1995. Julian’s Gods: Religion and Philosophy in the Thought and Action of Julian the Apostate. London. Smulders, Pieter. 1995. Hilary of Poitiers’ Preface to His Opus Historicum: Translation and Commentary. Leiden. Taylor, Nicholas. 2001. ‘The Temptation of Jesus on the Mountain,’ Journal for the Study of the New Testament 83, 27–49. Wickham, Lionel. 1997. Hilary of Poitiers: Conflicts of Conscience and Law in the Fourth Century Church. Liverpool.

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Introduction With the advent of the so-called New Atheism, attacks of all kinds on the truth-claims of Christianity have increased both in number and agitation, though frequently unfettered by evidence. I intend to address what would be the most damning claim of all, if it were true, namely that Jesus of Nazareth never existed and was a convenient fiction contrived in second-century Gospels, characterized by Richard Carrier as “mythic biography.”1 These claims had been advanced by Bruno Bauer and Arthur Drews in the late nineteenth century, and roundly dismissed.2 The last gasp came in the 1970s from a Ph.D. in German literature; swiftly, and to my mind, convincingly, rebutted by R. T. France.3 The position was eulogized in 1977 by historian Michael Grant, who wrote: “Modern critical methods fail to support the Christ-myth theory. It has again and again been answered and annihilated by first-rank scholars,” apparently laying the matter to rest.4 However, current popular authors have unearthed the argument again,5 and it is now being advanced aggressively by those possessing scholarly credentials.6 Claims of a mythical Christ immediately awaken a range of quite reasonable questions. How does one account for the existence of the church in the first century?7 If Christ never existed, why were the leaders of the church, who would themselves have known the veracity of Christian truth-claims, willing to die

1 Carrier 2009, 174. 2 Bauer 1877; Drews 1909. Both were decisively refuted (from differing perspectives) by Conybeare 1914 and Goguel 1926. 3 Wells 1975; France 1976. 4 Grant 1977, 200; Smith 1986, 47–48, who describes the theory as “almost entirely an argument from silence.” 5 Freke and Gandy 2000; see also Harpur 2004. 6 Carrier 2013, 15–62. 7 Tacitus, Annals 15.44; see also the discussion of his reliability in Benko 1980, 1062–1068.

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for their belief in a resurrected Christ?8 Why were the worshippers so insistent in their belief that Christ was divine and had physically appeared after his death?9 Many of these mythicist claims have been specifically addressed in recent works focusing on the evidence in the New Testament, so I should like to approach the issue from a different angle.10 The claims of the mythicists are significantly deflated by works of early anti-Christian writers, particularly the hostile testimony to Christ’s existence in the second-century author Celsus.

I. Celsus Before we examine Celsus’ writings, let us address a possible objection, namely that this source is dated. While it is common today to assume that the ancients were terribly unenlightened and unsophisticated, it is Celsus’ very antiquity that gives the evidence such weight. He likely wrote in the 170s, when any secondcentury conspiracy would have been easily identified and deflated.11 These points would be made equally well by evidence from such similar authors as Porphyry of Tyre, one of the greatest pagan intellectuals of the late third century, Sossianus Hierocles, the governor of Bithynia, and the emperor Julian, a philosopher in his own right who had the resources of the empire to hand.12 In short, they were all well-educated and well-placed to address the matter of Christ’s non-existence, that is, if it was a viable argument to take up. However, given Celsus’ chronological proximity to the supposed second-century conspiracy, I shall focus upon him. One does not have to share Celsus’ Christology to think that his statements are worthy of serious engagement. We know little about his life, but the positive assessment of his abilities by scholars should give pause to those who would dismiss his evidence. Stephen Benko has described him as “a man who relied not on rumors and hearsay evidence but on personal observation and careful study.”13 Celsus attributed the falsehood of Christianity to the errors of origin, content, and transmission of the Christian scriptures.14 Celsus was broadly monotheistic, but

8 Origen, Contra Celsum 2.56.20–24. 9 Pliny, Ep. 10.96–97; Wright 2003; Hurtado 2005. 10 In addition to those more specifically focused works listed above, see Ehrman 2013; Casey 2014; and from a wholly different perspective, Bauckham 2008. 11 For dating: C. Cels. 8.69; see also Crouzel 1998, 48; Hoffmann 1987, 29; Chadwick 1953, xxvi–xxviii. 12 In another contemporary example of opposing Christianity without claiming a fictional Christ, Galen, the physician and friend of Marcus Aurelius, decried the stubbornness of Christians, but praised their virtue (Galen, On the pulse 3.3; fragment of commentary on Plato’s Republic preserved in Ibn Zura, On the main questions discussed between Christians and Jews); compare with Walzer 1949, 91. 13 Benko 1984, 148; see also Whale 1930, 119 (“brilliantly equipped”); Wilken 1984, 94 (“a conservative intellectual”); Benko 1980, 1101 (“a well read and educated Platonist”). 14 Frede 1997, 234.

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believed different cultures manifested different expressions of divinity.15 Celsus’ general approach consisted of his own appeal to return to traditional religion, as well as his taking on the persona of a Jew chastising Christians for deviating from Judaism. His work Alethes Logos, or the True Word, described as “a noble attempt to defend the traditional values of Rome,”16 is preserved in large part in Origen of Alexandria’s response c. 245 CE, Contra Celsum.17 Celsus’ anti-Christian claims that relate to Christ’s historical existence break down into three areas which I will examine in turn: disreputable birth, low and ordinary life, and pointless death. Regarding the evidence from the New Testament authors, my primary interest here is not to debate the date of these letters (that is, were they genuine firstcentury documents, or second-century forgeries), but rather to demonstrate what Celsus was responding to from the early Christian community, as well as the continuity of these ideas in later authors.

II. Historical Birth Christ’s birth, claimed to be of the Virgin Mary and the Holy Spirit (Matt. 2; Luke 2), was treated as historical fact by Christians in the second century.18 Writing in approximately 150 CE, Justin Martyr, whom Andresen compellingly argued Celsus was responding to, held that Christ preexisted, was made flesh in a virgin’s womb, and was born as a man.19 In response, Celsus modified or repeated a version of events in which Christ was born via a soldier’s impregnation of Mary.20 Celsus reflected the concern among Middle Platonists regarding the convergence of material and ideal. The idea that this could be fully combined in one divine/ human person has been identified by Richard Wallis as the foundational contemporary philosophical objection to Christianity.21 He later again treated Christ as a historical figure, but not a divine one, when he stated: “The body of a god would not have been born as you, Jesus, were born.”22 Celsus criticized what he saw as the wobbly monotheism of Christianity, accusing Christians of worshipping both God and “this man who appeared recently.”23 Celsus not only wrote of Jesus’ 15 Contrasted as “qualitative monotheism” as opposed to the “quantitative monotheism” (strictly limited to one deity) of Judaism and Christianity, by Jussi 2013, 181. 16 Benko 1980, 1101. 17 Origen’s reproduction of Celsus’ Alethes Logos has been deemed generally fair by Neumann 1910, 773 and Chadwick 1953, xxii–xxiii, although Bader 1940, 10–24, has drawn attention to material that Origen had omitted. 18 The “Rule of Faith,” which owing to its citation as apostolic tradition by Irenaeus c. 180 (Against Heresies 1.10.1) and again by Tertullian twenty years later (Prescription Against Heretics 13) was likely circulating in the early second century, also includes Christ’s birth to the Virgin Mary via the Holy Spirit. 19 Justin, 1 Apol. 46.5; 63.10; 66.2; see also Andresen 1955, 308–311. 20 C. Cels. 1.32.2–5. 21 Wallis 1972, 104. 22 C. Cels. 1.69.15–16. Borret 1967, 27, notes that this was the response of the Jew in Justin, Dial. 68.1. The text is that of Marcovich 2001, and the translation that of Chadwick 1953. 23 C. Cels. 8.12.2–6.

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birth as historical, but held that it was Jesus himself who fabricated the story of the virgin birth.24 In fact, Jesus’ mother “was driven out by her husband, who was a carpenter by trade, as she was convicted of adultery.”25 Celsus expounded upon this a little later, and added that “she had a child by a certain soldier named Panthera,”26 a story which Eusebius of Caesarea reported was circulating among Jewish opponents of Christianity.27 Celsus was followed in this by Porphyry of Tyre, who was praised as “a distinguished pagan intellectual,” and “the most learned and astute” of the anti-Christian writers.28 Porphyry, the author of the work or collection entitled Against the Christians, written around the turn of the fourth century, supported Diocletian’s Great Persecution (303–313).29 In addition to his polemic work or works, Porphyry authored Philosophy from Oracles, which compiled oracular responses to support his assertions regarding the piety owed God, lesser divinities, and “divine men,” including both heroes such as Heracles and men of outstanding piety such as Jesus. Augustine wrote that in his estimation, the incarnation was Porphyry’s primary stumbling block.30

III. Historical Life Early Christians believed firmly in the historical life of Christ and made frequent reference to it. Melito of Sardis (160–170) referred twice to Christ’s miracles, writing that he came for the purpose of healing the suffering, raising the dead, healing the lame, cleansing the leper, and bringing sight to the blind.31 Celsus in his turn ridiculed the limited impact of Christ’s life: “When he was alive he won over only ten sailors and tax-collectors of the most abominable character, and not even all of those.”32 He criticized the appearance of Jesus for not displaying evidence of the beauty that should accompany divinity, and being “little and ugly and undistinguished.”33 Celsus attempted to defuse the impact of Christ’s miracles by claiming he did them through disreputable sorceries.34 That Celsus was not merely responding to Christian claims rhetorically, but rather was basing his argument upon a historical Christ is shown by his writing of Christ: “However,

24 C. Cels. 1.28.9. 25 C. Cels. 1.28.12–13. 26 C. Cels, 1.32.4–5; Patterson 1917, 79–80, demonstrated from inscriptional evidence that this was a common Latin surname among Roman soldiers, citing as examples CIL 7.18, 11.1421, and 13.7514. 27 Eusebius, Ecl. Proph. 3.10. 28 Smith 2009, 34; Wilken 1984, 126. 29 Barnes 1994, 60–65. For Porphyry’s support of the Great Persecution, see Digeser 2012; see also Drake 2000, 282. 30 Augustine, De Civ. 10.28. 31 Melito, Peri Pascha 72, 86. Melito is dated by Stuart Hall to approximately 160–170 CE. 32 C. Cels. 2.46.2–3. 33 C. Cels. 7.75. 34 C. Cels. 1.28; 1.68; 2.50; 8.41.

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he was a mere man, and of such character as the truth itself makes obvious, and as reason shows.”35 This general strain of thought continued out to the third and fourth centuries. Porphyry, too, asserted that the evidence of Jesus’ life revealed him to have been merely a pious man mistakenly worshipped by ignorant Christians.36 Celsus was also followed in this matter by Sossianus Hierocles, who wrote in approximately 305 CE while governor of Bithynia. Hierocles played a significant role in Diocletian’s Great Persecution,37 making polemical use of Philostratus’ third-century Life of Apollonius of Tyana, written about the first-century wonderworker. Hierocles systematically paralleled Apollonius and Christ in his own work, the Lover of Truth, portraying Christ as a real man who pleased the gods, as had Apollonius of Tyana.38 The Emperor Julian presented a multilayered engagement of Christianity, the sophistication of which at some points has been underestimated.39 In the winter of 362–363, he composed his Against the Galileans, in which he treated the life of Jesus as historical. He pointed out that Jesus had been subject to Caesar, as he and his parents had had to register during the governorship of Cyrenius.40 He wrote that in his lifetime he did not accomplish one worthy thing.41 Julian’s counter to the miracles reported in the Gospels of Mark and John was to state that these miracles had indeed taken place, but were done among a contemptuously low class of people.42

IV. Historical Death Early Christians set great store by the death and resurrection of Jesus. In his First Letter to the Corinthians, Paul wrote: “For I handed on to you as of first importance what I in turn had received: that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the scriptures, and that he was buried, and that he was raised on the third day in accordance with the scriptures” (15:3–4).43 He continued on, listing the number of people who had had experiences of the risen Christ, culminating with himself (15:5–8).44 Paul’s letter emphasized that this was material that was circulated to him, and was dependent upon eyewitness testimony of people who were alive at the time of his writing, approximately 54–55 CE. This earlier creedal material which Paul was citing has been plausibly dated to within several years of the

35 C. Cels. 2.79.2–3. 36 Porphyry, frag. 345F.22. Eusebius, Dem. Evan. 3.7.2 = Porphyry 345F, and in Latin, Augustine, De Civ. 19.23 = Porphyry 345aF; see also Digeser 2012, 21, 164. 37 Lactantius, De mort. 2.2; 5.2.2, 12; 16.4; Barnes 1976, 242. 38 Eusebius, C. Hierocl. 2.2. 39 See Greenwood 2014, 140–149. 40 Julian, C. Gal. 213a; see also Luke 2.2. 41 Julian, C. Gal. 191e. 42 Julian, C. Gal. 191e. 43 Claims that Paul did not believe in a historical Christ are, to say the least, a profound misreading of this passage. 44 See also Acts 9:1–6, 22:6–10.

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crucifixion. Gerd Lüdemann writes, “The formation of the appearance traditions mentioned in 1 Cor. 15.3–8 falls into the time between 30 and 33 CE.”45 Paul placed great weight on the historical death and resurrection of Jesus, writing that if he had not been raised from the dead, then their faith had all been in vain (1 Cor. 15:14). Celsus also placed significance on the death of Jesus by crucifixion, seeing it as a historical event that opened up Christianity to ridicule. He dismissively referred several times to Christ’s suffering and death through crucifixion. Referring to this event, which again, he treated as historical, Celsus criticized Jesus for not helping himself while he still lived.46 Celsus concluded that this was because he was ultimately unable to help himself.47 He asked mockingly if while on the cross, Jesus called his blood divine ichor, as Alexander the Great had.48 He also recognized the theological consequence of Jesus’ death, holding that Christians viewed him as Son of God because he was punished on the cross.49 Porphyry followed this line, mocking Christians for worshipping a man who died for trickeries.50 Porphyry’s view can be summed up by his sarcastic quotation of an oracle of Apollo referring to just judges condemning Jesus, who was publicly executed.51

Conclusion As has been pointed out by others, the testimony of hostile witnesses is particularly valuable. As John Meier has noted, “such positive evidence within a hostile source is the strongest kind of evidence.”52 If Celsus, who would likely have wished Christ away from the Roman Empire if he could, testified to his existence, that in some ways is even more valuable than positive testimony from a Christian source. Ultimately, neither Celsus nor any of the polemicists who followed him could scientifically validate the existence of Christ, but at every turn when historical issues were raised, neither he nor they ever claimed that Christ was a myth. This would have been the simplest approach, surely, to insist that there was no birth of Christ, virgin or otherwise, no deeds, miraculous or otherwise, and no death, atoning or otherwise. This would have been devastatingly effective, had there been anyone for whom such an approach seemed credible.

45 Lüdemann 1994, 38. From another perspective, similar dating is held to by Cranfield 1990, 169; Pannenberg 1977, 90. 46 C. Cels. 2.55.16–19. 47 C. Cels. 1.54.3. 48 C. Cels. 2.36.1–3. 49 C. Cels. 2.47.2–3. 50 Porphyry, frag. 343F; Porphyry, frag. 343F = Augustine, De Civ. 19.23. 51 Porphyry, frag. 343f = Augustine, De Civ. 19.23. 52 Meier offers the example of Cicero and Catiline: “If Cicero, who despised Catiline, admitted that the fellow had one good quality – courage – among a host of bad ones then the historian correctly concludes that Catiline was at least courageous.” Meier 2001, 198–199.

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Bibliography Andresen, Carl. 1955. Logos und Nomos: Die Polemik des Kelsos wider das Christentum. Berlin. Bader, Robert. 1940. Der Alethes Logos des Kelsos. Stuttgart and Berlin. Barnes, Timothy D. 1976. “Sossianus Hierocles and the Antecedents of the Great Persecution,” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 80, 239–252. Barnes, Timothy D. 1994. “Scholarship or Propaganda? Porphyry against the Christians and Its Historical Setting,” Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies of the University of London 39, 60–65. Bauckham, Richard. 2008. Jesus and the Eyewitnesses: The Gospels as Eyewitness Testimony. Grand Rapids, MI. Bauer, Bruno. 1877. Christus und die Caesaren. Der Ursprung des Christenthums aus dem römischen Griechenthum. Berlin. Benko, Stephen. 1980. “Pagan Criticism of Christianity During the First Two Centuries A. D.,” 1055–1118 in Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt II.23.2, eds. H. Temporani and W. Haase. Berlin. Benko, Stephen. 1984. Pagan Rome and the Early Christians. London. Borret, Marcel, ed. 1967. Origène: Contre Celse, t. 1, Sources chrétiennes 132. Paris. Carrier, Richard. 2009. Not the Impossible Faith: Why Christianity Didn’t Need a Miracle to Succeed. Lulu.com. Carrier, Richard. 2013. “How Not to Defend Historicity,” in Bart Ehrman and the Quest of the Historical Jesus of Nazareth: An Evaluation of Ehrman’s Did Jesus Exist?, eds. Frank Zindler and Robert M. Price. Cranford, NJ. Casey, Maurice. 2014. Jesus: Evidence and Argument or Mythicist Myths? Edinburgh. Conybeare, Frederick C. 1914. The Historical Christ. London. Cranfield, Charles E. B. 1990. “The Resurrection of Jesus Christ,” Expository Times 101, 167–172. Crouzel, Henri. 1998. Origen, trans. A. S. Worrall. Edinburgh. Chadwick, Henry, trans. 1953. Origen: Contra Celsum. Cambridge. Digeser, Elizabeth. 2012. A Threat to Public Piety: Christians, Platonists, and the Great Persecution. Ithaca, NY. Drake, Hal A. 2000. Constantine and the Bishops: The Politics of Intolerance. Baltimore, MD. Drews, Arthur. 1909. Die Christusmythe. Jena. Ehrman, Bart D. 2013. Did Jesus Exist?: The Historical Argument for Jesus of Nazareth. New York. France, Richard T. 1976. The Evidence for Jesus. London. Frede, Michael. 1997. “Celsus’ Attack on the Christians,” 218–240 in Philosophia Togata II: Plato and Aristotle at Rome, ed. Jonathan Barnes and Miriam Griffin. Oxford. Freke, Timothy and Peter Gandy. 2000. The Jesus Mysteries: Was the “Original Jesus” a Pagan God? New York. Goguel, Maurice. 1926. Jesus the Nazarene: Myth or History?, trans. Frederick Stephens. New York. Grant, Michael. 1977. Jesus: An Historian’s Review of the Gospels. New York. Greenwood, David Neal. 2014. ‘Crafting Divine Personae in Julian’s Or. 7,’ Classical Philology 109, 140–149. Harpur, Tom. 2004. The Pagan Christ: Recovering the Lost Light. Toronto.

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Hoffmann, R. Joseph, trans. 1987. Celsus: On the True Doctrine. Oxford. Hurtado, Larry W. 2005. Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity. Grand Rapids, MI. Jussi, Junno. 2013. “Celsus’ Arguments against the Truth of the Bible,” 175–184 in Studia Patristica vol. 65: Papers presented at the Sixteenth International Conference on Patristic Studies held in Oxford 2011, ed. Markus Vinzent. Leuven. Lüdemann, Gerd. 1994. The Resurrection of Jesus, trans. John Bowden. Minneapolis, MN. Marcovich, Miroslav. 2001. Origenes Contra Celsum: Libri VIII. Leiden. Meier, John P. 2001. A Marginal Jew, Vol. 3: Companions and Competitors. New York. Neumann, Karl J. 1910. “Celsus,” 256–273 in Realencyclopädie für Protestantische Theologie und Kirche, third edition, vol. 3, ed. Johann Jakob Herzog and Albert Hauck. Leipzig. Pannenberg, Wolfhart. 1977. Jesus: God and Man, second edition, trans. L. L. Wilkins and D. A. Priebe. Philadelphia, PA. Patterson, L. 1917. “Origin of the Name Panthera,” Journal of Theological Studies 19, 79–80. Smith, Andrew. 2009. “Objections to Christianity on the Eve of the Persecution,” 33–48 in The Great Persecution, ed. D. Vincent Twomey and Mark Humphries. Dublin. Smith, Morton. 1986. “The Historical Jesus,” in Jesus in History and Myth, eds. R. Joseph Hoffmann and Gerald A. Larue. Buffalo, NY. Wallis, Richard T. 1972. Neoplatonism. London. Walzer, Richard. 1949. Galen on Jews and Christians. Oxford. Wells, George A. 1975. Did Jesus Exist? Amherst, NY. Whale, John S. 1930. “Great Attacks on Christianity I: Celsus,” Expository Times 42, 119–124. Wilken, Robert. 1984. The Christians as the Romans Saw Them. New Haven, CT. Wright, Nicholas T. 2003. The Resurrection of the Son of God. London.

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6 ‘F I V E L AT I N I N S C R I P T I O N S FROM THE PAGAN RESTORATION O F J U L I A N,’ B U L L E T I N O F THE INSTITUTE OF CLASSICAL S T U D I E S 57 (2014): 101–119 1

Introduction The Emperor Julian came to sole of his cousin Constantius II in 361. Julian’s uncle Constantine had endorsed Christianity and instituted dramatic changes that we describe today as ‘Christianisation’, thus relegating paganism to a lower status.2 Constantius II and two shorter-lived brothers inherited power from Constantine in 337, and in the tumult that followed, one branch of the neo-Flavian house was nearly wiped out, almost certainly on the orders of Constantius II.3 Constantine’s sons subsequently continued to restrict the public practice of pagan cult. By 355, Constantius II needed a representative to deal with the conflict in Gaul, but had executed his cousin and Julian’s older half-brother Gallus, leaving him little choice but to elevate young Julian, his closest surviving male relative, to Caesar.4 Constantius was thereby freed to focus on the unrest elsewhere, all the while unaware that his young cousin had privately rejected his religion. Julian engineered his acclamation by his troops in February or March of 360.5 Although he sacrificed to the gods with his troops on the march to confront Constantius, he did not publicly reveal himself as a pagan until later

1 This article benefited from the helpful comments of Gavin Kelly, Tim Barnes, Eberhard Sauer, and the Editor and anonymous reviewers of BICS. Any shortcomings remain my own. 2 The term pagan originally designated ‘inhabitants of the countryside’ and in this period came to be used generically to describe civilians. It is not possible to be entirely consistent with terminology, but this term has the advantage of being able to describe all adherents regardless of culture or nationality. Therefore, while I realise the incongruity of using a term to describe Julian that he would not have chosen for himself, I will utilise the term pagan. For an extended discussion, see Cameron 2011, 14–32. 3 Burgess 2008, 5–51. 4 Amm. 15.8.1. 5 Bowersock 1978, 47–52.

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that year.6 Upon Constantius’ abrupt death on 3 November 361, Julian became sole emperor and made clear his affiliation with the old ways. Julian’s religious revival reversing the Constantinian revolution is controversial, and he himself is a polarising historical character. Shortly after his death, Christians and pagans embarked upon a war of rhetoric, each side trying to establish the meaning of the events of Julian’s life.7 Libanius’ adulation and Gregory Nazianzen’s vituperation both exhibit extreme partisanship. This issue has continued into the modern era, as one biographer emotionally lamented the dearly departed emperor as ‘a tragic figure, a man of infinite promise, cut off before his prime’, while a more balanced scholar candidly admits, ‘it can be hard to remain objective about him’.8 While an abundance of literary evidence concerning Julian’s reign has survived, much is murky enough to easily admit more than one interpretation. This combination may have encouraged people to project their personal views and emotions onto the canvas of Julian’s tale, which is unhelpful in attempting to reconstruct historical events. The emperor and his actions have been interpreted in a number of ways, with these diverse reconstructions based in large part upon literary evidence. This attraction is understandable, as a significant amount of that evidence is autobiographical material from Julian himself, offering us more insight into his character and aspirations than other Roman emperors.9 A closer examination of the inscriptional evidence stabilises the potential interpretations of Julian, and while of course the creators of contemporary material evidence had their own perspective, such evidence should nevertheless be a significant component of our reconstruction. In particular, functioning rather like a snapshot, epigraphic evidence is free from the taint of hindsight, meaning that the controversial Julian cannot be reinterpreted after his reign for the benefit of whatever school of thought. Although it bears some similarity to numismatic evidence, epigraphic evidence is less often directed by central state policy. When Julian came to power, the state had been openly supporting Christianity for two generations. His attempt to revive paganism represented the wishes of many within the empire, though there is no reliable method for gauging exact numbers. Dependence on literary evidence alone is problematic, as claims of widespread support for Julian’s revival by Himerius and Libanius do need to be evaluated carefully, given the nature of panegyric. After Julian’s death, the war of words began in earnest, with both pagan and Christian authors hastening to define Julian’s reign and intentions in a way that benefited their constituency. However, some modern scholars have gone beyond critically examining the claims of Julian’s orators and have claimed in response that Julian’s revival was markedly unpopular. 6 7 8 9

Julian, Ep. 26 (Bidez) 415c. As thoroughly documented in Elm 2012. Browning 1975, xii; Tougher 2007, 72. Particularly Ep. Ath., Caesars, Misopogon, and his collection of letters, all contributing to him being the best-preserved Roman emperor, see Trapp 2012, 105–107; cf. Bowersock 1978, 4.

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Athanassiadi claims that the response to Julian’s restoration was ‘so unenthusiastic’ that it led to his personal intervention, and eventually, his patience exhausted, retaliation against the Christians.10 Glen Bowersock’s 1978 biography of Julian has had a significant impact on scholarly understanding of Julian despite its brevity.11 Though Bowersock and Athanassiadi diverged on any number of other topics, he seemed to develop this line of thought further, assessing the support for Julian’s revival at even the beginning of his reign as negligible, writing that ‘the deadly earnestness of Julian was manifest and unwelcome’.12 The reason for this was that his restoration ‘probably perplexed rather than inspired the majority of pagans’.13 In Bowersock’s opinion, that trickle of support had evaporated by the end of his reign: ‘When Julian died, all Christians and many pagans received the news with relief’.14 In essence, Bowersock has dismissed the statements made by supporters of Julian, in favour of leaning rather too heavily on the accounts of Julian’s failures in Antioch, which does not necessarily capture the opinions of the multitudes across the empire. He is followed in this by Potter, who writes regarding Julian that ‘many polytheists were lukewarm at best about his espousal of the gods’.15 Generally, scholars studying Julian’s religious restoration have not taken adequate account of the epigraphic evidence. Athanassiadi held that ‘contemporary inscriptions hail Julian as the restorer of the curiae and of the empire in general, without mentioning anything about his religious policy; his twin attempt to regenerate urban life and paganism passed unnoticed by those who did not share his particular preoccupations’.16 This distortion is compounded by scholars supporting subsidiary arguments using valuable epigraphic evidence, but leaving important questions regarding that evidence’s original context and significance unanswered. Athanassiadi’s work, while valuable in many other respects, uses four inscriptions to support her portrayal of Julian’s view of kingship with himself as the ‘sole vice-gerent (sic) on earth’;17 to establish the career of the priest Praetextatus;18 to claim that Julian personally ordered the reconstruction of certain temples;19 and to demonstrate that revival of councils and of paganism were ‘contemporary

10 Athanassiadi 1981, 110–111. 11 Although see Tomlin 1980, 266–270. 12 Bowersock 1978, 80. Ammianus’ description of Julian’s brand of paganism as superstitio leads Barnes 1998, 160 to write that the historian: ‘so disapproved of Julian’s blend of paganism that he ridiculed the emperor’s religion’. 13 Bowersock 1978, xi. In similar vein, Simpson 1930, 89, writes, ‘Julian could not pour the new wine of his latter-day Neoplatonic mysticism into the old bottles of Greek Mythology. Greatly as he misjudged Christianity, he misjudged his own Hellenism far more’. 14 Bowersock 1978, 1 n. 1; cf. 119: ‘the fanatic was gone, and there were few to regret him’. 15 Potter 2014, 499. 16 Athanassiadi 1981, 111, citing CIL 9.417; ILS 751. 17 Athanassiadi 1981, 191, citing CIL 14176, 14149, 14172, 14175. 18 Athanassiadi 1981, 183, citing CIL 6 (1).1779. 19 Athanassiadi 1981, 110, n. 116, citing Butler, et al. 1910, no. 186.

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aspects of Julian’s reform’.20 Smith devotes one sentence to some of Julian’s titles in pagan inscriptions, commenting that Bidez should have paid more attention.21 He also cites from an inscription Julian’s title ‘Restorer of the Cults’, but only to introduce a broad discussion of the emperor’s ‘anti-Christian critique’.22 Nesselrath’s recent monograph on Julian’s re-paganisation cites one inscription to summarise the emperor’s programme of temple restoration.23 Many years after his book on Julian, Bowersock addressed the epigraphic evidence much more closely, although his focus was still not on support or lack thereof for Julian’s pagan restoration.24 Although Bowersock insists Julian’s revival was unpopular, inscriptional evidence from across the empire counters this by demonstrating that he was praised as a restorer of Roman religion, sacrifices, and temples. While the currying of favour with an emperor by local figures was not unusual, they could have offered him standard praises, such as ‘liberator of the Roman world, ‘restorer of the state’, ‘father of his people’, etc. Yet in these instances, they chose to praise or express support for the most controversial aspect of Julian’s reign, his pagan revival. I contend that there is epigraphic evidence that indicates that Julian’s call for pagan restoration was not falling on deaf ears, and will support this claim by examining five inscriptions representing key themes in detail here. An interpretation of the contemporary response during his reign may be drawn from inscriptions displaying support for the emperor. I will highlight three inscriptional themes that shed light upon the relationship between Julian’s intentions and methods in his restoration and support from local initiatives. His campaign of restoration is illustrated more concretely by inscribed dedications on sacred structures, the inscriptions lauding him as the restorer of the Roman World and Roman religion, and inscriptions replacing Constantinian inscriptions and the Chi-Rho with Julianic inscriptions and the radiate crown of Helios.25

I. Qualifications It should be readily obvious that Julian himself did not create these inscriptions, which were inscribed in his name by regional functionaries and supporters. This in itself is an important distinction to make, as support does not have to be seen in the modern sense as a popular groundswell. The authors, when they are not identifiable from the inscription itself, were likely provincial governors and local councils. Inscriptions from governors and councils reflect support, even if from

20 21 22 23 24 25

Athanassiadi 1981, 110, n. 113, citing AE 1969/70, 631; ILS 752. Smith 1995, 211, citing AE 1969/70, 631; ILS 946; ILS 752. Smith 1995, 216, citing AE 1969/70, 631. Nesselrath 2013, 30, citing AE 1969/70, 631. Bowersock 2006, 703–705. The sources are a variety of inscription collections, including three recent efforts to collate Julianic inscriptions by Arce 1986; Conti 2004; Salway 2012, 137–157.

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limited segments of society. Those doing so may have been following orders, currying favour, seeking to align themselves with the desired imperial line, or genuinely supporting a shared goal. While we cannot determine genuine motive over sixteen centuries later, surely this is a place where the literary evidence can be brought back in to provide colour to the inscriptional evidence.26 Some literary sources claim wide support for Julian’s restoration, although they have been dismissed as unrepresentative. Libanius of Antioch’s effusive claims correlate with common tropes of panegyric, but still should be considered. He wrote that with the renewed hope of pagans for a restoration, the intellectual elite uniformly supported Julian.27 He also wrote of the near-universal acclamation of the military and populace, claims which are somewhat less likely.28 He referred to Julian’s public worship and his pleasure at the portion of the population who followed his lead, in contrast to the Christians.29 When writing to the leaders of Antioch regarding Julian’s wrath at the city, he addressed those who were pagan and felt their punishment for the impiety of others was harsh.30 Finally, Libanius claimed that following Julian’s death, his image was set up and prayed to in pagan temples.31 Other authors further reflect support for Julian’s restoration in a broad sense without being obvious advocates. Although Barnes has made clear that the historian Ammianus Marcellinus disapproved of Julian’s particular theurgic strand of paganism, Ammianus went out of his way to insert an elderly blind woman acclaiming Julian on his entry to Gaul as ‘the man who will restore the temples of the gods’.32 This is borne out in Julian’s own words referring to mobs inflamed to attack Christians. Following the breakdown of communications in Antioch, Julian threatened the Antiochenes, implying in early 363 that church burnings in Emesa could be repeated in Antioch as well.33 Julian himself suggested in early 363 that he was offering more than passive encouragement to those desecrating Christian churches. In the same response to the Antiochene’s mockery of him, Julian wrote:34 I know well that they [those cities] love me more than their own sons, for they immediately raised up the sacred places of the gods and over-

26 27 28 29 30 31 32

The reception and use of Julian is ably documented in Célérier 2010. Lib., Or. 13.14. Lib., Or. 13.37, 41. Lib., Or. 18.121. Lib., Or. 16.50. Lib., Or. 18.304. Amm. 15.8.22; Barnes 1998, 156, 160. Barnes also builds a solid case for Ammianus being resolutely pagan himself, though again not of Julian’s exact stripe, at 75–94. 33 Greg. Naz., Or. 4.93; Julian, 12.357c. 34 ὃν εὖ οἶδ’ ὅτι φιλοῦσιν ἐκεῖναι μᾶλλον ἢ τοὺς ἑαυτῶν υἱέας, οἳ τὰ μὲν τῶν θεῶν ἀνέστησαν αὐτίκα τεμένη, τοὺς τάφους δὲ τῶν ἀθέων ἀνέτρεψαν πάντας, ὑπὸ τοῦ συνθήματος, ὃ δὴ δέδοται παρ’ ἐμοῦ πρῴην, οὕτως ἐπαρθέντες τὸν νοῦν καὶ μετέωροι γενόμενοι τὴν διάνοιαν, ὡς καὶ πλέον ἐπεξελθεῖν τοῖς εἰς τοὺς θεοὺς πλημμελοῦσιν ἢ βουλομένῳ μοι ἦν. Or. 12.361a, my translation.

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threw all of the tombs of the godless, on the preconcerted signal that was given by me recently; and they became stirred up in mind and buoyed in heart, and so have punished those sinning against the gods more than I had willed. Contemporary Christian sources reflect concern that Julian’s pagan restoration was a threat, which also indicates some popular support. Shortly after Julian’s death, Gregory Nazianzen wrote that Julian’s plan was to ultimately deprive Christians of all rights of speech and assembly.35 In 377–378, John Chrysostom wrote that Julian prepared during his time in Antioch to make war against the church.36 He claimed that ‘those privy to his plans’ related statements that after Julian’s return from Persia he would destroy the church completely.37 One remaining point needs to be addressed, namely the low number of surviving religious inscriptions. The ratio of four religious inscriptions out of one hundred ninety-two inscriptions catalogued by Conti is not terribly impressive, but we must remember the factor of defacing and overwriting. As the work of Eberhard Sauer suggests, the rate of destruction of explicitly pagan statuary and inscriptions should be considered significant: ‘The number of cases of image destruction must have exceeded many-fold those whose traces we have discovered and can understand’.38 These inscriptions are remarkable for surviving the difficult years following Julian’s attempted pagan restoration, which engendered such strong feeling. While some literary sources expressed their preferences regarding Julian’s reign in writing, some contemporary opponents expressed their preferences by destroying material evidence.

II. Restoring Roman Religion ILS 752 = CIL 8.4326, 18529 = Conti 167 = Arce 77 This inscription was found on a statue base in Casae, Numidia, near modern-day El Mahder, Algeria.39 Its origins and current whereabouts are unknown. D(omino) [n](ostro) Fl(a)v(io) Clau= dio Iuliano Pio Felici, 35 Greg. Naz., Or. 4.96. 36 John Chrysostom, Babylas 119. 37 John Chrysostom, Babylas 121. Chrysostom identified Julian’s strategy as moving from the lesser difficulty (the Persian campaign), to the greater (destroying the church). 38 Sauer 2003, 44. In a related matter, Conti writes of a damnatio memoriae of Julian’s name, but bases this on only 5 of 192 inscriptions, which Salway notes was likely retrospective disassociation, and Bowersock comments that the ‘wonder is that there were so few of them’. Conti nos. 28, 35; Bowersock 2006, 705; Salway 2012, 139. 39 Conti no. 167 = Arce no. 77 = ILS 752 = CIL VIII 4326, 18529.

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omn[i] ge= nere polle= nti virtu= tum, invicto principi, res= titutori li= be[r]t[at]is et Ro= [manae] re= ligion[is] a[c] tr[i]= [umfat]ori or= bis. To our lord Flavius Claudius Julianus, Pious and auspicious, born with every kind of virtue, invincible leader, restorer of liberty and Roman religion and conquerer of the world. The description of Julian as restitutori libertatis et Romanae religionis is distinctive and unique for him.40 While scholars debate whether Julian’s primary religious commitment was to polytheism, Neoplatonic monotheism, or Mithraism, the inscription simply praises his restoration of Roman religion. While the text does not mention Christianity, it should be understood in the context of the post-Constantinian era, which I suggest means interpreting Roman religion as opposed to Christianity, an implicit assertion that Christianity was not Roman. Julian identified what he was reacting against, and provided us the general framework of his response in his Or. 7, To the Cynic Heraclius. While Julian and his family had suffered at the hands of Constantius II, he identified the underlying problem as the apostasy of Constantine to Christianity, that his abandonment of the worship of Helios had brought divine enmity and dire consequences for the empire of which he was the representative.41 In what one author called Julian’s ‘government program, embedded in a narrative full of autobiographical references’, Julian revealed himself as the chosen instrument of his father Helios,

40 Although note also the similarly-themed acephalous AE 2008, 435, Beneventum: [ – -] | trib(unicia) potest(ate) II co(n)s(uli) II patri patriae | procons(uli) clementissimo | principi restitutori | publicae libertat(is) et Ro|manae dignitatis | C(aius) Egnatius Cer|tus Sattianus v(ir) [c(larissimus)] | iudicio numinis | paternis redditus | Laribus. 41 Julian, Or. 7.228d.

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selected to replace Constantius II as the gods’ steward of the empire.42 Specifically, Julian revealed his divine mission to rectify the problems caused by the Constantinian revolution by cleansing the empire of impiety, and cleansing his ancestral house.43 Julian stated his intent to make Constantine’s changes as shortlived as the ‘flowers of Adonis’, and he enacted this housecleaning in a number of ways, all of which can be supported by literary evidence.44 Julian’s goals can best be described as an attempt to roll back the Constantinian revolution, which included Julian’s countering of church construction with temple construction, his recrafting of pagan gods to parallel Christ in literary texts, and his portrayal of himself as a mimetic emperor along rather Eusebian lines.45 After two generations of state support, the future of Christianity was not secured, but certainly appeared to be in the ascendant, and yet evidently was still seen as an interloper by many.46 Regardless of the nature of Julian’s primary internal commitments, the emperor officially announced his restoration once he arrived in Constantinople. Once there, Himerius praised Julian in an oration for introducing foreign religion to Constantine’s city.47 Julian announced an era of religious toleration and encouraged the return of bishops exiled by Constantius II, which even his supporter Ammianus wrote was designed to set different sects of Christianity against one another.48 He banned Christians from teaching in the schools, which has been recognised as a tool for squeezing Christian students out of classical education, and therefore out of the upper strata of society.49

III. Restoring Sacrifice AE 1893, 87 = ILAlg 4674 = Conti 176 = Arce 84 Julian was praised for being the restitutori sacrorum, in the following inscription discovered in Thibilis, modern-day Announa, Algeria, although its current housing is unknown.50 A similar inscription exists praising the emperor Decius, who

42 Father Helios: Julian, Or. 7.229c, 232d, 233a; chosen instrument: Or. 7.232c; Rosen 2006, 57, ‘Regierungsprogramm . . . eingebettet in eine Erzählung voll autobiographischer Anspielungen’. 43 Julian, Or. 7.231d, 234c. 44 Julian, Or. 10.329d. 45 For Julian’s response to Constantine in terms of construction, see Greenwood 2013a; for Julian’s recrafting of deities and imperial mimesis, see Greenwood 2014, 140–149. 46 Neoplatonic monotheism: Wright 1896, 46; Mithraic monotheism: Athanassiadi 1981, 146; Polytheism: Smith 1995, xv, 113, 201–202. 47 Him, Or. 41.8. 48 Amm., 22.10.7, 25.4.20. As Constantius II had exiled some Nicene bishops and replaced them with non-Nicene bishops, the return of exiled bishops would arrange parallel ecclesiastical structures and exacerbate religious rivalries. 49 Bowersock 1978, 83; cf. Julian, Ep. 61.423a; C.Th. 13.3.5; Amm. 22.10.7; 25.4.20; Lib., Or. 18.157. 50 Conti 2004, 177, no. 176 = Arce 1986 no. 84 = AE 1893, 87 = ILAlg 4674.

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led an earlier Christian persecution. 51 The Greek parallel to restitutor sacrorum was used for a dedication of an altar to Julian by the consularis Macedoniae at Thessaloniki, where he was described as ἀνανεωτοῦ τῶν ἱερῶν.52 D(omino) n(ostro) Fl(avio) Cl(audio) Iuliano Pio Felici vic= tori ac trium= fatori sem= per Aug(usto), restituto= ri sacrorum; ordo splen= didissimus53 Thib(ilitanorum) p(osuit) d(edicavitque) To our lord Flavius Claudius Julianus, pious and auspicious, victor and conqueror, ever Augustus, restorer of the sacred rites; placed and dedicated by the ordo of Thibilis Strikingly, the other dedicated imperial statues in Thibilis of the emperors Constantius I, Galerius and Constantine, all come from the governor, while this appears to originate from the town council. This suggests to Conti a voluntary decision by majority vote of the local ordo decurionum, as opposed to a dedication ordered by high authorities.54 The fact that sacrifice needed restoring is historically significant, as for the first time, sacrifice had been banned by a Roman emperor. In 324, Constantine wrote to the provincials of Palestine that he had been chosen by God following persecutions of Christians to restore both the state and his religion.55 The outworking of this is seen in a law recorded in Eusebius’ Life of Constantine.56 The law itself does not survive in the Codex Theodosianus, but was referred to

51 restitutori sacrorum et libertatis, AE 1973, 235, a statue base from Cosa dated to A.D. 251, which referred to Decius’ ‘restoration’ of Roman religion following the reign of the philo-Christian Philip, ‘qui fait allusion à la politique de restauration religieuse menée par cet empereur et á sa victoire sur le ‘tyran’ Philippe, accusé à tort ou à raison de philo-christianisme’; cf. Babcock 1962, 147–158; Eus., HE 6.29.1. 52 Conti no. 54 = AE 1983, 895. 53 Misprinted as splendissimus in Conti 2004, 177, no. 176. 54 Conti 2004, 177, no. 176. 55 Eus., VC 2.28.1–29.1. For dating, see Cameron and Hall 1999, 16–18. 56 The VC is a work of apologetic, but careful critical use can be made of its historical content, for which see Barnes 1981; Cameron and Hall 1999.

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by Constans in his law of 341.57 In keeping with the Christian abhorrence of idol worship, the law ‘restricted the pollutions of idolatry’ (τὰ μυσαρά) and banned pagan sacrifice, though this last only began after the victory over Licinus and may not have been strictly or universally enforced.58 While Wilkinson’s research suggests that these laws were likely enforced in Constantinople, Bradbury notes that in general the language of these laws was more rigorous than their intent.59 Libanius wrote that all this was the primary motivation for Julian’s willingness to assume the role of Augustus: ‘their temples [of the gods] in ruins, their ritual banned, their altars overturned, their sacrifices suppressed, their priests sent packing, and their property divided between a crew of rascals’.60 Julian’s commitment to ritual sacrifice may have been costly, an expense that should also be viewed in light of the financial woes of paganism, as Bradbury has demonstrated the strong correlation between a decline in funding and the decline of blood sacrifice in the fourth century.61

IV. Restoring Temples AE 1969/70, 631 = AE 2000, 1503 = Conti 18 = Arce 125 ILS 9465 = Conti 1 = Arce 115 This inscription is a half-pedestal made of soft local limestone found in 1969 in the Jordan valley in the area of Panaeas, Caesarea Philippi, and is now in the Beit Ussishkin Museum.62 The inscription is 105 cm long, 50 cm high, with the letters ranging between 5–9 cm in height.63 It has been mutilated at the bottom.64 This text is paralleled by Conti no. 17 (Berytus) = AE 2000, 1500, which breaks off at eius vot – -], permitting restoration here. In addition, the parallel text at Berytus suggests that the provincial council of Syria-Phoenicia commissioned this text in multiple locations. The site of this inscription is significant as the home of the sanctuary of Pan, located at the edge of the Golan Heights at modern Banias. Archaeological evidence established its existence by 200 B.C.65 By Julian’s time, it had been integrated into the city of Caesarea Phillippi. Here at this busy cult site known as the ‘Panion’,66 the emperor was praised for restoring the temples. I

57 C.Th. 16.10.2. Barnes 1984, 69–72; Bradbury 1994, 120. 58 Eus., VC 2.45.1, tr. Cameron and Hall. cf. Barnes 1981, 210, 246; Barnes 2002, 189–207; Barnes 2011, 109–110. 59 Wilkinson 2009, 36–60; Wilkinson 2010, 179–194; Bradbury 1994, 135. 60 Lib., Or. 18. 22–23. 61 Bradbury 1995, 347–355. 62 Conti 2004, 71, no. 18 = Arce no. 125 = AE 1969/70, 631 = AE 2000, 1503; cf. Negev 1969, 170. 63 Negev 1969, 170. 64 Conti 2004, 71, no. 18. 65 Berlin 1999, 30. 66 Polybius, Histories 16.18.2, 28.1.3; Josephus, Ant. 15.10.3; JW 1.21.3; Eusebius, Eccl. Hist. 7.17.

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present the text as offered by Dietz, with a new construction of the final line that depends on an understood statuam dedit, ‘gave the statue’.67 R[o]mani orbis libera[to]= r[i], templorum [re]stauratori, cu= r[ia]rum et rei public= [ae] recreatori, bar= [ba]rorum extinctor[i], d(omino) n(ostro) Iouliano (!) perpetuo Augusto, Alamannico maximo, Francico maximo, Sarmatico maximo, [p]ontifici maximo, pa= tri patriae, Foenicum genus ob imperi[um]68 [eius votis omnibus]69 To the liberator of the Roman world, restorer of the temples, recreator of the curiae and the republic, annihilator of the barbarians, our lord Julian, ever Augustus, great victor over the Alamanni, the Franks, the Sarmatians,70 high priest, father of his country, The Phoenician race gave the statue on account of its good wishes for the empire.

67 My thanks to the anonymous BICS reviewer who suggested this solution, based on CIL 9.2115 = ILS 6611 (Clusium), which ends: universi laetantes . . . statuam votis omnibus obtulerunt. The ending of this text makes considerably more sense if we include an unstated statuam dedit, thus providing a direct object. 68 Dietz 2000, 807–853 and Eck 2000, 857–859, demonstrate this to be the correct reading, which is misprinted in Conti as gẹnus; cf. Bowersock 2006, 703. 69 Conti no. 18 has the last line as [eius vota – -]. Negev 1969, 170, has the last two lines as [soc]ius ob impet[rata] / [beneficia]. Bowersock 1978, 123–124, pointed out that socius cannot work as it does not represent the collegium as Negev hypothesized. Bowersock identified the dedicants as the κοινόν ‘provincial assembly’ and proposed [coe]tus. 70 The title of victor over the Sarmatians was one which Barnes 1993, 35 argues that Julian may have adopted from Constantius II’s venture of 337; cf. CIL 3.12483; Julian, Caesares 329cd; although Kienast 1996, 324 and Desau suggest it was simply adopted from Aurelian; cf. ILS 8945 (Serdica).

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The archaeologist Avraham Negev initially dated the inscription to summer 362.71 The possibility exists that the barbarorum extinctor refers to the forthcoming conflict with the Persians, described as barbaroi by Libanius, which would suggest a date in approximately early 363, meaning Julian was still being praised at that date for restoring the temples. However, remaining with Negev’s dating allows us to treat barbarorum as the other barbarians referred to in the inscription, namely the Alamanni, Franks, and Sarmatians, a more plausible solution. Like Constantine, Julian forced his opponents to pay for the construction of his religious edifices. Libanius confirmed that Julian built, restored, and refurbished temples, and that those who had plundered the temples had to restore them at their own expense.72 These restitution cases were overseen by priests.73 Although we must exercise caution when using the fifth-century historian Sozomen’s account, Julian apparently followed legal action up with enforcement, threatening to have Christians in Cappadocian Caesarea executed if pagan shrines there were not rebuilt promptly.74 For such actions, Libanius eulogised Julian as ‘he that restored the temples to the gods’.75 It is worth mentioning the account repeated by Sozomen that it was in this area that Julian ordered a statue of Christ removed and replaced with one of himself.76 Julian came to power desiring to be seen as the restorer of the empire, specifically both its cities and its religion.77 In January 362, Claudius Mamertinus praised Julian for restoring cities to life, matched by local praises in inscriptions as the ‘Repairer of the World’.78 Julian responded to Constantine’s plunder of the sacred contents of the temples with building works of his own.79 He issued an edict preserved in the Historia Acephala, a work recording events in the life of Bishop

71 Lib., Or. 15.3, 17; Or. 16.9; Negev 1969, 170–173; Bowersock 1978, 123–124; Conti 2004, 72, no. 18. As Greeks called Persians barbarians but Latins did not, it could also be referring to victories in the West, looking forward to the Persian campaign. 72 Lib., Or. 18.126; cf. Zonaras 13.12. 73 Lib., Ep. 724 Foerster=182b Bradbury. 74 Soz., HE 5.4–6; Cf. Penella 1993, 32. For a detailed treatment of all the cases of executions attributed to Julian see Brennecke 1988, 87–157. 75 Lib., Or. 30.41. 76 Soz., HE 5.21. 77 In mid-July 361, en route to confront Constantius, Julian delivered the Epistle to the Athenians, laying claim to the title Augustus and making numerous references to the gods and their support for him (Or. 5). While he was not yet openly anti-Christian, Julian entered Constantinople as sole ruler on 11 December 361, and in his satire Caesars, most probably written in that same month for the week-long feast of Saturnalia beginning 17 December, he ominously stated that Constantine’s changes would be as short-lived as the ‘flowers of Adonis’ (Or. 10.329d). 78 ‘It would take too long to list all the cities restored to life at the intervention of the emperor’. Panegyrici Latini XI (3) 9.4; CIL IX.417. The two inscriptions are in Aceruntia, Apuleia: Conti 2004, 126, no. 96 = CIL IX, 417 = Arce 1986, 103, 126, no. 32; and Spoletium: Conti 2004, 144, no. 124; CIL XI, 4781; ILS 739; Arce 1986, 133–134. 79 Julian, Or. 7.228b-d.

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Athanasius of Alexandria. It recorded that Julian issued a law which was subsequently published in Alexandria on 4 February 362, ‘commanding those things to be restored to the idols and temple attendants and the public account, which in former times had been taken away from them’.80 Julian demonstrated that this was a priority with a law that survived in the Codex Theodosianus, making temple construction the top priority of public works throughout the Empire.81 Ammianus confirmed these laws and seemed to place Julian’s movement in this direction early in his sole reign.82 At Deir el-Meshkuk, we find the only surviving material evidence of this development, a small second-century pagan temple that Julian restored and reconsecrated in early 362.83 The inscription reads, ἐπὶ κρατήσεως Φλ(αβίου) Κλ(αυδίου) Ἰουλιανοῦ ἀυτοκράτορος Αὐγούστου ἀνίθη τὰ ἱερὰ, καὶ ἀνοικοδο= μήθη καὶ ἀφιερώθη ὁ να= ὸς ἐν ἔτ(ει)σνς ̉ Δύς(τ)ρου ε ̉ Under the rule of the Emperor Fl[avius] Cl[audius] Julianus Augustus the rites were restored, and the temple was rebuilt and consecrated in the year 256, on the 5th of Dystrus [19 February 362].84 This inscription was found by the Princeton Archaeological Expedition of 1904–1905, led by Henry Butler. Amidst dramatic accounts of dodging Druse raiding parties, the expedition related that they came across an inscription at Deir el-Meshkuk, a pagan temple restored under Julian.85 Hard evidence for the restoration of these temples and Julian’s very public role in restoring the sacrifices is important, as the literary sources tell us that he resolutely promoted the ideal of restoration under his rule. Julian’s restoration of the temples was not merely the product of an antiquarian interest; he revealed himself a pragmatist, making use of them in a campaign that included announcing himself the high priest, receiving oracular prophecy, and restructuring paganism.86 According to Libanius, a witness for the Antioch period, Julian held audiences in pagan sanctuaries beside cult statues, intimidating Christians who noticed that he took note of those who did and did not follow him in offering public libations, that he held court in temple precincts, receiving councilors next to the statues, and that he induced 80 81 82 83 84 85 86

Historia Acephala 9, tr. NPNF, cf. Soz., HE 5.4–6. C.Th. 15.1.3, 29 June 362. Amm. 22.5.2. Deir el-Meshkuk is at latitude 32.20, longitude 36.40. Conti no. 1. = Arce no. 115 = ILS 9465; Butler, et al. 1910, 108–109, no. 186; Bowder 1978, 124. Butler, et al. 1910, 31. High priest: Julian, Ep. 89b 298c; Ep. 88 451b; prophecy: Julian, Ep. 88 451b; restructuring: Julian, Ep. 89b.

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soldiers to make temple offerings.87 In a similar combination of public and sacred space, Julian had built a pagan chapel in the palace, which can plausibly be seen as a response to Constantine’s having a cross erected in the Imperial quarters in Constantinople. This was alluded to publicly by Himerius in a public oration in 361, and described quite openly by Libanius after Julian’s death.88 Julian moved from overwriting to open aggression using his temples. In response to Constantine’s perceived effort to both desecrate temples and to construct churches, in his Misopogon Julian threatened to repeat church burnings in Emesa, and confirmed his active encouragement of church destruction.89 This was a public threat, as the work was posted in front of the Imperial palace in Antioch at the Tetrapylon of the Elephants in early 363.90

V. Blotting Out Previous Corruptions ILS 8946 = CIL 3.10648b = ILCV 11 = Conti 73 = Arce 96 One of the qualities linked to Julian by inscriptions was his characterisation as a man of destiny. On an inscription on a reused milestone in Mursa in the province of Pannonia (modern-day Osijek, Croatia), Julian was lauded as being ‘born for the good of the republic . . . on account of the blotting out of the corruptions of former times’: Bono r(ei) p(ublicae) nato d(omino) [n(ostro)] Fl(auio) Cl(audio) Iuliano [princip]= um (?) max(imo) triumf(atori) semp(er) Aug[usto], ob deleta vitia temporum preteri= torum91 To our Lord, born for the good of the republic, Flavius Claudius Julianus, leader, greatest, triumphant, ever Augustus, on account of the blotting out of the corruptions of former times.

87 88 89 90

Libations: Lib., Or. 18.121; statues: Lib., Or. 18.161–163; offerings: Lib., Or. 18.167–168. Himerius, Or. 41.8; Lib., Or. 18.126; Ep. 724; cf. Zonaras 13.12. Julian, Or. 12.357c, 361a. John Malalas, Chron. 328. 3–4. Most modern scholars dismiss the value of the sixth-century chronicler Malalas, but the exception to this might be valuable information specifically regarding Antioch, where Malalas was educated, and likely served in the office of the comes Orientis before moving to Constantinople. For his narrative of fourth-century events, Malalas used numerous written narratives, both Greek and Latin, as well as imperial laws, decrees, and letters. Jeffreys, et al. 1986, xxii–xxiii. 91 Conti no. 73; cf. CIL III, 10648b; ILS 8946; ILCV 11; Arce no. 96.

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Julian marched through Pannonia, stopping in Sirmium where he wrote letters to major cities decrying the injustice done to his family by Constantius.92 Conti suggests that the inscription was placed along Julian’s route to confront Constantius II by Aurelius Victor, as thanks for his promotion to consularis or provincial governor.93 This is quite possible, although no pattern elsewhere exists to support it, as Salway concludes: ‘there is no discernible correlation between Julian’s movements and the distribution of the surviving texts’.94 Significantly, Julian himself stated in both his public and private letters that he and his troops were making pagan sacrifice on their march, which suggests the possibility that the author of the inscription saw the restoration in light of Julian’s paganism.95 This would give us a date in the second half of 361. This of course does not have to have been done strictly for Julian’s benefit, as the geographic distribution of surviving inscriptions is in line with typical inscriptions in the Roman world.96 The corruptions referred to are likely not merely political corruption under Constantius II, but something more. Julian later wrote of the corruption and fall of Constantine in religious terms in both his Oration to the Cynic Heracleios (Or. 7.227c-230a), and his Caesars (Or. 10.336ab). From the first time Julian wrote of the murder of his family, he held that the ultimate responsibility was Constantine’s, and couched all of this in language of religion and apostasy. I believe that a religious supporter of Julian might well read such a theme into this inscription. The possibility of referring to a more ethical rule exists as well, although the ‘blotting out’ was played out in very material terms. This inscription demonstrates not only very open support for Julian, but goes further, identifying with his goals of revival and restoration. This unique public acknowledgement of the ‘corruptions of former times’ is rather remarkable, and indicative of not only support for Julian, but perhaps some broader resentment against the rule of the Christianizing emperors prior to him.

VI. Overwriting Milestones BCTH 1923 = Salama 1971 Massiéra 1934 = AE 1985, 952 = Conti 164 = Arce 53 Long before Julian’s day, Simonides claimed that only an idiot would think that an inscribed stele would guarantee an inscription’s immortality, and Julian’s supporters reinforced this statement with their actions towards Constantine’s milestones.97 While re-use of milestones is common, the replacing of Constantinian milestone

92 93 94 95 96 97

Amm., 21.10.6; cf. Lib., Or. 12.64. Conti no. 73. Salway 2012, 140. Julian, Ep. 8 415c; Or. 5.286d; contra Amm. 22.5.2. Salway 2012, 140. Page 1962, no. 581.

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inscriptions by enthusiastic locals or a governor reflecting the emperor’s perceived intent is suggestive of the concept of abolitio memoriae, with the radiate crown of Helios, from whom Constantine apostatised, replacing the chi-rho of Christ. The Constantinian chi-rho monogram on milestones was itself unusual, a trend confined to Mauretania Caesariensis and Sitifensis and which ceased in the 360s.98 Pierre Salama could find no explanation for the phenomenon.99 When in 1923 Albertini addressed the French Committee on Historical and Scientific Works on ten milestone inscriptions outside Cherchel (Iol-Caecarea), the capital of Mauretania Caesariensis, he commented that ‘it seems to me there is something exceptional in the Cherchel milestones’.100 Exceptional indeed, for this cluster of ten milestones just outside Caecarea on the road to ipasa and Icosium (Algers) displays evidence of a quasi-abolitio of Constantine’s sons. Albertini’s report on ten milestones with quadrangle bases and single columns showed that all but one side of the double-sided columns had been overwritten. The ten stones had a range of texts from Constantine, his co-emperors, and successors. The first milestone had a Constantinian inscription (designated 1A by Albertini), on the side facing away from the public.101 The inscription had been surmounted by a Chi-Rho monogram, and was still faintly visible under the Julianic inscription:102 p (Chi-Rho Monogram) Ddd(ominis) nnn(ostris) (tribus) Imppp(eratoribus) Fl(avio) Val(erio) Constantino p(io) f(elici) semp(er) Aug(usto) et F(lavio Cl(audio) Constan[tino] et Fl(avio) Iul(io) Consta= n[tio] To our three Lords the Emperors Flavius Valerius Constantinus pious, auspicious, ever Augustus,

98 99 100 101

Salama 2006, 1711–1736. Salama 2006, 1733. Albertini 1923, lxix. While one might expect that the text would face travellers coming from either direction, Albertini 1923, lxviii, is explicit: ‘L’inscription 1A seule a été épargnée, parce qu’elle se trouvait sur la face qui, depuis la mort de Constantin, n’était plus tournée vers le public’, ‘Inscription 1A was only spared because it was on the face which, since the death of Constantine, was no longer turned to the public’. 102 Albertini 1923, lxix; Massiéra 1934, 226 no. 13.

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and to Flavius Claudius Constantinus and to Flavius Julius Constantius. This inscription can be dated between 326 and 333 as neither Crispus nor Constans are mentioned. The inscription on the other side (designated as 1B), was judged by Albertini to be a text of Constantinus, Constantius II, and Constans of 337–340, hammered out and replaced by the Julianic inscription as follows, which was generally repeated on the other columns. D(omino) n(ostro) Imp(eratori) Fl(avio) Claudi= o Iuliano semp(er) Aug(usto). To our Lord Emperor Flavius Claudius Julianus, ever Augustus. While this inscription itself is religiously neutral, the focus of Albertini’s interest and the significance of the palimpsest inscription was the fact that it erased the chi-rho monogram of Constantine.103 Half a century later, these same milestones attracted the attention of another scholar, Pierre Salama, who noted an unusual motif at the top of the inscription, placed similarly to the Constantinian chi-rho. Salama realised that the unusual ornamental motif surmounting the milestones was in actuality a radiate crown. Rather than a decorative flourish, this symbol should be understood in context as representative of Julian’s devotion to Helios, whom he identified elsewhere as his father.104 As to those responsible, the evidence suggests a local initiative. Salama enthusiastically assessed this as evidence of a ‘massive operation of abolition and reuse of Constantinian inscriptions’.105 While evidence for such a massive operation may not have come to light, this same radiate crown motif exists on another milestone from Mediana in the province of Mauretania Sitifensis. Roughly a decade after Albertini, Paul Massiera published a supplemental inscription on another milestone found east of 103 Albertini 1923, 114; ‘Le monogramme constantinien, qui était en tête de l’inscription primitive, a été martelé’. 104 Julian, Or. 7.230a, 232d. In Caesars, Julian claimed it was Hermes who granted him knowledge of his father Mithras, whom Julian equated with Zeus and Helios (Or. 10.336c). 105 ‘operation massive d’abolition et de reutilisation d’inscriptions constantiniennes’, Salama 1971, 282; reprinted in Salama 2005, 191–200.

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Sitifis, which currently resides in the garden in front of the Bordj-Mediana roadhouse.106 Conti holds that the unusual decoration of the milestone should probably be considered a parallel to the similar emperor cult of the sun.107 This takes on added significance when we recall that from the perspective of Julian (who is frequently known to historians as Julian the Apostate), it was Constantine who had apostatised, and the abandoned god in question was none other than Sol Invictus or Helios.108 The sun god Helios was at the centre of Julian’s theology. In Julian’s Neoplatonic framework, the high god was at varying levels of reality: The Good, Zeus, and Helios, the god of our intelligible realm.109 Much as Constantine viewed the Christian God as his patron, Julian portrayed himself sharing the same kind of relationship with Helios, declaring himself not only Helios’ personal follower, but also his son.110 This allowed Julian’s supporters to exploit the existing symbolism of Sol Invictus, and to replace on milestones the Christian high God with the corresponding pagan high god. This is an appropriate place to mention the well-known collection of inscriptions associating Julian with εἷς θεός, ‘one God’.111 Although the language may appear suggestive, I agree with other recent commentators that these were not addressing Julian as the one God, but rather, reflecting back the frequently monotheistic language of Julian’s paganism.112 A similar pattern of milestone re-use exists in Tipasa (Mauretania Caesarea), again documented by Pierre Salama.113 In the east, there is also the recent discovery of Pierre-Louis Gatier, located south of the city of Gabala on the Antioch – Ptolemais road.114 The sandstone milestone bears an inscription of Constantine and his Caesars, with two lines hammered out and replaced with a text hailing Julian as ‘ever Augustus’.115 However, in the absence of further evidence for the pattern of overwriting with the radiate crown, this suggests local intervention by those acting in support of Julian, rather than at the emperor’s orders, which would likely have produced more such overwritings. In addition, the incompleteness of the overwriting does not suggest an imperially funded project. While Julian may have requested the action himself, in the absence of evidence, other parties

106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113

114 115

Massiéra 1934, 226 no. 13; cf. AE 1985, 952; Conti no. 164; Arce no. 53. Conti no. 164. Julian, Or. 7.228d. Dillon 1999, 103–115; Smith 2012, 229–237; Greenwood 2013b, 391–402. Julian, Or. 11.130b, 157a; 7.229 c-230a, 232d. AE 1998, 1445b = SEG 48 (1998) 1912 = Conti no. 3; CIL 3.14175 = Conti no. 8; AE 1895, 167 = CIL 3.14176 = Conti no. 5. Bowersock 2006, 703; Salway 2012, 143. AE 2002, 1710a-b; cf. Salama 2002; Salway 2012, 152 n. 5. The original inscription, dating from between 340 and 350, reads as follows following the chi-rho monogram: Dd(ominis) [nn(ostris)] | Cons[tantio | et Constanti proui]den[tissimis] sem[per] | A[ugust]|is [–––] | m(ilia) p(assuum) II, To which was added: Imp(eratori) Caes(ari) Fl(auio) Iul(iano) | semp(er) Aug(usto). AE 2006, 1570b-c; cf. Gatier 2004-2005 [2008], 151–153; Salway 2012, 152 n. 7. Fl(auio) Cl(audio) Iuliano | perp(e)t(uo) Aug(usto).

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have been considered. Although Albertini suggested Athenius, the governor of Mauretania Caesariensis, and supporter of the Donatist faction, his Donatist commitments would not explain the evidence uncovered later by Salama.116 In addition to the provincial governors, it is also possible that the local councils of the Colonia Caesariensis and the Colonia Sitifensis were trying to win favour from pro-Julianic governors.

Conclusion Constantine had established a pattern of invading pagan sacred space. He desecrated temples and plundered them of their sacred and valuable contents.117 He banned pagan sacrifice.118 At three sites, he ordered temples demolished and the desecrated earth removed.119 As part of his empire-wide church building programme, Constantine also built churches on the site of temples at Heliopolis, Mamre, Bethlehem, and Jerusalem.120 His sons increased the pressure against pagan cult beginning in 342 and culminating in 355 with Constantius II ordering temples closed and banning blood sacrifice.121 Julian responded in kind, overwriting Constantine’s work by closing churches and restoring temples, as noted previously, a pattern that is found repeated in other contemporary milieux extended to other material evidence.122 The epigraphic material evidence also provides examples of Julianic inscriptions and symbology replacing the Constantinian. In addition to moderating modern scholarship’s overcorrection for the bias of literary sources, this study demonstrates the value of the inscriptional evidence from Julian’s reign on several levels. First, the geographical distribution of inscriptions implies wider geographic support than has sometimes been acknowledged. The five inscriptions treated cover the Balkans, the Jordan Valley, and predominantly North Africa. Second, the inscriptions sometimes reflect local initiative. The evidence demonstrates that the Thibilis inscription was locally generated, and suggests that the Cherchel series of inscriptions were also. Third, the way in which people responded may suggest awareness of an official line regarding the recapitulatory overwriting of the past, although the individual inscriptions reflect varying emphases. In all, it appears that Julian cast the seeds of revival on more fertile ground than has sometimes been supposed.

116 117 118 119

Albertini 1934, lxix; Opt. 2.18; cf. Jones, et al. 1971, 121; Salama 1971, 279–286. Eus., VC 3.54.4–6, 57.4; Julian, Or. 7.228b-d. Eus., VC 2.45.1, cf. C.Th. 16.10.2. This has been denied, but seems clear in the ancient sources. Eus., VC 3.55–58; Lib., Or. 17.7, 30.38, 62.8. The three locations (Aphaca, Cilicia, and Heliopolis) each had unusual and specific circumstances. 120 Heliopolis: Eus., VC 3.58.3; Soz., HE 5.10; Mamre: Eus., VC 3.52; Bethlehem: Eus., VC 3.43.1; Jerusalem: Eus., VC 3.26. 121 C.Th. 16.10.4, 1 Dec 354. 122 Mayer and Allen 2012, 77; Julian had Constantine’s Great Church nailed shut and entry to it banned (Amm. 22.13.2; Theodoret 3.12.1). See also Greenwood 2013a, 289–296.

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Introduction The conflict between Christianity and Greco-Roman writers spans several centuries, and their surviving works allow us to trace the best thought from both sides.1 Within this field, I intend to trace the development of a particular argument over the miracles claimed for Christ over several centuries, focusing in particular on three figures: Celsus, Origen, and Julian. The argument relates to the efficacy and significance of Jesus’ miraculous works. I will draw upon two texts for this, Origen’s Contra Celsum, which contains the remnants of Celsus’ argument as well as Origen’s response, and Julian’s reception and use of this material in his Contra Galilaeos.2 It is Julian’s particular contribution that merits a new perspective. Although I have previously suggested that Julian was the cleverest of the anti-Christian polemicists, largely on the basis of his seventh Oration to the Cynic Heracleios, I have to acknowledge Julian’s new approach to the issue of miracles as a major mistake.3 This new perspective on Julian’s argument is itself a comment on the success of Origen’s argument.4 The discussion will focus upon the particular miracles that are addressed by all of our authors. These are the healing miracles of Christ found in the Gospels, such as mentioned in Matthew’s Gospel, which has Jesus instructing John’s disciples to go and tell him that ‘the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.’5

1 My thanks to the anonymous reviewer at Heythrop Journal, as well as my colleagues Alex Imrie and Cas Valachova for their valuable suggestions. 2 For the edition of the Contra Celsum, I have used Marcovich 2001, with a close eye to the edition of Borret 1967, and the translation of Chadwick 1980, which I have lightly modified at points. For the edition of Julian’s Contra Galilaeos, I have used Masaracchia 1990, and the translation is that of Wright 1923. 3 Greenwood 2014, 140–149. 4 Origen’s approach to this issue still forms a central part of the arguments utilised in modern scholarship, e.g. Wright 2003. 5 Matt 11:4–5 NRSV.

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This likely refers to the accounts in the Gospels of the healings on the sabbath of a lame man crippled for thirty-eight years, and a man who had been blind from birth.6 These in turn refer back to Isaiah’s Messianic prophecy: ‘Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; and the lame shall leap like a deer.’7 These miracles have significance because of what they may validate regarding Christ’s claims. In John’s Gospel, Jesus reminded the Jewish leaders in a confrontation in the Temple during the Feast of Dedication, ‘If I am not doing the works of my Father, then do not believe me. But if I do them, even though you do not believe me, believe the works, so that you may know and understand that the Father is in me, and I am in the Father.’8 I shall analyse the treatment by these three authors of Christ’s miracles, utilising the categories developed by Werner Kahl in 1994.9 Kahl distinguishes between a Petitioner of Numinous Power, who prays for a miracle, a Mediator of Numinous Power, who is the vehicle for such miraculous power, and a Bearer of Numinous Power, who is the source of that power, and able to work miracles themselves. Early Christian authors spanning the period from Celsus to Julian recognised the significance of Jesus’ miracles, and the amount of stress placed on them has been noted in modern scholarship.10 In the mid-second century, Justin Martyr held that Christ’s miracles were proof of divinity.11 In the late second century, Bishop Melito of Sardis wrote: ‘What was done by Christ after the baptism, and especially the signs, showed and proved to the world his godhead hidden in flesh.’12 In the early fourth century, Athanasius, the bishop of Alexandria, wrote that ‘by his works he revealed and made himself known to be the Son of God and the Word of the Father, leader and King of the Universe.’13 This suggests that the significance attached to these miracles maintained their importance in Christian apologetics throughout the period we are looking at. Certainly, these high stakes were recognised by the first pagan author to truly engage Christian thought, Celsus.

I. Celsus While little is known about Celsus as an individual, his Alethes Logos, which survives in its lengthy quotations in Origen’s Contra Celsum, represents the 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

13

John 5:2–9; 9.1–7. Isa 35:5–6 NRSV. John 10.37–38 NRSV. Kahl 1994, 76. These categories have also been utilised to clarify discussion in Eve 2002, 15; and for a general audience, cf. Bowman and Komoszewski 2007. Wallis 1972, 104. Justin Martyr, Dialogue with Trypho 7.3, 35.8. Τὰ γὰρ μετὰ τὸ βάπτισμα ὑπὸ Χριστοῦ πραχθέντα, καὶ μάλιστα τὰ σημεῖα, τὴν αὐτοῦ κεκρυμμένην ἐν σαρκὶ θεότητα ἐδήλουν, Melito, fr. 6.1.6–8, tr. Hall 1979. Although it is representative of Christian thought during this period either way, Melito fr. 6 is treated as genuine by Otto, Harnack, Bonner, Blank, Cantalamessa, and Grant, and as a later forgery by Nautin, Richard, and Hall. διὰ τῶν ἔργων ἐνέφαινε, καὶ ἐγνώριζεν ἑαυτὸν εἶναι τὸν Λόγον τοῦ Πατρός, τὸν τοῦ παντὸς ἡγεμόνα καὶ βασιλέα. Ath., De inc. 16.23–25, tr. Thomson.

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contemporary educated pagan argument against Christianity of the late second century, and indeed Andresen has argued that Celsus’ work was a response to the Christian apologist Justin Martyr.14 This has been noted as an indication that Christians had increased in social significance to the point that they merited a proper refutation.15 There is a broad consensus that the work dates to the reign of Marcus Aurelius (161–180), while the reference to persecution in C. Cels. 8.69 suggests a date in the late 170s, perhaps during the local persecution of Lyons in 177–178.16 Scholars have attempted to place Celsus in Alexandria, Rome, Caesarea, and most recently, Pergamum, although conclusive evidence remains elusive.17 Celsus’ level of familiarity with the Christian Scriptures, while not approaching that of Porphyry, has been highlighted by Wilken.18 Celsus began with the criticism of Christianity’s low social status, although he did not tie this to his case against miracles as Julian did.19 Celsus approached Christianity from a henotheistic perspective that allowed for worship of traditional subordinate gods synthesised from many cultures to be passed to the one high God, a view which could not tolerate exclusivist Christianity. He characterised the idea of incarnation as ‘disgraceful,’20 and following Plato, insisted that incarnating would cause the changeless God to participate in the ‘great pollution’ of our reality.21 Insisting that Jesus was born of an adulterous union between his mother Mary and a Roman soldier, Celsus rejected the virgin birth.22 He additionally dismissed the concept of Christ, the Christian λόγος, descending for sinners, as an omniscient, omnipotent God would simply correct sinners.23 Amongst all of Celsus’ rhetorical thrusts, I wish to focus upon his attempt to deflect claims of divine miracles for Christ by the assertion that he was merely a trickster. It is for this reason that Gallagher wrote that in the Alethes Logos, Celsus used magic as the foundation of his accusations.24 Celsus recognised that the claimed sign-miracles of Christ were key to his identification as Messiah and as God’s Son, writing that the Christians ‘regarded him as Son of God for this reason, because

14 Andresen 1955, 308; cf. Chadwick 1980, v; Wilken, 1984, 101. 15 Dillon 1977, 401. 16 Crouzel, 48; Hoffmann 1987, 29. Daniélou 1955 dates it at A.D. 180; While this was a local persecution, Eusebius seems to treat other persecutions contemporaneously (Hist. Eccl. 5.1.3). See discussion in Chadwick, xxvi-xxviii. 17 Goranson 2007, 366–368. 18 Wilken 1984, 95, 101. 19 Daniélou 1955, 100–101; cf. Smith 1978, 58. 20 αἴσχιστος, C. Cels. 4.2.11. 21 μίασμα τοσοῦτος, C. Cels. 6.73.20–21. Here following the thinking of Plato, who taught that the Good or the One was beyond being. Rep. 6.509b = C. Cels. 6.64.22; cf. 4.14.9–12; 6.64.13, 22; 6.73.17–21; cf. Chadwick 1980, 379. 22 C. Cels. 1.32.20. 23 C. Cels. 4.3, 8.28. 24 Gallagher 1982, 43.

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he healed the lame and the blind.’25 Celsus responded by associating the claimed miracles of Christ with magical trickery, describing them as ‘the actions of one hated by God and of a wicked sorcerer.’26 The word Celsus used to describe Christ, γόης or ‘sorcerer,’ has negative connotations, with a range of meanings that does not include ‘divine miracle-worker,’ but does include ‘wizard,’ ‘juggler,’ ‘swindler,’ and best of all, ‘cheat.’27 Its cognate γοητεία completes the package with equally reputablesounding terms like ‘spell,’ ‘charm,’ and ‘witchcraft.’28 This is supported by Celsus’ assertion that ‘Jesus told great lies.’29 The clear implication in Celsus’ approach is that the miracles were not genuine, but shabby sleight-of-hand tricks. Robert Wilken has pointed out that Celsus’ historical criticism came second to arguing that Jesus’ miracles were proof of sorcery.30 Celsus wrote that ‘it was by magic that he was able to do the miracles which he appeared to have done.’31 This stresses not only magic, but the mere appearance of completed miracles. Later, Celsus attempted to diffuse the power of the claimed miracles by recasting them as derived from foreign witchcraft: ‘He was brought up in secret and hired himself out as a workman in Egypt, and after having tried his hand at certain magical powers he returned from there, and on account of those powers gave himself the title of God.’32 In addition to the recognition that Christ claimed for himself the status of deity, Celsus stressed the trickery of Jesus’ powers. In Celsus’ attribution of the feeding of the five thousand to magical tricks, he compared ‘the works of sorcerers who profess to do wonderful miracles [. . .] displaying expensive banquets and dining-tables and cakes and dishes which are non-existent, and who make things move as though they were alive although they are not really so, but only appear as such in the imagination.’33 This emphasis on displays of non-existent things, things which only appear real in perception, demonstrates the intent in Celsus’ portrayal of Christ’s miracles as γοητεία, to show their illusory and fraudulent nature. Celsus outright rejected the miracle of Christ’s resurrection, dismissing it as mere sorcery. He wrote: ‘But who saw this? A hysterical female, as you say, and perhaps some other one of those who were deluded by the same sorcery, who either dreamt in a certain state of mind and through wishful thinking had a hallucination 25 διὰ τοῦτ’ ἐνομίσαμεν αὐτὸν εἶναι υἱὸν θεοῦ, ἐπεὶ χωλοὺς καὶ τυφλοὺς ἐθεράπευσε, C. Cels. 2.48.13–14. 26 ταῦτα θεομισοῦς ἦν τινος καὶ μοχθηροῦ γόητος, C. Cels. 1.71.19–20. 27 Liddell and Scott, et al. 1995, 356, s.v.: γόης; Bauer, et al. 2001, 204, s.v. γόης; Balz and Schneider 1993, 257, s.v. γόης; Burkert 1962, 36–55. 28 Liddell and Scott, et al. 1995, 356, s.v.: γοητεία. 29 τὰ μεγάλα ψευσάμενον τὸν Ἰησοῦν, C. Cels. 2.7.13–14. 30 Wilken 1984, 109; cf. 98, 100–101; cf. Edwards 2005, 585. 31 γοητείᾳ δυνηθέντος ἃ ἔδοξε παράδοξα πεποιηκέναι, C. Cels. 1.6.21–22. 32 οὗτος διὰ πενίαν εἰς Αἴγυπτον μισθαρνήσας κἀκεῖ δυνάμεών τινων πειραθείς, ἐφ’ αἷς Αἰγύ πτιοι σεμνύνονται, ἐπανῆλθεν ἐν ταῖς δυνάμεσι μέγα φρονῶν, καὶ δι’ αὐτὰς θεὸν αὑτὸν ἀνηγόρευσε, C. Cels. 1.38.8–11; cf. 1.28. 33 τὰ ἔργα τῶν γοήτων, ὡς ὑπισχνουμένων θαυμασιώτερα . . . ἀνακαλούντων δεῖπνά τε πολυτελῆ καὶ τραπέζας καὶ πέμματα καὶ ὄψα τὰ οὐκ ὄντα δεικνύντων καὶ ὡς ζῷα κινούντων οὐκ ἀληθῶς ὄντα ζῷα ἀλλὰ μέχρι φαντασίας φαινόμενα τοιαῦτα, C. Cels. 1.68.3–9.

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due to some mistaken notion.’34 The pejorative use of sorcery is supported by the statement that his followers were ‘deluded’ by it. If this claim had found purchase, it would have reduced the potency of miraculous claims by Christianity, and perhaps more importantly, retorted that this culminating miracle was fraudulent. Celsus’ essential argument was that miraculous healings were attributed to Jesus in the gospels, but these apparent healings were done by trickery, and therefore he was not divine. Returning to Kahl’s scheme, Celsus would have placed Christ in the lowest category, that of a Petitioner of Numinous Power. However, following Origen’s response to Celsus’ assertion in the next century, Christians perceived that this potential damage was largely contained.35 Origen initially undertook the project to allay the concerns of his patron, but eventually warmed to his task and issued a thorough refutation in eight books.

II. Origen Celsus’ opponent and preserver Origen grew up in the midst of pagan-Christian conflict in Alexandria, famously losing his father during the persecution of Septimius Severus in A.D. 202.36 Given both a Christian and a Hellenic education, he grew in stature as a theologian and teacher, and was finally asked to respond to the arguments of Celsus in approximately A.D. 248, when he was living in Caesarea.37 He responded with erudite arguments, emphasising the reasonableness and historicity of the Christian faith. A major component of his case was the argument from prophecy, specifically that the prophets had predicted that ‘signs and wonders of a certain kind would be done by the prophesied one.’38 In his response, Origen addressed Celsus’ claims regarding the miracles of Christ, and in so doing, drew upon existing Christian literary tradition. Origen identified Celsus’ tactic, writing that ‘Many times already when Celsus has been unable to face the miracles which Jesus is recorded to have done he has misrepresented them as sorceries.’39 Origen responded, unsurprisingly, that Jesus’ miracles were genuine, and that Celsus was inconsistent in attacking Christ’s miracles ‘as 34 τίς τοῦτο εἶδε; Γυνὴ πάροιστρος, ὥς φατε, καὶ εἴ τις ἄλλος τῶν ἐκ τῆς αὐτῆς γοητείας, τοι κατά τινα διάθεσιν ὀνειρώξας καὶ κατὰ τὴν αὐτοῦ βούλησιν δόξῃ πεπλανημένῃ φαντασιωθείς, C. Cels. 2.55.22–25. 35 Mosetto 1986 has suggested that on the specific topic of Christ’s miracles, Celsus and Origen somewhat talk past one another with their different presuppositions. 36 Eus., Hist. eccl. 6.1. 37 Barnes 1981, 86; cf. Crouzel 1998, 48; Heine 2010, 220; Chadwick 1980, xiv–xv. Digeser 2012, 68–69, places this into context with the tensions with government and rival philosophical schools and suggests that the beginnings of the Decian persecution may have motivated Origen to write C. Cels. 38 σημεῖα καὶ τεράστια ἐσόμενα ὑπὸ τοῦ προφητευομένου τοιάδε, Origen, C. Cels. 3.2.6–7; cf. Origen, Comm. John 2.34. 39 Πολλάκις δ’ ὁ Κέλσος ἤδη μὴ δυνάμενος ἀντιβλέπειν αἷς ἀναγέγραπται πεποιηκέναι δυνάμεσιν ὁ Ἰησοῦς διαβάλλει αὐτὰς ὡς γοητείας· καὶ πολλάκις τῷ λόγῳ κατὰ τὸ δυνατὸν ἡμῖν ἀντείπομεν, C. Cels. 2.48.

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though they were done by magic and not by divine power.’40 It was disingenuous for Celsus to use the gospel accounts to claim this, when in those same accounts Jesus clearly instructed his followers not to dabble in magic. Origen asked, ‘is it plausible to suggest that they were magicians, when they risked their lives in great dangers for a teaching which forbids magic?’41 This element of the apostles risking their lives for the teaching of Jesus was crucial.42 Regarding the miracle of the resurrection, Origen delivered a simple but effective response. He began by laying the foundation of what was widely known: ‘Jesus was crucified before all the Jews and his body put to death in the sight of their people.’43 From there he moved on to the state of the apostles, who became changed men: ‘I think that the clear and certain proof is the argument from the behaviour of the disciples, who devoted themselves to a teaching which involved risking their lives. If they had invented the story that Jesus had risen from the dead, they would not have taught this with such spirit.’44 Origen is well known for allegorical interpretation, but with this argument, he focused very definitely on the physical and the historical, a critical approach which Mosetto holds was the first application of Hellenistic historiography to defend the historicity of the miracles claimed in the gospel accounts.45 Clearly, Origen treated Christ as one whom Kahl would categorise as a Bearer of Numinous Power. Gallagher frames the argument between Celsus and Origen as based on the distinction between a mere human and a candidate for divine status, in turn dependent upon whether the actions performed were beneficial and were enduring.46 In essence, Celsus used the issue of magic to argue the negative, while Origen answered in the affirmative.47 Boiled down, Origen’s argument was that the gospels recorded both Jesus’ healings and rejection of magic, and his disciples risked their lives to proclaim him as divine; therefore they told the truth regarding his miracles. Origen’s approach was held to have been authoritative by Christians of ensuing generations, as declared by the prolific author and bishop 40 ὡς ἀπὸ μαγείας καὶ οὐ θείᾳ δυνάμει γεγενημένας, C. Cels. 1.38.7–8. 41 τίνα ἔχει πιθανότητα τὸ μάγους τοσούτοις κινδύνοις ἑαυτοὺς παραβεβληκέναι διδασκαλίαν μαγείας ἀπαγορεύουσαν;, C. Cels. 1.38.20–23. 42 Kofsky 2000, 174: ‘Readiness to die for Christianity in every generation was decisive proof of the truth of the Christian faith.’ 43 Ἰησοῦ δὲ σταυρωθέντος ἐπὶ πάντων Ἰουδαίων καὶ καθαιρεθέντος αὐτοῦ τοῦ σώματος ἐν ὄψει τοῦ δήμου αὐτῶν, C. Cels. 2.56.6–7. 44 Σαφὲς δ’ οἶμαι καὶ ἐναργὲς εἶναι τὸ ἐκ τῶν μαθητῶν αὐτοῦ ἐπιχείρημα, ἐπικινδύνῳ ὡς πρὸς τὸν τῶν ἀνθρώπων βίον διδασκαλίᾳ ἑαυτοὺς ἐπιδεδωκότων, ἣν οὐκ ἂν πλασσόμενοι τὸ ἐγηγέρθαι τὸν Ἰησοῦν ἐκ νεκρῶν οὕτως εὐτόνως ἐδίδαξαν, C. Cels. 2.56.20–24. 45 Mosetto 1986, 108, writes: ‘al corrente della metodologia ormai collaudata nella storiografia ellenistica, per la prima volta nella storia del pensiero cristiano egli ne ha fatto uso sistematico per difendere la storicità dei miracoli evangelici.’ 46 Gallagher 1982, 63–64. 47 Although Kofsky 2000, 174–175, notes that Origen was shifting the emphasis somewhat towards ongoing miracles within the Christian community, as only three of the seven miracles he utilized in his argument were claimed for Christ himself

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Eusebius of Caesarea, who largely reiterated his argument, albeit with considerable elaboration. The church historian Eusebius did not add significant new elements to his argument in this area, but did provide a lengthy exposition of Origen’s position in his Demonstratio Evangelica, a work targeting Porphyry, which included an extended refutation of the association of Christ with sorcery.48 Eusebius wrote that Origen’s response to Celsus refuted all further contention on the same subjects.49 While surviving texts do not support Porphyry specifically addressing these miracles claimed for Christ, he did attempt to dismiss Christian miracles generally as magic, writing that, ‘by magical arts, they have wrought certain signs.’50 Eusebius defined the role of miracles by stating that like Moses, Christ’s miracles authenticated his claims.51 He opened his discussion of Christ’s miracles by reviewing, among others, a set of miracles which will by now be familiar: ‘how he drove demons out of men by his word of command, and how again he cured ungrudgingly those who were sick and labouring under all kinds of infirmity,’ and closed his review with Christ’s unique death and resurrection.52 Eusebius concluded that, having subjected these to critical inquiry, they were ‘proofs of his divinity.’53 After reviewing these cases, in the following chapter Eusebius analysed their significance, generally following Origen in this.54 He dismissed the allegation that Christ had absorbed secret teachings in Egypt, pointing out a distinct lack of subsequent magician-teachers like him in Egypt or elsewhere, recalling how those drawn to Christ’s teaching burned their magical books.55 Finally, he returned to the point Origen made in response to the suggestion that the disciples learned magic from Jesus and embellished their account of him, asking rhetorically why, if they knew the truth, they chose to share his fate.56 The exchange regarding the miracles of Christ had settled into a pattern on both sides. This comfortable groove was upset by the arrival of the emperor Julian, a man with a flair for synthesis, enhanced by his position and status as a former Christian. He did not hesitate to pick up the miracles gauntlet, but would employ a new approach, addressing Christ’s claimed miracles in combination with Celsus’ disdain for Christianity’s low social status.

48 Barnes 1981, 184. 49 Eus., Reply to Hierocles 1.1 Jones. 50 magicis artibus operati sunt quaedam signa, Porphyry, Contra Christianos, frag. 4 Harnack, preserved in Hieron., Tract. de psalmo 81. 51 Eus., Dem. evang. 3.2.91d. 52 τοτὲ δὲ προστάγματι λόγου τοὺς ἐν ἀνθρώποις δαίμονας ἐλαύνων, καὶ ἄλλοτε πάλιν νοσηλευομένοις καὶ παντοίοις ἀσθενειῶν εἴδεσι καταπονουμένοις τὴν ἴασιν ἀφθόνως δωρούμενος, Eus., Dem. evan. 3.4.107d; 3.4.108cd. 53 θεότητος τὰ τεκμήρια, Eus., Dem. evang. 3.4.109a. 54 Ferrar 1920, xiv. 55 Eus., Dem. evang. 3.6.131ab; 3.6.128b, citing Acts 19:19. 56 Eus., Dem. evang. 3.5.111d.

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III. Julian The emperor Julian felt his life was shaped by the pagan-Christian conflict. He had survived the purge of his family upon his cousin Constantius II becoming Augustus following the death of his father and Julian’s uncle, Constantine I.57 As Julian grew older, he felt called to respond to Constantine and Constantius on behalf of paganism.58 After serving as Constantius’ Caesar, Julian was acclaimed as Augustus by his troops, which was followed by Constantius’fortuitous illness and death, which left the now openly pagan Julian as sole ruler. Despite the advantages his position afforded him, Julian’s context was very different from that of Celsus and even Porphyry. In the wake of the Council of Nicaea, Christian influence permeated society. Christian theology no doubt exerted pressure on the debate regarding Christ’s miracles. In his Contra Galilaeos, Julian directly critiqued Christian theology in the polemical vein of Celsus’ Alethes Logos and Porphyry’s Contra Christianos, winning praise from Wilken for his ‘inside knowledge of biblical interpretation and theological reasoning.’59 Julian wrote the work in Antioch during the long winter nights of 362–363.60 In it, he primarily focused on the criticism that Christianity was an illegitimate schism from Judaism,61 but also consistently rejected the claims of Christ’s pre-existence and incarnation, the latter of which he derided in a private correspondence as irrationabilis.62 It is widely recognised that Julian was familiar with the work of Celsus.63 Jean Bouffartigue has identified twenty-one places in the Contra Galilaeos where Julian followed Celsus’s arguments in his Alethes Logos.64 Yet in none of these places did Julian adopt Celsus’ argument regarding miracles. Julian never cited Origen directly, although he would have been familiar with the thrust of his approach, which was absorbed by Eusebius. We know for certain that Julian was familiar with one work of Eusebius, as in Julian’s Contra Galilaeos he cited Eusebius’ large work Praeparatio Evangelica. Indeed, the nature of Julian’s assessment of Eusebius implies a familiarity with the author and his overall work, as the young emperor, a rather harsh reviewer, titled him ‘the wretched Eusebius.’65 Bouffartigue has demonstrated that Julian made consistent use of Porphyry, as well the 57 The deaths of Julian’s father and siblings (but for Gallus) were almost certainly the responsibility of Constantius II: see Burgess 2008, 5–51; contra Rosen 2006, who credits military leaders with independent action. Julian, 5.270d; Lib., Or. 18.10; cf. Socr., 3.1; Sozom., 5.2.9; Amm. Marc. 25.3.23. 58 Julian, Or. 7.232c-234c; Ep. 111; Lib. Or. 18.19. 59 Wilken 1984, 191. 60 Lib., Or. 18.178. 61 Wilken 1984, 178. 62 Ep. 90; cf. C. Gal. 262d. Julian’s Ep. 90 to Photinus is extant only in a Latin copy, the original Greek was likely ἄλογος. 63 Wright 1923, 314, holds that ‘Julian’s arguments against the Christian doctrine do not greatly differ from those used in the second century by Celsus, and by Porphyry in the third.’ Similarly, Smith 1995, 191, criticizes Julian’s ‘readiness to repeat standard criticisms.’ 64 Bouffartigue 1992, 685–686. 65 C. Gal. 222a, Praep. evan. 11.5.5.

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extent of Julian’s ‘direct consultation’ of the Praeparatio Evangelica, showing that Julian followed Eusebius’s argument in his own Contra Galilaeos.66 Confirming this, David Hunt has drawn attention to Libanius’ association of Julian’s argument with that of Porphyry, specifically regarding the divinity of Christ.67 While Julian’s criticisms of Christianity are scattered throughout many of his works, his addressing of the issue of miracles is located in his fragmentary Contra Galilaeos. Julian preferred to take another angle from Celsus altogether, acknowledging the miracle, but combining it with dismissive social ridicule. Julian’s synthesis of various streams of thought had served him well in other areas, combining the direct polemic of Celsus and Porphyry with the supplanting approach of Sossianus Hierocles, which Julian attempted with pagan deities such as Heracles and Asclepius.68 While acknowledging the historicity of Christ’s σημεία or ‘sign-miracles,’ the emperor dismissed them as insignificant things done among a low class of people.69 Julian was aware of the importance of miracles, as shown when he crafted Heracles into a water-walking saviour of the world, although in that work he was not commenting on the reality or lack thereof of miracles, but borrowing a trope for his own purposes.70 The significance of sign-miracles was well established by Julian’s time, but where claims of magic had not struck a nerve, perhaps ridicule would. Julian did not rely on γόης as did Celsus. The only time he used this terminology in relation to Christianity was in critiquing the Apostle Paul.71 The core of Julian’s effort is found in his mocking presentation of both Christians and their Christ as low and unworthy. Julian highlighted what he considered to be the servile nature of the Jews during the time of Jesus: ‘Even Jesus, who was proclaimed among you, was one of Caesar’s subjects. And if you do not believe me I will prove it a little later, or rather let me simply assert it now. However, you admit that with his father and mother he registered his name in the governorship of Cyrenius.’72 In other words, no divinity would willingly allow itself to be the subject of the earthly emperor. Like Celsus, Julian also mocked the low origins of Jesus. He pointed out that the events had not been deemed worthy of mention in typical histories: ‘But if you can show me that one of these men is mentioned by the well-known writers of that time, these events happened in the reign of Tiberius or Claudius, then you may consider that I speak falsely about all matters.’73 But in the process of Julian’s attacks regarding Jesus’ humble background, note that

66 67 68 69 70 71

Bouffartigue 1992, 385–386. Hunt 2012, 253. Greenwood 2014, 140–149. C. Gal. 191de. Julian, Or. 7.219c-220a. ἀλλὰ καὶ τὸν πάντας πανταχοῦ τοὺς πώποτε γόητας καὶ ἀπατεῶνας ὑπερβαλλόμενον Παῦλον, C. Gal. 100a. 72 καὶ ὁ παρ’ ὑμῖν κηρυττόμενος Ἰησοῦς εἷς ἦν τῶν Καίσαρος ὑπηκόων. εἰ δὲ ἀπιστεῖτε, μικρὸν ὕστερον ἀποδείξω· μᾶλλον δὲ ἤδη λεγέσθω. φατὲ μέντοι μετὰ τοῦ πατρὸς αὐτὸν ἀπογράψασθαι καὶ τῆς μητρὸς ἐπὶ Κυρηνίου, C. Gal. 213a, tr. Wright. 73 ὧν εἷς ἐὰν φανῇ τῶν τηνικαῦτα γνωριζομένων ἐπιμνησθεὶς, ἐπὶ Τιβερίου γὰρ ἤτοι Κλαυδίου ταῦτα ἐγίνετο, περὶ πάντων ὅτι ψεύδομαι νομίζετε, C. Gal. 206b, tr. Wright.

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he admitted that Jesus was a historical person: ταῦτα ἐγίνετο, ‘these events happened.’ He stated that Jesus lived only a little over three hundred years prior and was born one of Caesar’s subjects. Julian wrote that Jesus and his earthly parents registered for the census. He wrote, ‘Yet Jesus, who won over the least worthy of you, has been known by name for but little more than three hundred years: and during his lifetime he accomplished nothing worth hearing of.’74 The major stumble comes in his next clause, as he continued, ‘unless anyone thinks that to heal crooked and blind men and to exorcise those who were possessed by evil demons in the villages of Bethsaida and Bethany can be classed as a mighty achievement.’75 Julian attempted to deride the humble circumstances of this Jesus the miracle-worker, but crucially, the emperor did not attribute them to sleight-of-hand trickery or magic. He rather acknowledged that the miracles happened. Celsus’ approach and Origen’s decisive response had left no room for that in the debate. Julian resorted to mockery instead, but his statement was a tacit admission that the gospels recorded historical data about the healings and the exorcisms. Fair enough, but which miracles were they? The healing of the ‘crooked man’ appears to be the miraculous healing of the crippled man in the Gospel of St. John.76 The healing of the blind man is also found in St. John’s Gospel.77 The exorcism of the demon-possessed men in Bethsaida and Bethany are also accounts found in the Gospels.78 These are the same events which were at stake in Celsus’ time. Julian altered Celsus’ approach and articulated the argument that Jesus committed the miraculous healings attributed to him in the gospels, but did so in a shamefully low context; therefore his claim to divinity should be dismissed. Yet these miracles that Julian accepted inadvertently conceded that Jesus was far more than just a gifted human being, and placed him into Kahl’s category of a Bearer of Numinous Power. While Julian’s capable efforts at synthesis had served him well elsewhere, he apparently overlooked the significance of doing so with this text, which allowed an inadvertent and damaging admission.

Conclusion This mistake on Julian’s part was never exploited by Christian writers due to Julian’s sudden demise shortly thereafter in his invasion of Persia. His death was so unexpected and abrupt that it was portrayed by relieved Christians as a sign of God’s judgment, which effectively closed the debate. As concerned as Christians seemed to have been by Julian and his rapidly expanding engagement with 74 ὁ δὲ Ἰησοῦς ἀναπείσας τὸ χείριστον τῶν παρ’ ὑμῖν, ὀλίγους πρὸς τοῖς τριακοςίοις ἐνιαυτοῖς ὀνομάζεται, ἐργασάμενος παρ’ ὃν ἔζη χρόνον οὐδὲν ἀκοῆς ἄξιον, C. Gal. 191de, tr. Wright. 75 εἰ μή τις οἴεται τοὺς κυλλοὺς καὶ τυφλοὺς ἰάσασθαι καὶ δαιμονῶντας ἐφορκίζειν ἐν Βηθσαιδᾷ καὶ ἐν Βηθανίᾳ ταῖς κώμαις τῶν μεγίστων ἔργων εἶναι, C. Gal. 191e, tr. Wright. 76 John 5:1–9. 77 John 9:1–8. 78 Mark 8:22–26 records the healing in Bethsaida, although the reference to a demon possession in Bethany is either a conflation of the raising of Lazarus, or more likely simply an error on Julian’s part as he wrote from memory.

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Christianity, they apparently no longer perceived a need to address secondary points in Julian’s argument, which is suggested by the fact that no contemporary felt it necessary to rebut specifically Julian’s Contra Galilaeos; in fact, the first we have any evidence for came only in the fifth century from Cyril of Alexandria, writing roughly eighty years after Julian’s death.79 This tactic of Julian would have played right into the hands of his Christian opponents by granting that the very miracles on which they placed so much weight upon actually happened. Julian’s stumble was not insignificant, but overshadowed by his death, leaving his contemporary opponents content to focus less on the arguments he advanced than on his overall hostility to the church.80 Julian’s attempted riposte did not cause the end of the period of great intellectual conflict between paganism and Christianity, but it was the closing contribution of any significance from paganism. While Christianity was not the mandated religion until Theodosius, and Augustine still had yet to compose his De Civitate Dei contra Paganos, paganism had unexpectedly lost its champion and with him its momentum. It was the last gasp in another way, demonstrating the corner into which Origen’s argument had pushed his opponents, as well as the pervasiveness of Christian theology in contemporary society. I have attempted to clearly demarcate the approaches of Celsus and Julian to the miracles of Christ, specifically the healing miracles from John’s Gospel. Following the collapse of Celsus’ argument regarding miracles, Julian seized upon a new approach, one which he fumbled badly by inadvertently admitting Jesus into the category of the divine. In a sense this is an argument about an emperor’s mistake, but even more so about the success of an Alexandrian theologian.

Bibliography Andresen, Carl. 1955. Logos und Nomos: Die Polemik des Kelsos wider das Christentum. Berlin. Athanassiadi-Fowden, Polymnia. 1981. Julian and Hellenism: An Intellectual Biography. Oxford, reprinted as Athanassiadi, Polymnia. 1992. Julian and Hellenism. London. Balz, Horst, and Gerhard Schneider, eds. 1993. Exegetical Dictionary of the New Testament. Grand Rapids. Barnes, Timothy D. 1981. Constantine and Eusebius. Cambridge, MA. Bauer, Walter, William Arndt, and F. Wilbur Gingrich, eds. 2001. A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature. Chicago. Borret, Marcel, ed. 1967. Origène: Contre Celse, tom. 1. Paris. Bouffartigue, Jean. 1992. L’Empereur Julien et la culture de son temps. Paris. Bowman, Robert, and J. Ed Komoszewski. 2007. Putting Jesus in His Place: The Case for the Deity of Christ. Grand Rapids.

79 Wilken 1984, 177. In his Contra Julianum, Cyril held it irrefutable – until his effort, of course: PG 76.508c; cf. Athanassiadi-Fowden 1981, 161; Smith 1995, 191. 80 In the several decades after Julian’s death, he was pilloried by Christian writers. Shortly after Julian’s death, his former fellow student Gregory Nazianzen (Or. 4.96) attacked Julian’s plan to deprive Christians of all rights of speech and assembly, while in 377–378, Chrysostom (Babylas 119) wrote that during Julian’s time in Antioch, he ‘prepared for war against the churches.’

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Burgess, Richard. 2008. ‘The Summer of Blood: The “Great Massacre” of 337 and the Promotion of the Sons of Constantine,’ Dumbarton Oaks Papers 62, 5–51. Burkert, W. 1962. ‘ΓΟΗΣ. Zum griechischen ‘Schamanismus’,’ Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 105, 36–55. Chadwick, Henry, trans. 1980. Origen: Contra Celsum. Cambridge. Crouzel, Henri. 1998. Origen, trans. A. S. Worrall. Edinburgh. Daniélou, Jean. 1955. Origen, trans. Walter Mitchell. London and New York. Digeser, Elizabeth DePalma. 2012. A Threat to Public Piety: Christian, Platonists and the Great Persecution. Ithaca and London. Dillon, John. 1977. The Middle Platonists: A Study of Platonism 80 B. C. to A. D. 220. London. Edwards, Mark. 2005. ‘Christianity, A. D. 70–192,’ in The Cambridge Ancient History vol. XII: The Crisis of Empire, A. D. 193–337, eds. Alan K. Bowman, Peter Garnsey, and Averil Cameron. Cambridge. Eve, Eric. 2002. The Jewish Context of Jesus’ Miracles. Sheffield. Ferrar, William J. 1920. The Proof of the Gospel Being the Demonstratio Evangelica of Eusebius of Caesarea, vol. 1. London. Gallagher, Eugene V. 1982. Divine Man or Magician? Celsus and Origen on Jesus. SBL Dissertation Series 64. Chico. Goranson, Stephen. 2007. ‘Celsus of Pergamum: Locating a Critic of Early Christianity,’363–369 in The Archaeology of Difference: Gender, Ethnicity, Class and the “Other” in Antiquity: Studies in Honor of Eric M. Myers, eds. D. R. Edwards and C. T. McCullough. Boston. Greenwood, David Neal. 2014. ‘Crafting Divine personae in Julian’s Or. 7,’ Classical Philology 109, 140–149. Hall, Stuart, ed. and trans. 1979. Melito of Sardis, On Pascha and Fragments. Oxford. Heine, Ronald. 2010. Origen: Scholarship in the Service of the Church. Oxford. Hoffmann, R. Joseph, trans. 1987. Celsus: On the True Doctrine. Oxford. Hunt, E. David. 2012. ‘The Christian Context of Julian’s Against the Galileans,’ 251–261 in Emperor and Author: The Writings of Julian the Apostate, eds. Nicholas Baker-Brian and Shaun Tougher. Cardiff. Kahl, Werner. 1994. New Testament Miracle Stories in their Religious-Historical Setting: A Religionsgeschichtliche Comparison from a Structural Perspective. Gottingen. Kofsky, Aryeh. 2000. Eusebius of Caesarea Against Paganism. Leiden. Liddell, Henry, Robert Scott, Henry Jones, and Roderick McKenzie, eds. 1995. A GreekEnglish Lexicon, 9th Edition, with a Revised Supplement. New York. Marcovich, Miroslav, ed. 2001. Origenes Contra Celsum: Libri VIII. Leiden. Masaracchia, Emanuela, ed. 1990. Giuliano Imperatore, Contra Galilaeos. Rome. Mosetto, Francesco. 1986. I miracoli evangelici nel dibattito tra Celso e Origene. Rome. Rosen, Klaus. 2006. Julian. Kaiser, Gott und Christenhasser. Stuttgart. Smith, Morton. 1978. Jesus the Magician. London. Smith, Rowland. 1995. Julian’s Gods: Religion and Philosophy in the Thought and Action of Julian the Apostate. London. Wallis, Richard T. 1972. Neoplatonism. London. Wilken, Robert. 1984. The Christians as the Romans Saw Them. New Haven. Wright, Nicholas T. 2003. The Resurrection of the Son of God. London. Wright, Wilmer Cave, ed. and trans. 1923. The Works of the Emperor Julian, vol. 3. London and Cambridge, MA.

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Introduction Translation is a subjective process, and one therefore especially exposed to criticism. I am incurably wary of those who carp about ‘wrong translations’, when what they really mean is that it was not translated the way that they would have done it. Such disputes usually boil down to preferences for formal or dynamic equivalence, but the fault is much clearer when it comes to modern scholars obtruding their own thoughts and meanings onto translations without textual warrant. Translators, no less than historians, are responsible for working with the evidence they have, and not imposing upon it. The Loeb Classical Library series has made the riches of classical literature available to those without (or with limited) Greek and Latin for over a century. Faulty translation is a particular danger for such readers, who may be led astray by the reassuring presence of both the Greek text and the English translation when they cannot properly evaluate their relationship to one another. There are inherent difficulties in translating the similar language in use across the civilised world in late antiquity, and non-Christian authors writing to engage Christian thought can present particular challenges, as they did not always use Christian terminology consistently. Hägg and Rousseau touch on this when they refer to the ‘cultural translation taking place in late antiquity, filling established forms with novel meaning’.1 To be clear, what I refer to in this note as embellishments or additions are added English words that are not found anywhere in the underlying Greek or Latin text. The translations I have in view are of two fourth-century authors, primarily read for their historical value, but also for their literary skill and humour: the Emperor Julian and the rhetor Libanius of Antioch, whose English translators have, no doubt unwittingly, inserted that Christian terminology. The Emperor Julian came to sole rule in A.D.

1 Hägg and Rousseau 2000, 13.

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361, and embarked upon a campaign to reinvigorate paganism. In this campaign, he not only satirised Christianity’s first emperor, his uncle, in his tenth oration, Caesares, but also employed a number of deliberate engagements of Christian theology.2 All of these interactions provide ample opportunity for confusion of terminology. I am concerned with additions occurring in English translations of two of his works. While residing in Antioch, Julian wrote the Hymn to King Helios (Or. 11) for the festival of Sol Invictus on 25 December 362. This was a competent and fairly typical exposition of Neoplatonism, intended to showcase the monotheistic or henotheistic paganism he was supporting.3 Julian cited an oracle of Apollo from Macrobius, Saturnalia 1.18.18, which originally referred to Zeus, Hades, and Dionysius, and altered it to claim a special relationship for Helios and Zeus. ‘For this god declares: ‘One Zeus, One Hades, One Helios that is Serapis’. Let us understand then, a common, or rather a single lordship of Helios and Zeus among the intellectual gods’ (φησὶ γὰρ ὁ θεὸς οὗτος Εἷς Ζεύς, εἷς Ἀίδης, εἷς Ἥλιός ἐστι Σάραπις: κοινὴν ὑπολάβωμεν, μᾶλλον δὲ μίαν Ἡλίου καὶ Διὸς ἐν τοῖς νοεροῖς θεοῖς δυναστείαν, Or. 11 135d – 136a).4 The standard English translation in the Loeb series is by Wilmer Cave France Wright (1868–1951), who served at Bryn Mawr College, and amidst her historical works found time to translate Julian, Eunapius, and Philostratus. Wright introduced this oration with the statement that Julian’s ‘aim was to provide the Hellenic counterpart of the positive revealed religion of Christianity’.5 Her translation, long standard in English, has likely influenced modern interpretation when it describes: ‘Zeus, Hades, and Helios Serapis, three gods in one godhead!’ (I, 369). This profoundly misleads readers by suggesting that textual parallels to Christian theological writings exist in this passage. As I have argued elsewhere, this mistranslation is one of a series of fumbles that led to claims that Julian was attempting to replicate a ‘Pagan Trinity’.6 Between July 362 and March 363, Julian wrote to the excommunicated Christian bishop Photinus a letter composed in Greek, but which survives today in a translation by Facundus described as ‘curious and sometimes untranslatable Latin’ (Wright, III, 187). In it, Julian attempted to sow discord among the varying Christian factions in Antioch by goading Photinus and slandering Diodorus, one of the leading lights of the Nicene Christians in Antioch, and later Bishop of Tarsus. In the first portion of the letter, Julian cast his irritant Diodorus in an unflattering light. ‘Diodorus on the other hand, a magician of the Nazarene, by enhancing his irrationality with scintillations and trickery, was evidently a clever sophist of the rustic religion’ (Diodorus autem, Nazaraei magus, eius pigmentalibus manganis acuens irrationabilitatem, acutus

2 3 4 5 6

E.g. Greenwood 2014a, 593–598. For discussion of dating, see Dillon 1999, 103. The text of Or. 11 is that of Rochefort, in Bidez, et al. 1924–1964, and the translation is my own. Wright 1913–1923, vol. 1, 351. Greenwood 2013, 391–402.

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apparuit sophista religionis agrestis, Ep. 90).7 Unfortunately, Wright here translates ‘religionis agrestis’ as ‘that creed of the country-folk’, which suggests a concrete confession not reflected in the text (Wright, III, 189). ‘Creed’ would correspond to fides or doctrina, rather than religionis. Later in the same letter, Julian wrote scathingly of Diodorus’ education: ‘to such an extent being ignorant of the mysteries of the Hellenes, and pitiably drinking in complete, as they say, the error of his wretched and inexperienced theologians who were fishermen’ (usque adeo ignorans paganorum mysteria omnemque miserabiliter imbibens, ut aiunt, degenerum et imperitorum eius theologorum piscatorum errorem, Ep. 90).8 Wright here translates theologorum piscatorum as ‘creed- making fishermen’ (Wright, III, 189). Once again, ‘creed’ is nowhere found in the text. It is important to note here the distinction between the sense in which church creeds were referred to in the fourth century and how it is common today to use the English word ‘creed’ generally in categorisation, as in ‘people of any race, creed, or colour’. In the ancient context, a creed was a concrete and frequently politicised theological definition, hardly the same thing. Wright’s translation has proved influential, not least in this passage, which seems to have affected subsequent translations. Another layer of complexity is added in the 2004 translation of Julian’s Letter to Photinus by R. Joseph Hoffmann for the Center for Inquiry. Hoffmann has also authored translations of Celsus and Porphyry, although his translations have been criticised for, among other things, improving the arguments of ancient polemicists.9 In Ep. 90, Wright’s insertion of ‘creed’ is followed by Hoffmann in his expression ‘the creed of these bumpkins’.10 Later in the same letter comes confirmation that Hoffmann is borrowing from Wright when he adopts the unusual expression ‘creed-making fishermen’.11 Imported terminology also affects translations of Libanius of Antioch. Libanius wrote at a time when Christianity was very much in the ascendant, but he resolutely praised Julian in numerous works, holding him up as the ideal ruler. This might at first glance seem to align him with the emperor, cast by some as a romantic symbol of pagan resistance, but Libanius possessed a far different temperament. He did not overtly parallel Christian theological texts as much as reflect Julian’s own writings, but the phraseology could at points fairly be described as intertwined with Christianity. This is hardly surprising, given Libanius’ dependence on Julian.12 Cribiore writes of Libanius and his contemporary, the historian 7 The text of Ep. 90 is that of Bidez and Cumont 1922, and the translation is my own. ‘Nazarene’ is surely Facundus’ translation of Julian’s chosen epithet ‘Galilaean’. 8 Here, paganorum is surely Facundus’ translation of Julian’s consistent reference to his religion as Ἑλληνισμός. 9 E.g. the reviews of Trigg 1988, 354: ‘This is not a bona fide translation’; and Green 1998, 187: ‘What H. has done is in fact to take the disiecta membra from Origen and link them together with transitions and other rhetorical devices of his own, without telling the reader’. 10 Hoffmann 2004, 157. 11 Hoffmann 2004, 157. 12 For some individual examples see Wiemer 1995, 39; Greenwood 2014b, 144–145.

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Ammianus Marcellinus: ‘Neither . . . was deaf to the concert of voices of the fourth century; they had enough exposure to Neoplatonism and Christianity to be able to echo and adapt certain concepts that made sense to their pagan sensibilities’.13 Libanius’ translator in the Loeb series was Albert F. Norman (1913–2000) of the University of Hull, who, with Glanville Downey, also edited the works of Themistius. Theologically driven importations appear in Norman’s English translations of two of Libanius’ works, Or. 13 and Or. 18. Shortly after Julian’s entrance into Antioch on 18 July 362, during the festival of Adonis, he requested an oration from Libanius, who delivered An Address to Julian, or Προσφωνητικός (Or. 13), extolling the virtues of both Julian and his pagan restoration.14 Describing the emperor’s reaction to Christianity, Libanius wrote that ‘freed of the mist, you seized truth instead of ignorance, the legitimate instead of the bastardised, the ancient rulers instead of this pernicious gatecrasher’ (τῆς ἀχλύος ἀπαλλαγεὶς ἀλήθειαν μὲν ἀντέλαβες ἀγνοίας, τὸ δὲ γνήσιον τοῦ νόθου, τοὺς δὲ παλαιοὺς ἄρχοντας ἀντὶ τοῦ νεωστὶ κακῶς εἰσκωμάσαντος, Or. 13.12).15 Unfortunately, Norman translates the above with the addition of the unsupported phrase: ‘and his baneful rites’.16 This implies a connection to Eucharistic theology or liturgical service which is completely absent from the original Greek text. It might also imply a return to the slanders of an earlier time, in which it was suggested that Christian rites included acts such as incest and child sacrifice, an approach which would have been rather out of character for the moderate Libanius, fittingly described as a ‘grey pagan’.17 In A.D. 365, Libanius reviewed Julian’s life and his attempted restoration of paganism in his Funeral Oration over Julian (Or. 18). In his treatment of these events, Libanius portrayed Julian as the exemplar who showed the way to the salvation of individuals and the state. As part of this retrospective, he summarised Julian’s view of persecutions, writing: ‘false belief about the gods can not be cast out by cutting and burning’ (δόξαν δὲ περὶ θεῶν οὐκ ἀληθῆ τέμνων καὶ καίων οὐκ ἂν ἐκβάλοις, Or. 18.122). However, Norman translates δόξαν . . . περὶ θεῶν as ‘religious creed’.18 This reference to a creed is unfortunate, and, as with the example above from Wright’s translation of Julian, adds a dimension to the discussion of pagan-Christian conflict that is not in the original text. The additions of English words and phrases such as ‘creed’, ‘rites’, and ‘three-in-one godhead’ that have no basis in the underlying Greek and Latin texts may not be mischievous, but are definitely misleading.

13 14 15 16

Cribiore 2013, 220. Dating determined by Ammianus Marcellinus XXII.9.15. The text of Libanius is that of Foerster 1903–1927, and the translation is my own. ‘Released yourself from darkness and grasped truth instead of ignorance, the real instead of the false, our old gods instead of this recent intruder and his baneful rites’, Norman 1969, 9. 17 Cribiore 2013, 173. 18 ‘A false religious creed can never be eradicated by hacking and burning’, Norman 1969, 356.

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Conclusion In particular, students looking for relationships these authors may have with Christian creeds, liturgy, or Trinitarian theology may be led astray. These were most likely attempts to clarify by using language that seemed contextually appropriate to the translators, but that language possesses very definite meanings. It might be suggested that interdisciplinary academic backgrounds are appropriate for translators of such authors. University of Aberdeen

Bibliography Bidez, Joseph and Franz Cumont, eds. 1922. Iuliani epistulae leges poemata fragmenta varia. Paris. Bidez, Joseph, Gabriel Rochefort and Christian Lacombrade, eds. 1924–1964. L’empereur Julien: Œuvres completes, 4 vols. Paris. Cribiore, Raffaella. 2013. Libanius the Sophist: Rhetoric, Reality and Religion in the Fourth Century. Ithaca, NY. Dillon, John. 1999. ‘The Theology of Julian’s Hymn to King Helios’, Ítaca: Quaderns Catalans de Cultura Classica 14–15, 103–115. Foerster, Richard, ed. 1903–1927. Libanii Opera. Leipzig. Green, Roger. 1998. ‘Review of Hoffman 1987’, Classical Review 48, 187. Greenwood, David Neal. 2013. ‘A Cautionary Note on Julian’s Pagan Trinity’, Ancient Philosophy 33, 391–402. Greenwood, David Neal. 2014a. ‘A Pagan Emperor’s Appropriation of Matthew’s Gospel’, Expository Times 125, 593–598. Greenwood, David Neal. 2014b. ‘Crafting Divine personae in Julian’s Or. 7’, Classical Philology 109, 140–149. Hägg, Tomas and Philip Rousseau, eds. 2000. Greek Biography and Panegyric in Late Antiquity. Berkeley, CA. Hoffmann, R. Joseph, trans. 1987. Celsus: On the True Doctrine. Oxford. Hoffmann, R. Joseph, trans. 2004. Julian’s Against the Galileans. Amherst, MA. Norman, Albert F., ed. and trans. 1969. Libanius, Selected Works, vol. 1. Cambridge, MA. Seyfarth, Wolfgang, et al. 1978. Ammianus Marcellinus, Rerum Gestarum Libri qui Supersunt, vol. 2. Leipzig. Trigg, Joseph W. 1988. ‘Review of Hoffman 1987’, Church History 57, 354. Wiemer, Hans-Ulrich. 1995. Libanios und Julian: Studien zum Verhältnis von Rhetorik und Politik im vierten Jahrhundert n. Chr. Munich. Wright, Wilmer C. F., ed. and trans. 1913–1923. The Works of the Emperor Julian, vol. 3. Cambridge, MA.

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Introduction Although the Emperor Diocletian pushed through many administrative reforms, his most lasting legacy was arguably the brutal attack on Christianity known as the Great Persecution. While some writers such as Lactantius blamed the Caesar Galerius, the Emperor Constantine later wrote that it was Diocletian who was at fault.1 While state leaders were responsible for the decision to persecute the Christians, the intellectual underpinning for the campaign came from leading thinkers in the Greco-Roman world. It is not disputed that the regional governor of Bithynia, Sossianus Hierocles, provided significant written support for the persecution. However, scholars do debate the involvement of Porphyry of Tyre, the ‘militant philosopher and scholar’.2 Discussion has centered on the dating of Porphyry’s Against the Christians, which has been placed in the reign of either Aurelian (c. A.D. 270)3 or Diocletian (c. A.D. 300–305).4 In his recent study of Porphyry’s religious philosophy, Aaron Johnson takes a different approach to the problem and tries to resolve a historical dispute from a philosophical perspective. He argues that there was no connection between the old man of Tyre and Diocletian’s Great Persecution. Johnson registers his suspicions about such a connection in several places,5 but writes that in order to avoid obscuring his inquiry 1 Eus., Vit. Const. 2.51. 2 Den Boer 1974, 199. 3 Bidez 1913, 67–68; Crafer 1913, 363; Cameron 1967, 384; Croke 1984/1985, 14. Of course, as Aurelian was also seen as a persecutor, the early date alone would not necessarily absolve Porphyry from a role in persecution. 4 Wilken 1984, 134–137; Barnes 1994, 53–65. In Vit. Plot. 23, Porphyry wrote that he experienced communion with the God above all in his 67th year, which would suggest that he lived until at least A.D. 300. The only source to mention a date for Porphyry’s death is the Suda, which records that he lived to the time of Diocletian, who abdicated in A.D. 305. However, Barnes 1973, 432, has shown how little weight the Suda will bear in this case. 5 Johnson 2013, 21, 287. In Johnson 2011, 166–167, he is somewhat firmer, writing, ‘it is most difficult to imagine that Porphyry could criticize the laws of human rulers and call for a philosophical transcendence of those very laws (as he does in the letter to Marcella) while residing at the imperial

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into Porphyry’s religious identity, he will set the matter aside.6 Instead, he rather obliquely addresses the matter by focusing on the abstract, and argues that due to his philosophical values, Porphyry viewed the Roman Empire as an impediment to the philosophical life, which therefore kept him aloof from civic obligations.7 Johnson’s argument approaches the problem from a different and interesting angle that potentially offers the opportunity to sidestep the argument regarding date. Despite these potential advantages, I must argue against the likelihood of Johnson’s scenario. I first examine the strength of Johnson’s reasoning regarding Rome, civil religion, and political involvement, arguing in response that it does not support his conclusions. I then draw upon a range of evidence much wider than Johnson’s to show that at each point, primary source material from Plotinus and Porphyry supports a different conclusion.

I. Background Barnes 2011, 110 has recently described Porphyry’s Against the Christians as a work ‘which the philosopher appears to have composed c. 300 to provide an intellectual justification for the “Great Persecution”’.8 In contrast, Potter 2014, 320–321 holds that there is no evidence that Porphyry would have ever encouraged persecution. The dating of Against the Christians is critical to any possible connection to Diocletian’s Great Persecution. Although Eusebius’ statement regarding Porphyry and Sicily has usually been taken to indicate that Porphyry wrote Against the Christians in Sicily, which would place it in A.D. 270,9 Barnes 1994, 61 has argued that the Sicilian reference can also be seen as a put-down for the philosopher having settled in a backwater: ‘But why need one say this, when even Porphyry, who settled in our day in Sicily, issued treatises against us’ (τί δεῖ ταῦτα λέγειν ὅτε καὶ ὁ καθ᾽ ἡμᾶς ἐν Σικελία καταστὰς Πορφύριος συγγράμματα καθ᾽ ἡμῶν ἐνστησάμενος, Eus., Hist. eccl. vi 19.2, tr. Oulton).10 This is summarily dismissed by Magny 2014, 16, but Eusebius’ statement is backed by Augustine’s similar reference to ‘Porfyrius Siculus’ in Retractiones 2.25 [57]1). Recently, court in order to bolster anti-Christian legislation’, and concluding that connection between C. Chr. and the Great Persecution is ‘doubtful’. 6 In similar fashion, he writes in Johnson 2011, 166 that he will lay out his assumptions but forgo defending them, assumptions that include these and related philosophical issues. 7 Johnson 2013, 291–293. This argument, based largely on quotations from De abstinentia, takes a page from Smith 2011, 3, which advises on the matter of fragmentary evidence: ‘In many short passages and lengthy continuous presentation from well-preserved works like de abstinentia or the Letter to Marcella we can point to ideas and attitudes which throw considerable light on the way in which a philosopher in late antiquity could regard the religious practice of his environment’. 8 Cf. Berchman 2005, 43: ‘A paper war was part of these persecutions. Porphyry’s Against the Christians likely appeared between 298 and 303 C.E.’. 9 Recently, Edwards 2007, 111–126 and Magny 2014, 17–20, have cautioned that Against the Christians might also be a compendium of anti-Christian discourses. 10 Summarily dismissed by Magny 2014, 16. Eusebius’ statement is backed by Augustine’s similar reference to ‘Porfyrius Siculus’ in Retractiones 2.25 [57]1).

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Edwards 2007, 111–126 has cautioned that Against the Christians might also be a compendium of anti-Christian discourses, a variant of the position of Beatrice 1992, 349, who argued that Against the Christians, among other works, was actually a component of Porphyry’s Philosophy from Oracles. In Porphyry’s letter to his wife Marcella, written in A.D. 300–303, he mentioned his embarking on a trip, drawn ‘by the need of the Greeks’ (καλούσης τῆς τῶν ἑλλήνων χρείας, Porphyry, Ep. Marc. 4).11 Chadwick 1959, 142 drew the possible connection to a conference at the emperor’s court in Nicomedia, to which he suggested Porphyry had been summoned to provide a justification for repressing Christianity.12 Lactantius, who was at the emperor’s court, wrote that two anti-Christian polemicists attended the conference, one being Sossianus Hierocles, and the other the Philaletheis Logoi or ‘high priest of philosophy’ (Lact., Div. Inst. v 2.12). While the identification of this second individual is unclear, Smith 2009, 34 notes that: ‘As a distinguished pagan intellectual with a wide interest in religious matters it would not be surprising if Porphyry’s advice had been sought on this occasion even if he is not to be identified with the “high priest of philosophy”’. Against the Christians indisputably brought notoriety to Porphyry, including official imperial proscriptions, beginning with Constantine in A.D. 325 (Socrates, Hist. eccl. i 9.30 Hussey = Porphyry 30 Smith; cf. Athanasius, De decretis Nicaenae synodi xxxix 1). This proscription was followed by the council of Ephesus in A.D. 431, Theodosius II in A.D. 448, and Justinian in A.D. 529. But why the proscription, if Porphyry simply disagreed with the Christians in a scholarly treatise? As Meredith 1980, 1136 notes of C. Chr., ‘when we look at the undoubtedly genuine fragments it is difficult to see why such a fear existed if they are indeed characteristic of the whole’. If merely opposing Christianity was enough to make the banned list, then why were the works of Celsus and Julian not banned? Celsus’ True Word had earned a lengthy refutation from no less than Origen of Alexandria in his massive Contra Celsum, while Julian’s Against the Galilaeans was heralded by Libanius as superior to the work of Porphyry, and savagely criticised by Gregory Nazianzen (Libanius, Or. xviii 178; Greg. Naz., Or. iv). I must confess that what seems to me the simplest explanation for this discrepancy is that the proscription of Porphyry’s work was due to the negative reputation gained by his participation in the Great Persecution, and that the later dating is more convincing.

II. Porphyry and Affinity for Rome Johnson argues that involvement in the Great Persecution would have required a certain affinity for Rome that Porphyry lacked. He first takes great pains to make clear that Porphyry was not inclined to carry water for the Roman State, highlighting as evidence three cases where the philosopher used Romans as negative 11 For dating, see Des Places 1982, 89. 12 Cf. Des Places 1982, 89; Digeser 1998, 129–146; Whittaker 2001, 150–168. This is challenged by Barnes 1973, 437–439.

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examples in his writings. As Porphyry held that the Romans were the only culture still performing human sacrifice, possibly referring to gladiatorial games, Johnson 2013, 289 writes that he would have placed them ‘near the bottom of his moraldietary hierarchy of national ways of life’ (Porphyry, Abst. ii 56.9).13 According to Porphyry, the Romans committed outrages against Jewish customs, likely a reference to the violation of the Temple in 63 B.C. (Porphyry, Abst. iv 11.1). Porphyry also praised the stoic resistance of the Essenes against the Romans (Porphyry, Abst. iv 13.7). Johnson 2013, 288–296 concludes that as Porphyry was not proRoman, he therefore would not have collaborated with the State. All of this is very interesting, but hardly conclusive. One does not have to be an apologist for the state to support its intervention in a matter of perceived significance. That point, would, I believe, stand on principle, but there is evidence to support it as well. Regarding the specifics of Porphyry’s aloofness towards Rome, consider how despite his positive description of Christ elsewhere, he went out of his way in On Philosophy from Oracles to write approvingly of Pilate, praising his condemnation of Christ that led to his crucifixion. Among those who view Phil. orac. as a discrete work, the consensus has shifted to a late date, with Simmons 2015, 32–34 arguing compellingly for a date of A.D. 302–303, and an association with the Great Persecution. In it, Porphyry sarcastically quoted an oracle of Apollo regarding a misguided Christian: ‘Let her continue as she pleases, persisting in her empty delusions, and lamenting in song as a god one who died for delusions, who was condemned by judges whose verdict was just, and executed publicly by the worst iron-bound death’ (Pergat quo modo vult inanibus fallaciis perseverans et lamentari fallaciis mortuum deum cantans quem iudicibus rectae sentientibus perditum pessima in speciosis ferro vincta mors interfecit, Porphyry, frag. 343F Smith, tr. Greene).14 Smith 2009, 44 recognises this as support for a main theme of Porphyry, who could accept the Hebrew God as equating to the First Principle, but rejected the divinity of Christ. This passage would also appear to be support from Porphyry the philosopher for the intervention of the Roman state in the religious matter of Christianity. In addition, recall Porphyry’s statement that he was compelled to travel ‘by the need of the Greeks’ (καλούσης τῆς τῶν ἑλλήνων χρείας, Porphyry, Ep. Marc. 4). This rationale, frequently linked to the Great Persecution, is not dependent upon Porphyry’s approval of or relationship to Rome, but rather the Greeks. Whatever the need was, it was obviously important, and as such might conceivably have overridden any distaste he had for the task.15 While this is not necessarily the Great Persecution, that scenario strikes me as probable, especially

13 For further discussion of the games and their relation to sacrifice, cf. Coleman 1990, 44–73. 14 Porphyry 343F Smith = Aug., De Civ. 19.23 = Porphyry frg. 4 Berchman; cf. Smith 2009, 44; Magny 2014, 121. This passage is also partially paralleled in Arn., Adv. Nat. 1.26.12–24; cf. Simmons 1995, 67. Cook 2011, 232–236, recognises the difficulties of transmission of Porphyry’s writings to Augustine, while still treating Ep. 102, for example, as Porphyrian. 15 Although Johnson 2011, 167, finds it ‘sufficiently vague as to mean almost anything’.

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given the case made by Whittaker 2001, 154–155 that Porphyry wrote Ep. Marc. for public circulation as part of his anti-Christian writing campaign.

III. Porphyry and Roman Civic Religion Porphyry did not view traditional religion as the highest reality or expression of divinity, but rather, a legitimate reflection of it. He held that civic religion was still necessary for the sake of society, a view similar to that of his predecessor Celsus, if more sophisticated. He tied the identity and health of the state to correct worship of the divine: ‘And how can men fail to be in every way impious and atheistical, who have apostatised from those ancestral gods by whom every nation and every state is sustained?’ (πῶς δ᾽ οὐ πανταχόθεν δυσσεβεῖς ἂν εἶεν καὶ ἄθεοι οἱ τῶν πατρῴων θεῶν ἀποστάντες δι᾽ ὧν πᾶν ἔθνος καὶ πᾶσα πόλις συνέστηκεν, Porphyry Nr. 1 Harnack, tr. Gifford).16 Although treated by Harnack 1916, Mras 1954, and Berchman 2005 as a literal fragment of Porphyry, since Sirinelli and Des Places 1974, 224–229, many have seen this as Eusebius’ summary of Porphyry’s argument, which may contain his words. Barnes 1994, 65 for example, is willing to accord it a high significance, describing it as ‘more important’ than a fragment itself, although the passage’s Porphyrian authorship has been challenged by Johnson 2010 and Morlet 2010. Morlet argues that the passage originated with Celsus in the second century, rather than Porphyry, but as DePalma Digeser 2012, 86, identifies the passage as an ‘almost verbatim’ response to Origen’s third-century De Principiis iv 1.1., I am comfortable with the original attribution to Porphyry. I think it best to cautiously treat the passage as Eusebius’ testimony to Porphyry, one that provides a framework for an understanding of religion and state as symbiotically linked. This framework would justify state involvement in matters of organised impiety.

IV. Plotinus and Political Affairs Johnson argues from Plotinus that Porphyry would have followed his mentor in rejecting worldly affairs such as politics and civic obligations, and therefore would not have collaborated with the State. One might ask why evidence for Porphyry’s view must be drawn from Plotinus. Presumably it is not based on the simple genealogy of their ideas, or Ammonius Sacca would also have been considered. I am not entirely sanguine about using Plotinus as a proxy for Porphyry’s thought, as the two held positions that were not identical. Smith 1974 and 1987, 757–758 has highlighted differences between certain philosophical positions taken by master and pupil, leaving one to consider why the issue of civic responsibility would be immune. Regardless of the relationship between the two philosophers, it suggests that the evidence for Porphyry’s rejection of political affairs is not very strong.

16 Porphyry Nr. 1 Harnack = Eusebius, Praep. Evang. i 2.1 = frg. 12 Berchman.

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However, for the sake of argument, let us consider the consistency of Plotinus’ stance on this issue. Johnson holds that Porphyry’s Life of Plotinus reveals a Plotinus resolutely set against involvement in political life. In support of this, he extols as the template for hearers of social position the former senator Rogatianus, whom Plotinus converted to the philosophical life (Porphyry, Vit. Plot. vii 45–47). He also hastens to point out that neither Plotinus nor Porphyry desired worldly power for themselves, asserting that Porphyry intended to hold himself aloof from civic obligation. As evidence, he cites numerous passages where the philosopher distanced himself from the concerns of the city. While the many could eat meat, the philosophically enlightened few would remain above doing so (Porphyry, Abst. i 27.1; ii 3.1–2; ii 36.6). Porphyry’s statement dismissing the value of the cities cited by Johnson is indeed thoroughly elitist (Porphyry, Abst. ii 43.2). More broadly, he expressed his view that philosophers were sojourners in this world, and not obligated to engage it or its concerns (Porphyry, Abst. i 30.2–4; i 33.5; iv 18.5). Finally, in his view, philosophers needed only to concern themselves with the law of nature, not that of the state (Porphyry, Ep. Marc. xxvii 420–423). Now, a philosopher does not have to be a power-seeker, or even an aspiring kingmaker in order to support a mutually advantageous state agenda. As O’Meara 1999, 278–291 reminds us Neoplatonists were not truly detached from politics. Van den Berg 2005, 104–112 concedes the connection between legislation and Neoplatonic philosophers pursuing justice, but associates this not with O’Meara’s philosopher-king, but rather with the demiurge sending intermediaries into the world. As an example, Plotinus taught elites, but did not restrict himself to philosophical elites. O’Meara 2003, 14–15 has detailed the makeup of some of Plotinus’ students, which included senators beyond Rogatianus, such as Marcellus Orrontius and Sabinillus (Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 7). Marcellus Orrontius we know only from Porphyry, who gave no indication that he abandoned the world (PLRE 1: 655). Sabinillus may well be the same who was consul in A.D. 266 with emperor Gallienus (PLRE 1: 791). State officials were also taught, including Zethus and Castricius Firmus. Zethus was an Arabian doctor with a high-flying political career, who bequeathed an estate to Plotinus at the end of his life (PLRE 1: 993; Vit. Plot. 2). The wealthy Roman Castricius Firmus, whom Bidez 1913, 98 suggested was the Nicaean mentioned in the Suda, was the dedicatee of Porphyry’s De Abstinentia, and possibly a senator (PLRE 1: 340–341). Unlike Rogatianus, these named examples did not, as far as we have evidence, discontinue their obligation to political life. A review of Plotinus’ philosophy in On Virtues may also shed some light. He distinguished between higher and lower virtues (also referred to as natural or political virtues), and argued that the philosophical man would be involved in civic responsibilities when conditions are right, but would live according to the higher virtues (Plotinus, On Virtues i 2.7). He continued on in On Dialectic to state that this self-controlled man living according to higher virtues would not be without the lower (Plotinus, Enneads i 3.6.16–19). One does not have to search 100

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too far afield for examples, as the wise Socrates served Athens practically, both in the military and on the council (Plato, Symp. 219e, 221a, Apol. 32b; Xenophon, Memor. iv 4.2). This evidence causes Smith 1999, 232 to conclude that for Plotinus, ‘the exercise of civic virtues does have a continuing role to play in the life of the good man, even though that role is subordinate to the higher life he now leads’.17 It is fair to say, then, that Plotinus’ view towards civic and political obligations is more complex than Johnson makes out. In fact, Plotinus offers cautious support for engagement with the world, evidenced by the lives of his disciples, his own attempt to work with the state, and tacitly supported by Porphyry in his approving description of those actions.

V. Porphyry and Political Affairs In light of this, consider Porphyry’s description of Plotinus’ cosiness with the Roman state when it suited his agenda: ‘The Emperor Gallienus and his wife Salonina greatly honoured and venerated Plotinus, who thought to turn their friendly feeling to some good purpose’(Ἐτίμησαν δὲ τὸν Πλωτῖνον μάλιστα καὶ ἐσεφθησαν Γαλιῆνός τε ὁ αυτοκράτωρ καὶ ᾑ τούτου γυνὴ Σαλωνίνα. Ὁ δὲ τῇ φιλίᾳ τῇ τούτων καταχρώμενος, Porphyry, Vit. Plot. xii, tr. McKenna). That purpose was the resettling of a city as Platonopolis, to be governed by the rules of Plato’s Laws. Digeser 2012, 84 corroborates this, noting that Plotinus used the language of Plato’s Laws approvingly to describe the Roman state in his Against the Gnostics (Enneads ii 9.9.9.19–27; Laws x 904). Plotinus’ intent may have typified idealised philosophical distance from the world, but the point is that Porphyry believed that his mentor was willing to use his material relationship to further a philosophical end, and did nothing to conceal that fact. In fact, Porphyry’s presentation may have been somewhat disingenuous, as several scholars have recently noted. Finamore 2005, 49–62 and Schroeder 1987, 518–520 have highlighted Porphyry’s apparent ulterior motives in authoring the Vit. Plot., and Edwards 1994, 137–147 has plausibly suggested that Porphyry may have concocted the story of Plotinus’ Platonopolis scheme for his own purposes. In addition, the dating by Henry 1938, 20 of Porphyry’s Life, written just prior to his own death and arguably three decades after that of his subject, may give us pause.

VI. Dating Concerns and Consistency of Thought Johnson’s case depends on assuming that Porphyry held the same views on this matter consistently throughout his life. Yet a review of the above evidence Johnson accumulates shows it to be built almost entirely on one work, de Abstinentia. This is problematic, as Smith 1987, 721, reminds us that one of the few fixable

17 Cf. Smith 2005, 65–72; and for an inheritor of the Plotinian tradition via Iamblichus, O’Meara 2005, 91–100.

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dates of Porphyry’s works is that of de Abstinentia, which he places in or shortly after A.D. 263. This is based on Porphyry’s likely meeting his dedicatee Castricius in Plotinus’ circle when he came to Rome in the tenth year of Gallienus’ reign, as meticulously dated by Barnes 1976, 65–70 (Vit. Plot. 4.1, 5.1). Even if we accept the earlier date for the writing of Against the Christians, using this one ascetic work to extrapolate Porphyry’s views is perhaps placing too many eggs in one basket, especially considering the reminder offered by Clark 1999, 6–7, the recent translator of de Abstinentia, that Porphyry ‘had a reputation for changing his mind or seeing both sides of the question’. If we accept the later dating for Against the Christians, this means that we must assume Porphyry’s views on Rome, civic religion, and the right of the state to persecute remained static for between three and four decades. This wide span of time explains the contradictory evidence found in other works of Porphyry, as his views on these topics may have shifted over the course of his life.

Conclusion Despite this disagreement, Johnson’s position on Porphyry and persecution is a very small part of a fine work on the philosopher. This appreciative volume seems part of a trend of renewed regard for Porphyry’s philosophical contributions in his own right, distinct from those of Plotinus, as also seen in Smith 2007, 7–16. Johnson’s approach to Porphyry and the issue of persecution is interesting, and if correct, might go some way towards redeeming the reputation of a philosopher with numerous valuable contributions. However, the balance of the evidence remains on the side of feet of clay. Ultimately, Johnson’s reasons do not necessarily support his claim, and the evidence he assembles is impeachable. His reasons, that Porphyry was not pro-Roman enough to collaborate with the state, and that Porphyry would have followed his mentor in rejecting politics, do not mandate his conclusion. Examining the evidence relevant to these points reveals Johnson to have been rather selective in his use of it to craft a tolerant Porphyry. Looking more fully at what Porphyry actually wrote regarding relationships with the state and support for Rome reveals evidence to the contrary at each point. Johnson’s attempt to break the dating deadlock fails, in my opinion, throwing us back on the positions occupied for the last several decades. Going further, revisiting this evidence convinces me more than ever that lending intellectual support to state intervention was exactly the kind of action one might expect of someone with Porphyry’s commitments.18

18 I am indebted to the anonymous reviewer at Ancient Philosophy, as well as Sue Willetts of the Institute of Classical Studies Library, for their assistance.

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in J. Baun, A. Cameron, M. Edwards and M. Vinzent edd. Studia Patristica vol. XLVI – Papers Presented at the Fourteenth International Conference on Patristic Studies held in Oxford 2007. Leuven: Peeters. Morlet, Sébastien. 2011a. ‘Comment le problème du Contra Christianos peut-il se poser aujourd’hui?’ 11–50 in Sébastien Morlet ed. Le traité de Porphyre contre les chrétiens. Un siècle de recherches, nouvelles questions. Actes du colloque international organisé les 8 et 9 septembre 2009 à l’Université de Paris IV-Sorbonne. Paris: Institut d’Études Augustiniennes. Morlet, Sébastien. 2011b. ‘Eusebius’ Polemic against Porphyry: A Reassessment’ 119–150 in S. Inowlocki and C. Zamagni edd. Reconsidering Eusebius: Collected Papers on Literary, Historical, and Theological Issues. Leiden and Boston. Mras, K. ed. 1954. ‘Eusebius’ in Achter Band. Die Praeparatio Evengelica. vol. 2. Berlin: Akademie Verlag. O’Meara, Dominic J. 1999. ‘Neoplatonist Conceptions of the Philosopher-King’ 278–291 in J. van Ophuijsen ed. Plato and Platonism. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press. O’Meara, Dominic J. 2003. Platonopolis: Platonic Political Philosophy in Late Antiquity. Oxford: Oxford University Press. O’Meara, Dominic J. 2005. ‘A Neoplatonist Ethics for High-Level Officials: Sopatros’ Letter to Himerios’ 91–100 in Andrew Smith ed. The Philosopher and Society in Late Aniquity. Cardiff: Classical Press of Wales. Oulton, John E. L. ed. and tr. 1932. Eusebius: Ecclesiastical History, vol. 2. Loeb Classical Library. London and Cambridge, MA: Heinemann. Potter, David S. 2014. The Roman Empire at Bay, AD 180–395, 2nd edition. London and New York: Routledge. Schott, Jeremy. 2005. ‘Porphyry on Christians and Others: “Barbarian Wisdom”, Identity Politics, and Anti-Christian Polemics on the Eve of the Great Persecution’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 13, 277–314. Schroeder, F. M. 1987. ‘Ammonius Saccas’ 493–526 in H. Temporini and W. Haase edd. Aufstieg und Niedergang der Romischen Welt, II.36.1. Berlin: De Gruyter. Simmons, Michael Bland. 1995. Arnobius of Sicca: Religious Conflict and Competition in the Age of Diocletian. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Simmons, Michael Bland. 1997. ‘The Function of Oracles in the Pagan-Christian Conflict during the Age of Diocletian: The Case of Arnobius and Porphyry’ 249–256 in E. A. Livingston, ed. Studia Patristica vol. XXXI – Papers Presented at the Twelfth International Conference on Patristic Studies held in Oxford 1995. Leuven: Peeters. Simmons, Michael Bland. 2001. ‘The Eschatological Aspects of Porphyry’s Anti-Christian Polemics in a Chaldean-Neoplatonic context’, Classica et Mediaevalia 52, 193–215. Simmons, Michael Bland. 2009. ‘Porphyry’s Universalism: A Tripartite Soteriology and Eusebius’ Response’, Harvard Theological Review 102, 169–192. Simmons, Michael Bland. 2015. Universal Salvation in Late Antiquity: Porphyry of Tyre and the Pagan-Christian Debate. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sirinelli, Jean and Edouard Des Places edd. 1974. Eusèbe de Césarée, La Préparation Évangélique t. 1. Sources chrétiennes 206. Paris: Éditions du Cerf. Smith, Andrew. 1974. Porphyry’s Place in the Neoplatonic Tradition: A Study in PostPlotinian Neoplatonism. The Hague: Nijhoff. Smith, Andrew. 1987. ‘Porphyrian Studies Since 1913’ 717–773 in H. Temporini and W. Haase edd. Aufstieg und Niedergang der Romischen Welt, II.36.2. Berlin: De Gruyter.

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Smith, Andrew. ed. 1993. Porphyrii Philosophi Fragmenta. Leipzig: De Gruyter. Smith, Andrew. 1999. ‘The Significance of Practical Ethics for Plotinus’ 227–236 in J. Cleary ed. Traditions of Platonism: Essays in Honour of John Dillon. London: Ashgate. Smith, Andrew. 2005. ‘Action and Contemplation in Plotinus’ 65–72 in Andrew Smith ed. The Philosopher and Society in Late Aniquity. Cardiff: Classical Press of Wales. Smith, Andrew. 2007. ‘Porphyry: Scope for a Reassessment’ 7–16 in G. Karamanolis and A. Sheppard edd. Studies on Porphyry. London: Institute of Classical Studies. Smith, Andrew. 2009. ‘Philosophical Objections to Christianity on the Eve of the Great Persecution’ 33–48 in D. V. Twomey and M. Humphries edd. The Great Persecution. Dublin: Four Courts Press. Smith, Andrew. 2011. ‘Religion, Magic and Theurgy in Porphyry’ XIX, 1–10 in S. Andrew Plotinus, Porphyry and Iamblichus: Philosophy and Religion in Neoplatonism. Farnham: Ashgate. Whittaker, Helène. 2001. ‘The Purpose of Porphyry’s Letter to Marcella’, Symbolae Osloenses 76, 150–168. Wilken, Robert L. 1979. ‘Pagan Criticism of Christianity: Greek Religion and Christian Faith’ 117–134 in W. Schoedel and R. L. Wilken edd. Early Christian Literature and the Classical Tradition. Paris: Editions Beauchesne. Wilken, Robert L. 1984. The Christians as the Romans Saw Them. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.

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Introduction The rhetorical career of Libanius of Antioch (A.D. 314 – c. 393) spanned the reigns of a number of fourth-century emperors. Like many orators, he used the trope of the emperor as a pilot, steering the ship of state. He did this for his imperial exemplar Julian, and in fact for his predecessor Constantius II as well. Julian sought to craft an identity for himself as a theocratic king. He and his supporters cast him as an earthly parallel to the Christ-like versions of Heracles and Asclepius he constructed, which was arguably a co-opting of Christian and particularly Constantinian themes.1 In a public oration, Julian even placed himself in the role of Christ in the Temptation in the Wilderness.2 This kind of overtly Christian metaphor was not Libanius’ preferred idiom, however, and he wrote of Julian as another kind of chosen and divine saviour figure, one with its roots in the golden age of Greek philosophy. The figure of the κυβερνήτης, the ‘pilot’ or ‘helmsman’, is a philosophical concept with roots in the thought of the pre-Socratics, but most familiar from Plato.3 The uses of this metaphor by Julian and Libanius highlight the rhetorical strategy and self-presentation the emperor employed during his reign. 1 Greenwood 2014, 140–149; Greenwood 2018, 491–509. The Latinized spellings of Greek names here will hopefully be familiar to the widest range of readers. * The text of Plato’s Statesman is that of Burnet (Oxford, 1903), Libanius’ Orations that of Foerster (Leipzig, 1904), Julian’s works the text and numbering of the Budé edition (Paris, 1924–1964), and Synesius’ de Providentia that of the Budé edition (Paris, 1978–2008). All translations are my own unless otherwise noted. 2 Greenwood 2014b, 593–598, comparing Julian, Or. 7 229c-233d (To the Cynic Heracleios) and Matthew 3.7–4.10. 3 Liddell, et al., 1995, 1004, s.v. κυβερνήτης. The use of this term in the two works most relevant here are Statesman 272e4, 296e4, 297e11, 273c3; Republic 332e2, 9, 333c3, 341c9, 341d2, 342d9, 349e2–3, 360e7, 389c4, 397e5, 488d4, 489b6.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003435310-11

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I. The Pilot as Ideal Statesman In Plato’s writings, the pilot was both a metaphor for the ideal statesman, one who cared for both ship and sailors, as well as a divine figure who would right the world’s wrongs. In this political metaphor, the κυβερνήτης ruled not for glory or his own good, but for the benefit of his ship and crew. Plato wrote, ‘Just as the pilot is always watching out for the common good of the ship and crew, not establishing written law, but by offering his expertise as a law, he saves the crew’ (ὥσπερ ὁ κυβερνήτης τὸ τῆς νεὼς καὶ ναυτῶν ἀεὶ συμφέρον παραφυλάττων, οὐ γράμματα τιθεὶς ἀλλὰ τὴν τέχνην νόμον παρεχόμενος, σῴζει τοὺς συνναύτας, Statesman 297a1–5). Brock traces the development of the metaphor and highlights the central components, the claim based on ‘ability and expertise’, and the focus on the ‘preservation of the community’.4 This political exemplar of the pilot as an ideal ruler was used extensively after Plato, and drawn upon by Libanius as well. In 363, Libanius described Julian as a great statesman in an oration in the metropolis of Antioch. During Julian’s period of study in Nicomedia many years prior, he had had the rhetorician’s lectures recorded for him. Libanius was one of many who were undoubtedly delighted by Julian’s accession to sole rule in late 361.5 While it took several months for Libanius to gain access to Julian and his court after the emperor’s arrival on 18 July 362, Libanius became entrenched in the emperor’s circle.6 This delay may have been due to Julian’s reserve towards a man who had so praised Constantius II in his Or. 59, Panegyric on Constantius and Constans. Despite the brevity of their closer association, Libanius was an enthusiastic supporter of Julian’s revival, and in turn, the emperor referred to the orator as ‘brother’ and the most philosophical and truth-loving orator.7 On 1 January 363 in Antioch, Libanius delivered an oration on the occasion of Julian’s consulship.8 This oration had something of a defensive tone, coming as it did following numerous escalating confrontations between the emperor and the largely Christian population of the city. Over the period of seven to eight months following Julian’s arrival in Antioch, communication broke down between the emperor and his Antiochene subjects.9 The catalyst was the particularly poor harvest of 362.10 In addition to the imperial court, the army Julian assembled for the invasion of Persia was very sizeable.11 This resulted in a severe grain shortage

4 Brock 2013, 56. 5 Libanius, Or. 13.14; for an estimation of pagan support for Julian’s religious revival, see also Greenwood 2014c, 101–119. 6 Wiemer 1995, 39; A.H.M. Jones, et al. 1971, 505; cf. Lib., Or. 1.51. Julian entered Antioch during the festival of Adonis: Amm. 22.9.15; Seeck 1919, 210. 7 Julian, Ep. 96.374d; Ep. 97.382c. 8 Norman 1969, 36. 9 Van Hoof and Van Nuffelen 2011, 166–184. 10 Amm. 22.13.14; Lib., Or. 18.195. 11 Julian admitted that the shortage was exacerbated by the mass of troops he brought with him; Or. 12.370b (Misopogon).

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with which the curiales were unable to help the emperor.12 Julian insisted that the city leaders had refused to work towards a solution, added to which Liebeschuetz points out the conflict of interest as the curiales were also, by and large, the local grain producers.13 Julian responded by capping grain prices and directly providing additional grain, but without rationing it, leading to speculators snatching it up.14 In religious terms, things went even more poorly. Seeking to purify the shrine at Daphne, Julian had removed the body of St. Babylas, which local Christians turned into a triumph for the power of the saint.15 This was followed by the burning of the shrine, which Julian blamed on the Christians, closing the Great Church of Antioch in retaliation.16 In short, Julian’s campaign to counter Constantine’s Christianization in Antioch was showing signs of fatigue. Despite this, Libanius soldiered on and supported Julian with an address at the new year celebrating his consulship. Wiemer has shown the extent to which Libanius depended on Julian’s Or. 5 To the Senate and People of Athens.17 The orator also made use several times of this nautical metaphor, which made appearances at key points in his oration. First, Libanius referenced Julian’s philosophically-driven rejection of Christianity, a strategic event he called ‘the start of freedom (ἐλευθερία) for the world’, writing of Julian and his mentor, Maximus of Ephesus, and how they ‘passed through the Cyanean rocks’ (traditionally the Bosporus, Or. 12.34). Second, after approvingly summing up Julian’s history prior to being named Caesar by Constantius in A. D. 355, Libanius turned to his imperial career: ‘Now let us test him as the pilot working the tiller’ (δοκιμάζωμεν δὲ καὶ τὸν κυβερνήτην τὸν ἤδη κινοῦντα τοὺς οἴακας, Or. 12.42). Finally, once Julian had succeeded to undisputed rule, Libanius wrote that ‘the sacred rites’ (τῶν ἱέρων) were Julian’s priority: ‘Just as a skilled shipwright whose first concern above all is for the keel’ (ὥσπερ τις ἀγαθὸς ναυπηγὸς τὴν τρόπιν πρὸ τῶν ἄλλων σκεπτόμενος, Or. 12.69). Libanius’ use of the figure of the shipwright, a skilled craftsman, calls to mind the τέχνη of Plato’s κυβερνήτης. This is strengthened by the connection Libanius drew between the salvation of the ship and of the cities: ‘For as the strength of this is the salvation of the ship, so for the cities is the worship of the gods’ (ὥσπερ γὰρ ἐν τῷ ταύτης ἰσχυρῷ σώζεται τὸ πλοῖον, οὕτως ἐν τῇ θεραπείᾳ τῶν κρειττόνων αἱ πόλεις, Or. 12.69). In this extended metaphor, Libanius made Julian the salvific actor on behalf of the world, the guardian of traditional religion, and the pilot for Hellenic culture, all using the nautical theme centered on Julian as a κυβερνήτης. Libanius’ references to the divine in connection to Julian are somewhat limited here, although Cribiore suggests that the description of ‘Zeus, the consul of the gods’

12 13 14 15 16 17

Amm. 22.14.2; Lib. Or. 1.126; 16.21. Julian, Or. 12.368d, 369d-370a (Misopogon); Liebeschuetz 1972, 130. Julian, Or.12.369ab (Misopogon). Amm. 22.12.8; Rufinus 10.36; Theodoret 3.6. Amm. 22.13.1–3; Julian, Or. 12.361b (Misopogon); Theodoret 3.12.1; cf. Mayer and Allen 2012, 77. Wiemer 1995, 162–164.

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is an implicit comparison with Julian, the consul of men (Or. 12.14).18 These passages show Libanius’ association of Julian with the figure of the Platonic Pilot, but in the sense of a statesman. In the previous year, Libanius had presented the emperor as a pilot, but using the same nautical metaphor in a divine sense.

II. The Pilot as Divine Restorer In the introduction to his edition of Plato’s Statesman, Campbell contrasted the figure of Plato’s pilot with mere sophists and party leaders, writing that there ‘might be traced the footprints of a more august presence; of a Divine spirit “coming down in the likeness” of sage or legislator’.19 This idea of a divine restorer of the cosmos received further impetus in late antiquity, as the pilot took on a human figure and a somewhat messianic role. This, again, drew upon Plato for material, this time with a cosmological application. For Plato, the Cosmos was in perpetual motion, rotating according to design under the eye of the pilot, although upon his withdrawal, the Cosmos began to slow and counter-rotate, going against its design and bringing calamity upon earth: ‘Now formerly the pilot of the universe released the tiller, as it were, and retreated to his conning-tower and both destiny and natural desire caused the Cosmos to turn backwards’ (τότε δὴ τοῦ παντὸς ὁ μὲν κυβερνήτης, οἷον πηδαλίων οἴακος ἀφέμενος, εἰς τὴν αὑτοῦ περιωπὴν ἀπέστη, τὸν δὲ δὴ κόσμον πάλιν ἀνέστρεφεν εἱμαρμένη τε καὶ σύμφυτος ἐπιθυμία, Plato, Statesman 272e3–273a1).20 This was followed by the lesser gods abandoning their posts as well, adding to the chaos. At some point, the pilot would return and set the Cosmos aright, rotating in the right fashion again. God (θεός), who ordered the Cosmos, would naturally become concerned by the extent of its decline, and ‘resumes his place at the helm’ (πάλιν ἔφεδρος αὐτοῦ τῶν πηδαλίων γιγνόμενος, Plato, Statesman 273d7). Following this, Plato clarified the pilot’s divine nature: ‘a god, not a mortal’ (θεὸν ἀντὶ θνητοῦ, Plato, Statesman 275a4). Considerable latitude should be given to how literally this was taken. John Dillon has suggested that Neoplatonic reception of the Statesman indicates that it was interpreted allegorically in that period.21 This freed interpreters to make rather flexible use of the metaphor. Libanius made use of this concept in ways that could at first glance be taken as referring either to an ideal statesman or to a divine figure, until the context is considered. At Julian’s request, in July 362, Libanius delivered his Or. 13, An Address to Julian, or Προσφωνητικός, effusively praising Julian’s pagan restoration. This oration reflects something of the high hopes Julian had upon his entrance to the

18 Cribiore 2013, 217. Zeus Hypatos is a standard Homeric epithet, originally referring to elevation, but note the explicit comparison Libanius makes between Julian and Zeus in Or. 13.47 (see p. 9 and n. 27). 19 Campbell 1867, i. 20 See also discussion of this passage in Lane 1998, 102–103; Cornford 1937, 207. 21 Dillon 1995, 103–115.

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city in July 362.22 Julian’s narrative in his autobiographical myth must have been attractive to his contemporaries, as Libanius reflected his story in this oration. Libanius first borrowed from Julian’s tale of the purge that almost took his life in Or. 7 to describe his ‘spark of prophetic fire’ (σπινθήρ) that narrowly escaped the unbelievers.23 When Julian first sampled Hellenic philosophy, he ‘heard of the gods who fashioned and maintain the universe’ (Or. 13.12), gods who later ‘led your intellect to greatness through the study of Plato’ (Or. 13.13). These divinities then took a more active role, mixing in divine and nautical metaphors: ‘They both prepared for you the sceptre and presented you salvation. Now when the sea surged from vexatious winds and ships were sinking and overwhelmed and waves came over the rails, they sent the Dioscuri from their joint council-chamber on high and drew your ship from the surf’ (ἡτοίμαζον μὲν τὸ σκῆπτρον, ἐδίδοσαν δὲ τὴν σωτηρίαν, ὅτε δὴ τῆς θαλάττης ἀναταραχθείσης ἐκ πνευμάτων συκοφαντικῶν καὶ σκάφους τοῦ μὲν καταδύντος, τοῦ δὲ περικλυζομένου καὶ τοῦ κύματος ὑπὲρ τῶν τοίχων αἰρομένου Διοσκούρους ἄνωθεν ἐκ κοινοῦ βουλευτηρίου πέμψαντες ἐξήρπασαν τοῦ κλυδωνίου τὸ πλοῖον, Or. 13.16).24 Regarding Julian’s transition from student to ruler, Libanius concluded that these events in Julian’s accession to power showed that his life had been ‘managed by divine counsel’ (τοῦ βουλαῖς δαιμόνων διοικεῖσθαί, Lib., Or. 13.20). He wrote that once Constantius II elevated Julian to the rank of Caesar, the beginning of his tasks was like his ‘first voyage’ (πρῶτον πλέων, Or. 13.22). More specifically, Libanius gave the credit for removing Constantius to ‘The all-seeing and all-hearing Helios (πάντα ὁρῶν τε καὶ ἀκούων Ἥλιος), who answered the prayers of the Hellenes and removed Constantius, replacing him with ‘the expert of rule’ (τῷ τεχνίτῃ τοῦ βασιλεύειν, Lib., Or. 13.35–36). This divine consent incidentally removed any potential stigma as a usurper from Julian’s reputation.25 The depiction of Julian as a τεχνίτης recalls Plato’s description of the Pilot as a provider of his τέχνη to those he ruled.26 Libanius then made the connection to the divine κυβερνήτης more explicit, writing of the suffering of humanity prior to Julian’s restoration, which could also be seen 22 Amm. 22.9.14; Matthews 1989, 108, contra Seeck 1919, 210. Julian later looked back on his initial optimism and generous treatment of the city, recalling his plans to make Antioch ‘greater and more powerful’. Julian, Or. 12 367cd (Misopogon); cf. Gleason 1986, 106–119. 23 Compare the parallel at Julian, Or. 7 229d (To the Cynic Heracleios); cf. Greenwood 2014a, 142. Julian’s Or. 7 is treated in detail in section III of this chapter. 24 While it does not affect Libanius’ use of Julian’s nautical metaphor, the possibility exists that this refers back to Julian’s travails in the purge of 337. Wiemer 1995, 89 regards this passage as an allegorical retelling of Eusebia’s rescue of Julian following Constantius’ execution of Julian’s halfbrother Gallus. While Wiemer 1995 is correct that Libanius generally follows the chronological sequence in Julian’s life from beginning studies in 340/41 (13.9) to going to Athens in 354 (13.18), I believe that Libanius’ non-chronological parallel with Julian’s Or. 7 at 13.11 leaves both possibilities open. 25 Wiemer 1995, 101. 26 Although Libanius used this term elsewhere in a different sense, his use in this context and in parallel with Julian’s turns as the son of God, respectively Heracles, Asclepius, and Christ (see Greenwood 2014a, 2014b, 2014c), strengthens the Platonic connection.

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as ‘the giving back of the gods as guardians to men, as for long, the race, without its great pilots, has been borne along and wrecked on the rocks (τὸ δοῦναι πάλιν θεοὺς ἀνθρώποις ἐπιτρόπους πάλαι τοῦ γένους ἄνευ τῶν μεγάλων κυβερνητῶν εἰκῆ φερομένου καὶ περιρρηγνυμένου ταῖς πέτραις, Or. 13.45). In the same oration, Libanius asserted that this was a wonderful time for humanity, tying this to the presence of a human/divine ruler like Zeus. In praising Julian for his frugality and his choice of wise Platonist counsel, Libanius inserted a direct comparison to Zeus: ‘As Justice is sitting beside Zeus in heaven, so the wisest on earth are with you’ (παρεδρεύει Διὶ μὲν ἐν οῦρανῷ Δίκη, σοὶ δὲ τῶν ἐπὶ γῆς οἱ σοφώτατοι, Or. 13.44). He described Julian as one who ‘reigns, body of a man, soul of a god’ (σῶμα μὲν ἀνθρώπου, ψυχὴ δὲ θεοῦ βασιλεύει, Or. 13.47).27 Libanius held that the situation could not be improved, ‘even if Zeus, taking for himself the form of a man, chose to govern all the nations, his practice then would be identical to our rule now’ (καί μοι δοκεῖ μηδὲν ἂν γενέσθαι ταῖς πόλεσι πλέον αὐτοῦ τοῦ Διὸς ἑλομένου τὰ τῇδε διοικεῖν ὑποδύντος ἀνθρώπου τύπον. οἷς γὰρ ἂν ἐχρῆτο τότε, κατὰ ταὐτὰ νῦν ἀρχόμεθα, Or. 13.47). This direct relationship with the divine was a distinctive feature of Julian’s reign, and something which Wiemer quite rightly points out is tied to Or. 13.48, where Julian receives direct prophecy in place of the Pythia.28 Yet beyond this, Libanius is returning to his theme of Julian’s special status as hinted at in Julian’s Or. 7. In his Προσφωνητικός, Libanius reflected back much of Julian’s official and public line, making use of a nautical metaphor. Following the apostasy of Constantine, the people of the empire suffered greatly without their divine pilots. Julian’s study of philosophy, particularly Plato, led him to the gods who fashioned and maintained the universe. It was Zeus-Helios’ divine plan that he might be spared for his eventual role as the chosen deliverer of his people in place of the apostate Constantius II. This divinely endorsed ruler was human and divine and would be the earthly ruler on behalf of Zeus-Helios. But behind Libanius, was there another hand on the tiller of this nautical metaphor?

III. Julian as Source and Subject Julian’s campaign to restore pagan religion and sacrifice (A.D. 361–363) rested not only on his authority as an emperor, but also on his exhortations. In them, he carefully presented himself as a figure who would save his people by bringing the empire back to worship of the gods, most notably the god he claimed was his father, Zeus-Helios. Orators loyal to Julian reflected other aspects of this back in their own public addresses while Julian lived, and did so using language that would have resonated with an audience educated in the Hellenic tradition. By alluding to Julian as the quasi-divine κυβερνήτης, Libanius followed the pattern

27 Described similarly in Plato’s myth, which Kahn 2009, 152, describes as the true statesman being more divine than human. 28 Wiemer 1995, 111.

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laid down by Eusebius, who had portrayed his emperor Constantine as both a Mosaic saviour-figure, and also an earthly parallel to the heavenly Christ.29 However, Libanius filled this particular framework of human-divine assimilation with resolutely Hellenic content. T. R. Glover suggested that Julian had cast himself in something of this pilot role, writing of the emperor that: ‘He might indeed be himself the chosen messenger of heaven, for it was a Neo-Platonic doctrine that the gods stoop to give mankind a saviour and a regenerator whenever the divine impulse in the world is in danger of being exhausted’.30 In support of this, Glover cited Synesius, who wrote ‘For prescribed times then bring them down after the pattern of machinists, giving an initial positive motion to a commonwealth’ (τακτοὶ γὰρ [δὴ] χρόνοι κατακομίζουσιν αὐτοὺς κατὰ τὸ παράδειγμα τῶν μηχανοποιῶν, ἐνδώσοντας ἀρχὴν ἀγαθῆς ἐν πολιτείᾳ κινήσεως·, de Providentia 10.19–21).31 The gods intended to instill harmony by ‘bringing down here kindred souls’ (ψυχὰς συγγενεῖς δεῦρο κατακομίσαντες, de Providentia 10.23). Julian is primarily remembered for his rejection of Christianity, and his opposition to the Christianization of his uncle Constantine. However, this negative portrayal needs to be balanced with a positive assessment of what Julian chose to stand for. As emperor, Julian not only promoted a restoration of traditional religion and sacrifice, he wrote extensively as a Neoplatonic philosopher.32 While his stature has been maligned by some modern scholars, both John Dillon and Andrew Smith have written appreciatively of the strengths of Julian’s presentation of Neoplatonism.33 Julian was a particular follower of Plato. In a letter to his confidant Oribasius, he described himself as a ‘zealous student’ of Plato and Aristotle (Ep. 14 385b). Julian also advised his friends Eumenius and Pharianus to focus all their efforts on understanding these two writers, and wrote to his uncle that for a period his only books were Homer and Plato.34 In his magisterial study of Julian’s influences, Jean Bouffartigue has tabulated 81 instances of Julian citing Plato’s works.35 As a Roman emperor, Julian was well placed to take advantage of the concept of emperor worship, a concept that continued research, particularly into material evidence, has demonstrated was widespread and taken seriously.36 As one 29 Eusebius cast Constantine as a Mosaic saviour-figure in Vit. Const. 1.3.17, 1.12.2, 1.20.2, 1.27.2–3, 1.18.1–2, 1.31.3; cf. Cameron and Hall 1999, 35–38, and as a mimetic Christ-figure in de Laud. 2.2–5, 3.4, 6.9, 7.13; cf. Drake 1976, 75. For that matter, this was not unlike the Ptolemy’s title of Πτολεμαῖος Σωτήρ, or Augustus’ divi filius. 30 Glover 1901, 58. 31 While admittedly Synesius post-dates Julian (b. A.D. 370), this highlights the trend in Neoplatonic thought. 32 Cf. Or. 7 To the Cynic Heracleios; Or. 8 Hymn to the Mother of the Gods; Or. 11 Hymn to King Helios. 33 Dillon 1995, 103–115; Smith 2012, 229–235. Carmen de Vita 2012, 106, cautions that although Julian was unique as a ‘philosopher militant’, he was not, properly speaking, a philosopher. 34 Julian, Ep. 8.441c; Ep. 80. 35 Bouffartigue 1992, 170. 36 E.g., Price 1984; Gradel 2002; Ando 2008. Although Julian initially rebutted divine rulership in his Ep. Them., Themistius’ response addressed those points in a way that Julian seems to have taken on board by the time of his Or. 3 (see below).

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scholar has noted of the Roman emperor, ‘they sacrificed to him, as though he was a god, and perhaps they covered the conflict of evidence with a metaphysical metaphor – god made manifest, son of god, the least of gods but highest of mortals’.37 While the modern imagination has been much more captivated by the overt democratic displays of the emperor who publicly left his seat to embrace a philosopher, in practice, Julian’s rule consistently embodied theocratic kingship. Julian was certainly not alone in this, although his particular approach may have been unique. His actions were directly in line with those of his neo-Flavian predecessors Constantine and Constantius II. As noted by Athanassiadi, Julian sought ways of ‘linking the new political theology propounded by his own family to the ideals of Hellenism and Romanitas’.38 In the period before his sole rule, the emperor wrote two works that reveal his theory of the ideal ruler. Julian’s definition of the ideal statesman is prominently displayed in his Or. 6 Epistle to Themistius.39 Julian wrote that the theme of his letter was that a human ruler must exhibit divine conduct, and later tied this need for a ruler with divine character to the teachings of Plato.40 This letter is frequently viewed as a conclusive slamming of the door on Themistius’ suggestion that the role of philosopher and king should be united,41 although Themistius’ apparent response, which has survived in Arabic, argued that a rational man forgoing sensual pleasures could become that prescribed divine ruler.42 In Julian’s Or. 3 The Heroic Deeds of Constantius, or On Kingship, he painted a picture of the ideal ruler, one which is arguably tailored to Julian himself rather than Constantius.43 He describes this ideal ruler as the κυβερνήτης (97d), who would closely imitate God.44 He also would be the highest God’s ‘prophet and vice-regent’ (προφήτην καὶ ὑπηρέτην, 90a). Finally, he bore the title previously used by Eusebius of Caesarea to describe Constantine, ‘God-beloved’ (θεοφιλής, 90c).45

37 Hopkins 1978, 242. 38 Athanassiadi 1981, 113. 39 While there is no consensus regarding dating, scholarship largely supports the occasion being Julian’s becoming Caesar in 355; e.g. Bradbury 1987, 235–251, Bouffartigue 2006, 120–127; Swain 2013, 56–57. Barnes and Vanderspoel 1981, 187–189 and Brauch 1993, 85–88 suggest that it was written at that time, but published in 361 when Julian became sole Augustus in 361. Others, such as Criscuolo 1983, 91, argue for both writing and publication in 361. 40 Julian, Or. 6.259a; 260d (To Themistius). 41 E.g., Bouffartigue 1992, 127–128, 136–137. 42 Themistius, Risāla 1.82.2–2.84.15; cf. Croissant 1930, 7–30; Watt 2012, 97; and see now the edition of Swain 2013. 43 Drake 2012, 41–42; cf. Athanassiadi 1981, 66, who describes Julian’s work as a ‘panegyric of his own deeds’. It must be dated after the lowland campaigns mentioned, but probably before the end of the peace with Persia (56b, 66d), suggesting to me summer 358; cf. Drake 2012, 39. Curta 1995, 196, argues for a date as late as 360. 44 Or. 3 97d, 100d (The Heroic Deeds of Constantius, or On Kingship). 45 While some might see this epithet as too ubiquitous to be significant, it is surely important that Julian’s uncle Constantine, whom Julian reacted against so resolutely, was written about so much in this vein, e.g. ‘the sovereign dear to God, in imitation of the higher power, directs the helm and

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Once Julian had engineered his acclamation as Augustus and was marching to confront his cousin Constantius II, he would put his theories on the theme of rulership into his writing for a public audience.46 His Or. 5 To the Senate and People of Athens contrasted the ethics of and attitudes towards the rule of the tyrannical Constantius and the ethical Julian. Following Constantius’ untimely death which left Julian the sole and uncontested ruler, the emperor’s Or. 7 To the Cynic Heracleios, written in Spring 362, similarly contrasted the self-centred Constantine, whose apostasy would drag down the people he ruled, to the selfless and pious Julian, who would restore the empire.47 Julian embedded an autobiographical myth in his Or. 7 which was a response to the impertinent Cynic philosopher Heracleios. In this myth, he crafted a role for himself as the divine figure sent to earth to put things right, to restore the human-divine balance that the apostate Constantine had destroyed, bringing the abandonment of the gods and suffering upon his house and race.48 Julian discussed his own view that myth can be appropriately used by philosophers, and even cited philosophers of whom he approved who had used myth (Or. 7.215bc, 209a). Intriguingly, Julian stated that for safety’s sake, one may be forced to express oneself through myth (Or. 7.207e). Julian claimed to be the son of Zeus-Helios, and was offered the stewardship of the empire on behalf of the gods (Or. 7.232c). Julian’s father explained that his mission was one of restoration: ‘You must return and cleanse all the impiety, and summon me, Athena, and the other gods’ (χρὴ γάρ ἀπιέναι καὶ καθαίρειν ἐκεῖνα πάντα τὰ ἀσεβήματα, παρακαλεῖν δὲ ἐμέ τε καὶ τὴν Ἀθηνᾶν καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους θεούς, Or. 7.231d). In addition, Helios instructed Julian that in addition to piety, he was expected to be ‘philanthropic towards the subjects, ruling them and guiding them to the best’ (τὰ πρὸς τοὺς φιλάνθρωπος, ἄρχων αὐτῶν καὶ ἡγούμενος ἐπὶ τὰ βέλτιστα, Or. 7.233d). Julian received divine tokens of his own from the gods, signifying their protection, his kingship, and his status as a divine representative.49 His divine encounter ended with Helios informing him, ‘Now know a body was given you on account of this service’ (Ἴσθι δὲ σεαυτῷ τὰ σαρκία δεδόσθαι λειτουργίας εἵνεκα ταυτησί, Or. 7.234c). Julian, then, portrayed himself as a divine figure given a body and tasked with serving the gods by taking the helm of the empire, restoring traditional religion, and guiding his people towards the good.

46 47

48 49

sets straight all things on earth’, Eus., De Laudibus Constantini 1.6 (trans. Drake); cf. Eus., Vit. Const. 1.1.6; 3.1.8; 3.49. For analysis of the manipulated acclamation, see Müller-Seidl 1955, 241–244; Rosen 1969, 121–149. Libanius, Or. 18.157 (Funeral Oration over Julian) places the composition of Julian’s Or. 7 at the same time as his Or. 8 To the Mother of the Gods, in which Julian’s statement at 161c dates that work to the festival of Cybele in March 362. Julian, Or. 7.219d-220a; 228d-229a; 229c-230a (To the Cynic Heracleios). For dating, see: Rochefort 1963, 36; Smith 1995, 89; Guido 2000, viii. Julian, Or. 7.234ab (To the Cynic Heracleios); cf. Athanassiadi 1981, 40, 172, 174; Glazov, 2001, 107–108.

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More explicitly, Julian described himself in a religious context as a κυβερνήτης in a letter sent to one of his Neoplatonic priests at the end of A.D. 361.50 Julian first established that he was writing out of a need for assistance in regards to their pursuit of a common good, the health of their religion. As the emperor explained to his high priest Theodorus (Ep. 30): Therefore, it is necessary that you take your place and through your letters zealously advise the things to be done. For we can see that in the case of those leading in war it is not those living peaceably needing alliance, but, I believe, the ones toiling in the fight, and in the case of pilots, those at anchor do not summon those sailing, but those under sail lead out those who are at rest. 51 Χρὴ οὖν σε παρίστασθαι καὶ διὰ τῶν ἐπιστολῶν τὰ πρακτέα καὶ τὰ μὴ παραινεῖν προθύμως· ὁρῶμεν γὰρ καὶ τῶν στρατευομένων οὐ τοὺς εἰρηνεύοντας συμμαχίας δεομένους, τοὺς πονουμένους δέ, οἶμαι, τῷ πολέμῳ, καὶ τῶν κυβερνητῶν οὐχ οἱ μὴ πλέοντες τοὺς πλέοντας παρακαλοῦσιν, οἱ ναυτιλλόμενοι δὲ τοὺς σχολὴν ἄγοντας. Both Athanassiadi and Bidez note Julian’s marked preference for theurgic Neoplatonists among his priests.52 Theodorus was the high priest of Asia and had been a fellow pupil of Maximus with Julian.53 Julian was ordering Theodorus to get into the fight and help him in the war between traditional Hellenic religion and Christianity. This passage does not directly attribute divinity, but the context suggests the role of the head of state and high priest leading in a religious war. Given this, the use of the term κυβερνήτης is likely more than coincidence. This use of the concept of the κυβερνήτης fleshes out our understanding of Julian and his concept of theocratic rule. Julian had presented himself as something of a Hellenic saviour figure, first recasting Heracles as a Christ-figure, the son of Zeus-Helios, then identifying himself as the son of Zeus-Helios, and assimilating himself to Heracles.54 This was recognised and reflected in the orations and writings of Libanius of Antioch and Eunapius of Sardis.55 In Libanius’ later Or.

50 Julian, Ep. 30; Bidez 1924, 35 and Bidez and Cumont 1922, v, note that Libanius was a likely candidate for editor of Julian’s letters. 51 ‘Those at anchor’ is of course, literally ‘those not sailing’, but that makes for a rather confusing translation. 52 Athanassiadi 1981, 185; Bidez 1930, 267. As Christianity had offered an alternate respectable career, so Julian took the opportunity to offer the same patronage to Neoplatonists. 53 Julian, Ep. 30; 89a.452d; Ep. 89a.452a; 89b.298b; cf. Jones 1971, 897, s.v. Theodorus 8. 54 Julian, Or. 7.229c, 232d (To the Cynic Heracleios); Or. 10.336a (Caesares); Or. 11.157a (Hymn to King Helios). 55 Libanius, Or. 13.11; Or. 12.28, Or. 18.87; Eun., frags. 28.5, 28.6 Blockley; cf. Athanassiadi 1981, 168.

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12, delivered on 1 January 363, he did not return to the theme of the ‘divine’ pilot. This is not a change of direction as much as emphasis, as by re-using the pilot at all, Libanius alluded to his previous application which combined both statesman and divine figure. The shift in emphasis may be explained by Julian’s interest in assimilating himself to a Christ-like Asclepius, the son of Zeus-Helios, in a similar fashion in his Against the Galilaeans, written in winter 362–363, and Or. 11 Hymn to King Helios, written in December 362.56 In the use of this Platonic theme, however, there is no subterfuge and no supplanting, as Plato’s κυβερνήτης was drawn from the Hellenic literary tradition. This demonstrates both Julian’s embracing of the idea of the divine statesman, and the approving reflection of Libanius, who was not overly philosophically inclined himself, but was a politically astute advocate for his emperor. Julian seemed to have taken on board Messianic aspects of his Christian upbringing, but here synthesised and applied that within a purely Hellenic framework.

Conclusion I have argued that just as Plato’s use of the concept of the pilot could be taken as both a political and a metaphysical metaphor, so was Julian’s use of it and Libanius’ reflection of it. While both had used the term in its broader sense more widely, use of the concept to portray someone as a divine restorer was reserved for Julian. Amidst a narrative of religious conflict, Julian’s characterisation of himself as a κυβερνήτης, reflected in the writings of his close followers, was a remarkable stratagem, portraying Julian as possessing a divine soul, and being a divinely ordained restorer figure for Hellenes. While the usage could of course be happenstance, Libanius’ previous adoption of Julian’s line in this area suggests otherwise. When Julian presented himself as divine, as Heracles, and as Asclepius, he was followed by his adherents. Therefore, when he wrote of himself as the κυβερνήτης and was followed in this by his adherents, it should be taken as an important component of his rhetoric of rule, and perhaps also a glimpse into his genuine self-understanding.

Bibliography Ando, C. 2008. The Matter of the Gods: Religion and the Roman Empire. Berkeley. Athanassiadi, P. 1981. Julian and Hellenism: An Intellectual Biography (as Polymnia Athanassiadi-Fowden). Oxford; reprinted with new introduction as Julian: An Intellectual Biography (London, 1992). Barnes, T. D. and J. Vanderspoel. 1981. ‘Julian and Themistius’, Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 22, 187–189.

56 Julian, Or. 11.144b, 153b (Hymn to King Helios); Against the Galilaeans 200ab; a concept that Libanius reflected back in language of Julian as ‘healer’, Or. 15.69, 17.36, 18.124–125, 281; cf. Greenwood 2018, 491–509.

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Bidez, J., ed. 1924. L ‘empereur Julien. Oeuvres complètes tom. 1, part. 2, Lettres et Fragments. Paris. Bidez, J. 1930. La vie de l’empereur Julien. Paris. Bidez, J. and F. Cumont, eds. 1922. Iuliani epistulae leges poemata fragmenta varia. Oxford and Paris. Bouffartigue, J. 1992. L’Empereur Julien et la culture de son temps. Paris. Bouffartigue, J. 2006. ‘La lettre de Julien à Thémistios: histoire d’une fausse manœuvre et d’un désaccord essentiel’, Topoi, Orient-Occident 7, 113–138. Bradbury, S. 1987. ‘The Date of Julian’s Letter to Themistius’, Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 28, 235–251. Brauch, T. 1993. ‘Themistius and the Emperor Julian’, Byzantion 63, 79–115. Brock, R. 2013. Greek Political Imagery from Homer to Aristotle. London and New York. Cameron, A. and S. Hall, trs. 1999. Eusebius, Life of Constantine. Oxford and New York. Campbell, L., ed. 1867. The Sophistes and Politicus of Plato. Oxford. Carmen de Vita, M. 2012. ‘Philosophiae Magister: Giuliano Interprete di Platone’, Atti Accademia Pontaniana, Napoli 51, xxx. Cornford, F. M. 1937. Plato’s Cosmology. London. Cribiore, R. 2013. Libanius the Sophist: Rhetoric, Reality, and Religion in the Fourth Century. Ithaca and London. Criscuolo, U. 1983. ‘Sull’ epistola di Giuliano imperatore al filosofo Temistio’, Koinonia 7, 89–111. Croissant, J. 1930. ‘Un nouveau discours de Thémistius’, Serta Leodiensia, Bibliothèque de la faculté de philosophie et lettres de l’université de Liège 44, 7–30. Curta, F. 1995. ‘Atticism, Homer, Neoplatonism, and Fürstenspiegel: Julian’s Second Panegyric on Constantius’, Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 36, 177–211. Dillon, J. 1995. ‘The Theology of Julian’s Hymn to King Helios’, Itaca 14–15, 103–115. Drake, H., tr. 1976. Eusebius, in Praise of Constantine: A Historical Study and New Translation of Eusebius’ Tricennial Orations. Berkeley. Drake, H. 2012. ‘“But I digress . . . ”: Rhetoric and Propaganda in Julian’s Second Oration to Constantius’ 35–46 in Emperor and Author: The Writings of Julian the Apostate, eds. N. Baker-Brian and S. Tougher. Swansea. Glazov, G. 2001. The Bridling of the Tongue and the Opening of the Mouth in Biblical Prophecy. Sheffield. Gleason, M. 1986. ‘Festive Satire: Julian’s Misopogon and the New Year at Antioch’, Journal of Roman Studies 76, 106–119. Glover, T. R. 1901. Life and Letters in the Fourth Century. Cambridg. Gradel, I. 2002. Emperor Worship and Roman Religion. Oxford. Greenwood, D. N. 2014a. ‘Crafting Divine Personae in Julian’s Or. 7’, Classical Philology 109, 140–149. Greenwood, D. N. 2014b. ‘A Pagan Emperor’s Appropriation of Matthew’s Gospel’, The Expository Times 125, 593–598. Greenwood, D. N. 2014c. ‘Five Latin Inscriptions from Julian’s Pagan Restoration’, Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 57, 101–119. Greenwood, D. N. 2018. ‘Julian’s Use of Asclepius against the Christians’, Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 109, 491–509. Guido, R., ed. 2000. Giuliano l’Apostate: al cinico Eraclio. Galatina. Hopkins, K. 1978. Conquerors and Slaves: Sociological Studies in Roman History. Cambridge.

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Jones, A. H. M. et al. 1971. Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire, vol. 1: A. D. 260–395. Cambridge. Kahn, C. H. 2009. ‘The Myth of the Statesman’ 147–166 in Plato’s Myths, ed. C. Partenie. Cambridge. Lane, M. S. 1998. Method and Politics in Plato’s Statesman. Cambridge. Liddell, Henry, R. Scott, H. Jones and R. McKenzie, eds. 1995. A Greek-English Lexicon, 9th Edition, with a Revised Supplement. New York. Liebeschuetz, J. H. W. G. 1972. Antioch: City and Imperial Administration in the Later Roman Empire. Oxford. Matthews, J. 1989. The Roman Empire of Ammianus. London. Mayer, W. and P. Allen. 2012. The Churches of Syrian Antioch (300–638 CE). Leuven. Müller-Seidl, I. 1955. ‘Die Usurpation Julians des Abtrünnigen im Lichte seiner Germanenpolitik’, Historische Zeitschrift 180, 225–244. Norman, A. F., ed. 1969. Libanius, Selected Works, Vol. 1: The Julianic Orations. Cambridge, MA. Price, S. 1984. Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor. Cambridge. Rochefort, G., ed. 1963. L ‘empereur Julien. Oeuvres complètes, vol. 2.1. Paris. Rosen, K. 1969. ‘Beobachtungen zur Ehrebung Julians 360–361 n. Chr.’, Acta Classica 12, 121–149. Seeck, O. 1919. Regesten der Kaiser and Päpste für die Jahre 311 bis 476 n. Chr. Stuttgart. Smith, A. 2012. ‘Julian’s Hymn to King Helios: The Economical Use of Complex Neoplatonic Concepts’ 229–235 in Emperor and Author: The Writings of Julian the Apostate, eds. N. Baker-Brian and S. Tougher. Swansea. Smith, R. B. E. 1995. Julian’s Gods: Religion and Philosophy in the Thought and Action of Julian the Apostate. London. Swain, S. 2013. Themistius, Julian, and Greek Political Theory under Rome: Texts, Translations, and Studies of Four Key Works. Cambridge and New York. Van Hoof, L. and P. Van Nuffelen. 2011. ‘Monarchy and Mass Communication: Antioch A. D. 362/3 Revisited’, Journal of Roman Studies 101, 166–184. Watt, J. 2012. ‘Julian’s Letter to Themistius – and Themistius’ Response?’, 91–103 in Emperor and Author: The Writings of Julian the Apostate, eds. N. Baker-Brian and S. Tougher. Swansea. Wiemer, H.-U. 1995. Libanios und Julian. Munich.

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Introduction When the Emperor Julian came to sole power, he not only restored the legal status of pagan sacrifice, but also implemented significant changes to paganism.1 In a seminal series of articles, Koch termed Julian’s restored Paganism ‘une église païenne’.2 Although many have utilised this framework, few have added much to it, excepting the study of Oliver Nicholson in this journal, which, based on comparisons with the changes Maximinus Daia made to paganism during the Great Persecution, concluded that Julian indeed had drawn on the Christian church for his own restructuring.3 Now this concept of Julian’s ‘pagan church’ seems to be in danger of unravelling. The fifth-century church historians who resolutely declared that Julian had attempted to restructure paganism into an imitation of the Christian church had never lived under organised state paganism, and simply may have supposed Julian’s paganism to be a mirror image of the Christian church.4 Van Nuffelen has challenged the genuineness of Julian’s Ep. 84a, ‘To Arsacius’, which provides the key evidence for the emperor’s order to his priests to practice the philanthropy and holiness that had been successful for the Christians.5 Susanna Elm accepts Van Nuffelen’s arguments and dismisses Gregory Nazianzen’s claim that Julian created a ‘pagan church’ by arguing that this was ‘polemics that tell us little

1 I realise the limitations of the term ‘paganism’, but believe it is the least poor description of the diverse group referred to; cf. the careful discussion in Cameron 2011, 14–32. 2 Koch 1927, Koch 1928. 3 Nicholson 1994, 1–10. 4 E.g., Sozomen Hist. eccl. v.16; they also may have portrayed Julian’s reign in light of an apology for their own era, influenced by Theodosius’ anti-pagan response, but this is outside the scope of this article. 5 Van Nuffelen 2001, 136–150. Ep. 84a is treated as genuine by previous editors Wright, Bidez and Cumont.

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if anything about Julian’s intentions’.6 Taking Julian’s statements in Epp. 83 and 115 regarding his own tolerance at face value, Elm argues that he ‘sought to teach and integrate and not to punish the demented’.7 Nesselrath concedes that Julian was influenced by some elements of Christianity in the development of his new paganism, but holds that his pagan restoration was ‘keine blosse Imitation der Kirche’.8 A reader might be forgiven for assuming there would be no ‘pagan church’ left. However, a close examination of the evidence convinces me that the received wisdom regarding the ‘pagan church’ is correct, if perhaps for some different reasons. I argue that Julian himself provides evidence in his other works regarding his plans for the new paganism of his restoration, which worked together in a cohesive unity with the rest of Julian’s programme and still appears to be largely co-opted from the Christian church. More specifically, I argue that Julian’s pagan church took a great deal of its shape from his response to developments in Christian practice and structure under Constantine and Constantius II, which were reflected in the triumphal narrative of Eusebius. We can see the outworkings of these sources, both broadly Christian and specifically Constantinian, in three areas: content, structure, and symbol. I argue that Julian borrowed content from the Christian church and scriptures, led his religion in Constantinian fashion, and like Constantine, engaged in building programmes with religiously symbolic significance.

I. Intent Julian’s reorganised paganism cannot be clearly understood in isolation from his relationship with and response to his uncle Constantine and cousin Constantius II. Upon the death of Constantine in 337, soldiers murdered Julian’s father and much of the rest of their relatives.9 Burgess has demonstrated the culpability of Constantius II in this purge.10 Two non-Nicene Christians, Eusebius of Nicomedia and George of Cappadocia, supervised Julian’s education.11 Julian became more heavily involved in theological politics, and according to a fifth-century historian, was made a lector in the church in Nicomedia.12 Constantius II elevated Julian to the rank of Caesar in 355, under which authority Smulders and Beckwith have convincingly argued that Julian had a significant role in the Synod of Beziers in 356.13

6 Elm 2012, 326. 7 Elm 2012, 326, a view that she shares with Mazza 1998, 17–42. I believe this view fails to acknowledge the emperor’s encouragement of violence by third parties, revealed in Julian, Or. 12.357c, as well as the extent of Julian’s persecution demonstrated by Brenneke 1988, 87–157. 8 Nesselrath 2013, 189. 9 This included his father, Julius Constantius, an elder half-brother, his uncle Flavius Dalmatius, and his cousins Flavius Dalmatius and Flavius Hannibalianus. 10 Burgess 2008, 5–51. 11 Julian, Epp. 106, 107; Amm. xxii.9.4. However, we do not know the extent to which these individuals were involved in actually teaching him. 12 Socrates Scholasticus, Hist. Eccl. iii.1. 13 Smulders 1995, 131; Beckwith 2005, 34–35.

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Julian, who had quietly committed to paganism, was theologically equipped to confront his cousin in more than just the political realm.14 After apparently engineering his acclamation as emperor by his troops, Julian confronted Constantius II.15 In mid-361, Julian emphasised in his Epistle to the Athenians that the murderer of his family was Constantine’s son, and launched from there into the divine purpose behind himself being spared.16 He further expounded on this theme in Spring 362 with his seventh oration in which he addressed the divine plan to revisit and overwrite Constantine’s legacy. In Oration 7, To the Cynic Heracleios, Julian had Helios inform him that he had been chosen to restore traditional pagan cult and replace Constantius II as the steward of the empire.17 He further instructed the young emperor ‘to cleanse all the impiety’,18 later clarifying that the desired cleansing was also of ‘your ancestral house’, appropriate as from Julian’s perspective, Constantine was an apostate, who had abandoned the worship of Helios for the Christian God.19 Julian’s broader statement of intent to confront Christianity developed further, and by mid-362, coalesced into comments that indicated his intent to co-opt features of the Christian church. As discussed, Van Nuffelen has dismissed Ep. 84a ‘To Arsacius’ as a fifth-century forgery, arguing that the author’s use of Ἑλληνισμός and its derivatives to refer to pagan religion are anachronistic at a time when this usage was only frequent among Christians, that the description of Christian philanthropic practices reflects the thorough network of such endeavours in place in the latter half of the fourth century, and that the forger contradicted Julian’s statements in the undisputed Ep. 89.20 Jean Bouffartigue refutes this approach, based on a reconsideration of each of the above points.21 He offers three examples from Julian’s other works of the language of Hellenism used in reference to religion. In the Hymn to King Helios, Julian wrote that the Romans were not only a Hellenic race, but also kept the Hellenic character of faith.22 He makes a convincing case that in the emperor’s writing to Libanius of Batnae in Syria, a place holy to the gods, as an Ἑλληνικόν χωριόν, that phrase contained ‘undeniable religious 14 Julian’s statement on this places his commitment in 351 (Julian, Ep. 111.434cd; cf. Lib., Or. xviii.18). 15 Scholars have reconstructed the series of events, which included Julian’s address to his Gallic troops informing them of Constantius’ order to transfer them to the East, his summoning his officers to dinner, from where they emerged equipped to spread leaflets and dissent, resulting in the ostensibly spontaneous acclamation of Julian. Libanius, Or. xviii.97; Amm. xx.4.12–22; Zosimus iii.9; cf. Müller-Seidl 1955, 225–244; Rosen 1969, 121–149; Bowersock 1978, 47–52. 16 Julian Or. v.271b-d. 17 Julian Or. vii.230c, 232c. In the myth, Julian is merely ‘the youth’, but all commentators realise the emperor’s identification of himself, cf. Rochefort 1963, 76; Athanassiadi 1981, 172. 18 καθαίρειν ἐκεῖνα πάντα τὰ ἀσεβήματα, Or. vii.231d. 19 τὴν προγονικὴν οἰκίαν, Or. vii.234c. Compare to Constantine’s house-cleaning mission in Eus., Vit. Const. ii.55.2. 20 Van Nuffelen 2001, 136–150. 21 Bouffartigue 2005, 231–242. 22 Julian, Or.xi.152d-153a.

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connotation’.23 In addition, he reminds readers that Julian referred to Abraham’s astral divination as evidence that Julian selected a Hellenic trait.24 Bouffartigue also points out that Julian’s imitation of contemporary Christian philanthropy did not require a thoroughly established network of such works, but only a known practice, such as was referred to by Gregory Nazianzen in his attack on Julian.25 Finally, Bouffartigue demonstrates that the alleged contradictions between Ep. 84a and Ep. 89 are compatible differences of perspective. In the first instance, instructions for priests to remain in temples and have officials come to them during busy times, but in quiet times be free to go and converse with officials, and for priests to maintain contact with officials in writing rather than paying visits to them, and to receive them in the temple, rather than going out to meet them, are explained as the difference between an official asking to see the priest and the general principle of subordination to authorities.26 The instructions in Ep. 89 for priests to follow the emperor’s example and personally give and share funds, and instructions in Ep. 84a regarding provision for charitable welfare from empire, city, and village, are resolved as the difference between personal and structural viewpoints of charity and philanthropy.27 Bouffartigue’s argument seems convincing; evidence from Julian’s letter will therefore be employed in this article. In late May or early June of 362, Julian wrote Ep. 84a to Arsacius, the ἀρχιερεύς or high priest of Galatia, which can be dated by its mention of the request of citizens of Pessinus, so probably written after stopping there on the journey to Antioch.28 In it, he discussed his concerns regarding the advance of Christianity or ‘atheism’ over against paganism. He lamented paganism’s failure to thrive and complacency regarding the Christians:29 Τί οὖν; ἡμεῖς οἰόμεθα ταῦτα ἀρκεῖν, οὐδὲ ἀποβλέπομεν ὡς μάλιστα τὴν ἀθεότητα συνηύξησεν ἡ περὶ τοὺς ξένους φιλανθρωπία καὶ ἡ περὶ τὰς ταφὰς τῶν νεκρῶν προμήθεια καὶ ἡ πεπλασμένη σεμνότης κατὰ τὸν βίον; Ὧν ἕκαστον οἴομαι χρῆναι παρ’ ἡμῶν ἀληθῶς ἐπιτηδεύεσθαι. What then? We expect this to suffice, and do not see that it increased atheism so much, their philanthropy to strangers, care for the graves of the dead, and the supposed holiness of their lives? I think that we ought truly to practice each of these.

23 24 25 26 27 28 29

Julian, Ep. 98.400c. Julian, C. Gal., frag. 87. Greg. Naz., Or. iv.111. Julian, Ep. 89.302d-303b; Ep. 84a.431c. Julian, Ep. 89.289b-292d; Ep. 84a.430c-431b. Amm. xxii.9.5. Ep. 84a.429d-430a. The text of Julian’s Epistle is that of Bidez and Cumont 1922, and the translation is my own.

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Julian continued, prescribing that all priests in Galatia who failed in these virtues or failed to attend worship should be dismissed. This combined praise of Christian strengths and prescription for using them to restore paganism to its rightful supremacy is enlightening.

II. Content Theresa Nesselrath has argued plausibly that pagan sources may have been responsible for Julian’s Christian-seeming moralising and some aspects of his philanthropy.30 Although the accumulated evidence along these lines is muddied enough that we cannot look exclusively to Christianity for inspiration, there are, however, substantial data that is specifically linked to Christianity.31 In this area, I shall focus my argument on two specific topics: spiritual practice and recrafting of divinities. Nesselrath attributes Christian elements in Julian’s ideal of a priest to the ‘Christian imprinting of his youth’.32 Some broader practices, perhaps, but this appears not to extend to his detailed pastoral instructions to priests. Recall his perception that Christian practices should be emulated by pagan religion. Julian also described his interpretation of the office of high-priests in a letter to the high priest Theodorus in Spring 362, which is reminiscent of the Pastoral Epistles. Julian instructed him to provide oversight and exhibit virtue and philanthropy.33 Julian’s priesthood emphasised personal holiness, rather than civic stature, as the primary qualification, in a sense, making a secular office an overtly religious one. 34 In Julian’s schema, priests should think piously about the gods, and venerate their temples and images.35 Such piety would be demonstrated by zeal, learning hymns by heart, praying three times daily, and philosophical reflection.36 The aspect of thrice-daily prayer is an interesting one, which likely had its roots in the Christian practice of daily prayer at the third, sixth, and ninth hours as described in the third century by Tertullian and Hippolytus. Tertullian suggested that prayer at these hours commemorated the gift of the Holy Spirit, Peter’s prayer at the sixth hour, and Peter and John going to the Temple at the ninth hour.37 Hippolytus claimed that these were chosen to honour the Crucifixion, corresponding to the times at which Christ was nailed to the cross, when darkness descended, and when he was pierced with the spear.38 Beyond these practices, Julian’s terminology for characteristics desired of priests parallels that found in the Pastoral Epistles in the New Testament. 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38

Nesselrath 2013, 171–175, 184. In addition to Koch 1927 and Koch 1928, cf. Downey 1955, 199–208. ‘Jugend . . . christlichen Praegung’, Nesselrath 2013, 135. Ep. 89a.453a; cf. 1 Tim. 3. Ep. 89a.453b; Browning 1975, 177. Ep. 89b.293a, 296b, 300c. Ep. 89b.293d. De orat. xxv; cf. Acts 2.25, 10.9, 3.1. Apost. Trad. xxxvi.2–6; cf. Mk. 15.25, Lk. 23.44; Jn. 19.34.

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Wilhelm Koch termed certain of Julian’s epistles his ‘lettres pastorales’, including Epp. 20, 22, 84a, 89a, and 89b.39 A brief comparison with the Pastoral Epistles demonstrates the conceptual parallels. As the author of the Pastoral Epistles exhorted Timothy to εὐσέβεια or ‘piety’, Julian demanded the same and warned against exhibiting ἀσέβεια.40 As Christian clergy were to engage in παράκλησις or ‘exhortation’, so Julian’s priests were to παραινέω or ‘exhort’, a kind of religious exhortation clearly imported from Christianity.41 As Timothy was instructed to select those who were δίκαιος or ‘righteous’ and practised δικαιοσύνη ‘righteousness’, so Julian warned that his clergy must not ἀδικέω ‘act unrighteously’.42 Both types of clergy were to engage in philanthropy, with Timothy and Titus told to select those who were so to strangers or φιλόξενος, while Julian desired φιλανθρωπία, and specified in another passage that it be applied to strangers as they served Ξένιον Δία, ‘Zeus of strangers’.43 While some might think this is only valuable evidence if it can be shown to be exclusive to Christianity, I would argue that this is an unreasonable standard, particularly when we are talking about multiple parallels within one epistle, supported by others. Koch assessed Julian’s programme as: ‘une simple imitation de la tradition chrétienne’.44 When Julian reintroduced paganism as the sole state religion, he provided new theological content, from Christianity, for the deities Heracles and Asclepius and sometimes from identifiable texts. David Hunt notes that modern interpretation of Against the Galileans has not paid adequate attention to Julian’s attack on Christ’s divinity and his engagement of Christian incarnational theology.45 Suffice to say that in his 362 oration, Julian recrafted Heracles into a water-walking saviour of the world, born from Zeus and the virgin goddess Athena.46 In his Hymn to King Helios and Against the Galileans, Julian performed a similar alteration to Asclepius, whom he recast as the pre-existent son of Helios, begotten in the form of a man to be the saviour of the whole world and restore sinful souls.47 These parallels, co-opting an incarnational and soteriological figure, are clearly drawn from Christianity.

III. Leadership Julian posited a new role for himself at the head of his re-imagined paganism, at the same time as correct he copied the ecclesiastical structure and clerical 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46

Koch 1928, 49. 1 Tim. 6.11; Julian Ep. 89b.299b, 300c; Ep. 84a. 1 Tim. 4.13; 2 Tim. 4.2; Tit. 1.9; Julian Ep. 89b.289a. Tit. 1.8; 1 Tim. 6.11; Julian Ep. 89a. 1 Tim. 3.2; Tit. 1.8; Julian Ep. 22, Ep. 20, Ep. 89b.289b; Ep. 84a.430bc; Ep. 89b.291bc. Koch 1928, 81; cf. Bringmann 2004, 130; Simons 2011, 501–502. Hunt 2012, 254, 259. Julian Or. vii.219d – 220a; cf. Greenwood 2014a, 140–149. These parallels are also recognised by others, e.g. Rochefort 1963, 63; Lacombrade 1964, 131; Nesselrath 2008, 213–214. 47 Julian Or. xi.144b; C.Gal. 200ab; also briefly noted by Lacombrade 1964, 131; Bouffartigue 1992, 649; cf. now Greenwood 2018, 491–509.

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instructions of the Christian faith. Oliver Nicholson has argued that the structure of Julian’s paganism drew upon the Christian church rather than the paganism of Maximinus Daia.48 Nesselrath, in turn, cautions against taking surface parallels too much at face value, and argues that Julian only took from Christianity the creation of a diverse infrastructure as he networked the various traditional pagan cults.49 Nesselrath may be correct to point out alternate source material for the provincial structure of Julian’s paganism. However, Julian seems very specifically to emulate Constantine in his idea of imperial leadership of the endorsed church. While correlating with the general imitation of the divine in late antique kingship, the parallels between Constantine and Julian are very specific, and seem driven by Julian’s perceptions in Or. 7, To the Cynic Heracleios, of Constantine as the one who led the empire astray by his assumption of such a role, as discussed above. Constantine was presented, largely by Eusebius, as the unique head of the Christian empire, and also as a ruler who mimetically reflected divinity and was specifically tied to the Christian Son of God. Julian, in turn, presented himself as the pagan parallel to this role. Constantine modified the structure of the Christian church by introducing a definite role for the state. Development in this direction was probably inevitable, as this was the first generation of the church to have such favoured status and receive state beneficence. While Constantine’s actions and intentions will continue to be disputed, it is Eusebius’ overtly Christian Constantine to whom Julian apparently reacted. There were, of course, limits to Eusebius’ influence with the emperor, as he had only four documented meetings with him.50 Nevertheless, Constantine’s behaviour did parallel Eusebius’ framework, even beyond the emperor’s actions interpreted in the Life of Constantine. Eusebius’ description aligns with Constantine’s portrayal of himself in both his Letter to the Provincials of the East and the Letter to Arius and Alexander. Much of the evidence cited here comes from Eusebius, so it is important to acknowledge that he was of course not crafting a dispassionate history, but appropriating Constantine’s actions for a triumphal narrative of Christianity’s eschatological fulfilment. Despite this bias, Eusebius can be used, carefully, as a source for Constantine’s actions, if not necessarily Constantine’s own vision of empire. Under Constantine, for the first time the state was wielding definite influence within the church: the emperor ordered churches built and temples abandoned, exempted Christian clergy from expensive public service, and gave theological advice at the Council of Nicaea, which framed theological debate through the rest of the century. Constantine crafted a particular role for himself as something more than the champion of his faith. Prior to this shift, he had accepted praise in panegyric as a divine emperor.51 In the autumn of 324, Constantine composed his Letter to Alex48 49 50 51

Nicholson 1994, 1–10. Nesselrath 2013, 101. Barnes 2011, 10. Pan. Lat. vi.1.5–2.5.

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ander and Arius, urging the two to resolve their Christological differences, and claiming that he was divinely called by God as his helper to restore the state.52 In his Letter to the Provincials of the East, the emperor asked God to offer healing to the state through him, to ‘restore again your most holy house’.53 These public statements demonstrate Constantine’s successful integration of his imperial role within his new religion, portraying himself as not only the champion of Christianity, but in a sense the earthly mirror of the Christian God, the two working in harmony to fulfil the divine plan on earth. The building of what would after many travails become the Church of the Holy Apostles began construction in 326.54 The most likely reconstruction of events entails Constantine initially building a mausoleum, in which he would be buried together with the twelve Apostles. Constantius II transported the remains of Apostles there in 356–357, but actually placed them next door in a church dedicated in 370.55 The mausoleum signified Constantine’s apostolic status, associating the future tomb of the emperor with twelve others intended for the apostles.56 Cyril Mango sees this as a plan that ‘verged on the blasphemous. By placing his own tomb at the centre and those of the twelve apostles on either side of him, he was proclaiming in the language of iconography that he was the equal of Christ, just as earlier in life he had been the double of Sol Invictus’.57 While it seems more likely that Constantine was proclaiming himself as an Apostle, both his contemporaries and Julian may have interpreted this as equality with Christ. Eusebius adopted and expanded this theme in his De laudibus Constantini, written for Constantine’s Tricennalia in Constantinople on 25 July 336, in which he lauded the emperor and his relation to his God.58 Constantine’s crafting of his own public persona was reinforced by Eusebius’ theological portrayal of him as a deliverer of the faithful from tyranny, very much in the style of Moses in the Exodus.59 In the hands of Eusebius, the emperor was specially chosen by God for his role as ‘a friend of the all-sovereign God, and was

52 53 54 55 56 57

58

59

Vit. Const. ii.64–5; for dating, Barnes 2011, 120. Eus., Vit. Const. ii.55.1–2, tr. Cameron and Hall. Mango 1990, 58–59. Eus., Vit. Const. iv.60; Jerome, Chron. 322d, s.a. 356; Philost. ii.2; Chron. Paschale p. 542; Dagron 1984, 405. Seeck 1919, 202–203; Timothy’s remains were transported to the mausoleum on 1 June 356 and Andrew and Luke on 3 March 357. Mango 1990, 58. According to a tradition preserved by the fourteenth-century historian Nicephorus Callistus, Hist. eccl. viii.55 = PG 146.220, the structure was built over the site of an altar of twelve gods of the pagan pantheon. It is important to note that those supervising Julian’s education, Eusebius of Nicomedia and George of Cappadocia, were both associated closely with Eusebius, and that Julian knew Eusebius’ writings well enough to cite him as ‘the wretched Eusebius’ (C. Gal. 222a, citing Prep. Evan. xi.5.5). Bouffartigue 1992, 385–386, has demonstrated the extent of Julian’s ‘direct consultation’ of the Praeparatio Evangelica in his own Contra Galilaeos. Eus. Vit. Const. i.12.1, 39.1; cf. Cameron 1991), 55; Cameron 1997, 158–163; Cameron and Hall 1999, 42.

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established as a clear example to all mankind of the life of godliness’.60 Indeed the Mosaic motif was applied to all stages of his life, as he grew up in the Imperial court under tyrants, received a vision from heaven much like Moses’ burning bush, and was described as a divine prophet.61 These numerous Mosaic parallels also took on a Messianic aspect when Eusebius compared Moses and Jesus in his Demonstratio Evangelica.62 Eusebius’ Life of Constantine opened with a declaration that Constantine was the exemplar for the human race and the earthly reflection of his heavenly rule.63 According to Eusebius, Constantine viewed his divine mission as including the healing of the empire, the rescue of its citizens from tyranny, particularly the people of his faith, and the bringing to them of knowledge of his God.64 Constantine apparently believed that God confirmed his power and mission through ‘many tokens’.65 Eusebius wrote of Constantine as being like an interpreter of his God, and accepted that there was direct communication between the two.66 Constantine ‘exercised a bishop’s supervision over all his subjects, and exhorted them all, as far as lay in his power, to lead the godly life’.67 Kenneth Setton notes the numerous imperial epithets attributed to God by Eusebius in conjunction with his praise of the emperor, and concludes, ‘Truly God had been cast in the image of the Roman emperor’.68 Eusebius had praised Constantine as a mimetic Christ-figure in a public oration in Constantinople in July 336.69 In the De laudibus Constantini Eusebius made significant and public use of the concept of μίμησις, with Constantine in his kingdom mirroring God in heaven, explicitly stating that, ‘looking upwards, he makes straight below, steering by the archetypal form’.70 Eusebius drew a clear parallel between Constantine and Christ, portraying the emperor even more explicitly as a mimetic Messiah.71 The Christian Christ and the first Christian emperor shared important functions. As the Λόγος prepared the cosmos for God’s kingdom, Constantine prepared his subjects for the kingdom.72 As the Λόγος opposed demons, Constantine

60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67

68 69 70 71 72

Eus. Vit. Const. i.3.17. Eus. Vit. Const. i.12.1, 20.2; ii.12.1; cf. Cameron 1997, 158. Eus. Dem. evan. iii.2.6–7. Eus. Vit. Const. i.3.4, 5.1. Eus. Vit. Const. ii.64–5, 55.1; cf. De laud. vi.21. Eus. Vit. Const. ii.55.2. Eus. De laud. x, xviii. Eus. Vit. Const. iv.24. Constantine declared himself the ἐπίσκοπος, ‘bishop’ or ‘overseer’, of those outside the church, although both the sense and the off-hand context indicate he was not establishing himself as its functional head, and may have been reassuring bishops that he would not encroach upon their jurisdiction. Setton 1941, 47–48. Eus. De laudibus Constantini ii.2–5; cf. Drake 1975, 345–356; Drake 1976, 31–38, 81; Barnes 1981, 253–255. ἄνω βλέπων κατὰ τὴν ἀρχέτυπον ἰδέαν τοὺς κάτω διακυβερνῶν ἰθύνει, Eus., De laud. iii.5. Drake 1976, 56. Eus., De laud. ii.2.

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opposed the earthly ‘opponents of truth’.73 As the Λόγος implanted seeds in men allowing them the knowledge of God, Constantine was the interpreter and proclaimer calling men to that knowledge.74 As the Λόγος opened the gates of God’s kingdom, Constantine opened the imperial court to holy men.75 Like the Λόγος, Eusebius described Constantine as a ποιμήν ἀγαθός, ‘good shepherd’, a charioteer, and οἶα μεγάλου βασιλέως ὕπαρχος, (‘a prefect of the great king’).76 While heaping praise upon emperors was nothing new, Eusebius’ intense and sustained Christological focus was different from both conventional emperor worship and panegyric. This cemented the relationship between Constantine and the God whom he mirrored, and reinforced his role as the earthly example for mankind to follow. Like Constantine, Julian took on the role of (re)founder and defender of the faith of his personal religion, presented his own personal paganism as the preferred religion, and provided state funding to support it. Despite his hatred of Christianity, he saw advantages in Christian organisation and its engagement with society. In addition, Julian’s restructuring involved a unique new role for himself, although this was more formalised than Constantine’s. While it is true that both emperors were already titled pontifex maximus, it is also clear that both saw their role involving an unprecedentedly aggressive engagement of their society on behalf of their personal religion.77 Julian wrote that he would not only be the high priest (ἀρχιερέα μέγιστον, the usual translation of pontifex maximus),78 but the architect of the new paganism: ‘not of your own self do you alone devise these precepts and practice them, but you have me also to give you support, who by the grace of the gods am known as sovereign pontiff’.79 In addition to this, Julian seemed to pattern his role as pontifex maximus after Constantine, much as Eusebius mimetically portrayed him. Contributing to the uniqueness of his role, Julian wrote that sacrifices on his behalf were efficacious for all Hellenes.80 For such reasons, Benedikt Simons recognises the parallels between Constantine as mimetic ruler for God and Julian for Helios.81 Julian did, however, differ from Constantine in his focus on his personal priestly role, particularly as it pertained to sacrifice. This emphasis, reflected so clearly in his private writings, did not escape his contemporaries, who wrote that his sacrifices were excessive and neglected none of the gods’ altars.82 In addition, as Eusebius portrayed Constantine as a mimetic Christ, Julian portrayed himself as an inverse parallel to Christ in his Oration 7. This is not to claim 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82

Eus., De laud. ii.3. Eus., De laud. ii.4. Eus., De laud. ii.5. Shepherd: Eus., De laud. ii.3; cf. ii.5, Jn. 10; Charioteer: De laud. iii.4, vi.9; Prefect: De laud. vii.13. Note the parallel to Julian as the new ἐπίτροπον or ‘steward’ of the gods from Or. vii.232c. Cameron 2007, 341–343 argues convincingly that Constantine retained the title. Liddell and Scott 1995, 252, s.v.: ἀρχιεράομαι. Ep. 89b.298c trans. Wright; cf. Ep. 18, Ep. 57. Ep. 10. Browning 1975, 178; Simons 2011, 501. Julian, Epp. 26.415cd, 28.382c; Lib., Or. xii. 87; Amm. xv.4.17; Greg. Naz., Or. iv.77.

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a causal relationship between Eusebius and Julian, in which the emperor must have read the bishop’s works, but merely that Eusebius’ view reflected a view in their society to which Julian was responding. In his public oration of Spring 362 in Constantinople, Julian revisited the Temptation of Christ, recasting himself in the role of Christ and Helios in the role of Satan offering him rule of the world below which, needless to say, Julian accepted.83 Julian also took advantage of the theological restructuring of the gods mentioned above to then associate himself with the new soteriological Heracles, asserting that, like Heracles, he too was born of Athena and Helios (equated by Julian with Zeus), and played the role of Heracles at the Crossroads.84 Julian’s associates in the pagan restoration effort reflected this understanding back as they described the emperor as Heracles, as Asclepius, and as the Son of Helios.85 Julian certainly had other imperial precedents for rulers assimilating themselves to the divine, but none other than Constantine was assimilated in literature to Jesus Christ, the salvific son of God.

IV. Symbols The symbolism of Julian’s ‘pagan chapel’ in the palace at Constantinople, and the rebuilding of the Jewish Temple in Jerusalem, must also be borne in mind. Both were responses to consecratory actions of Constantine on behalf of the Christian church. In material terms, both Constantine and Julian understood the value of funding symbolic construction for their reorganised religions. Constantine placed Christian imagery at his palace, at the centre of his power, and Julian in turn built a pagan chapel at the palace. Eusebius staked much on Constantine’s construction of the Church of the Resurrection in Jerusalem, the theocratic centre of the world, symbolising the triumph of Christianity; Julian’s attempt to rebuild the temple was a symbolic response to Constantine’s construction of his Church of the Resurrection facing the ruins of the Jewish Temple in Jerusalem. Constantine made particular use of space in Constantinople and Jerusalem to claim these sites as part of the Christian narrative, and Julian followed suit. Constantine’s new city displayed his religion in a number of ways. Eusebius wrote of an image on the city walls that portrayed the Emperor Constantine with the Chi-Rho emblem on his helmet, his foot on a serpent, holding the spear he pierced it with, representing Constantine’s victory over Satan.86 He began construction

83 Julian, Or. vii.229c-233d; cf. Matt. 4: 1–10; Greenwood 2014b, 593–598. 84 Julian, Or. vii.229c-230a, 230cd; cf. Greenwood 2014a, 142–145. 85 Heracles: Libanius Or. xii.28; Or. xv.36; Asclepius: Lib. Or. xiii.42, 47; Or. xv.69; Or. xvii.36; Son of Helios: Himerius Or. xli.8; Lib. Or. xiii.47; Eunapius frags. 28.4, 28.5, 28.6 Blockley. Athanassiadi 1981, 168, notes ‘his panegyricists had not ceased to proclaim in him Asclepios incarnate, greeting him as the superhuman healer who had come to resurrect not just one man, but the whole oikoumene’. 86 Eus. Vit. Const. iii.3.1–3; cf. Mango 1959, 22–24. There was coinage with the same imagery, RIC vii, Constantinople, no. 19.

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of what would eventually become the Church of the Holy Apostles.87 However, the high point is his consecration of the palace in Constantinople, as he placed the Saviour’s sign (likely the cross or labarum) over the palace gate.88 In a move less obvious to the population, but revealing as to Constantine’s perspective, he symbolically placed a cross at the seat of his power. For these reasons, Eusebius wrote that the emperor ‘consecrated the city to the martyrs’ God’.89 In the royal quarters of the palace ‘had been fixed the emblem of the saving Passion made up of a variety of precious stones and set in much gold. This appears to have been made by the God-beloved as a protection for his Empire’.90 Cameron and Hall note this construction was ‘explicitly presented as a talisman’.91 Shortly after entering Constantinople in 361, Julian not only made his paganism public to the citizens, but built a temple in the palace.92 We begin with Julian’s somewhat opaque words on the subject from his Hymn to King Helios: ‘Indeed I am a devotee of King Helios; the most clear evidence I can produce for this is at home’.93 Libanius clarified matters when he wrote years later that because of the logistics of daily travel to temples, ‘a temple to the god who governs the day was built in the middle of the palace, and he took part in his mysteries, initiated and in turn initiating’.94 This sort of ‘pagan chapel’ was unusual enough to prompt comment from Libanius. While Libanius was not in Constantinople and may have only speculated as to Julian’s intent, it is important to recognise the legitimacy of his confirmation of the event. Placing such a chapel in the palace could be interpreted as tactfulness, but Julian was not sensitive to the feelings of others elsewhere in his public career. In his Or. 7 To the Cynic Heracleios, Julian wrote that among his other instructions he was tasked by the gods with cleansing the impiety of Christianity.95 In this case, he started at home with a temple that may well have been the one where Himerius and Julian engaged in Mithraic worship. To understand how Julian restored pagan worship in the former city of Byzantium, the evidence of a close contemporary who wrote in 361 or 362 concerning Julian’s revival is crucial. Julian invited the Athenian Himerius to speak at 87 A structure containing the emperor’s future tomb as well as twelve tombs intended for the apostles. Mango 1990, 58–59, sees this as a claim to equality with Christ, an interpretation which may have occurred to Julian, although I agree with Barnes 2011, 129 that it was more likely Constantine’s iconographic claim to apostolic status. 88 Eus. Vit. Const. iii.2–3; cf. Bardill 2011, 338–396, who argues from Constantine’s building programme, particularly the Church of the Holy Apostles and the palace tableau with Constantine piercing the serpent with the labarum that the emperor was equating himself with Christ. 89 Eus. Vit. Const. iii.48.1. 90 Eus. Vit. Const. iii.49, trans. Cameron and Hall. 91 Cameron and Hall 1999, 299. 92 Hunt 1998, 62. 93 Julian Or. xi.130c, tr. Athanassiadi 1977, 362. 94 Lib. Or. xviii.127; cf. Lib. Or. xii.80–81; trans. Norman. Bidez 1930, 219, describes Julian as ‘le grand maître des conventicules mithraiques’, although Turcan 1975, 128 holds that Julian’s thoroughgoing Mithraism is only ‘une extrapolation des historiens modernes’. 95 Julian Or. vii.231d.

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Constantinople; en route he delivered orations in Thessalonica and Philippi en route to Constantinople.96 His oration of December 361 or January 362 can be seen as the opening salvo in Julian’s campaign, much as he had Libanius delivering orations of support when he moved into a new phase of the restoration of paganism in Antioch.97 Himerius delivered his oration while Julian was in the city, but he was not present, as Himerius closed by stating he needed to go and ‘set eyes upon the emperor’.98 He wrote that he had cleansed his soul through Mithraic ritual and had spent time worshipping with Julian. This has been claimed as evidence that Julian initiated Himerius, but there is insufficient evidence to justify this conclusion.99 Himerius detailed the initial progress made by Julian’s Hellenic revival, as he ‘has raised up temples to the gods, has established religious rites foreign to the city, and has made sacred the mysteries of the heavenly gods introduced into the city’.100 Himerius’ description of ‘foreign’ rites could refer to Mithraism, or perhaps any pagan rites, as Constantinople was generally perceived as Constantine’s ‘Christian’ city. While we should not take it as an exclusive commitment on Julian’s part to the mystery religions, Gregory Nazianzen did write somewhat obliquely in 363–365 of Julian’s apparent participation in the Mithraic rite of the taurobolium, according to an alleged source with knowledge of the emperor’s private actions: ‘with unhallowed blood he rids himself of his baptism, setting up the initiation of abomination against the initiation according to our rite’.101 Returning to Constantine, after passing through Palestine c. A.D. 300 with the court of Diocletian, he returned to the eastern empire as a magnanimous supporter of the religion Diocletian had attempted to eliminate.102 Yet this triumph as the deliverer of God’s people and the victor over Licinius could be outstripped by another project, the reclamation and purification of Jerusalem as a Christian site. Constantine reclaimed Jerusalem from the pagan Aelia,103 with his construction of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre at a site described as the ‘very center of the world’.104 This had been the site of Hadrian’s Temple of Venus, which had in turn been built over the site of the holy sepulchre.105 Eusebius, who claimed that Constantine undertook the construction as directed by God, described Constantine’s view of the religious pollution

96 97 98 99 100 101

102 103 104

105

Barnes 1987, 221. Barnes 1987, 224 dates Himerius’ Or. 41 to December 361. Penella 2007, 35. Himerius, Or. xli.1, tr. Penella = Or. xli.2–8 Colonna; cf. Athanassiadi 1977, 362. Him. Or. xli.8, tr. Penella mod.; = Him., Or. xli.84–89 Colonna. Gr. Naz. Or. iv.52, tr. King. This reference to inside knowledge might seem hyperbolic, were it not for Gregory Nazianzen’s younger brother Caesarius being Julian’s ἀρχιατρός or senior court physician; Gr. Naz. Or. vii.9 Eus. Vit. Const. i.19; cf. Barnes 1981, 41–42, 55. Cameron 1998, 100. Cyril of Jerusalem, Catechesis xiii.28; cf. Walker 1990, 236. The significance is recognised by Bardill 2011, 256, who writes that there is ‘little doubt that this project held great symbolic power for the emperor’. Eus. Vit. Const. iii.26.

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of the site.106 The emperor ordered the removal of the temple and its remnants of ‘detestable oblations’, and further demanded the excavation of the polluted soil.107 In place of this temple, work began in 328 on a basilica that Constantine instructed Bishop Macarius to build. His Church of the Holy Sepulchre was formally dedicated in September 335 for his Tricennalia celebration.108 The complex included a fiveaisled basilica and the Anastasis Rotunda, and enclosed the Holy Sepulcher and the Rock of Calvary.109 Eusebius described the resultant basilica over the supposed tomb of Jesus as ‘a manifest testimony of the Saviour’s resurrection’.110 This church was not only a theological testimony, but also spoke to Constantine’s building aspirations and Christianising narrative. Indeed, Dagron notes that in a sense Constantine’s building programme centred on Jerusalem as the Christian capital more than Constantinople.111 Eusebius cited Constantine’s new construction in Jerusalem as evidence of the Christian victory.112 He wrote that Constantine’s construction constituted a new holy city contrasting with the old, a monument to Christian victory that was perhaps the fulfilment of eschatological prophecies in John’s Apocalypse regarding the New Jerusalem.113 As Cameron and Hall point out, the striking contrast that Eusebius draws explains why Constantine and subsequent Christian emperors did not build over the Temple site, but left it to add its testimony.114 The suggestion that God’s plan was finding fulfilment in Constantine’s construction was a powerful one, in which Eusebius changed the tenor of the narrative, as his presentation of this prophetic fulfilment was neither Apocalyptic nor anti-Roman. Constantine’s earthly act was the New Jerusalem. Sozomen wrote that when Julian exhorted the Jews to resume sacrifices, they objected that they could not without the restoration of their temple, following which Julian funded them and directed them to rebuild it.115 This can, of course, be seen as related to Julian’s general campaign to rebuild temples throughout the empire, alluded to in public and private statements of intent, made explicit in his laws of 362, and evidenced in a number of locations.116 However, the response that Julian selected suggests a great deal more regarding his intentions. The obvious and easy route would have been to follow in Hadrian’s Hellenophile footsteps and rebuild the pagan city that had existed between that emperor and Constantine. Reconstructing

106 Eus. Vit. Const. iii.25, 29. 107 Eus. Vit. Const. iii.25, 27. 108 Eus. Vit. Const. iv.43; Drake 1976, 42–43. The actual date for the Tricennalia should have been July 335, but the celebration was possibly delayed in order to get bishops there as participants. 109 Krautheimer and Ćurčić 1986, 63. 110 Eus. Vit. Const. iii.40. 111 Dagron 1984, 389. 112 Eus., De laud. ix.16. 113 Eus. Vit. Const. iii.33.1–2; cf. Rev. 21.1–3. 114 Cameron and Hall 1999, 285 115 Soz. Hist. eccl. v.12. 116 Intent: Julian, Or. vii.228bc, 234c; Ep. ix.415cd; Laws: Historia Acephala ix (4 February 362); C.Th. xv.1.3 (29 June 362); cf. Libanius, Or. xviii.126; Greenwood 2013, 289–296.

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the city as Hadrian’s Aelia Capitolina would have had some pagan aesthetic value, but not nearly the symbolic value of using his understanding as a Christian insider to refashion the Jewish city. This understanding of Christianity’s vulnerability to any potential Jewish revival is highlighted by his statement in Against the Galilaeans regarding Christian supersession as it related to the matter of sacrifice. After reviewing the deprivation of the Temple of Jerusalem, he asks, ‘But having devised the new sacrifice, and not needing Jerusalem, why do you not sacrifice instead?’.117 Here, Julian both contrasted Christianity’s ‘new sacrifice’, likely the Eucharistic service, with the traditional Jewish forms of sacrifice, but also then demanded to know why, since they were neither tied to Jerusalem nor allowing the Jews to make use of Jerusalem, they were not conducting this traditional animal sacrifice. In using both senses of the term ‘sacrifice’, he placed Christianity on the horns of a dilemma. He went on to taunt Christians in the same work, again framing the conflict on his own terms by defining the only excuse available for the lack of Christianity’s lack of traditional blood sacrifice as their location outside Jerusalem.118 Ephrem reported that Jewish leaders made an alliance with Julian in winter 362/3, and met further with the emperor in February or March.119 Ammianus 23.1.2 placed Julian’s entrusting of Alypius to oversee the work to its completion in early January 363, although Timothy Barnes points out that Ammianus never specifies how long the preparation had been underway.120 While there is no literary evidence from the Jewish community supporting the restoration of the Temple, inscriptional evidence indicates that Julian did attempt in late 362 or possibly early 363 to have the Jewish temple at Jerusalem rebuilt. A Hebrew inscription citing Is. 66.14 carved onto one of the ashlars of the Western Wall has been identified as fourth century and associated with Julian’s rebuilding effort.121 A nearby building also buried in debris and ashes was in use in the fourth century, and provided coinage from the reigns of Constantine, Constantius II, and terminating with Julian’s reign.122 These hopes were ultimately dashed, as both Julian’s campaign against the church and the programme to rebuild the Jewish Temple were abandoned. Ammianus was with Julian in the East when an earthquake ended the restoration attempt, and later wrote of the initiation and failure of the rebuilding plan.123 The setting of this interlude within Ammianus’ section on Antioch may mean Ammianus thought the project ended while Julian was in Antioch – between July 362 and 5 March 363 – or that his residence to the plan’s collapse was retrospective and he then returned to his historical narrative in sequence.124 117 ὑμεῖς δὲ οἱ τὴν καινὴν θυσίαν εὑρόντες, οὐδὲν δεόμενοι τῆς Ἱερουσαλήμ, ἀντὶ τίνος οὐ θύετε; C. Gal. 306a, my trans. 118 Julian, C. Gal. 351d, 324cd. 119 Ephrem, i.5.3, vii.3, x.1. 120 Barnes 1992, 4. 121 Mazar 1971, 23, 94. 122 Mazar 1971, 22. 123 Amm. xxiii.1.2–3, 2.6; cf. Zos., iii.12.1; Bowersock 1978, 6. 124 Amm. xxii.9.14, xxiii.2.6.

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Julian’s motivations here can be understood as a thrust directed at Constantine, but benefiting Julian’s campaign in several ways. In the first place, rebuilding the Temple of the Jews would replace and invalidate the actions of Constantine. Julian’s restoration of the Jewish Temple at Jerusalem would undo Constantine’s use of space which had declared Jerusalem to be a Christian city. The proclamation of ‘New Jerusalem’ by the presence of the church overlooking the city would be rendered impotent by such an endeavour. To be clear, I am not claiming that this was Julian imitating Christianity, but rather that he was responding to it. As Drijvers terms it: it was Julian’s ‘wish to counter Constantine’s policy of the Christianisation of Jerusalem’.125 Rebuilding the Jerusalem temple would benefit Julian by restoring non-Christian sacrifice, validating the Old Covenant, and invalidating Christian prophecy. Michael Simmons has argued that the role of pagan prophecy should be considered as well, namely that Christianity would end after a set period of time, which Julian sought to fulfil.126 Rebuilding the Temple at Jerusalem and restoring sacrifice would have validated the Old Covenant and suggested that Christ’s sacrifice of himself ‘once-for-all’ as claimed by the author of Hebrews 7.27 was a sham. Christ had been reported as stating that the Temple would be reduced, leaving not one stone standing upon another.127 This was taken as prophesying the impossibility of restoring the Jerusalem Temple by several influential authors prior to Julian. Justin Martyr tied the barring of the Jews from Jerusalem following the Bar Kokhba revolt to biblical prophecy, and held that the Temple would never be rebuilt by man, but only in the restoration of all things at the Millenium.128 Eusebius offered a vivid description that captured the finality of the Christian view in the fourth century, writing that the old Jerusalem ‘had been overthrown in utter devastation, and paid the penalty of its wicked inhabitants’.129 In the early fourth century, Athanasius wrote that the end of the period of Jewish kings, prophets, and Temple was proof of the coming of the Christ and validation of his teachings,130 and in 402–403, Rufinus confirmed that this theology was held in the 360s as well, writing that Bishop Cyril of Jerusalem had insisted the Jews could not rebuild the temple, based on these interpretations of the prophecies in Daniel and Matthew.131 Fourth-century Christian authors had suggested the destruction of the Temple was a fulfilment of Old Testament and New Testament prophecies and that the Temple must remain in ruins.132 Such weight was placed upon the impossibility of any 125 126 127 128 129 130

Drijvers 2004, 133. Simmons 2006, 68–117. Mark 13.2. Justin, 1 Apology xlvii.5–6; Dialogue with Trypho lxxx. Vit. Const. iii.33.1, trans. Cameron and Hall. Ath. De inc. xl.12–24, 49–55; Scholars agree Contra Gentes – De Incarnatione is Athanasius’ first work, but it may be plausibly dated from the Arian controversy in 323 up to 335; Thomson 1971, xxi. 131 Rufinus x.38. 132 E.g., Jerome, Comm. Dan. ix.24; cf. Wilken 1983, 137.

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reconstruction of the Jerusalem Temple that restoration would have been a severe blow to Christianity.133 With this project, Julian was not merely expressing his paganism in support of the highest god, but was engaging in a deliberate counter to Christianity. In other words, he was not overwriting Christianity with paganism, but was wielding the tool of Judaism, which was more capable of truly unpicking one of Christianity’s most compelling narratives and truth claims. There is no need to assume that Julian must have acted from only one motivation or the other: the theological and spatial overwritings would be complementary and united by their employment against Constantine’s campaign. This very flexible and Christian-minded manoeuver highlights Julian’s understanding of and engagement with his opponents.

Conclusion The establishment of a pagan church overwriting the Christian church was a key feature of Julian’s response to Constantine, and in some instances, there was no other inspiration for his ideas than the church. Julian inherited a narrative in which Constantine, the ‘friend of Christ’ and first Christian emperor, led his people to salvation like Moses, and inaugurated a new age. Julian responded in kind, crafting a narrative in which he, the special devotee of Helios, would be the first emperor to return to a revived paganism, inaugurating a new age. Both emperors viewed themselves in something of an apostolic role. As Eusebius claimed a special relationship for Constantine with his God, so Julian claimed to be the devotee and son of Helios.134 Both emperors received a visionary experience from the divine.135 As Constantine claimed to have been chosen to restore the empire and save his people from pagan tyrants, so Julian claimed to have been chosen to restore the empire and save his people from apostate tyrants.136 As Constantine received direct revelation from God, Julian named himself the prophet of Apollo.137 Both placed their personal stamp upon the faiths they defended. In Julian’s case, his statement that state-supported paganism should do as the state-supported Christians had done is an especially powerful piece of evidence for Julian’s reiteration of Constantine.138 His clerical instructions bore a remarkable conceptual similarity to those for Christian clergy. Julian attempted to overshadow the church that was described by Eusebius as the ‘New Jerusalem’ with the rebuilt Temple of the Old Jerusalem, which would have effectively ended any Christian dominance

133 Hahn 2002, 257–258 holds that Julians religio-political programme had ‘failed miserably in his lifetime’and ascribes the incongruously livid Christian response in part to an awareness that the Jerusalem project struck at a point that could bring the whole enterprise down, a ‘death blow’ for Christianity. 134 Eus., Vit. Const. i.3.17; Julian, Or. vii.232c; x.336c. 135 Eus., Vit. Const. i.12.1; ii.12.1; Julian, Or. vii.232c. 136 Eus., Vit. Const. ii.28.2; 55.1; 64–65; iv.9; De laud. vi.21; Julian, Or. vii.234c, 231d. 137 Eus., Vit. Const. ii.12.1; Julian, Ep. 88.451b. 138 Julian, Ep. 84a.429d-430a.

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of the location and obliterated Constantine’s Christianising narrative. Further, by renewing Jewish sacrifice under the old covenant and invalidating an assumed prophecy of Christ regarding the Temple, Julian’s reiteration of Constantine’s work would have produced a conclusive result, casting doubt upon the credibility of the entire Christian enterprise.139 Had Julian lived to complete its implementation, such a comprehensively integrated ‘pagan Church’, simultaneously attacking and co-opting Christianity, could have been a potent weapon indeed.

Bibliography Athanassiadi, Polymnia. 1977. ‘‘A Contribution to Mithraic Theology’, Journal of Theological Studies 28, 360–371. Athanassiadi, Polymnia. 1981. Julian and Hellenism: An Intellectual Biography (as Polymnia Athanassiadi-Fowden). Oxford; reprinted with new introduction as Julian: An Intellectual Biography (London, 1992). Bardill, Jonathan. 2011. Constantine, Divine Emperor of the Christian Golden Age. Cambridge. Barnes, Timothy D. 1981. Constantine and Eusebius. Cambridge, MA. Barnes, Timothy D. 1987. ‘Himerius and the Fourth Century’, Classical Philology 82, 206–225. Barnes, Timothy D. 1992. ‘New Year 363 in Ammianus Marcellinus: Annalistic Technique and Historical Apologetics’, 1–8 in Cognitio Gestorum: The Historiographic Art of Ammianus Marcellinus, eds. J. den Boeft, D. den Hengst, and H. C. Teitler. Amsterdam. Barnes, Timothy D. 2011. Constantine: Dynasty, Religion, and Power in the Later Roman Empire. Oxford. Beckwith, C. L. 2005. ‘The Condemnation and Exile of Hilary of Poitiers at the Synod of Béziers (356 C.E.)’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 13, 21–38. Bidez, Joseph. 1930. La vie de l’empereur Julien. Paris. Bidez, Joseph and Franz Cumont, eds. 1922. Iuliani epistulae leges poemata fragmenta varia. Paris. Bouffartigue, Jean. 1992. L’Empereur Julien et la culture de son temps. Paris. Bouffartigue, Jean. 2005. ‘L’authenticité de la Lettre 84 de l’empereur Julian’, Revue de Philologie, de littérature et d’histoire anciennes 79, 231–242. Bowersock, Glen W. 1978. Julian the Apostate. Cambridge, MA. Brenneke, Hans Christof. 1988. Studien zur Geschichte der Homöer: der Osten bis zum Ende der homöischen Reichskirche. Tubingen. Bringmann, Klaus. 2004. Kaiser Julian: Der letzte heidnische Herrscher. Darmstadt. Browning, Robert. 1975. The Emperor Julian. London. Burgess, Richard W. 2008. ‘The Summer of Blood: The “Great Massacre” of 337 and the Promotion of the Sons of Constantine’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 62, 5–51. Cameron, Alan. 2007. ‘The Imperial Pontifex’, Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 103, 341–384. Cameron, Alan. 2011. The Last Pagans of Rome. New York.

139 Penella 1999, 24.

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Cameron, Averil. 1991. Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire: The Development of Christian Discourse. Berkeley. Cameron, Averil. 1997. ‘Eusebius’ Vita Constantini and the Construction of Constantine’, 145–174 in Portraits: Biographical Representation in the Greek and Latin Literature of the Roman Empire, eds. Mark Edwards and Scott Swain. Oxford. Cameron, Averil. 1998. ‘The Reign of Constantine, A.D. 306–337’, 90–109 in The Cambridge Ancient History, vol. 13: The Late Empire, A. D. 337–425, eds. A. Cameron and P. Garnsey. Cambridge. Cameron, Averil and Stuart Hall, trans. 1999. Eusebius, Life of Constantine. Oxford and New York. Dagron, Gilbert. 1984. Naissance d’une capitale: Constantinople et ses institutions de 330 a 451, 2nd ed. Paris. Downey, Glanville. 1955. ‘Philanthropia in Religion and Statecraft in the Fourth Century after Christ’, Historia 4, 199–208. Drake, Hal A. 1975. ‘When Was the “De Laudibus Constantini” Delivered?’, Historia 24, 345–356. Drake, Hal A., trans. 1976. Eusebius, in Praise of Constantine: A Historical Study and New Translation of Eusebius’ Tricennial Orations. Berkeley. Drijvers, Jan. 2004. Cyril of Jerusalem: Bishop and City. Leiden. Elm, Susanna. 2012. Sons of Hellenism, Fathers of the Church: Emperor Julian, Gregory of Nazianzus, and the Vision of Rome. Berkeley and Los Angeles. Greenwood, David Neal. 2013. ‘Pollution Wars: Consecration and Desecration from Constantine to Julian’, 289–296 in Studia Patristica, Vol. LXII: Papers presented at the Sixteenth International Conference on Patristic Studies held in Oxford 2011, edited by Markus Vinzent. Leuven. Greenwood, David Neal. 2014a. ‘Crafting Divine personae in Julian’s Or. 7’, Classical Philology 109, 140–149. Greenwood, David Neal. 2014b. ‘A Pagan Emperor’s Appropriation of Matthew’s Gospel’, The Expository Times 125, 593–598. Greenwood, David Neal. 2018. ‘Julian’s Use of Asclepius Against the Christians’, Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 109, 491–509. Hahn, Johannes. 2002. ‘Kaiser Julian und ein dritter Tempel? Idee, Wirklichkeit und Wirkung eines gescheiterten Projektes’, 237–262 in Zerstorungen des Jerusalemer Tempels: Geschehen–Wahrnehmung–Bewaltigung, ed. J. Hahn. Tübingen. Hunt, E. David. 1998. ‘Julian’, 44–77 in The Cambridge Ancient History, vol. XIII: The Late Empire A.D. 337–425, eds. A. Cameron and P. Garnsey. Cambridge. Hunt, E. David. 2012. ‘The Christian context of Julian’s Against the Galileans’, 251–261 in Emperor and Author: The Writings of Julian the Apostate, eds. Nicholas Baker-Brian and Shaun Tougher. Swansea. Koch, Wilhelm. 1927. ‘Comment l’empereur Julien tâcha de fonder une église païenne’, Revue belge de philologie et d’histoire 6, 123–146. Koch, Wilhelm. 1928. ‘Comment l’empereur Julien tâcha de fonder une église païenne’, Revue belge de philologie et d’histoire 7, 49–82, 511–550, 1363–1368. Krautheimer, Richard and Slobodan Ćurčić. 1986. Early Christian and Byzantine Architecture, 4th ed. New Haven. Lacombrade, Christian, ed. And trans. 1964. L’empereur Julien. Oeuvres complètes, t. 2.2. Paris. Liddell, Henry, Robert Scott, Henry Jones and Roderick McKenzie, eds. 1995. A GreekEnglish Lexicon, 9th edition, with a Revised Supplement. New York.

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Introduction The great Alexandrian Origen wrote Contra Celsum in approximately A.D. 245 when he was 60 or 61 and living in Caesarea.1 Contra Celsum was itself part of a larger narrative expressed in the totality of Origen’s works, in which Christianity was defended as philosophically sound, and its Scriptures exposited as part of a larger whole with the Hebrew Scriptures to demonstrate the continuity of God’s actions in history. Lorenzo Perrone reminds us that Origen was concerned not only to defend Christianity as a superior philosophy, but also as a rational practice.2 Little is known of Celsus himself. He has been recognised for his breadth of reading, his education, and his methodical study.3 His place in the historic conflict between paganism and Christianity has been recognised, as ‘the first critic of Christianity to give careful attention to the New Testament accounts of Jesus’.4 Modern scholars have speculated about his career,5 but we must approach him through the fragments of his Alethes Logos, most likely written during the reign

1 Origen’s age can be determined from the persecution of Septimius Severus in 202 when he was almost 17; see discussion in Crouzel 1989, 2. 2 Perrone 2009, 293–318. 3 Benko 1980, 1101; Benko 1984, 148. 4 Berchman 2005, 88. 5 Glöckner 1927, 351, argued for Celsus as a Roman official.

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of Marcus Aurelius (161–180 AD), and quite possibly during the local persecution in Lyons of 177–178 AD, which survives today only in Origen’s extensive quotations of it in his Contra Celsum.6 Both the faithfulness of Origen’s quotations and the quality of his response to Celsus have generally been given high marks.7 Celsus was, above all, a traditionalist, who judged the new religious movement not primarily by the content of the religion or the behaviour of adherents to the movement, but rather by the newness of it. For all his social conservatism, Celsus’ engagement with Christianity signified a new phase in pagan-Christian relations, as the upstart religious community now required a proper refutation.8 Broadly speaking, Celsus’ Alethes Logos attacked Christianity as an irresponsible deviation from Judaism that rejected Roman civic responsibilities. Celsus attacked Christianity numerous times based on its perceived fledgling status and rejection of ancestral customs in the Mediterranean world, and in this, Celsus was not alone, as this was a popular lens through which to look at ideas in antiquity, particularly religious ideas. Celsus wrote that the wise of all cultures had adhered to the common ancient teachings.9 He continued, writing that Moses had deluded his followers into thinking that there could only be one God, and Jesus of Nazareth was then assumed by his followers to be the son of that God.10 One of the key components of Celsus’ attack was the assertion of Christianity’s historical discontinuity with the Old Testament. Celsus ‘noted the propositions Christians used to argue they were the heirs to Judaism and the embarassing fact that Jews rejected their claim’.11 Celsus wrote that the Christians were deceived by Jesus into leaving the law of their fathers, assessed in the light of the principle that it was wrong for people of any culture to abandon ancient ancestral customs.12 His argument that the teachings of the Hebrew God and Jesus of Nazareth were incongruous was abstract and likely found little purchase among adherents or affiliates of Christianity. However, attacking Christian theology at the root of a ritual regularly participated in by all baptised believers offered significant potential benefits, so Celsus also focused upon the Christian Eucharist, attempting to separate it from its roots in the Old Testament.

6 Crouzel 1998, 48; Chadwick 1980, xxvi–xxviii. For the Contra Celsum, I have used the edition of Marcovich 2001, with reference to the helpful notes of Borret 1967–1969, and the translation of Chadwick 1980, which I have lightly modified at points. 7 Quality: Fédou 1988; Frede 1999, 131–155. Faithfulness: Chadwick 1948, 83–102; Chadwick 1947, 34–49; Somos 2010, 200–201. 8 Similarly, Parvis and Minns 2009, 26, note that Athenagoras’ contemporary recasting of Justin’s Apology as an Embassy suggests a self-perception of a public body with real social standing; see Parvis 2007, 123–125. 9 C. Cels. I 14. 10 C. Cels. I 23; I 26. 11 Berchman 2005, 86–87; referencing C. Cels. II 1; II 4; II 11; II 28; VII 18. 12 C. Cels. II 1; V 26.

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I. Celsus’s Attack Celsus appears to have attempted to place the Christians on the horns of a Eucharistic dilemma by accusing them of consorting with the demons who oversaw material things when they breathed air or consumed food and wine.13 Celsus began by presenting an argument designed to attack Christianity at the root of its traditions inherited from Judaism. He wrote: ‘If they follow a custom of their fathers when they abstain from particular sacrificial victims, surely they ought also to abstain from the food of all animals’.14 Celsus’ speculation here was disingenuous, as his conclusion, that Christians should abstain from all meat, does not follow from his premises. Not only did Celsus likely know that vegetarianism was not the ancestral custom of Christians, but from his use of Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, he would surely have been aware of Paul’s principle against the practice of refusing sacrificed meat: ‘Eat whatever is sold in the meat market without raising any question on the ground of conscience’.15 Celsus’ attack continued, as he wrote: ‘But if, as they say, they abstain to avoid feasting with demons, I congratulate them on their wisdom, because they are slowly coming to understand that they are always associating with demons. They scruple at this only when they see a victim being sacrificed’.16 The idea of demons feeding on sacrifice was part of Greco-Roman tradition dating back to Homer.17 This tradition continued outside of literature as well, appearing in the work of Philo.18 Origen also cited a Pythagorean philosopher, possibly the second-century Numenius of Apamea, who held this view.19 Regarding feasting with demons, Paul also drew some connection to the demonic role in his first letter to the Corinthians, writing to the Christian community there that they could not partake of both the cup and table of Christ and of the demons.20 In 150 AD, Justin, who elsewhere drew the connection between the Old Testament offering of fine flour and its typological fulfilment in the Eucharist,21 wrote that wicked demons had imitated the substance and actions of the Eucharist in the rites of Mithras that they

13 C. Cels. VIII 28. 14 Εἰ μὲν δὴ κατὰ τι πάτριον ἱερείων τινῶν ἀπέχονται τῶν τοιῶνδε, πάντως ἀφεκτέον καὶ ζῴων ἁνάντων βρώσεως·, C. Cels. VIII 28. 15 1 Cor. 10:25 (RSV); Nevertheless, it is possible that Celsus was attempting to exploit divisions within Christianity by playing to communities that did practice vegetarianism or purchase untainted meat from Jewish vendors. 16 Εἰ δ᾽ὅπερ φασίν, ὅπως μὴ συνεστιῶνται δαίμοσι, μακαρίζω τῆς σοφίας αὐτούς, ὅτι βραδέως συνιᾶσιν ὄντες ἀεὶ συνέστιοι δαιμόνων. Καὶ τότε δὴ μόνον φυλάσσονται τοῦτο, ὁπόταν ἱερεῖον θυόμενον βλέπωσιν·, C. Cels. VIII 28. 17 Homer, Iliad IV 49; IX 500; XXIV 70. 18 Philo, De decal. 74. 19 Origen, C. Cels. VII 6. 20 1 Cor. 10:21. 21 Justin, Dialogue with Trypho 91.

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inspired.22 Contemporary with Celsus, in the 170s Athenagoras of Athens also associated demons with sacrifice.23 Celsus concluded his argument that attempted to place Christians onto the horns of an unresolvable dilemma, by extending this association with demons to the Eucharist itself. He wrote: ‘But whenever they eat food, and drink wine, and taste fruits, and drink even water itself, and breathe even the very air, are they not receiving each of these from certain demons, among whom the administration of each of these has been divided?’24 Had this attack found purchase, the theological implications would have been devastating. If they had found his argument compelling, Christians would have been left with a choice: admit that demons were associated with and administered Christianity’s sacrificial rite, or deny its sacrificial nature and spiritual import. In his commentary on this passage, Bader missed the Eucharistic reference in eating and drinking and wrote that Celsus was merely offering a choice between not living, or returning respect to demons.25 Although this passage of Celsus has not been generally been treated as a reference to the Eucharist, Origen’s response indicates that he took it as such.

II. Intertextuality Now, on the surface, the above may not seem to be the clearest attack on the practice of the Eucharist. However, Celsus’ first comment about abstaining from meat is an apparent engagement of 1Cor. 10:14–22, a Eucharistic passage regarding the body and blood of Christ.26 Origen then framed his response to this passage of Celsus with Eucharistic allusions of his own, forming an inclusio. At VIII 24, he refers to the same passage from Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, and again at VIII 33.27 Origen opens his response to this passage by citing Paul and declaring that living in accordance with God’s word ‘is granted when, “whether we eat or drink, we do all to the glory of God”’.28 This quotation responds directly to Celsus’s assertion above that Christians should abstain from all meat. Origen’s inclusio reinforces that he believed Celsus’ comments were based on this same Pauline passage and directed at the Eucharist.

22 Justin, 1 Apol. 66.4. 23 Athenagoras, Legatio 26.1, 27.2. 24 ὅταν δὲ σῖτον ἐσθίωσι καὶ οἶνον πίνωσι καὶ ἀκροδρύων γεύωνται καὶ αὐτὸ ὕδωρ πίνωσι καὶ αὐτὸν ἀέρα ἀπανωέωσιν, οὐκ ἄρα παρά τινων δαιμόνων ἕκαστα τούτων λαμβάνουσιν, οἷς κατὰ μέρη τὸ ἐπιμελὲς ἕκαστων προστέτακται; C. Cels. VIII 28. 25 Bader 1940, 199. 26 1 Cor. 11:23–25; in his letter to the Corinthians, the Apostle Paul apparently held the view that Jesus himself instituted the Eucharist at the Last Supper, although it has been argued that the connection between the Eucharist and earlier precedents such as the Passover and the Last Supper was not in place until after the first century. Bradshaw 2004, 10; see also McGowan 2010, 173–191. 27 1 Cor. 10:20–21. 28 C. Cels. VIII 33; see 1 Cor. 10:31.

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III. Origen’s Defence The connection between Celsus’ attack at VIII 28 and the Eucharist is further supported by Origen’s detailed response at VIII 33, which moves from arguing that demons do not oversee those material things, to a specific discussion of the Eucharist. Origen began by writing: ‘For reason of this kind Celsus, as one who is ignorant of God, may render the offerings of thanksgiving to demons’.29 This followed Origen’s predecessor, Clement of Alexandria, who reported demons masquerading as gods that loved human sacrifice.30 He also wrote that the demons were allured by sacrificial smoke.31 Elsewhere in the C. Cels., Origen wrote of demons having been summoned to altars, or being drawn to the sacrifices themselves, but that Christians, as a body, had shunned demonic worship like the plague.32 Origen continued, contrasting Celsus and Christians: ‘But we give thanks to the Creator of the universe and eat the loaves that are presented with thanksgiving and prayer over the gifts, so that by the prayer they become a certain holy body which sanctifies those who partake of it with a pure intention’.33 This thanks to God and purification by prayer is in direct contrast to the bread and wine administered by demons in the passage of Celsus.34 The implications for interpreting Celsus in Origen’s response are usually passed over. Chadwick recognises Origen’s passage at VIII 33 as Eucharistic, but does not connect it to the citation of Celsus at VIII 28 as part of the larger discourse.35 Jean Daniélou recognised this Eucharistic reference as well, but only discussed it as a means to understanding Origen’s views on Christ’s real presence in the Eucharist.36

Conclusion This exchange is significant both because it is a largely unrecognised manoeuvre on Celsus’ part, and also for its intrinsic historic value. It highlights Celsus’ efforts to marginalise Christianity by taking the effort to understand it and its central ritual first. Celsus was likely aware of the general attack on the Eucharist 29 30 31 32 33

34

35 36

Καὶ διὰ τοιαῦτα δὲ Κέλσος μὲν ὡς ἀγνοῶν θεὸν τὰ χαριστήρια δαίμοσιν ἀποδιδότω, C. Cels. VIII 33. Clement of Alexandria, Protreptikos III 37p. Clement of Alexandria, Protreptikos II 36p. Origen, C. Cels. VII 64, 69; see also VIII 60, where he also firmly rejected Celsus’ claim of healings through demon worship in favour of medical means and praying to God. ἡμεῖς δὲ τῷ τοῦ παντὸς δημιουργῷ εὐχαριστοῦντες καὶ τοὺς μετ᾽ εὐχαριστίας καὶ εὐχῆς τῆς ἐπὶ τοῖς δοθεῖσι προσαγομένους ἄρτους ἐσθίομεν, σῶμα γενομένους διὰ τὴν εὐχὴν ἅγιόν τι καὶ ἁγιάζον τοὺς μετὰ ὑγιοῦς προθέσεως αὐτῷ χρωμένους, C. Cels. VIII 33. Elsewhere, Origen wrote of the damage to those who did not examine themselves and respect the sanctity of the rite and its importance to the communion of the whole church: Origen, Homiliae in Ps. 37 2.6 (PG 12, 1386cd). Chadwick 1980, 476 n. 5, simply notes the parallel reference to Paul and 1 Cor. in Celsus and directs readers to the works of Bigg and Lubac for an explication of Origen’s Eucharistic theology. Daniélou 1948, 75; referenced in the footnotes of his commentary by Borret at C. Cels. VIII 33.

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Table 12.1 C. Cels.

Celsus

Origen

VIII 24

VIII 28

The Christian response to Celsus should employ Paul’s writings in 1 Corinthians (citing 1Cor. 10:20–21). OT dietary scruples mean Christians should abstain from meat altogether (citing 1Cor. 10:20–21). If they abstain from sacrificed meat, they acknowledge the association of sacrifice with demons, which are pre- sent whenever the Christians eat food and drink wine.

VIII 33

Cites Paul ‘whatever we eat or drink, we do it all to the glory of God’ (citing 1Cor. 10:31). The ignorant Celsus ‘may render the offerings of thanksgiving to demons’, but Christians prayerfully offer in thanksgiving bread that becomes a certain sanctifying holy body.

as cannibalism made by Fronto, and responded to by Minucius Felix and others.37 As Christianity grew in both numbers and acceptance, Celsus would likely have realised the limitations of adopting their earlier crude approach. Andresen has noted the likelihood that Celsus was responding to the apologetic writings of Justin Martyr, and indeed, Celsus appears to engage conceptually with Justin’s extended passage regarding the Eucharist, in particular, Justin’s insistence that the received elements were not common food and common drink, and that the rites of Mithras were a demonic imitation of the Eucharist.38 Misiarczyk has recently traced the parallels between Origen’s arguments and those of Justin Martyr, suggesting that the relationship between the three authors here may be even closer.39 Celsus appears to have adopted Christian concern about demonic involvement in sacrificial rites, as expressed in Paul, Justin, and Athenagoras, and turned it around against them.40

37 Minucius Felix, Octavius IX 5–7; see also Justin, 1 Apol. 26; 2 Apol. 12; Athenagoras, Legatio III 1; Theophilus, Ad Autolycum III 4–5. 38 Andresen 1955, 308; see also Justin Martyr, 1 Apol. 66.2, 4; Chadwick 1966, 133. 39 Misiarczyk 2011, 251–266. 40 1 Cor. 10:21; Justin, 1 Apol. 65.3–67.8; Athenagoras, Legatio XXVI 1, XXVII 2.

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This is also a very early precursor to the period of wider familiarity in society about Christian liturgical theology. The emperor Julian made numerous references to liturgical components in his writings hostile to Christianity, and in fact attempted a similar rhetorical manoeuvre regarding the Christian Eucharist, but that was 180 years later.41 This was still during the period when much of society was excluded not only from the rite of the Eucharist, but also from direct knowledge of it. It demonstrates Celsus’ recognition of the importance of the Eucharist especially in the context of the issue of historical continuity. This resolve to strike at the Eucharist dovetails with Celsus’ general thrust against the continuity of Christianity. Previous writings against Christianity had exhibited puzzlement at its mysterious rites,42 or gross ridicule based on either a lack of understanding or lack of desire to understand.43 Here, the attack on the Eucharist is only one part of a much larger work directed against Christianity more broadly, but it was a key component, targeting the heart of Christian theology and practice.

Bibliography Andresen, Carl. 1955. Logos und Nomos: Die Polemik des Kelsos wider das Christentum. Berlin. Bader, Robert. 1940. Der Alethes logos des Kelsos. Stuttgart and Berlin. Benko, Stephen. 1980. ‘Pagan Criticism of Christianity During the First Two Centuries A. D.’, 1055–1118 in Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt II.23.2, eds. H. Temporani and W. Haase. Berlin. Benko, Stephen. 1984. Pagan Rome and the Early Christians. London. Berchman, Robert M. 2005. Porphyry Against the Christians. Leiden and Boston. Borret, Marcel, ed. 1967. Origène: Contre Celse, tom. 1. Paris. Bradshaw, Paul. 2004. Eucharistic Origins. London. Chadwick, Henry. 1947. ‘Origen, Celsus, and the Stoa’, Journal of Theological Studies 48, 34–49. Chadwick, Henry. 1948. ‘Origen, Celsus, and the Resurrection of the Body’, Harvard Theological Review 41, 83–102. Chadwick, Henry. 1966. Early Christian Thought and the Classical Tradition. Oxford. Chadwick, Henry, trans. 1980. Origen, Contra Celsum. Cambridge. Crouzel, Henri. 1989. Origen, trans. A. S. Worrall. Edinburgh. Daniélou, Jean. 1948. Origène. Paris. Fédou, Michel. 1988. Christianisme et religions païennes dans le Contre Celse d’Origène. Paris. Frede, Michael. 1997. ‘Celsus’ Attack on the Christians’, 218–240 in Philosophia Togata II: Plato and Aristotle at Rome, eds. Jonathan Barnes and Miriam Griffin. Oxford.

41 Julian also tried to force a difficult choice upon Christians, suggesting that if Christians were true to their claim that their new sacrificial rite had replaced Jewish Temple sacrifice, they should be visibly sacrificing; Julian, C. Gal. 306a. 42 Pliny, Ep. 96; see also van Beek 1988, 121–131. 43 Fronto, responded to in Minucius Felix, Octavius IX 5–7; see also Wilken 1984, 18–21.

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Frede, Michael. 1999. ‘Origen’s Treatise Against Celsus’, 131–155 in Apologetics in the Roman Empire. Pagans, Jews and Christians, eds. M. Edwards, M. Goodman, and S. Price. Oxford. Gallagher, Eugene V. 1982. Divine Man or Magician?: Celsus and Origen on Jesus. SBL Dissertation Series 64. Chico. Glöckner, Otto. 1927. ‘Die Gottes – und Weltanschauung des Celsus’, Philologus 82, 334–357. Greenwood, David Neal. 2016. ‘Celsus, Origen, and Julian on Christian Miracle-Claims’, Heythrop Journal 57, 99–108. Heine, Ronald E. 2010. Origen: Scholarship in the Service of the Church. Oxford and New York. Jacquemont, Patrick. 1978. ‘Origen’, 183–193 in The Eucharist of the Early Christians, ed. Willy Rordorf, trans. M. J. O’Connell. New York. Junni, Jussi. 2013. ‘Celsus’ Arguments against the Truth of the Bible’, 175–184 in Studia Patristica vol. 65: Papers Presented at the Sixteenth International Conference on Patristic Studies Held in Oxford 2011, ed. Markus Vinzent. Leuven. Marcovich, Miroslav, ed. 2001. Origenes Contra Celsum: Libri VIII. Leiden. McGowan, Andrew. 2010. ‘Rethinking Eucharistic Origins’, Pacifica 23, 173–191. Misiarczyk, Leszek. 2011. ‘The Influence of Justin Martyr on Origen’s Argumentation in Contra Celsum’, 251–266 in Origeniana Decima: Origen as Writer, eds. H. Pietras and S. Kaczmarek. Leuven. Parvis, Paul, and Denis Minns, eds. and trs. 2009. Justin, Philosopher and Martyr, Apologies. Oxford. Parvis, Sara. 2007. ‘Justin Martyr and the Apologetic Tradition’, 115–127 in Justin Martyr and his Worlds, eds. S. Parvis and P. Foster. Minneapolis. Perrone, Lorenzo. 2009. ‘Christianity as “Practice” in Origen’s Contra Celsum’, 293–318 in Origeniana Nona: Origen and the Religious Practice of His Time, eds. G. Heidl and R. Somos. Leuven. Smith, Morton. 1978. Jesus the Magician. London. Somos, Róbert. 2010. ‘Strategy of Argumentation in Origen’s Contra Celsum’, Adamantius 18, 200–217. van Beek, Franz Josef. 1988. ‘The Worship of Christians in Pliny’s Letter’, Studia Liturgica 19, 121–131. Wilken, Robert. 1984. The Christians as the Roman Saw Them. London.

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Introduction The emperor Julian produced one of the three most important and substantial anti-Christian polemical works, frequently grouped together in their own category: Celsus’ The True Word (c. A.D. 180), Porphyry’s Against the Christians (c. A.D. 300), and Julian’s Against the Galileans (A.D. 362–363).1 In Julian’s confrontation of Christianity, there is a component which has not received adequate attention. Julian synthesised two different streams of pagan engagement of Christianity, combining the direct attack of Celsus and Porphyry with the more syncretistic approach of Hierocles and Iamblichus. This component distinguishes Julian from his polemical predecessors, but some scholars have assessed Julian as unimaginatively following Celsus and Porphyry and falling short of their standard.2 Although praising Julian elsewhere, Wright and Smith hold that Julian’s arguments were derivative of his predecessors.3 Even Athanassiadi, generally receptive to the merits of Julian’s C. Gal., held that it was inferior to that of Porphyry.4 I will argue that Julian’s attack on Christianity in Hymn to King Helios (Or. 11) and C. Gal., overtly attacking Christian claims while quietly transferring attributes from Christ to Asclepius, was both more subtle and more skilful than he has been given credit for. I will demonstrate that this is a case where the evidence supports verbal transference from Christian texts. While broad recognition of Julian’s portrayal exists, his sources and the extent to which he made use of this opportunity have not been recognised.

1 Wilken 1984, xiii. 2 Some others hold Julian’s Contra Galilaeos in high regard, or at least held it a work of great significance, such as Bouffartigue 1992, 379: “Le contre les Galiliéens était une oeuvre de toute première importance”; cf. Athanassiadi 1981, 161, and Wilken 1984, 191. 3 Wright 1923, 314; Smith 1995, 191, 206. 4 Athanassiadi 1981, 6; cf. Wilken 1984, 126.

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I. Julian Among Other Polemicists By the second century, educated pagans had been forced to take seriously the dramatic claims for Christ regarding his being the pre-existent son of God, an incarnate deity, and the universal saviour from sin. In the late second century, the philosopher Celsus attacked these Christian truth claims as untenable.5 While little is known about Celsus as an individual, his work, which survives in its lengthy quotations in Origen’s Against Celsus (C. Cels.), represents the contemporary educated pagan argument against Christianity. Celsus approached Christianity from a henotheistic perspective that allowed for worship of traditional subordinate gods synthesised from many cultures to be passed to the one high God, a view which could not tolerate exclusivist Christianity. He characterised the idea of incarnation as disgraceful (αἰσχιστός, C. Cels. 4.2.11), and following Plato, insisted that incarnating would cause the changeless God to participate in our reality’s “great pollution” (μίασμα τοσοῦτον, C. Cels. 6.73.20–21).6 Insisting that Jesus was born of an adulterous union between his mother Mary and a Roman soldier, Celsus also rejected the virgin birth (C. Cels. 1.32.20). Celsus also dismissed the concept of Christ, the Christian λόγος, descending for the sinners which he held an omniscient, omnipotent God would simply correct (C. Cels. 4.3, 8.28). Porphyry of Tyre was both a supporter of Diocletian’s Great Persecution (A.D. 303–13) and the author of the work or collection entitled Against the Christians (C. Chr.), likely written c. A.D. 300.7 Drake has suggested that Porphyry provided the theory, and the Great Persecution was the practice, a theme recently greatly expanded by Digeser.8 In addition to that polemic, Porphyry penned Philosophy from Oracles, a contribution to the public religious debate about traditional paganism and the extent to which it might assimilate Christianity. In that work, Porphyry compiled oracular responses to support his assertions regarding the piety owed God, lesser divinities, and “divine men,” including both heroes such as Heracles and men of outstanding piety as Jesus. Porphyry, praised as “the most learned and astute” of the anti-Christian writers, also derived fame from his mainstream contributions to philosophy, including works on Aristotle and Homeric epic.9 In his C. Chr., which survives in fragments cited primarily by Eusebius and Augustine, Porphyry, the disciple of Plotinus, author of his Life, and editor of his Enneads, was shocked that any could consider the congruence of ideal and material in one person. Indeed, Augustine hinted that the incarnation was Porphyry’s primary stumbling block (Aug., De Civ. 10.28). Porphyry also held that Jesus the 5 The reference to persecution in C. Cels. 8.69 suggests a date in the late 170s, perhaps during the local persecution of Lyons in 177–178. While this was a local persecution, Eusebius seems to treat other persecutions contemporaneously (Hist. Eccl. 5.1.3), see discussion in Chadwick 1980, xxvi–xxviii. 6 Here following the thinking of Plato, who taught that the Good or the One was beyond being. Rep. 6.509b = C. Cels. 6.64.22; cf. 4.14.9–12; 6.64.13, 22; 6.73.17–21; Chadwick 1980, 379. 7 Barnes 1994, 60–65; Simmons 1995, 41–46; Simmons 2015, 17, 52. 8 Drake 2000, 282; Digeser 2012. 9 Wilken 1984, 126.

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material human could not provide the image of the Ideal, writing that Christ was merely an exemplar of piety whom Christians mistakenly worshipped out of ignorance (Porphyry, frag. 345F.22).10 Porphyry mocked Christians for worshipping as divine one who died for trickeries (fallaciis mortuum, Porphyry, frag. 343F).11 Porphyry’s work was long conflated with an unnamed philosopher that the Christian apologist Macarius Magnes responded to in his late fourth-century work, the Apocriticus. While scholars beginning with Harnack included in the Porphyrian corpus the fifty-five fragments of the anonymous philosopher, many recent scholars have moved away from Porphyrian authorship for a variety of reasons.12 For the purpose of this argument, it is primarily important that the cited passages were part of the anti-Christian literary tradition to which Julian was heir. The anonymous philosopher specifically rejected the incarnation, ridiculing the impure idea of divine embodiment in a womb μεστὸν αἵματος χορίου καὶ χολῆς καὶ τῶν ἔτι πολλῷ τούτων ἀτοπωτέρων, “full of blood, afterbirth, bile, and yet more disgusting things” (Macarius, Apocriticus 4.22).13 The Anonymous took a sarcastic approach to the Christian doctrine of salvation, concluding that if Christ did not save all universally, then οὐκ ἀσφαλὲς τούτῳ προσφεύγειν καὶ σώζεσθαι, “it is not safe to run to him for refuge and be saved” (Macarius, Apocriticus 3.4). As a Roman emperor, Julian naturally supported his campaign against Christianity through political pressure. The handwriting was on the wall as soon as Julian refused to respond to the murder of George of Cappadocia by an Alexandrian mob in December 361 (Ep. 60.379c). This was followed in Spring 362 by his statement of intent in his Oration to the Cynic Heracleios, in which he made clear that he portrayed himself as divinely called to clean house and end the Constantinian revolution (Or. 7.227c-234c). At approximately the same time, his Letter to Atarbius declared that he would give preferential employment to non-Christians (Ep. 83.376cd). In June of that year, he issued an edict restricting Christian presence in education (C.Th. 13.3.5; Julian, Ep. 61.423a; cf. Amm. 22.10.7; 25.4.20). In February 363, the emperor targeted Christian practice by declaring daytime funerals illegal (C.Th. 9.17.5; cf. Julian, Ep. 136b). Unlike most Roman emperors, however, Julian’s anti-Christian campaign was also expressed in literature. In his Against the Galilaeans (C. Gal.), Julian directly critiqued Christian theology in this polemic vein, winning praise from Wilken for his familiarity with the discipline.14 Julian wrote the work in Antioch during the long winter nights of 362–3 (Lib., Or. 18.178). Bouffartigue has demonstrated conceptual parallels between Julian and Porphyry.15 Julian primarily focused on the criticism

10 Eus., Dem. Evan. 3.7.2 = Porphyry 345F, and in Latin, Aug., De Civ. 19.23 = Porphyry 345aF. 11 Porphyry, frag. 343F = Aug., De Civ. 19.23. 12 For which see Meredith 1980, 1119–1149; Barnes 1973, 424–442, 1994, 53–65; Digeser 2002, 466–502. 13 The text of Macarius’ Apocriticus is that of Goulet 2003, and the translation is my own. 14 Wilken 1984, 191. 15 Bouffartigue 1992, 385, who also highlights Julian’s response to Eusebius at the same time.

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that Christianity was an illegitimate schism from Judaism,16 but also consistently rejected the claims that Jesus was God incarnate and was pre-existent. Libanius described the book as one which dealt with the Christian claim that Christ was God and the son of god (Lib. Or. 18.178). Julian attacked the incarnation, which he derided in a private correspondence as irrationabilis (Ep. 90; cf. C. Gal. 262d).17 Julian ridiculed the concept of substitutionary sacrifice for the sins of another, deriding Christ as a “corpse” whose death accomplished nothing, and insisting that he was unable to save the souls even of friends and relations (C. Gal. 213b). This polemical approach exists in his other works as well. In his satire Caesars (Or. 10), Julian wrote that following the gods’ review of the lives of the Roman emperors, those emperors sought out one god to be their guardian and guide. Constantine went from Pleasure to Incontinence, in whose company he found Jesus, who blithely offered him cleansing of his sins, no matter how often he might repeat them (Or. 10.336ab). Clearly, Julian saw himself as an inheritor of the polemical tradition of Celsus and Porphyry, but he was also more. There was another stream of anti-Christian pagan thought more syncretistic in its method. Sossianus Hierocles and Iamblichus, both in the early fourth century, suggested that Christian truth claims were not impossible, but also not unique, citing the lives of figures presented in parallel to Christ. Hierocles’ successful career included appointments as governor of the province containing Palmyra (CIL 3.133), vicarius Orientis, provincial governor of Bithynia (Lact., De mort. 16.4), and finally as prefect of Egypt (P. Cairo Isid. 69; Eus., Mart. Pal. 5.3).18 While in Bithynia, Lactantius identified Hierocles as playing a significant role in Diocletian’s Great Persecution (Lact., De mort. 2.2; 5.2.2, 12; 16.4),19 making polemical use of the third-century Life of Apollonius of Tyana, written by Philostratus about the first-century wonderworker at the request of the empress Julia Domna. In his Lover of Truth based on this work, Hierocles systematically paralleled Apollonius and Christ, dismissing the significance of miracles attributed to Christ by claiming them as gifts of special men such as Apollonius of Tyana.20 He summed up Christ as merely a man who pleased the gods (θεοῖς κεχαρισμένον ἄνδρα ἡγούμεθα, Eus., C. Hierocl. 2.2).21 Iamblichus was a Syrian teacher of the theurgic variety of Neoplatonism, who wrote On the Pythagorean Life (Vit. Pyth.) prior to A.D. 326, shaping a tale of a divine soul incarnated with a message of enlightenment for humanity, 16 17 18 19 20

Wilken 1984, 178. Julian’s Ep. 90 to Photinus is extant only in a Latin copy, the original Greek was likely ἄλογος. Barnes 1976, 243–244. Barnes 1976, 242; Digeser 1998, 129–146. Porphyry briefly referenced magic as the source of Christ’s signs, as it was for the Egyptian Magi, Apollonius, and Apuleius. Harnack 1916, 46, frag. 4 = Jerome, Tract. de Ps. 81 225ff (CCL 78.89); cf. Barnes 1976, 241. 21 The text and translation of Eusebius’ Contra Hieroclem is that of Jones 2006. In my attribution of Eusebius as the source, I recognise the possibility of a different Eusebius: Hägg 1992; Barnes 1994, 60, note 25.

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which Meredith characterises as rivalling Christ in the most significant areas.22 In this work, Pythagoras, whose birth was foretold by the Delphic Oracle, was the son of Apollo and the human woman Parthenis (Iambl., Vit. Pyth. 2.5–6).23 In his adulthood, the people considered him one of the gods, and while some called him Apollo Healer (Paian), others claimed that to benefit mortals with his philosophy, he had “appeared in human form” (ἐν ἀνθρωπίνῃ μορφῇ φανῆναι, Iambl., Vit. Pyth. 6.30).24 Iamblichus presented the priest Abaris as meeting Pythagoras and being convinced that Pythagoras was genuinely the god Apollo (Iambl., Vit. Pyth. 19.91).25 Pythagoras revealed his purpose to Abaris, namely that for the sake of humanity’s welfare, he had come in human form (ἀνθρωπόμορφος, Iambl., Vit. Pyth. 19.92). Dillon notes possible similarities between Pythagoras and Christ involving the miraculous catch of fish (Iambl., Vit. Pyth. 8.36; Mt. 1:16–20; Mk. 4:18–22; Lk. 5:1–11), and the discourses with followers.26 I agree with Philip that the conceptual parallels are strong and these passages were likely intended to provide a counter-weight to Christianity.27 Julian may have drawn for inspiration on the writings of Hierocles and Iamblichus, who had equated Apollonius and Pythagoras with Christ, or perhaps have found more specific inspiration in an offhand comment made by Celsus, who had asked why when Christ became a god, he did not become Asclepius, Dionysus, or Heracles.28 Such comments had a parallel even with Christian authors, such as Justin Martyr, who in the second century had noted the surface similarity between claims made for Heracles, Asclepius, and Christ (Dial. 79.3). Perhaps taking his cue from such texts, Julian engaged in a deliberate re-crafting of pagan deities, transferring characteristics from Christ to Asclepius and Heracles in order to counter the Christian presentation of Christ, allowing a rhetorical co-opting of Christian versions of incarnation and soteriology.

22 The dating for Iamblichus’ work is based on when his pupil Sopater joined Constantine’s court, Clark 1989, ix, xi; Meredith 1980, 1124–1125. 23 Dillon 1991, 35. 24 The text of Iamblichus is that of Deubner and Klein 1975, and the translation is that of Clark 1989. Ironically, Meredith 1980, 1124, notes Iamblichus 6.30’s similarity to Phil. 2. 25 Clark 1989, 2–3 cautions that while Iamblichus’ system did not allow for a divine incarnation in the material world in the Christian sense, that still did not disallow Pythagoras being “a theophany of Apollo”. 26 Dillon 1991, 26, 61, 63. 27 With Philip 1959, 192–193, contra Meredith 1980, 1124–1125, who protests that without direct references to Christ or Christianity the work is too oblique to be a riposte to Christianity. 28 Origen, C. Cels. 3.42.19–21. Porphyry had equated Apollo, Heracles, Asclepius, and Dionysius, each a δύναμις of Helios, to whom Julian was devoted. Porphyry 359f = Eus., Prep. Evang. 3.11.17–44 Mras. The relationship between the writings of Celsus and Julian takes on more power when one realizes that Julian portrayed Dionysus as one of the traditional gods integrally related to Helios. Julian equated these gods to Helios in different ways, writing that Zeus coincided with him (Or. 11.143d), Apollo abode with him and shared his οὐσίας (Or. 11.144a), Dionysios shared his throne (Or. 11.144b), and Asclepius was begotten by him (Or. 11.144b).

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II. Julian on Asclepius Wright suggests that in Julian’s discussion of the gods in Or. 11, his apparent intention was to provide a pagan counterweight to Christianity.29 I argue that Julian offered Hellenic parallels, which were primarily conceptual, not verbal. Technically, what Julian did with Christian texts was not allusion, which implies intellectual engagement with one particular text. In his engagement of Christian theological texts, Julian did not want to draw a direct allusion to them, but because he was engaging their concepts, it produced a genuine intertextual relationship. Julian was not disguising the framework, but also did not want to give credit to Christianity. Rather, Julian’s examples of striking and unavoidable similarity are a case of theology engaging theology. In Julian’s earlier To the Cynic Heracleios (Or. 7), this engagement took the form in Julian’s writings of a Heracles who walked on water, was the son of the high god Zeus-Helios and a virgin mother, and was begotten to be the saviour of the world (Or. 7.219d-220a). 30 Determining the truth of the matter in regards to Asclepius will require a close examination of three texts, two from Or. 11, and one from Contra Galilaeos. In his Or. 11, written to commemorate the festival of Sol Invictus on 25 December 362, Julian began outlining a new portrayal of Asclepius, presenting him as the pre-existent, incarnate saviour. Asclepius was originally the “blameless physician” of the Iliad (2.729–32; 4.193–94; 4.204; 4.218–19; 11.517–18; 11.613–14; 14.2), at which stage Walton finds no divinity, merely natural healing.31 He was later described as the son of Apollo and the human woman Coronis, and a healing divinity in his own right (Hom. Hymns 16.2–4; Diodorus, Bibliotheca Historica, 5.74.6; Ovid, Metamorphoses 2.542–648).32 By the second century A.D., Asclepius is referred to as “the god who holds Epidauris” (Aelius Aristides, Or. 2.153). As Andrew Smith points out, the primary thrust of the Hymn is the exposition of the “metaphysical location” of Helios, drawing on Iamblichus.33 It is all the more unusual, then, that Julian detoured into a depiction of Helios begetting a divine, pre-existent son to be the saviour of the world. Despite this unique digression, it does not detract from a sophisticated presentation of Iamblichean Neoplatonism.34 Midway through his Or. 11, Julian inserted his explanation of the special relationship between Helios and Asclepius (Or. 11.144b):35 Πάσας δὲ ἐν αὑτῷ περιέχων ὁ θεὸς ὅδε τὰς ἀρχὰς τῆς καλλίστης νοερᾶς συγκράσεως Ἥλιος Ἀπόλλων ἐστὶ Μουσηγέτης. Ἐπεὶ δὲ καὶ ὅλην ἡμῖν 29 30 31 32 33 34 35

Wright 1913, 351. Treated fully in Greenwood 2014, 140–149. Walton 1965, 3. Hart 2000, 3. Smith 2012, 229. Smith 2012, 236. The text of Julian’s Or. 11 is that of Lacombrade 1964, and the translation is my own.

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τὴν τῆς εὐταξίας ζωὴν συμπληροῖ, γεννᾷ μὲν ἐν κόσμῳ τὸν Ἀσκληπιόν, ἔχει δὲ αὐτὸν καὶ πρὸ τοῦ κόσμου παρ’ ἑαυτῷ. Moreover, since he contains in himself all the principles of the finest intellectual synthesis, this god Helios-Apollo is the leader of the Muses. And since he fills the whole of our existence with good order, he begets Asclepius in the world, though before the world he has him beside himself. Several modern scholars have noted Julian’s unique presentation of Asclepius. Christian Lacombrade argued that Julian cast Asclepius as the “pagan antagonist” of Christ, noting the significant phraseology in his description as “saviour of the world.”36 Helios’ begetting of Asclepius had a definite purpose, to bring order to his creation, calling to mind the Christian utilisation of the concept of the λόγος, God’s begotten Son who brought order to creation and was made flesh. Like Asclepius, the Christ of John’s Gospel was pre-existent (Ἐν ἀρχῇ ἦν ὁ λόγος), and was described as both “in the world” (ἐν τῷ κόσμῳ) and the “only begotten” or “unique” (μονογενής) son of the Father (John 1:1, 10, 14). Julian’s use of the concept of begetting suggested a special relationship between Helios and Asclepius, as Julian did not describe the pre-existent Asclepius’ origins as stemming from a general emanation. This new relationship of divine sonship for both Heracles and Asclepius is intriguing, for Julian, as the literary creator, was himself divi filius. This was a potent combination for the “son of Helios” seeking to supplant Jesus the son of God. Julian continued, writing of Helios as the common Lord of the gods and colleague of Apollo the provider of oracular wisdom, then turned again to Helios and Asclepius: “Shall I say to you how Helios planned for the health and salvation of all by begetting (ἀπογεννάω) Asclepius to be the saviour (σωτήρ) of the whole world?” (Or. 11.153b, tr. Wright mod.). This title of “saviour” or σωτήρ for Asclepius was not new, but clearly referenced his physical healing capacity, indicating a distinction in Julian’s meaning. Walton sheds light on this by reporting on the usage of the appellation “Paian,” the healing attendant of the gods and divine physician in the Homeric Epic, whose title was bestowed upon both men and gods such as Asclepius, Dionysius, and Thanatos, in the sense of “healer.” Over time, the term came to mean “saviour,” but again in a physical sense.37 The tenth-century Suidas reports that the talented fifth-century physician Jacob was called “saviour,” in the same way as Asclepius had been (The Suda: s.v. Ἰάκωβος).38 Regarding the function of Asclepius in Julian’s revised pantheon, Julian first addressed the scope 36 “Asclépios, émanation visible d’Hélios-Mithra, sera, à l’instar d’Héraclès, présenté comme ‘le saveur du monde,’ l’antagoniste païen du Christ”; cf. Bouffartigue 1992, 649; Athanassiadi 1981, 167; Wright 1913, 419, note 1, 1923, 315. 37 Walton 1965, 1. 38 The text of The Suda is that of Adler 1931 in the Teubner series, and the translation that of Clift in Edelstein and Edelstein 1945, 265, no. 465.

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of the work of Asclepius. Julian wrote of the universal scope of Asclepius’ salvation, but introduced a change to the intent of the work of Asclepius, in which the Hellenic god of healing was the saviour of the world. The soteriological language used by Julian of Asclepius echoes the language of John’s gospel: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only (μονογενής) Son, that everyone (πᾶς) who believes in him may not perish, but may have eternal life. Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved (σωθῇ ὁ κόσμος) through him” (Jn. 3:16–17 NRSV; cf. 1 Jn. 4:14). The evidence suggests that Julian linked the two concepts of universal saviour and saviour from sin together for Asclepius in similar fashion as Christians did regarding Christ. By the 360s, astute readers would surely have recognised the Christian sense in Julian’s language. Julian announced in his Ep. 90 that he would demonstrate Christ was not divine, a concept he labelled irrationabilis. Sometime during the winter of 362–3 in Antioch, Julian put Christianity on trial in his lengthy polemic Contra Galilaeos (Lib., Or. 18.178). In it, he critiqued the idea that Christ could be God incarnate (C. Gal. 253c-e, 262d, 290e), or that he could save anyone else (C. Gal. 213c). Yet in this same work, the same emperor who ridiculed Christ’s incarnation continued his parallel between Asclepius and Christ (C. Gal. 200ab):39 ὁ γάρ τοι Ζεὺς ἐν μὲν τοῖς νοητοῖς ἐξ ἑαυτοῦ τὸν Ἀσκληπιὸν ἐγέννησεν, εἰς δὲ τὴν γῆν διὰ τῆς Ἡλίου γονίμου ζωῆς ἐξέφηνεν. οὗτος ἐπὶ γῆς ἐξ οὐρανοῦ ποιησάμενος τὴν πρόοδον, ἑνοειδῶς μὲν ἐν ἀνθρώπου μορφῇ περὶ τὴν Ἐπίδαυρον ἀνεφάνη, πληθυνόμενος δὲ ἐντεῦθεν ταῖς προόδοις ἐπὶ πᾶσαν ὤρεξε τὴν γῆν τὴν σωτήριον ἑαυτοῦ δεξιάν. ἦλθεν εἰς Πέργαμον, εἰς Ἰωνίαν, εἰς Τάραντα μετὰ ταῦθ,’ ὕστερον ἦλθεν εἰς τὴν Ῥώμην. ᾤχετο δὲ εἰς Κῶν, ἐνθένδε εἰς Αἰγάς. εἶτα πανταχοῦ γῆς ἐστι καὶ θαλάσσης. οὐ καθ’ ἕκαστον ἡμῶν ἐπιφοιτᾷ, καὶ ὅμως ἐπανορθοῦται ψυχὰς πλημμελῶς διακειμένας καὶ τὰ σώματα ἀσθενῶς ἔχοντα. For in truth as Zeus begat (γεννάω) Asclepius from himself among the noetics,40 he also revealed him to the earth through the life of productive Helios. He made his appearance from heaven on earth, first appearing singly in the form of a man (ἐν ἀνθρώπου μορφῇ) at Epidaurus, then multiplying himself by his appearances, he reached out his saving (σωτήριος) right hand over all the earth. He came to Pergamum, Ionia, and Tarentum after this, then later came to Rome. And away he went to Kos, then to Aegae. He is then everywhere in earth and sea. He comes regularly, not to each of us alone, but nonetheless he restores souls that are sinful and bodies having sickness.

39 The text of Julian’s C.Gal. is Masaracchia 1990, and the translation is my own. 40 Julian’s reference to the “noetics” refers to the emanated intelligible gods of the spiritual or noetic realm.

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Julian’s parallel was both incarnational and soteriological. His presentation is suggestive of the concepts in the Nicene Creed, which described Christ as the one “who for us men, and for our salvation (σωτηρία), came down and was incarnate (σαρκόω) and was made man (ἐνανθρωπέω).” Emmanuela Masaracchia notes that Julian cited two other brief portions of the Nicene Creed in this work (C. Gal. 261e, 276e).41 While this creed is conceptually similar, other sources can offer more exact parallels. The reference to Asclepius’ descent into human form recalls the Christological hymn embedded in the Epistle to the Philippians, which refers to Christ as “taking the form (μορφή) of a slave, being born (γεννάω) in human likeness. And being found in human form” (Phil. 2:7). 42 Julian’s reference to Asclepius’ “saving right hand” (τὴν σωτήριον ἑαυτοῦ δεξιάν, C. Gal. 200b) is similar to a text found in the Psalms, in which God saves his chosen with the saving strength of his right hand (δυναστείαις ἡ σωτηρία τῆς δεξιᾶς αὐτοῦ, Ps. 19 (20):7 LXX).43 In fact, this may have been mediated through the writings of Eusebius of Caesarea, who had portrayed Constantine as reaching out to the perishing with his σωτήριος δεξιός (Eus., Hist. Eccl. 10.9.4). Doctors used ἐπανορθόω or “restore” as a medical term (as Julian also did in Ep. 75b), but it was also used theologically (Eus., Praep. Evan. 6.6.74.3). Most importantly, here we see Asclepius’ portfolio significantly expanded to include being the saviour of human souls that were sinful or πλημμελής. Translating πλημμελής as sinful is not merely following previous translators in a word choice possibly influenced by intervening millennia of Christendom, but is philologically sound in this context.44 While ἁμαρτία was the more common term for “sin” in Christian literature, πλημμελής, which more frequently referred to a musical mistake or false note, was also used to refer to sinfulness, particularly in the Greek Old Testament.45 “Sin offerings” in the Greek Old Testament are πλημμέλειαι (Lev. 5:18; 6:5). It was the term used when the men of Israel disobeyed God by marrying non-Jewish women, and repented, setting aside their wives and sins, and sacrificing rams for their sins (2 Esdras 10:19 LXX; cf. Lev. 7:37; 1 Clem. 41:2). In this passage, Julian had redefined the mission of salvation to include only those saving sinful human souls, namely Christ and the recrafted Asclepius. These claims demand that a concern be addressed first, namely the prevalence of syncretism in this period and the possibility of accidental cross-pollination. If the appropriation of theological characteristics were going the other direction – if, say, Athanasius had claimed that in Christ’s descent to Hell he borrowed and

41 Masaracchia 1990, 11; for discussion of Julian’s engagement with creeds and Christian theology, see now Hunt 2012, 251–261. 42 Meredith 1980, 1124, notes that Iamb., Vit. Pyth. 6.30 paralleled this same passage. 43 The text of the Septuagint is Rahlfs and Hanhart 1979, and the translation is that of Pietersma and Wright 2007. 44 The previous translators rendering πλημμελής into English as “sinful” include such varied scholars as Wright 1923, 375; Athanassiadi 1981, 168; and Hoffmann 1994, 115. 45 Liddell et al. 1995, 1418–1419.

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returned Cerberus – would one require statements of intent and verbal parallels before recognising a deliberate co-opting of classical literary material? The likelihood that Julian, intelligent and trained both classically and in Christian theology, would unwittingly make such statements by accident must be considered as remote indeed.

III. The Asclepianic Julian In my earlier argument, that Julian’s March 362 self-portrayal in Or. 7 was designed to make him a Heracles/Christ parallel similar to Eusebius’ portrayal of Constantine as a mimetic Christ, I addressed the statements of his supporters which reflected back that claim to divinity.46 Without retreading the same ground, I would like to recall briefly the writings of Himerius, Libanius, and Eunapius, focusing here on the timing of their comments in relation to the emperor’s movements. Julian was not the first emperor whose annalists associated him with healing, as Vespasian was written of having healed a lame man and a blind man while in Egypt (Cassius Dio 66.2; Suet., Vesp. 7.2–3; Tac., Hist. 4.81.1).47 However, the way that Julian’s contemporaries reflected his meaning back was unique. As Athanassiadi has pointed out, Julian’s rhetors continually praised him as Asclepius incarnate, sent to heal the world.48 Examining them collectively provides a narrative of Julian’s reign portraying him in Asclepianic terms. Julian entered Constantinople on 11 December 361 (Amm. 22.2.4; Soc., Hist. eccl. 3.1.2).49 He made contact with the orator Himerius and the two participated in Mithraic ritual together. Himerius then praised Julian in a public oration, declaring that “did not heal everything gradually, as those with human skills heal the sick, but all at once with benefits of [spiritual] health that took immediate effect” (Him., Or. 41.8, tr. Penella). He also wrote that Julian’s gifts of light and a better life were what one would expect from someone who had joined his nature with the sun (αὐτὸν ἡλίῳ φύσιν συνάπτοντα ὁμοῦ, Himerius, Or. 41.92–93).50 Julian entered Antioch in July 362, and while there, crafted Asclepius into a Christ-like god who was pre-existent, begotten by Helios to be the saviour of the world, and incarnated as a man to save sinful souls. During this period in Antioch, the rhetor Libanius made a number of statements referring to Julian as the divine healer. We can consider Libanius’ statements in light of Raffaela Cribiore’s recent suggestion that we reevaluate Libanius’ cultural isolation, arguing that he borrowed elements of the hagiographical Life of Antony to “shape the narrative of his own life” in his Autobiography.51 Libanius wrote in July 362 that Julian was

46 47 48 49 50 51

Greenwood 2014, 140–149; For Eusebius’ portrayal of Constantine, see Drake 2000. Luke 2010, 77–79. Athanassiadi 1981, 168. Seeck 1919, 209. The text of Himerius is that of Colonna 1951. Cribiore 2013, 73–74.

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to their world as Asclepius was for Hippolytus, and had restored the dead to life, (Lib., Or. 13.42). He further reflected Julian’s mythology, claiming that Julian reigned with a human body and a god’s soul (βασιλεύει σῶμα μὲν ἀνθρώπου, ψυχὴ δὲ θεοῦ, Or. 13.47). During Julian’s reign, after he had left for Persia, Libanius announced that the world was happy now that it was tended by an expert physician (ἰατρὸς ἄκρος, Lib., Or. 15.69). Following Julian’s death in the East on 26 June 363, Libanius continued in this vein, mourning the end of the emperor’s Hellenic revival, a loss for the whole world, which Julian had healed like a good physician (ἰατρὸς ἀγαθός, Lib., Or. 17.36). Rhetorically asking the gods why Julian was not allowed to live, Libanius catalogued the actions that would have met with their approval, including in his long list that Julian restored the health of the mortally ill world (Lib., Or. 18.281). This healing aspect extended beyond the physical, much as Julian had expanded Asclepius’ role from physical healer to saviour from sin. Libanius also cast Julian’s giving priority to religious matters in medical terms, writing that his first act was to lead people to true knowledge of the divine, which he described as the cure of souls (ἰάτρευσιν τῶν ψυχῶν, Lib., Or. 18.124–25). Finally, well after Julian’s death, Eunapius brought the grand narrative to a close with his claim that Julian, who claimed to be the son of Helios, was taken to heaven at the end of his mission and resumed his place in his father’s heavenly halls. Despite the lateness of his writing, Eunapius made use of the extensive notes provided to him by Oribasius of Pergamon, Julian’s personal physician and confidant from the beginning of his quest for the throne through to his death in Persia (Eun., Exc. de Sent. 5; Amm. 25.5.1). Though exiled following Julian’s death, Oribasius provided Eunapius with the Julianic material for his Universal History, produced in various editions from perhaps as early as A.D. 380.52 Eunapius reported that Julian called the Sun (Helios) his own father (Eun., fr. 28.5 Blockley), which Paschoud has suggested is an allusion drawing upon Julian’s Or. 11.131bc.53 This claim to being the son of Helios, who rode his chariot across the heavens was divinely recognised as a god addressed Julian as the child of the charioteer god (Ὦ τέκος ἁρμελάταο θεοῦ, Eun., fr. 28.4 Blockley). Finally, Eunapius wrote that Julian received a prophecy that following victory in his Persian campaign he would die and return via fiery chariot to his “father’s halls of heavenly light” (αἰθερίου φάεος πατρώιον αὐλήν, Eun., fr. 28.6 Blockley), a prediction which Célérier connects to Julian’s autobiographical myth (Or. 7.232d). 54 Looking at the dates, it appears that either Julian discussed the benefits of portraying himself as Asclepius with those in his inner circle prior to writing his pertinent works, or that perhaps the influence ran both ways. It is no surprise that Julian’s intimates such as Libanius and Oribasius should eulogise their departed friend, but to do so in such a fashion is rather remarkable. 52 Bowersock 1978, 8. 53 Paschoud 2006, 520, note 37. 54 The text and translation are that of Blockley 1983; Célérier 2010, 564–565.

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This dovetails with Julian’s unique presentation of Asclepius as a counter to Christ, using allusions to Christian literature. Returning to the Nicene Creed as a competing framework, Christ was the pre-existent son of God, who was sent down to earth on his divine mission by his Father. Christ was incarnate and was made man. Christ the saviour’s purpose related to God’s creatures, as he was sent by his Father for humanity’s salvation. Upon the completion of his task, Christ ascended to heaven, returning to his rightful place with his Father. It had taken centuries for the man Asclepius to become a god, but in Julian’s hands, he became overnight a god who incarnated as a man to become the saviour of the world. The parallel with Iamblichus is particularly striking when one considers Iamblichus’ presentation of Pythagoras the son of Apollo (Vit. Pyth. 2.5–6), and Julian’s presentation of Asclepius the son of Helios-Apollo-Zeus (Or. 11.144b, 153b; C. Gal. 200ab), and that of Heracles the son of Zeus (Or. 7.219d-220a). Julian’s re-crafting of the gods Asclepius and Heracles was unique, taking Christian attributes of Christ that he and other pagan writers rejected in principle, and reallocating them to existing pagan gods. These attributes were not insignificant, but some of the central facets of Christian theology. Co-opting these theological attributes for paganism would have detracted significantly from Christianity’s uniqueness and potency. According to our extant evidence, Julian stands as the great synthesiser of the two streams of thought among the anti-Christian writers. This tactic, along with Julian’s forcing Christian teachers out of education (Ep. 61c.424; cf. C.Th. 13.3.5), and arguing that Christ was not divine (C. Gal. 39a; cf. Ep. 90), was a strategic attempt to undercut Christianity without resorting to persecution or brute force. Bringing together all of this evidence highlights how close the relationship is between the various components. Comparing the Christian presentation of Jesus, the son of God, Julian’s presentation of Asclepius the son of Helios, and Julian and his associates’ presentation of himself as the son of Helios shows a strong correlation. The complete picture militates against interpreting pieces as mere rhetorical flourishes. A pattern exists, and reinforces its constituent parts. While the internal beliefs of Julian, Libanius, Oribasius, and Eunapius may be beyond our reckoning, their rhetoric painted a picture of Julian as Asclepius, and in particular an Asclepius crafted to parallel Christ. Like Constantine, this positioned Julian as an earthly avatar of the heavenly god he served, specifically Helios from whom Constantine apostatised. Eusebius had presented Constantine as almost a secular messianic figure, and here Julian and his compatriots had done the same, recapitulating both Constantine and his Christ. Julian’s portrayal of Asclepius reveals a use of Christian concepts. He supplanted Christ as the healer and saviour of souls with his revised version of Asclepius. Further, he and his associates tied this into his existing efforts to portray himself in a divine sense, as an earthly avatar of the divine. As Julian mimetically portrayed himself as the new heroic saviour Hercules and the divine guide Hermes, so he cast himself in the role of Asclepius the healer of souls. In so doing, Julian not only co-opted potent features of Christ for his pagan revival: in a sense he played the earthly role of the counter to Christ himself. 159

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Bibliography Adler, Ada. 1931. Suidae Lexicon. vol. 2. Leipzig. Athanassiadi, Polymnia. 1981. Julian and Hellenism: An Intellectual Biography (as Polymnia Athanassiadi-Fowden). Oxford. Reprinted in 1992 with new introduction as Julian: An Intellectual Biography. London. Baldwin, Barry. 1975. “The Career of Oribasius.” Acta Classica 18: 85–97. Barnes, Timothy D. 1973. “Porphyry Against the Christians: Date and the Attribution of Fragments.” JThS n.s. 24: 424–442. –––. 1976. “Sossianus Hierocles and the Antecedents of the ‘Great Persecution’.’” HSCP 80: 239–252. –––. 1994. “Scholarship or Propaganda? Porphyry against the Christians and Its Historical Setting.” BICS 39: 53–65. Blockley, Roger C. 1983. The Fragmentary Classicising Historians of the Later Roman Empire. vol. 2. Liverpool. Bouffartigue, Jean. 1992. L’Empereur Julien et la culture de son temps. Paris. Bowersock, Glen W. 1978. Julian the Apostate. Cambridge, MA. Burgess, Richard. 2008. “The Summer of Blood: The ‘Great Massacre’ of 337 and the Promotion of the Sons of Constantine.” DOP 62: 5–51. Célérier, Pascal. 2010. La présence et l’utilisation des écrits de l’Empereur Julien chez les auteurs païens et chrétiens du IVe au VIe siècle. Ph.D. diss., University of Paris. Chadwick, Henry. 1980. Origen. Contra Celsum. Cambridge. Clark, Gillian. 1989. Iamblichus. On the Pythagorean Life. Liverpool. Colonna, Aristedes. 1951. Himerii Declamationes et orationes cum deperditarum fragmentis. Rome. Cribiore, Raffaella. 2013. Libanius the Sophist: Rhetoric, Reality, and Religion in the Fourth Century. Ithaca and London. Deubner, Ludwig, and Ulrich Klein. 1975. Iamblichus: de vita Pythagorica liber. Stuttgart. Digeser, Elizabeth D. 1998. “Lactantius, Porphyry, and the Debate over Religious Toleration.” JRS 88: 129–146. –––. 2002. “Porphyry, Julian, or Hierokles? The Anonymous Hellene in Makarios Magnes’ Apocritikos.” JTS 53: 466–502. –––. 2012. A Threat to Public Piety: Christians, Platonists, and the Great Persecution. Ithaca. Dillon, John. 1999. “The Theology of Julian’s Hymn to King Helios.” Itaca 14–15: 103–115. Dillon, John, and Jackson Hershbell, eds. and tr. 1991. Iamblichus, On the Pythagorean Way of Life: Text, Translation and Notes. Atlanta. Drake, Hal. 2000. Constantine and the Bishops: The Politics of Intolerance. Baltimore. Edelstein, Ludwig, and Emma Edelstein. 1945. Asclepius: A Collection and Interpretation of the Testimonies. 2 vols. Baltimore. Elm, Susanna. 2012. Sons of Hellenism, Fathers of the Church: Emperor Julian, Gregory of Nazianzus, and the Vision of Rome. Berkeley. Foerster, Richard. 1904. Libanii Opera, vol. 2: Orationes XII-XXV. Leipzig. Goulet, Richard. 2003. Macarios de Magnésie: Le monogénès. tom. 2. Paris. Greenwood, David Neal. 2014. “Crafting Divine Personae in Julian’s Or. 7.” CP 109: 140–149. Hägg, Tomas. 1992. “Hierocles the Lover of Truth and Eusebius the Sophist.” Symbolae Osloenses 67: 138–150. Harnack, Adolf. 1916. Porphyrius, “Gegen die Christen” 15 Bücher: Zeugnisse, Fragmente und Referate. Berlin.

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Hart, Gerald. 2000. Asclepius the God of Medicine. London. Hoffmann, R. Joseph. 1994. Porphyry’s Against the Christians: the Literary Remains. Amherst. Hunt, E. David. 2012. “The Christian Context of Julian’s Against the Galileans.” In N. Baker-Brian and S. Tougher, eds., Emperor and Author: The Writings of Julian the Apostate, 251–261. Swansea. Jones, Christopher P., ed. and tr. 2006. Philostratus, III. Apollonius of Tyana. Letters of Apollonius, Ancient testimonia, Eusebius’ Reply to Hierocles. Cambridge. Lacombrade, Christian. 1964. L’empereur Julien. Oeuvres completes. tom. 2.2. Paris. Liddell, Henry, Robert Scott, Henry Jones and Roderick McKenzie, eds. 1995. A GreekEnglish Lexicon, 9th edition, with a Revised Supplement. New York. Luke, Trevor. 2010. “A Healing Touch for Empire: Vespasian’s Wonders in Domitianic Rome.” Greece and Rome 57: 77–106. Masaracchia, Emanuela. 1990. Giuliano Imperatore. Contra Galilaeos. Rome. Meredith, Anthony. 1980. “Porphyry and Julian against the Christians.” In H. Temporini and W. Haase, eds., Aufstieg und Niedergang der Romischen Welt, II.23.2, 1119–1149. Berlin. Norman, Albert. 1969. Libanius: Selected Works, vol. 1, The Julianic Orations. Cambridge, MA and London. Paschoud, François. 2006. Eunape, Olympiodore, Zosime, Scripta minora. Bari. Penella, Robert J. 2007. Man and the Word: The Orations of Himerius. Berkeley. Philip, James. 1959. “The Biographical Tradition – Pythagoras.” TAPA 90: 185–194. Pietersma, Alfred, and Benjamin G. Wright, eds. 2007. A New English Translation of the Septuagint. Oxford. Rahlfs, Alfred, and Hanhart, Robert. 1979. Septuaginta. Stuttgart. Rochefort, Gabriel. 1963. L ‘empereur Julien. Oeuvres completes. tom. 2.1. Paris. Rosen, Karl. 2006. Julian. Kaiser, Gott und Christenhasser. Stuttgart. Seeck, Otto. 1919. Regesten der Kaiser and Päpste für die Jahre 311 bis 476 n. Chr. Stuttgart. Simmons, Michael Bland. 1995. Arnobius of Sicca: Religious Conflict and Competition in the Age of Diocletian. Oxford. –––. 2015. Universal Salvation in Late Antiquity: Porphyry of Tyre and the Pagan-Christian Debate. Oxford. Smith, Andrew. 2012. “Julian’s Hymn to King Helios: The Economical Use of Complex Neoplatonic Concepts.” In N. Baker-Brian and S. Tougher, eds., Emperor and Author: The Writings of Julian the Apostate, 229–237. Swansea. Smith, Rowland. 1995. Julian’s Gods: Religion and Philosophy in the Thought and Action of Julian the Apostate. London. Walton, Alice. 1965. The Cult of Asklepios. Cornell Studies in Classical Philology No. III. New York. Wiemer, Hans-Ulrich. 1995. Libanios und Julien, Studien zum Verhältnis von Rhetorik und Politik im vierten Jahrhundert. Munich. Wilken, Robert. 1984. The Christians as the Romans Saw Them. London. Wright, Wilmer Cave. 1913. The Works of the Emperor Julian. vol. 2. Cambridge, MA and London. –––. 1923. The Works of the Emperor Julian. vol. 3. Cambridge, MA and London.

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Introduction Julian was unique among Roman emperors, not least for his remarkable portrayal of himself as the son of Helios, offered the opportunity to walk the hard road of virtue and achieve apotheosis through service to the gods that endorsed his reign. However impressive Julian’s synthesis of various streams of Hellenic thought, I have come around to the idea that Julian came to these particular elements not of his own inspiration, but rather through the mediating writings of Porphyry of Tyre, in which he found them mixed with the apotheosis of Heracles and Asclepius. I argue here that Julian borrowed this theme directly from Porphyry and used it in his portrayal of his own call to divine service and apotheosis, and incidentally, a service in which he assimilated himself to both Heracles and Asclepius, both of whom he had crafted into Christ-parallels.1 Many scholars are sceptical about a literary relationship between Porphyry and Julian, with Magny 2014, 6 writing, ‘if the emperor was aware of Porphyry’s writings, he never mentioned them’. Others have pointed out that Julian frequently repeated standard critiques of Christianity. Jean Bouffartigue assessed the relationship between Porphyry’s Contra Christianos and Julian’s Contra Galilaeos and only found four passages of thematic congruence.2 Nevertheless, when Libanius of Antioch, who knew Julian and his programme well, as we shall see, assessed Julian’s Against the Galilaeans against other works, it was Porphyry he compared Julian to, suggesting that the emperor’s fragmentary work may have been modelled after Porphyry’s. Of course, this assumes that Julian would only make use of Porphyry’s polemic work and not draw from him elsewhere, as I argue.

1 In this article, I have used the following editions: Eusebius’ Praep. Evang. is that of Gifford 1903; Porphyry’s Vit. Pyth. and Ep. Marc. are that of Des Places 1982; Julian’s Or. 7 and Or. 11 are those of Guido 2000 and Mastrocinque 2011 respectively; Libanius’ Or. 12 is that of Foerster 1904; and the translations are my own unless otherwise noted. 2 Bouffartigue 1992, 385 identifies four such Porphyrian fragments: 39, 42, 81, 82 Harnack; cf. Bouffartigue 2011, 409.

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I. Porphyry and Julian Porphyry was born in approximately A.D. 234 (Goulet 1982, 210–211). Much of his early life is opaque to us, but soon enough he aligned himself with the philosopher Plotinus, whose disciple he remained for six years (Vit. Plot. xi.11–19). He came into contact with many notable Romans, and could by the end of his life have been considered an elder statesman of philosophy. Although the matter is hotly debated, the evidence suggests to many including this author that Porphyry wrote in support of Diocletian’s Great Persecution, beginning in A.D. 303 (Barnes 1994, 53–65; Greenwood 2016, 197–207). Before his death, Porphyry had completed a number of works, both polemical ones targeting Christianity, such as Contra Christianos and Philosophy from Oracles, as well as more purely philosophical ones such as Life of Plotinus and Letter to Marcella. Three recent works have argued for different versions of an attempt by Porphyry to synthesise a more philosophically unified Hellenism, ranging from Digeser’s unification of Platonic and Aristotelean streams of thought, to Johnson’s focus on Hellenic identity, to Simmons’s universal Hellenic soteriology. All three of these efforts suggest that Porphyry was indeed trying to unify Hellenic philosophy and positively engage those he considered its enemies. Porphyry was extremely influential among the Neoplatonists who came after him, and became something of a bogey-man figure to many Christian writers. His effect was particularly significant for the Emperor Julian, who supported pagan Neoplatonism and attempted to fight Christianity using many of their own tools against them. As a young boy, Julian was orphaned in the purge of A.D. 337 that followed the death of his uncle, the Emperor Constantine, for which see Burgess 2008, 5–51. Julian engineered his acclamation as emperor and outlasted his cousin and rival Constantius II, whom he blamed for the purge, and who died in 361. As sole emperor, Julian was then free to redress the balance between paganism and Christianity, which he pursued until his early death in 363. Some of the themes in Julian’s writings demonstrate his interests in Neoplatonic philosophy and his willingness to make use of Christian theology. In his Or. 7 To the Cynic Heracleios, Julian made the claim that he was the son of the high god Helios and raised by the virgin goddess Athena. Needless to say, when challenging a thendominant Christianity, this was a powerful rhetorical ploy. Julian’s narrative of rulership was dependent upon being the son of God, and his endorsement by the gods when he was told that if he ruled virtuously as their steward, he would be granted apotheosis. Porphyry and Julian shared some similarities of situation. Both were welleducated and philosophically inclined. Porphyry was indisputably one of the great minds of the third century, and while Julian was not a great originator of philosophy, his successes in explication and synthesis have been rightly praised. Both men were also driven to write certain of their works by the presence on the scene of a new force in the form of Christianity, which had matured into a movement with some philosophical appeal and defended by an increasingly sophisticated apologetic. 163

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It is understandable, perhaps inevitable, that the two men under consideration would share some of the same elements in their approach to the religious challenge of the day. Beyond inherent similarities due to their situations, I will argue that Julian made use of Porphyry in certain respects that have not been previously treated. Porphyry’s attack on Christianity in his Contra Christianos was very overt, but coupled with a creative thrust, a theme that appeared in many of his works, namely a unification of prodigiously diverse Hellenism into a coherent system, a search for a universal philosophy, as described by Digeser 2012. Simmons 2015 has recently argued that this took the form of a competing road to universal salvation in direct competition with Christianity. Julian followed Porphyry in crafting his own polemic, Contra Galilaeos, but also developed a political and religious narrative based around a recrafting of certain gods into Christ-figures, which Julian then assimilated to himself, as detailed in Greenwood 2014, 140– 149. Both Porphyry and Julian pursued their socio-political goals using, and in a manner consistent with, their wider philosophies, and both made use of the themes of apotheosis and divinity.

II. Apotheosis Apotheosis in Greek thought has a lengthy history, as humanity has aspired to divinity for a long time, if literary evidence is any measure. Let us take for example the case of Asclepius, originally the ‘blameless physician’ of the Iliad (ii 729–732; iv 193–194, 204, 218–219; xi 517–518, 613–614; xiv 2). He was later promoted to a descendant of the divine, described as the son of Apollo and the human woman Coronis, and a healing divinity in his own right (Homeric Hymns xvi 2–4). By the second century A.D., Asclepius was referred to as ‘the god who holds Epidauris’ (Aelius Aristides, Or. 2.153). In somewhat similar fashion, Heracles had been presented as a half-god, half-man fathered by Zeus upon the human woman Alcmene (Iliad xviii 117–119). After a lifetime of heroic labours, he died, and deified, ascended to Olympus. Cult was performed quadrennially at the reported site on Mount Oetia. Philosophers wrestled with this issue as well. While none of the sixth-century B.C. works of Pythagoras survive, Iamblichus of Apamea later ascribed to him a focus on apotheosis (Vit. Pyth. vi 30; xix 91; xxvii 133; xxviii 140). This theme appeared in the writings of Plato, who in Phaedrus 246e-249d described human souls returning to their original home with the gods, a difficult process in which ‘the utmost toil and struggle await the soul’ (ἔνθα δὴ πόνος τε καὶ ἀγὼν ἔσχατος ψυχῇ πρόκειται, Phaedrus 247b tr. Fowler). Plato also had Socrates recommend the practice of justice, piety, and intelligence, which would lead to man’s ‘assimilation to God’ (ὁμοίωσις θεῷ, Theaetetus 176b). Understanding this would lead to true wisdom and virtue (ὰρετὴ, Theaetetus 176c; cf. Polansky 1992, 142–147; Stern 2008, 176–177). This raises the matter of the difference between coming into the presence of the divine versus actual divinisation. The application appears in Empedocles, who 164

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described himself as having become ‘an immortal god, no longer mortal’ (θεὸς ἄμβροτος, οὐκέτι θνητὸς, frag. 112 DK). I agree with the traditional view that Empedocles meant his statement of his immortality genuinely, as argued by Panagiotou 1983, 276–285. There are two related doctrines that bear upon this matter: the road to virtue and assimilation. How, then, do people approach the gods and attain to this status? Since early times, choosing the rigours of a life of excellence has been cast in the language of a choice between two roads. Hesiod wrote of the choice that lay before men: ‘Misery is there to be grabbed in abundance, easily, for smooth is the road, and she lives very nearby; but in front of Excellence, the immortal gods have set sweat, and the path (οἴμος) to her is long and steep, and rough at first (ὄρθιος οἶμος ἐς αὐτὴν καὶ τρηχὺς τὸ πρῶτον) – yet when one arrives at the top (ἄκρον), then it becomes easy, difficult though it still is’ (Works and Days 287–91, tr. Most). Prodicus added Heracles into the mix, and his version of the deified hero’s choice between virtue and vice as represented by two paths has been preserved in the paraphrase of Xenophon. While Heracles was considering which road to take in life, Virtue warned him, ‘For of all things good and fair, the gods give nothing to man without toil and effort (τῶν γὰρ ὄντων ἀγαθῶν καὶ καλῶν οὐδὲν ἄνευ πόνου καὶ ἐπιμελείας θεοὶ διδόασιν ἀνθρώποις, Xenophon, Memorabilia ii 1.28, tr. Marchant). In her turn, Vice compared the two roads, ‘Heracles, mark you how hard and long is that road to joy, of which this woman tells? But I will lead you by a short and easy road to happiness’ (ἐννοεῖς, ὦ Ἡράκλεις, ὡς χαλεπὴν καὶ μακρὰν ὁδὸν ἐπὶ τὰς εὐφροσύνας ἡ γυνή σοι αὕτη διηγεῖται; ἐγὼ δὲ ῥᾳδίαν καὶ βραχεῖαν ὁδὸν ἐπὶ τὴν εὐδαιμονίαν ἄξω σε, Mem. ii 1.29). This theme appeared in Plato as well, who referenced Hesiod and Prodicus and paraphrased, ‘the gods have set toil (ἱδρώς) on the way to virtue (ἀρετή); and when one reaches the summit (ἄκρον), it is an easy thing to possess, though hard before’ (Protagoras 340d, tr. Lamb mod.). These examples adequately establish the longevity of the interest in these three related topics, but I would like to treat separately the work of the great synthesising philosopher, Porphyry of Tyre. There are three significant works for an understanding of Porphyry’s doctrine of apotheosis. The first work in which Porphyry addressed this topic was his Philosophos historia, authored early in his career, and most likely during his time in Rome with Plotinus, A.D. 258–63 (Des Places 1982, 166; Simmons 2015, 28). In it, he discussed the history of the various threads of philosophy that would come to be absorbed into and systematised in the Greek philosophical tradition. While the work traced the influence of the founders of this tradition down to Plato, only an early portion from book one survives, the Life of Pythagoras. Porphyry wrote that the desired end of Pythagoras’s philosophy was divinisation or assimilation to God (Τοιαῦτα παρῄνει · μάλιστα δ᾽ ἀληθεύειν · τοῦτο γὰρ μόνον δύνασθαι τοὺς ἀνθρώπους ποιεῖν θεῷ παραπλησίους, Vit. Pyth. xl.1–2). In addition, Porphyry described Pythagoras inscribing an epigram on Zeus’s tomb, beginning: ‘Here lies dead Zan, called Zeus’ (Ὧδε θανών Ζάν, ὃν Δία κικλήσκουσιν, Vit. Pyth. xvii, tr. author). 165

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In his Philosophy from Oracles, a work most likely authored c. A.D. 302 (Simmons 2015, 32), Porphyry incorporated into his presentation of apotheosis elements of the tradition of the choice between virtue and vice. For Porphyry, virtue meant justice, chastity, and seeking after God to imitate him (Phil. Orac. fr. 346 Smith). These virtues were organised on an ascending scale including civil, purificatory, contemplative, and exemplary categories (Sententiae 32; cf. Simmons 2015, 114–115). Virtue could be enhanced by the highest form of sacrifice, which was non-material, directing silent thought to the supreme God (Abst. ii.34.1–2.36.6). The practice of these virtues trained practitioners in the knowledge of the divine, which led to holiness (Ep. Marc. 16.278–17.284; Ep. Anebo 1 Sodano p. 8.1–2, 11–12). Conversely, his view of vice was that it was an ignorance of the divine, frequently driven by the pursuit of pleasure (Ep. Anebo 1 Sodano p. 8.1–2, 11–12; Abst. i.42.1; 3.18.5). This, coupled with the caution that these problems could be exacerbated by a reliance on blood sacrifice, had clear implications for Christianity (Abst. ii.9.1–11.3; 2.25.1–7; 2.27.1–3; 2.43.2; 2.56; 4.18.4). Digeser 1998, 129–146 has argued that Philosophy from Oracles was the work that Porphyry presented to Diocletian’s conference prior to the implementation of the Great Persecution. Phil. Orac. does not survive intact, but in his early fourth-century work engaging Hellenic philosophy, the Preparation for the Gospel, Eusebius of Caesarea offered an extended citation of Porphyry. He confirmed that the oracle was found in the first book of Porphyry’s Philosophy from Oracles, that it supposedly came from the god Apollo, and that Porphyry added his noteworthy commentary (Praep. Evang. 412d). The oracle Porphyry quoted was as follows, ‘Steep is the road and rough that leads to heaven, entered at first through portals bound with brass’ (Αἰπεινὴ μὲν ὁδὸς μακάρων τρηχεῖά τε πολλόν, χαλκοδέτοις τὰ πρῶτα διοιγομένη πυλεῶσιν, Praep. Evang. 413a). Porphyry confirmed and endorsed the oracle, commenting further: ‘For the road to the gods is bound with brass, and both steep and rough (Χαλκόδετος γὰρ ἡ πρὸς θεοὺς ὁδός, αἰπεινή τε καὶ τραχεῖα, Praep. Evang. 413a); the barbarians discovered many paths thereof, but the Greeks went astray, and those who already held it even perverted it’. Schroeder and Des Places 1991, 219 n. 2 have suggested that οἱ κρατοῦντες or ‘the rulers’ possibly refers to the Christians. As Johnson 2013, 339 n. 43 noted, such an allusion ‘would be consistent with Porphyry’s view that Christians had gone astray from the ancient wisdom’. In this same period, A.D. 300–303, Porphyry also wrote of this same theme in a letter ostensibly written to his wife, but which was in actuality a treatise for those new to the philosophical life (Whittaker 2001, 150–168; Des Places 1982, 89). Heroes that had travelled this road to the gods included Heracles, Asclepius, and the Dioscuri, all men who had become worshipped as divine. He began with the standard two roads framework, comparing walking on ‘some paved surface’ (ἱππήλατόν τι χωρίον) to the work required to ‘ascend the mountain summits’ (τὰ ὑψηλότερα τῶν ὀρῶν . . . ἀναβαίνειν, Ep. Marc. 6, tr. author). He continued in this vein, contrasting the opposite states of pleasure and ‘the ascent to the gods’ (τῇ πρὸς θεοὺς ἀνόδῳ), as well as comparing the struggle against being dragged down 166

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into the body to the struggle to reach ‘the summits of mountains’ (τὰ ὑψηλότερα τῶν ὀρῶν). Porphyry agreed as to the inherent difficulty of the road to the gods, writing ‘difficulty is natural to the ascent’ (τὸ δύσκολον πρὸς ἀνάβασιν οἰκεῖον). Porphyry continued, naming some of those who had completed the journey of apotheosis: ‘You know that Heracles and the Dioscuri, and Asclepius and all other children of the gods, completed the blessed road to the gods through hardship and endurance’ (Ἀκούεις δὲ καὶ τὸν Ἡρακλέα τοὺς τε Διοσκούπους καὶ τὸν Ἀσκληπιὸν τοὺς τε ἄλλους ὅσοι θεῶν παῖδες ἐγένοντο ὠς διὰ τῶν πόνων καὶ τῆς καρτερίας τὴν μακαρίαν εἰς θεοὺς ὁδὸν ἐξετέλεσαν, Ep. Marc. 7, tr. author). Here it is clearly not just a matter of coming into the presence of the gods, as Heracles, Asclepius, and the Dioscuri had become divine themselves, apotheosis in its fullest sense. Porphyry carried on and clarified that, ‘For it is not those who live a life of pleasure that make the ascent to the gods, but rather those who have nobly learnt to endure the greatest misfortunes’ (Οὐ γὰρ ἐκ τὼν δι᾽ ἡδονὴς βεβιωκότων ἀνθρώπων αἰ εἰς θεὸν ἀναδρομαί, ἀλλ᾽ εκ τῶν τὰ μέγιστα τὼν συμβαινόντων γενναίως διενεγκεῖν μεμαθηκότων, Ep. Marc. 7). This perspective would have resonated particularly with the young emperor whose father and other relatives were murdered in the purge of 337. How, then, did Porphyry employ these passages regarding the difficult road ascending to the gods? In his discussion of the passages, Johnson 2013, 106–107 points out that Porphyry explicitly connected this theme of the road to the soul’s salvation. In his recent monograph, Simmons argues that there was a unifying factor in Porphyry’s thought, which was the crafting of a way of universal salvation to compete with Christianity. In this reconstruction, which I will take as a starting point, Porphyry perceived the weakness of Hellenism vis-à-vis Christianity burgeoning Christianity to be its limited appeal, namely that it offered no avenue to salvation to the masses outside the bounds of a philosophical elite. Simmons 2015, xi–xii has noted that Porphyry responded by developing ‘a hierarchical soteriology’ that ‘offered in a sense universal salvation, according to which stage on the ascending scale one belongs’, and made use of works like the Letter to Marcella and Philosophy from Oracles as a second tier to offer novice philosophers soulcleansing through continence. Therefore, these passages regarding the ascent are not isolated fragments, but key components of Porphyry’s thought, which explains their survival in the Preparation for the Gospel as Eusebius sought to engage Porphyry’s soteriology. Julian’s view of apotheosis is primarily drawn from one of his public orations, which is in turn illuminated by the writings of his confidante Libanius of Antioch. On the surface, Julian wrote his Or. 7 To the Cynic Heracleios to chastise an offensive philosopher, but appears to have used it as a vehicle to lay out his justification for state intervention on behalf of paganism. Within it, he included the tale of a youth whose family had been murdered, and who was under the power of the relative who arranged the murders, circumstances that match Julian’s exactly. The youth, whom I will refer to as Julian, for that is as he intended it to be understood, fled and was contacted by Hermes, who in Julian’s hands, spoke to him as 167

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follows: ‘Come, I shall be your guide to a smoother and leveller road as soon as you have scaled the crooked and steep place where you see all failing and hence heading back’ (‘Δεῦρο’, εἶπεν, ‘ἡγεμών σοι ἐγὼ ἔσομαι λείας καὶ ὁμαλεστέρας ὁδοῦ τουτὶ τὸ μικρὸν ὑπερβάντι τὸ σκολιὸν καὶ ἀπότομον χωρίον, οὗ πάντας ὁρᾶς προσπταίοντας καὶ ἀπιόντας ἐντεῦθεν ὀπίσω’, Or. 7.230c). Julian continued on, and then pursued the virtuous road familiar to all in the Hellenic tradition. ‘Then, persuaded by him, he went forward by a road smooth, unbroken, and very bright, heavy laden with fruit and many good blossoms, all that is dear to the gods, and trees of ivy, laurel, and myrtle’ (Πεποιθὼς οὖν αὐτῷ προσῆγεν εἰς τὸ πρόσω διὰ λείας ὁδοῦ καὶ ἀτρίπτου καθαρᾶς τε πάνυ καὶ καρποῖς βριθούσης ἄνθεσί τε πολλοῖς καὶ ἀγαθοῖς, ὅσα ἐστὶ θεοῖς φίλα, καὶ δένδρεσι κιττοῦ καὶ δάφνης καὶ μυρρίνης, Or. 7.230d). Ultimately, Hermes led Julian to the end of that road, where he was granted a temporary divine visitation. ‘And he had led him upon a great and high mountain. “Upon this summit”, he said, “the father of all the gods sits”’ (ἀγαγὼν δὲ αὐτὸν ἐπί τι μέγα καὶ ὑψηλὸν ὄρος, Ἐπὶ τούτου, ἔφη, τῆς κορυφῆς ὁ πατὴρ πάντων κάθηται τῶν θεῶν, Or. 7.230d). Julian closed his tale of the visit to the mountain by placing a divine endorsement of himself in the mouth of the father of the gods. After receiving instructions for the restoration of traditional religion, as well as tokens of favour from Athena, Hermes, and Helios, Julian was told: ‘Remember then that you possess an immortal soul and are our offspring, and that following us, you will be a god and with us will behold our father’ (μέμνησο οὖν, ὅτι τὴν ψυχὴν ἀθάνατον ἔχεις καὶ ἔκγονον ἡμετέραν, ἑπόμενός τε ἡμῖν ὅτι θεὸς ἔσῃ καὶ τὸν ἡμέτερον ὄψει σὺν ἡμῖν πατέρα, Or. 7.234c). Regarding the term ἔκγονον or ‘offspring’, although the terminology is slightly different, Julian also placed into the mouth of Athena the statement that he was the βλάστημα or ‘offspring’ of herself and Helios (Or. 7.232d). Here we see, then, a similar portrayal to the improbable situation pointed out by Eusebius, with the deified man (Heracles) being the son of the high god (Helios). This apotheosis is presented with the twist that Julian was himself portrayed as a Christfigure, surely an intentional effort to co-opt successful elements of Christianity, which I will deal with in the following section. As Greenwood 2014 140–149; Greenwood 2017, 491–509 have highlighted, in Julian’s co-opting of Christian themes, the emperor made use of both Heracles and Asclepius as Christ-figures, which he then assimilated himself to. The connection to apotheosis is confirmed by two orations of Libanius, who portrayed Julian very much in this vein. The orator associated the young emperor with the myth of Heracles at the crossroads, first praising the emperor for having become ‘master of will, even as Heracles’ (βουλῆς δὲ κύριον . . . ὥσπερ τὸν Ἡρακλέα, Lib., Or. 12.28). Libanius wrote that Julian was like Heracles, in that ‘Though it was possible to take himself down the smooth way, and there was none to hinder from carrying himself away to wine, gaming, and flesh, upon the steep and rough path he went’ (ὑπῆρχε δὲ καὶ διὰ τῆς λείας ἔρχεσθαι καὶ οὐκ ἦν ὁ κωλύσων εἰς οἶνον ἐκφερόμενον καὶ κύβους καὶ σωμάτων ἔρωτας, ἐπὶ τὸν ὄρθιον καὶ τραχὺν οἶμον ὁρμᾷ). Finally, the young emperor persevered to the end, as in 168

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the tradition and in his own portrayal: ‘To the destination he endured, considering this more than his great hardships’ (ποῖ φέρει, μᾶλλον σκοπήσας ἢ δι’ ὅσων χαλεπῶν). Norman 1969, 52–53 held that this was a reference to the Prodicus myth of Heracles, although the language of the ‘steep and rough path’ (ὄρθιον καὶ τραχὺν οἶμον) actually parallels Hesiod. Libanius’ adoption of the ‘road to the gods’ motif was followed by confirmation of the ultimate goal for Julian. Following Julian’s departure from Antioch for the Persian campaign in A.D. 363, Libanius authored his Or. 15, The Embassy to Julian, in which he wrote that men would sacrifice to Julian as they did to Heracles. ‘At some time or other men will offer sacrifice and dedicate altars and pray to you, just as to Heracles, for the labours of the emulator, being like in action, will bring the same honours as that one’ (σοὶ δ’ ἔσται μὲν ὅτε θύσουσιν ἄνθρωποι καὶ βωμοὺς ἱδρύσονται καὶ προσεύξονται, καθάπερ Ἡρακλεῖ, τὸν γὰρ ἔργων τῶν ἐκείνου ζηλωτὴν εἰκός τοι καὶ τιμῶν τῶν ἐκείνου τεύξεσθαι, Lib., Or. 15.36). Nock 1957, 115–123 may have believed that Libanius’ writing was not crafting a divine role for Julian, but the weight of evidence brought to light since then suggests that such was exactly the case. What was Julian’s purpose in this apotheosis passage and how did it fit into his overall thought? The emperor used this theme here to portray himself as an iconic figure like Heracles, who would demonstrate his righteousness by making the right choice for hardship and virtue. Ultimately, he was granted a vision of the high god, such as was granted only rarely to philosophers claiming to have achieved temporary mystical union with the One. Julian tried to restore and revitalise Hellenism, and even to restructure religious life with himself as the head of what has been termed a ‘pagan church’, co-opting successful features from Christianity (Nicholson 1994, 1–10; Greenwood 2017, 1–21). This ascent and promised apotheosis not only reinforced his credentials, it was a recasting of the traditional narrative, a philosophically henotheistic framework populated with traditional divine figures. In other words, we need not take this portrayal as an account of Julian’s actual experiences, as he had a political purpose in presenting it, but we should take it as a genuine representation of the kind of philosophical worldview he wanted to promote under his reign.

III. Divinity Returning to Heracles and Asclepius, mentioned earlier, Porphyry had equated four gods, each a δύναμις of Helios: Apollo, Heracles, Asclepius, and Dionysius. Porphyry wrote, ‘Also they supposed a power of this kind to belong to the sun (Helios) and called it Apollo, from the pulsation of his beams’ (Καὶ ἡλίου δὲ τὴν ποιάνδε δύναμιν ὑπολαβόντες Ἀπόλλωνα προσεῖπον, ἀπὸ τῆς τῶν ἀκτίνων αὐτοῦ πάλσεως, Praep. Evang. 112b, tr. Gifford) . . . ‘they called him Heracles, from his clashing against the air in passing from east to west (Ἡρακλέα αύτὸν προσεῖπον, ἐκ τοῦ κλᾶσθαι πρὸς τὸν ἀέρα ἀπ᾽ ἀνατολῆς εἰς δύσιν ἰόντα, Praep. Evang. 112c) . . . ‘Of the sun’s healing power Asclepius is the symbol, and to him they have given the staff as a sign of support and rest of the sick’ (Τῆς δὲ σωστικῆς 169

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Table 14.1 Apotheosis: elements and sources

Hesiod Prodicus/ Xenophon Plato Empedocles Porphyry Julian

Roads

Mountain

ὁδὸς Works 288 ὁδὸς Mem. 2.1.28

ἄκρον Works 291

ὁδὸς Ep. Marc. 6 PE 413 ὁδὸς Or. 7.230c

Ascent to the gods

Apotheosis

ἄκρον Protag. 340d

Phaed. 247b

ὀρῶν Ep. Marc. 6 ὄρος Or. 7.230d

Ep. Marc. 6, 7 PE 413a Or. 7.230d

ὁμοίωσις θεῷ Theaet. 176b fr. 112 Ep. Marc. 7 Or. 7.234c

αὐτοῦ δυνάμεως Ἀσκληπιὸς τὸ σύμβολον· ᾧ τὸ μὲν βάκτρον δεδώκασι, τῆς τῶν καμνόντων ὑπερείσεως καὶ ἀναπαύσεως, Praep. Evang. 112d) . . . But the fiery power of his revolving and circling motion, whereby he ripens the crops, is called Dionysus, not in the same sense as the power which produces the juicy-fruits, but either from the sun’s rotation, or from his completing his orbit in the heaven’ (Τῆς δ᾽αὖ χορευτικῆς τε καὶ ἐγκθκλίου κινήσεως, καθ᾽ ἣν τοὺς καρποὺς πεπαίνει, ἡ πυρὸς δύναμις Διόνυσος κέκληται ἑτέρως ἡ τῶν ὑγροποιῶν καρπῶν δύναμις, ἢ παρὰ τὸ δινεῖν, ἢ διανύειν τὸν ἥλιον τήν κατὰ τὸν οὐρανὸν περιφοράν, Praep. Evang. 113a). When he cited this passage, Eusebius commented that this was internally inconsistent, making the same God father and son simultaneously, and then also Heracles, the son of a mortal mother (Praep. Evang. 120b). What was Porphyry doing with this teaching on divinity, or put another way, how did this understanding benefit his system? As part of his unification of Hellenic thought, Porphyry brought together many cultures’ pantheons and united them with Greek philosophical mono- or henotheism. This construct of divinity allowed him to posit a universal religion, understood by different cultures and individuals to varying degrees. Specifically, these passages supported his philosophical explanation of the origin of these separate divinities. In his Or. 11, Hymn to King Helios, Julian equated these gods to Helios in different ways, writing that Zeus coincided with him, Apollo abode with him and shared his οὐσίας, Dionysios shared his throne, and Asclepius was begotten by him. First, Julian framed his discussion of the gods, writing, ‘For verily there are gods related to Helios and of like substance who sum up the stainless nature of this god, and though in the visible world they are plural, in him they are one’ (εἰσὶ γάρ τοι θεοὶ συγγενεῖς Ἡλίῳ καὶ συμφυεῖς, τὴν ἄχραντον οὐσίαν τοῦ θεοῦ κορυφούμενοι, πληθυνόμενοι μὲν ἐν τῷ κόσμῳ, περὶ αὐτὸν δὲ ἑνοειδῶς ὄντες, Or. 11.143ab, tr. Wright). Julian’s equivalent portrayal of the gods in this fashion has opened him up to some of the same criticisms as Eusebius directed at Porphyry regarding the 170

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consistency of his logic (Greenwood 2013, 400). He began by making clear that Zeus and Helios were one and the same, holding that ‘the creative power of Zeus also coincides with him’ (συντρέχει . . . αὐτῷ καὶ ἡ τοῦ Διὸς δημιουργικὴ δύναμις, Or. 11.143d, tr. Wright). In the first of his parallels with Porphyry, Julian wrote, ‘And Apollo himself also we are called to witness to our statements, since it is certainly likely that he knows better than we about his own nature. For he too abides with Helios and is his colleague by reason of the singleness of his thoughts and the stability of his substance and the consistency of his activity’ (καὶ τὸν Ἀπόλλω δὲ αὐτὸν ἐμαρτυρόμεθα τῶν λόγων, ὃν εἰκὸς δήπουθεν ὑπὲρ τῆς ἑαυτοῦ φύσεως ἄμεινον εἰδέναι: σύνεστι γὰρ καὶ οὗτος Ἡλίῳ καὶ ἐπικοινωνεῖ διὰ τὴν ἁπλότητα τῶν νοήσεων καὶ τὸ μόνιμον τῆς οὐσίας καὶ κατὰ ταὐτὰ ὂν τῆς ἐνεργείας, Or. 11.144a, tr. Wright). The emperor then followed his source, adding Dionysus to the mix. ‘And Apollo too never appears to distinguish the divided creativity of Dionysus from Helios. Always subordinating Dionysus to this one [Helios] and declaring him enthroned with him, Apollo is interpreter for us of the most beautiful thoughts of God’ (Ἀλλὰ καὶ τὴν Διονύσου μεριστὴν δημιουργίαν οὐδαμοῦ φαίνεται χωρίζων ὁ θεὸς Ἡλίου: τούτῳ δὲ αὐτὴν ὑποτάττων ἀεὶ καὶ ἀποφαίνων σύνθρονον ἐξηγητὴς ἡμῖν ἐστι τῶν ἐπὶ τοῦ θεοῦ καλλίστων διανοημάτων, Or. 11.144b, tr. author). Julian then included Asclepius. ‘Moreover, since he contains in himself all the principles of the finest intellectual synthesis, he is known as Helios-Apollo, who leads the Muses. And since he [Helios] fills the whole of our existence with good order, he begat Asclepius in the world, though before the world he had him beside himself’ (πάσας δὲ ἐν αὑτῷ περιέχων ὁ θεὸς ὅδε τὰς ἀρχὰς τῆς καλλίστης νοερᾶς συγκράσεως Ἥλιος Ἀπόλλων ἐστὶ Μουσηγέτης. ἐπεὶ δὲ καὶ ὅλην ἡμῖν τὴν τῆς εὐταξίας ζωὴν συμπληροῖ, γεννᾷ μὲν ἐν κόσμῳ τὸν Ἀσκληπιόν, ἔχει δὲ αὐτὸν καὶ πρὸ τοῦ κόσμου παῤ ἑαυτῷ, Or. 11.144b, tr. author). Lest the reader leap to the conclusion that Heracles was left out, Julian had already written in March 362 that Heracles, too, was begotten by Helios: ‘Him great Zeus through Athena who is forethought begat to be the saviour of the world, and placed as guardian over him this goddess he had brought forth whole from the whole of himself’ (Ὃν ὁ μέγας Ζεὺς διὰ τῆς Προνοίας Ἀθηνᾶς, ἐπιστήσας αὐτῷ φύλακα τὴν θεὸν ταύτην ὅλην ἐξ ὅλου προέμενος αὐτοῦ, τῷ κόσμῳ σωτῆρα ἐφύτευσεν, Or. 7.220a). Julian’s purpose in employing this theme was to continue his socio-political positioning of himself. By equating these gods with the high god Helios, he was able to present himself as the son of Helios. He initially did this with a peculiarly Christlike Heracles the son of Zeus-Helios and Athena, and then assimilated himself to Heracles in the apotheosis passage previously described, and also claimed to be the son of Helios and Athena, then later followed this up with the claim that Asclepius, also rendered as a Christ-figure, was the son of Helios. This, in theory, both gave a figurehead to the renewed Hellenism and also took some of the wind out of Christianity’s sails. Again, the passage presented Julian’s henotheistic view of Hellenic religion, more influenced by Platonic philosophy than traditional tales of Olympians, but with some narrative characters to focus on, one being the divine emperor. 171

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Table 14.2 Divinity: identities and sources Apollo

Heracles

Asclepius

Dionysius

Porphyry

a δύναμις of Helios PE 112b

Julian

abode (συνεστώ) with Helios Or. 11.144a

a δύναμις of Helios PE 112c begotten (φυτεύω) by Helios Or. 7.220a

a δύναμις of Helios PE 112d begotten (γεννάω) by Helios Or. 11.144b

a δύναμις of Helios PE 113a enthroned with (σύνθρονος) Helios Or. 11.144b

Conclusion Hesiod had written of the ‘two roads’, the ‘long and steep’ one leading to virtue, which was later expanded upon by Prodicus, who added the deified Heracles into the mix. Porphyry united this to the strand of thought regarding the ascent to the divine and apotheosis begun by Plato, Empedocles, and reportedly Pythagoras. It was Porphyry’s unified approach combining language of ascent, the two roads, the summit, and apotheosis that Julian wedded to a political agenda in the fourth century. The literary relationship is reinforced by the link between Porphyry and Julian on relationships between aspects of Helios. This intertextuality demonstrates two items of significance: that Porphyry’s synthesis of philosophical thought was employed by a later generation, and that Julian made direct use of Porphyry in a heretofore unrecognised fashion. Porphyry had attempted to appeal to those beyond the philosophical elite by working his material into more popular works such as the Letter to Marcella. Julian did the same via orations designed to appeal to the educated eastern elites, whose education was not necessarily specific to philosophy. This also sheds some light on the philosophical perspectives of both authors. At a time of competition with Christianity, in which all believers were divinised, Porphyry was seeking to articulate a universally applicable philosophy. The Hellenic philosophic tradition proved resistant to such a thorough reshaping, and Porphyry ultimately settled for a philosophical system with several different tracks towards salvation. His approving discussion of apotheosis and divinity allowed him to articulate a path for non-philosophers. Christianity may have been a catalyst for Porphyry’s restructuring efforts, but he drew upon the Hellenic tradition to craft a coherent philosophical system. Julian grew up in a context that had changed very rapidly, and by his adult writing years he was reacting to a then-dominant Christianity. Hellenism was not Julian’s exclusive source, as he formed his thought at least partially in reaction against Christianity, which he mined directly for his idiosyncratic presentation of Hellenism. The ongoing debate over whether Julian was a polytheist or monotheist indicates that elements of his thought were more than opaque and possibly in conflict, suggesting that the result was less a fullyorbed internally coherent philosophical system, but, as suited an emperor, was, as suggested by Urbano 2013, 166–167, a coherent political programme. Julian may 172

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have had a flair for synthesis, but this is perhaps one example of why he was never considered a first-rate philosopher on the order of Porphyry.

Bibliography Barnes, Timothy D. 1973. ‘Porphyry Against the Christians: Date and the Attribution of Fragments’, Journal of Theological Studies 24: 424–442. Barnes, Timothy D. 1994. ‘Scholarship or Propaganda? Porphyry against the Christians and Its Historical Setting’, Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 39: 53–65. Becker, Matthias. 2016. Porphyrios, Contra Christianos: Neue Sammlung der Fragmente, Testimonien und Dubia mit Einleitung, Übersetzung und Anmerkungen. Berlin and Boston: DeGruyter. Bosworth, A. Brian. 1999. ‘Augustus, the Res Gestae, and Hellenic Theories of Apotheosis’, Journal of Roman Studies 89: 1–18. Bouffartigue, Jean. 1992. L’Empereur Julien et la culture de son temps. Paris: Institut d’Études Augustiniennes. Bouffartigue, Jean. 2011. ‘Porphyre et Julien contre le chrétiens’ 407–426 in Sébastien Morlet ed. Le traité de Porphyre contre les chrétiens. Un siècle de recherches, nouvelles questions. Actes du colloque international organisé les 8 et 9 septembre 2009 à l’Université de Paris IV-Sorbonne. Paris: Institut d’Études Augustiniennes. Burgess, Richard W. 2008. ‘The Summer of Blood: The “Great Massacre” of 337 and the Promotion of the Sons of Constantine’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 62: 5–51. Clark, Gillian. 2007. ‘Augustine’s Porphyry and the Universal Way of Salvation’ 127–140 in G. Karamanolis and A. Sheppard, eds. Studies on Porphyry. London: Institute of Classical Studies. Des Places, Edouard. ed. 1982. Porphyre. Vie de Pythagore, Lettre à Marcella. Paris: Universités de France. Digeser, Elizabeth DePalma. 1998. ‘Lactantius, Porphyry, and the Debate over Religious Toleration’, Journal of Roman Studies 88: 129–146. Digeser, Elizabeth DePalma. 2001. ‘Porphyry, Lactantius, and the Paths to God’ 521–528 in Maurice Wiles and Edward Yarnold, eds. Studia Patristica, Vol. XXXVIII – Papers presented at the Thirteenth International Conference on Patristic Studies held in Oxford 1999. Leuven: Peeters. Digeser, Elizabeth DePalma. 2012. A Threat to Public Piety: Christians, Platonists, and the Great Persecution. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Dillon, John. 2006. ‘Holy and Not So Holy: On the Interpretation of Late Antique Biography’ 155–167 in B. McGing and J. Mossman, eds. The Limits of Ancient Biography. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Edwards, Mark J. 2007. ‘Porphyry and the Christians’ 111–126 in G. Karamanolis and A. Sheppard, eds. Studies on Porphyry. London: Institute of Classical Studies. Foerster, Richard, ed. 1904. Libanii Opera, vol. 2: Orationes XII-XXV. Leipzig: Teubner. Gifford, Edwin Hamilton, ed. and trans. 1903. Eusebius, Preparation for the Gospel. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Goulet, Richard. 1982. ‘Le système chronologique’ 210–211 in R. Goulet, et al., eds. Porphyre: La Vie de Plotin. t.1. Paris: Librairie philosophique J. Vrin. Greenwood, David Neal. 2013. ‘A Cautionary Note on Julian’s Pagan Trinity’, Ancient Philosophy 33: 391–402.

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Greenwood, David Neal. 2014. ‘Crafting Divine Personae in Julian’s Oration 7’, Classical Philology 109: 140–149. Greenwood, David Neal. 2016. ‘Porphyry, Rome, and Support for Persecution’, Ancient Philosophy 36: 197–207. Greenwood, David Neal. 2017. ‘Constantinian Influence Upon Julian’s Pagan Church’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 68: 1–21. Guido, Rosanna, ed. and trans. 2000. Giuliano l’Apostate: ‘Al cinico Eraclio’. Galatina: Congedo Editore. Hazzard, Richard A. 1995. ‘Theos Epiphanes: Crisis and Response’, Harvard Theological Review 88: 415–436. Hunt, E. David. 2012. ‘The Christian Context of Julian’s Against the Galileans’ 251–261 in N. Baker-Brian and S. Tougher, eds. Emperor and Author: The Writings of Julian the Apostate. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Izdebska, Anna. 2016. ‘Man, God and the Apotheosis of Man in Greek and Arabic Commentaries to the Pythagorean Golden Verses’, International Journal of the Platonic Tradition 10: 40–64. Johnson, Aaron P. 2013. Religion and Identity in Porphyry of Tyre: The Limits of Hellenism in Late Antiquity. New York: Cambridge University Press. Magny, Ariane. 2014. Porphyry in Fragments: Reception of an Anti-Christian Text in Late Antiquity. Farnham: Ashgate. Mastrocinque, Attilio, ed. 2011. Giuliano l’Apostata, Discorso su Helios re. Nordhausen: Bautz. Meredith, Anthony. 1980. ‘Porphyry and Julian against the Christians’ 1119–1149 in H. Temporini and W. Haase, eds. Aufstieg und Niedergang der Romischen Welt, II.23.2. Berlin: DeGruyter. Morlet, Sébastien. 2011. ‘Eusebius’ Polemic Against Porphyry: A Reassessment’ 119–150 in S. Inowlocki and C. Zamagni, eds. Reconsidering Eusebius: Collected Papers on Literary, Historical, and Theological Issues. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Most, Glen W., ed. and trans. 2007. Hesiod: Theogony, Works and Days, Testimonia. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press. Mras, Karl, ed. 1954. Eusebius, Achter Band. Die Praeparatio Evengelica. 2 vols. Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Nesselrath, Theresa von. 2013. Kaiser Julian und die Repaganisierung des Reiches: Konzept und Vorbilder. Münster: Aschendorff. Nicholson, Oliver. 1994. ‘The Pagan Churches of Maximinus Daia and Julian the Apostate’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 45: 1–10. Nock, Arthur. 1957. ‘Deification and Julian’, Journal of Roman Studies 47: 115–123. Norman, Albert F., ed. 1969. Libanius, Selected Works, vol. 1, The Julianic Orations. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Panagiotou, Sotiroula. 1983. ‘Empedocles on His Own Divinity’, Mnemosyne 36: 276–285. Paton, William R., trans. 1989. The Greek Anthology, Book 9. Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Polansky, Ronald M. 1992. Philosophy and Knowledge: A Commentary on Plato’s Theaetetus. London: Bucknell University Press. Schroeder, Guy and Edouard Des Places, eds. 1991. Eusèbe de Césarée. La Preparation Évangélique. Sources Chretiennes 369. Paris: Editions du Cerf. Simmons, Michael Bland. 1997. ‘The Function of Oracles in the Pagan-Christian Conflict during the Age of Diocletian: The Case of Arnobius and Porphyry’ 249–256 in E. A. Liv-

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ingston, ed. Studia Patristica vol. XXXI – Papers Presented at the Twelfth International Conference on Patristic Studies held in Oxford 1995. Leuven: Peeters. Simmons, Michael Bland. 2006. ‘The Emperor Julian’s Order to Rebuild the Temple in Jerusalem: A Connection with Oracles?’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 43: 68–117. Simmons, Michael Bland. 2009. ‘Porphyry’s Universalism: A Tripartite Soteriology and Eusebius’ Response’, Harvard Theological Review 102: 169–192. Simmons, Michael Bland. 2015. Universal Salvation in Late Antiquity: Porphyry of Tyre and the Pagan-Christian Debate. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sirinelli, Jean and Edouard Des Places, eds. 1974. Eusèbe de Césarée, La Préparation Évangélique t. 1. Sources chrétiennes 206. Paris: Editions du Cerf. Smith, Andrew. 2009. ‘Philosophical Objections to Christianity on the Eve of the Great Persecution’ 33–48 in D. V. Twomey and M. Humphries, eds. The Great Persecution. Dublin: Four Courts Press. Stern, Paul. 2008. Knowledge and Politics in Plato’s Theaetetus. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Trépanier, Simon. 2004. Empedocles: An Interpretation. New York and London: Routledge. Urbano, Arthur. 2013. The Philosophical Life: Biography and the Crafting of Intellectual Identity in Late Antiquity. Washington, DC: Catholic University Press. Whittaker, Helène. 2001. ‘The Purpose of Porphyry’s Letter to Marcella’, Symbolae Osloenses 76: 150–168. Wicker, Kathleen O’Brien, trans. 1987. Porphyry, the Philosopher, to Marcella: Text and Translation with Introduction and Notes. Text and Translations 28. Graeco-Roman Religion Series 10. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Wright, Maureen R. 1981. Empedocles: The Extant Fragments. New Haven and London: Yale University Press.

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15 ‘N E W T E S TA M E N T C H R I S TO L O G Y, AT H A N A S I A N A P O L O G E T I C, A N D PA G A N P O L E M I C,’ J O U R N A L O F T H E O L O G I C A L S T U D I E S N S 69 (2018): 101–105

Introduction In the absence of full-scale creedal formulae, New Testament authors wrote of Christ the god-man utilising language applied to God in the Old Testament. In the effort to emphasise the divinity and uniqueness of Christ, the author of the Epistle to the Hebrews utilised three terms: καθαρός (10:22), δημιουργὸς (11:10), and δυνατός (11:19), all part of an extended passage treating God’s sacrifice and man’s resulting salvation. This theme and language crops up again in Athanasius of Alexandria, employed to defend and explain the incarnation of Christ, and then once more in Julian the Apostate, employed to appropriate characteristics of Christ for his pagan Christ parallel of Heracles. The author of Hebrews displayed a high Christology, summed up in 1:8–10, where Christ was presented as deity, king, and creator, attributes that collectively, were exclusive to God in the Old Testament. Three characteristics that undergirded that claim: purity, power, and creativity, are found in an extended passage at Heb. 10:22–11:19 recounting the faith of those anticipating Christ’s coming. Hebrews 10:22 refers to those with faith in Christ’s salvific work having hearts sprinkled from an evil conscience, and bodies washed with pure (καθαρός) water, surely an allusion to Christian baptism, the same theme seen in John’s Gospel, where Christ informed his disciples that those He washed were clean indeed, and that His disciples were cleansed by the word which He had taught (John 10:11, 15:3). The readers of Hebrews likely looked back to God’s promise to ‘sprinkle clean water upon His people’ (Ezekiel 36:25), but also may have seen this as an allusion to the Septuagint’s use of καθαρός to describe Moses’ vision of God (Exodus 24:10 LXX). Heb. 11:10 tells of how in faith Abraham sought an ideal city of divine foundations referring to a city whose builder and maker was God (πόλιν ἧς τεχνίτης καὶ δημιουργὸς ὁ θεός). Here, the two terms τεχνίτης and δημιουργὸς are 176

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used to describe the complementary aspects of God’s plan and execution, although the particular term δημιουργὸς is rarer in Scripture, appearing again only in 2 Mac. 4:1.1 The theme of God as creator is rather obvious from Genesis onward, but early Christian writings routinely attributed that creative role to the Word by whom all things were made, and who created all people and all things (Jn. 1:3; Eph. 2:9–10). Hebrews 11:19 reflects Abraham’s awareness of Isaac’s supernaturally instigated birth, which led him to look beyond his immediate circumstances with faith in the power (δυνατός) of God to raise the dead, and obediently be willing to offer his own son in sacrifice. This relationship is similar to what we see in Ephesians 1:19, where it is the greatness of God’s power (δυνατός) which he wrought in Christ in his resurrection and ascent to heaven to sit at the Father’s side. These same three characteristics and their associated themes of sacrifice and salvation later found a home in a passage from the dual work Contra Gentes – De Incarnatione by Athanasius of Alexandria, no philosopher or rhetor, but widely recognised for his ‘profound grasp of scriptural exegesis’.2 For our purposes, the work’s dating, which has been placed between 318 and 336, is not critical, although the suggestion that it was written in 325–28 to establish credibility as a successor to bishop Alexander has much to commend it.3 He united these themes of purity, power, and creativity into a concise but potent description of Christ’s incarnation, which he described as utilising ‘a body pure (καθαρός) and truly unalloyed by intercourse with men. For he, although powerful (δυνατός) and the creator (δημιουργός) of the universe, fashioned for himself in the virgin a body as a temple’ (De Inc. 8.22–24; cf. 8.3). In this, he made use of the same themes found in the Epistle to the Hebrews, and using the same language. This passage is also wrapped up in themes of sacrifice and salvation: Athanasius is writing of the problem of sin: to obtain salvation for the human race required a holy sacrifice, but one in a material body, and the only solution, the incarnation of the Word, required the high Christology that Athanasius is known for. Athanasius evidently expected his audience to include both Christians and pagans, as he set his discussion of the incarnation directly in the context of the condemnation of pagan idolatry and rejection of the one true God (De Inc. 25).4 The Emperor Julian, who was attempting to restore the fortunes of paganism within the Roman Empire, regularly had his attention drawn to Athanasius. In two letters ‘To the Alexandrians’, he banished the ‘insolent’Athanasius in late 361 and rejected a local petition for his return in autumn 362 (Epp. 110 and 111 Bidez). Not only did Julian make paganism the official religion once more, the last emperor to do so, he attempted to appropriate elements of Christianity that were resonating with the population. One of these elements was the feature of a personal saviour, 1 Abbott-Smith 1937, 104. 2 The text and translation of Athanasius’ De Incarnatione is that of Thomson 1971; for Athanasius as an exegete, see xvii. 3 Barnes 1993, 13. 4 Gwynn 2012, 68; cf. Thomson 1971, xxii.

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again with the characteristics of purity, creativity, and power. In his Or. 7 To the Cynic Heracleios, written in early 362, Julian responded to a philosopher that had irritated him at court, but seized the opportunity to co-opt Athanasius’ description of Christ as seen above for his version of the god-man, Heracles, employing a Messianic motif that paralleled the New Testament portrayal of Christ.5 And I think of his journey across the open sea in a golden cup, though I will hold it was not truly a cup, but I believe he walked on the sea as upon dry land. For what was impossible to Heracles? What of the socalled elements enslaved to the creative and consummating power of his immaculate and pure mind did not hearken to his divine and most pure flesh? Him great Zeus through foreseeing Athena begat to be the saviour of the world. Scholars have contested the significance of this for some time, with Pfister arguing that pagan accounts of Heracles influenced the creation of the gospel, Rose pointing out that in numerous instances the process flowed in the opposite direction, and Simon arguing that Julian employed Heracles with Zeus and Athena intending to form a ‘divine triad’ resembling the Christian Trinity.6 Aune has also identified the link between Heracles and Christological themes in the Epistle to the Hebrews, including those of Son and High Priest.7 While water-walking frequently suggested magic to pagan authors (e.g., Lucian, Philops. 13), here Julian explained that Heracles owed this power to his innate command of the elements, a demonstration of his divinity similar to Christ’s water-walking in the Gospels, a miracle that alluded to God’s command of the elements in Genesis and Exodus, leading Christ’s disciples to worship him (Mt. 14:22–33, Mk. 6:45–52, and Jn. 6:16–21; Gen. 1:1–10 and Ex. 14–15).8 Julian explained this by attributing the divine characteristics of creativity, power, and purity to the newly Christ-like Heracles: ‘What of the so-called elements enslaved to the creative (δημιουργική) and consummating power (δύναμις) of his immaculate and pure (καθαρός) mind did not hearken to his divine and most pure flesh?’ (Or. 7.219d-220a). While these characteristics had been touched on before in pagan literature, their use in conjunction, particularly in a passage co-opting the description of Christ, points to Athanasius as a more likely source than the Epistle to the Hebrews, which he only referenced one time (C. Gal. 155d, citing Heb. 12:29). Julian’s unique portrayal

5 As argued in Greenwood 2014a, 140–149. The text of Julian’s Or. 7 To the Cynic Heracleios is that of Nesselrath 2015 and the translation is my own. 6 Pfister 1937, 42–60; Rose 1938, 121; Simon 1973, 392, although re. Simon’s claim, see Greenwood 2013, 391–402. 7 Aune 1990, 13–15. 8 The Gospel of Matthew appears to be Julian’s source here, given his preference for Matthew demonstrated elsewhere in this oration at 229cd-233d, paralleling Mt. 3:7–4:10. Greenwood 2014b, 593–598.

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Table 15.1 Terminology Theme

Hebrews

Athanasius, De Inc.

Julian, Or. 7

Purity Power Creator

καθαρός δυνατός δημιουργός

καθαρός δυνατός δημιουργός

καθαρός δύναμις δημιουργικός

was then extended to birth from a virgin mother, as Julian changed Heracles’ conception via through intercourse between Zeus and the human woman Alcmene, to ‘being brought forth from’ Zeus and foreseeing Athena, the virgin goddess (Or. 7.220a). Later in this same oration, Julian ascribes the same origins to himself at 230a and 232d, where Athena also played the guardian to both the divine Heracles and the divinely chosen Julian, this assimilation revealing the emperor’s political purpose. As to the theological purpose of this passage, paganism receives a figure ‘begat to be saviour of the world’ in a similar vein to its rival Christianity (Or. 7.220a). While the theme of sacrifice was not present, nor need we demand that from a non-Christian Neoplatonist, we do see Zeus summon his son Heracles back to himself in heaven (Or. 7.220a). While Or. 7 was written at the beginning of Julian’s reign, he has been correctly assessed as consistently intolerant towards Christianity from the beginning.9 This motif fits into the general thrust of his polemic against Christianity, one recent evaluation of which has highlighted Julian’s interest in Christology in his C. Gal.10 In all three of these texts, we see the authors making use of the three characteristics of purity, power, and creativity, with all three additionally tied together by the theological themes of salvation and sacrifice, adding to the case for intertextuality. This material, then, was used successively to make the case for Christ’s divinity, the necessity for Christ’s incarnation, and to craft a Christ-like Heracles to compete with Christianity.

Bibliography Abbott-Smith, George. 1937. A Manual Greek Lexicon of the New Testament, 3rd ed. Edinburgh. Aune, David E. 1990. ‘Heracles and Christ: Heracles Imagery in the Christology of Early Christianity’, 3–19 in Greeks, Romans, and Christians: Essays in Honor of Abraham J. Malherbe, eds. D. L. Balch, E. Ferguson, and W. A. Meeks. Minneapolis. Barnes, Timothy D. 1993. Athanasius and Constantius: Theology and Politics in the Constantinian Empire. Cambridge, MA. Bowersock, Glen W. 1978. Julian the Apostate. Cambridge, MA. Greenwood, David Neal. 2013. ‘A Cautionary Note on Julian’s Pagan Trinity’, Ancient Philosophy 33, 391–402. 9 Bowersock 1978, 81. 10 Hunt 2012, 254.

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Greenwood, David Neal. 2014a. ‘Crafting Divine Personae in Julian’s Oration 7’, Classical Philology 109, 140–149. Greenwood, David Neal. 2014b. ‘A Pagan Emperor’s Appropriation of Matthew’s Gospel’, Expository Times 125, 593–598. Gwynn, David. 2012. Athanasius of Alexandria: Bishop, Theologian, Ascetic, Father. Oxford. Hunt, E. David. 2012. ‘The Christian Context of Julian’s Against the Galileans’, 251–261 in Emperor and Author: The Writings of Julian the Apostate, eds. N. Baker-Brian and S. Tougher. Swansea. Nesselrath, Hans-Ulrich, ed. 2015. Iulianus Augustus: Opera. Berlin. Pfister, Friedrich. 1937. ‘Herakles und Christus’, Archiv für Religionswissenschaft 34, 42–60. Rose, Herbert J. 1938. ‘Herakles and the Gospels’, Harvard Theological Review 31, 113–142. Simon, Marcel. 1973. ‘Early Christianity and Pagan Thought: Confluences and Conflicts’, Religious Studies 9, 385–399. Thomson, Richard, ed. 1971. Athanasius: Contra Gentes and De Incarnatione. Oxford.

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Note: Julian’s works are listed by their numbering in the Loeb Classical Library edition of W. C. Wright, and cross-referenced to the numbering in the Les Belles Lettres edition of Joseph Bidez, et al. Abolitio Memoriae 71 Adam 3, 43–45 Aelia Capitolina 132, 134 Alexander I of Alexandria (bishop) 126, 177 Alexander the Great 38, 53 Alypius 134 Ammianus Marcellinus 14n43, 58n12, 60, 63, 68, 93, 134 Andrew (apostle) 13 Anonymous of Macarius 150 Antioch 14–15, 34–35, 60–61, 68–69, 73, 85, 91–93, 108–109, 123, 132, 134, 150, 155, 157, 169 Aphrodite: shrine at Heliopolis of 11; temple at Aphaca of 10; temple at Jerusalem of 11 Apollo 24–26, 33, 38, 53, 91, 98, 136, 152–154, 159, 164, 166, 169–172; Daphne shrine of 13, 14n43 Apollonius of Tyana 52, 151–152 Apotheosis 162–173 Arsacius 120, 122–123 Asclepius: assimilation with Christ 11, 17–18, 21, 26–27, 117, 125, 130, 148–159, 162–173; assimilation with Julian 129–130, 157–159, 168–172; Cilician Temple of 10–11 Atarbius 150 Athanasius 14, 20n4, 68, 79, 97, 135, 176–179; On the Incarnation 176–179 Athena 19, 22–24, 32, 34, 37, 42, 45, 115, 125, 130, 163, 168, 171, 178–179 Athens 13n38, 32, 101, 111n24

Babylas 13–14, 109 Basilina 33 Basil of Caesarea 34n23 Bithynia 32, 49, 52, 95, 151 Celsus 48–55, 78–89, 140–149, 152 Chaldean Oracles, The 19–20 Christ: nature of 18, 30, 44–45, 48–53, 79–88, 151–152, 154–156, 176–179; in the Temptation 41–47 Christian Scriptures: Daniel 135; Hebrews 135, 176–179; John 25, 52, 79, 87, 154, 176; Matthew 41–46; Pastoral Epistles 124–125; Philippians 152n24, 156 Churches: Church of the Resurrection, Jerusalem 130; Great Church (Domus Aurea), Antioch 14n43, 74n122, 109; Holy Apostles, Constantinople 127, 131; Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem 11, 132–133; St. Mocius, Constantinople 11, 13 Claudius Mamertinus 67 Constans 10, 65, 72, 108 Constantine 9–16, 29–40, 41–47, 56–77, 120–139; Chi-Rho 59, 71–73; monumental construction of 9–15, 65–69, 125–136; as representative of people 15, 32; temple plundering of 10–12, 67, 76; To the Provincials of Palestine 9, 42, 64, 126–127 Constantinople 11–13, 15, 21, 29, 32, 46, 63, 65, 69, 127–128, 130–133, 157 Constantinus 71–72 Constantius I 31, 34n25, 64

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Heracles 17–18, 21–24, 27, 29–39, 45, 51, 86, 107, 116–117, 125, 130, 149, 152–154, 157, 159, 162, 164–172, 176, 178–179 Herculian 31; see also Diocletian, imperial theology Hermes 34–39, 42, 45–46, 72n104, 159, 167–168 Hesiod 165, 169–170, 172 Hilary of Poitiers 43 Himerius 15n51, 32–33, 57, 63, 69, 130n85, 131–132, 157 Hippolytus of Rome 30n10, 124 Historia Acephala 14, 67, 68n80, 133n116 Homer 24n13, 36–38, 110n18, 113, 142, 149, 154

Constantius II 10, 12–15, 24, 31, 34, 41–46, 56–57, 62–74, 85, 107–115, 121–122, 134, 163; and transportation of relics 127 Creeds 92–94, 156n41; Nicene 18, 25, 156, 159; Old Roman (proto-Apostles Creed) 30 Crispus 72 Cyril of Alexandria 88 Cyril of Jerusalem 132n104, 135 Dalmatius (Flavius Dalmatius) 121n9 Daphne 13, 14n43, 14nn42; see also Apollo Decius 63, 64n51 Delphi 152; see also Apollo Diocletian 95, 132; Great Persecution of 95; imperial theology of 31; see also Herculian; Jovian Diodorus 153 Dionysus 25–26, 152, 170–171

Iamblichus of Chalcis 20, 148, 151, 153, 159 Irenaeus of Lyons 31n10, 44, 50n18; see also Recapitulation

Emesa 14, 60, 69 Empedocles 164–165, 170, 172 Ephrem of Nisibis 134 Eunapius 12–13, 33, 91, 116, 130n85, 157–159 Eusebia 111n24 Eusebius of Caesarea 9–13, 51, 64, 80n16, 84–85, 121, 126–130, 149–151, 156–159, 166–170, 31, 35; comparison of Constantine to Son of God 31, 113n29, 126–136; Life of Constantine 9, 34n25, 64, 126, 128; Preparation for the Gospel 31n14, 166–167, 169–170 Eusebius of Nicomedia 18, 31n14, 43, 121, 127n58 Eutropia 11 Galerius 64, 95 Gallus (Constantius) 12–14, 32n17, 35–36, 41–42, 56, 85n57, 111n24 George of Cappadocia 19, 31n14, 43, 121, 127n58, 150 Gregory Nazianzen 35, 57, 61, 88n80, 97, 120, 123, 132 Hadrian’s Temple of Venus 132 Hecebolius 18, 42 Helena 11–12 Helios see Julian, Or. 4 Hymn to King Helios Heracleios 29, 31, 42, 115, 178

Jerusalem 10–11, 74, 130, 132–136 John Chrysostom 14n42, 14n43, 61, 88n80 John Malalas 69n90 Jovian 31; see also Diocletian, imperial theology Julian: acclamation at Paris 56, 115, 122, 163; and apotheosis 162–175; assimilation with Asclepius 3, 117, 130, 148–159, 162, 168–172; assimilation with Christ 3, 29–40, 116–117, 148–159, 162, 168–172; assimilation with Heracles 3, 29–40, 116, 130, 162, 168–172; and church burnings in Emesa 14, 60, 69; education of 18–19, 31n14, 42–43, 121, 127n58; education rescript 63, 150, 159; elevation to Caesar 32n17, 56, 111, 121; Against the Galilaeans (C. Gal.) 13n41, 18, 21n6, 23, 27, 31n14, 52, 78, 85–88, 97, 117, 123n24, 127n58, 134, 148, 150–151, 153, 155–156, 159, 162, 164, 179; Ep. 22 To Arsacius (Ep. 84a LBL) 120, 122–123; Ep. 37 To Atarbius (Ep. 83 LBL) 150; Ep. 47 To the Alexandrians (Ep. 111 LBL) 20, 177; Ep. 55 To Photinus (Ep. 90 LBL) 18, 85n62, 91–92, 151n17; Letter to a Priest (Ep. 89b LBL) 13n35, 20, 37, 68n86, 124–125, 129n79; Letter to the Athenians (V LBL) 35–36, 67, 122; Misopogon (XII LBL) 14, 69, 109, 111; Or. 2 On Kingship (III LBL) 114;

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INDEX

Or. 4 Hymn to King Helios (XI LBL) 21, 24, 30, 33, 91, 113, 116–117, 122, 125, 131, 148, 170; Or. 5 Hymn to the Mother of the Gods (VIII LBL) 18, 113; Or. 7 To the Cynic Heracleios (VII LBL) 7, 29–39, 42, 70, 78, 115–116, 122, 124, 131, 150, 153, 163, 167, 178; Symposium (Caesares) of Julian (X LBL) 12, 34n25, 37n39, 38, 57, 66n70, 67n77, 72n104, 91, 116n54, 151 Julius Constantius 2–3 Justin Martyr 50, 79–80, 135, 142–143, 145, 152 Lactantius 95, 97, 151 Libanius 12–13, 15, 32, 34–35, 38, 57, 60, 65, 67–69, 86, 90–94, 107–119, 131–132, 151, 157–159, 162, 168–169 Luke 13n41, 43n16, 44, 50, 52n40, 127n56 Macarius 133 Macellum 35–36, 42 Mamre 10–12, 74 Marcus Aurelius 80, 141 Mardonius 18, 42 Maximus of Ephesus 19, 109, 116 Mithraism 24, 32–33, 38, 62, 131–132, 142, 145, 157 Neoplatonism 17, 19–21, 25–27, 91, 93, 113, 151, 153, 163 Nicocles 18, 42 Nicomedia 18, 35n33, 43, 97, 108, 121 Oracles 14n42, 24–25, 51, 53, 91, 98, 149, 152, 166 Oribasius of Pergamon 33, 113, 158–159

Porphyry: and apotheosis 162–175; and divinization 162–175; Against the Christians (C. Chr.) 51, 84n50, 85, 162–164; Letter to Marcella (Ep. Marc.) 95n5, 96n7, 97, 163, 167, 172; Life of Plotinus (Vit. Plot.) 100, 163; Life of Pythagoras (Vit. Pyth.) 151–152, 159, 165; Philosophy from Oracles (Phil. Orac.) 51, 97–98, 149, 163, 166–167 Prodicus 33–35, 165, 169, 170, 172 Prophecy 33, 38, 68, 79, 82, 112, 135, 137, 158 Purge of A.D. 337 41, 46, 85, 111, 121, 163, 167 Pythagoras 164, 172; see also Porphyry, Life of Pythagoras recapitulation 17, 38, 44n27, 74, 159; see also Irenaeus of Lyons Rufinus 135 Satan 43 Socrates Scholasticus 13, 97 Sozomen 13, 38, 67, 133 Synod of Béziers (AD 356) 43, 121 temple (at Jerusalem) 43n16, 46, 79, 98, 124, 130, 133–137, 146n41 Tertullian 50n18, 124 Themistius 18, 42, 113n36, 114 Theodorus 116, 124 Theodosian Code (C. Th.) 9, 14, 64, 68 Theurgy, Theurgic Neoplatonism 60, 116, 151 Timothy 125 Vespasian 157 Xenophon 34, 165, 170

Photinus 18, 85n62, 91–92, 151n17 Plato 20, 107–117, 164–165, 170 Plotinus 19–20, 96, 99–101; see also Porphyry, Life of Plotinus

Zeus 18–19, 21–26, 30–38, 45, 73, 91, 109–110, 112, 115–117, 125, 130, 153, 155, 159, 164–165, 170–171, 178–179

183