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the original, though there are those who maintain it is a copy, but a copy made in the same century, in Parian marble, hence not Roman, hence not corrupt."
    Suddenly the door to the charnel house was flung open and two old men ran out into the street, closely pursued by a dozen monks, armed with sticks. The old men got as far as the arcade where we were standing. Then the monks caught them, threw them to the ground and beat them, shouting all the while, "Heretic! Heretic!"
    I turned with amazement to Mardonius. "Why are they hurting those men?"
    Mardonius sighed. "Because they are heretics."
    "Dirty Athanasians?" Gallus, older than I, was already acquainted with most of our new world's superstitions.
    "I'm afraid so. We'd better go."
    But I was curious. I wanted to know what an Athanasian was.
    "Misguided fools who believe that Jesus and God are exactly the same…
    "When everybody knows they are only similar," said Gallus.
    "Exactly. As Bishop Arius -who was so much admired by your cousin the divine Emperor—taught us."
    "They poisoned Bishop Arius," said Gallus, already fiercely partisan. He picked up a rock. "Murdering heretics!" he yelled and hurled the stone with unfortunate accuracy at one of the old men. The monks paused in their congenial work to praise Gallus's marksmanship. Mardonius was furious, but only on grounds of rectitude.
    "Gallus!" He gave my brother a good shake. "You are a prince, not a street brawler!" Grabbing us each firmly by an arm, Mardonius hurried us away. Needless to say, I was fascinated by all this.
    "But surely those old men are harmless."
    "Harmless? They murdered Bishop Arius." Gallus's eyes shone with righteousness.
    "Those two? They actually murdered him?"
    "No," said Mardonius. "But they are followers of Bishop Athanasius…"
    "The worst heretic that ever lived!" Gallus was always ecstatic when his own need for violence coincided with what others believed to be right action.
    "And it is thought that Athanasius ordered Arius poisoned at a church council, some seven years ago. As a result, Athanasius was sent into exile by your divine uncle. And now, Julian, I must remind you for what is the hundredth -or is it the thousandth? time, not to bite your nails."
    I stopped biting my nails, a habit which I have not entirely broken myself of even today. "But aren't they all Christians?" I asked. "Don't they believe in Jesus and the gospels?"
    "No!" said Gallus.
    "Yes," said Mardonius. "They are Christians, too. But they are in error."
    Even as a child I had a reasonably logical mind. "But if they are Christians, like us, then we must not fight them but turn the other cheek, and certainly nobody must kill anybody, because Jesus tells us that…"
    "I'm afraid it is not as simple as all that," said Mardonius. But of course it was. Even a child could see the division between what the Galileans say they believe and what, in fact, they do believe, as demonstrated by their actions. A religion of brotherhood and mildness which daily murders those who disagree with its doctrines can only be thought hypocrite, or worse. Now for the purposes of my memoir it would be convenient to say that at this moment I ceased to be a Galilean. But unfortunately that would not be true. Though I was puzzled by what I had seen, I still believed, and my liberation from the Nazarene was a long time coming. But looking back, I suspect that the first chain was struck from my mind that day in the street when I saw two harmless old men set upon by monks.
    •          •          •
    In the summer I used to go to my maternal grandmother's estate in Bithynia. It was a small farm two miles from the sea. Just back of the house was a low hill from whose top there was a fine view of the sea of Marmora, while on the horizon's farthest curve to the north rose the towers of Constantinople. Here I spent many hours, reading and dreaming.
    One afternoon, lulled by the murmuring of bees, the scent of thyme, the warm