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When, in the second part of the trilogy, Prometheus was nailed to the rock, the spectators must have thought of the Crucified as the antitype, for the actor playing that part took that posture, extended his arms, and let his head sink on his breast. The common people became more attentive, and as they neither had learnt Greek nor were acquainted with mythology, they thought that the sufferings of Christ were being represented on the stage. Since this had never been done before, they were displeased, and half-audible conversations began. The Emperor was angry, but did not move a muscle. He was generally quiet, but when he was enraged his intelligence forsook him. He sat there in silence, revolving plans against these barbarians, who had forgotten the wisdom of the ancients. It was now past noon, and the impatience of the audience increased. Then the sky began to be covered with clouds and some flakes of snow fell slowly like white feathers. Those who had mantles drew them over their heads. The actors looked towards the Emperor’s box, but he did not move, although it had no roof. He was a soldier, and would not be afraid of anything so trivial as bad weather.

Now Prometheus began to prophesy to Io of the Deliverer who would be born to overthrow Zeus and deliver the fire-bringer. The educated Christians and the heathen looked at each other questioningly, when Io said, “What dost thou say? Shall my son be thy deliverer?” And when Prometheus answered, “He will be the third scion after ten generations,” a murmur broke out in the theatre. “Ten generations,” that was in round numbers 700 years–a period nearly extending to the birth of Christ, since the Christians reckoned dates from 763 A.D., the end of the mythological era, to which the drama belonged.

Julian perceived that he had “carried wood to the fire,” and helped the Christians without intending to do so. Aeschylus had prophesied Christ’s birth almost to the very year, and intimated that he would overthrow Zeus. The orthodox followers of Athanasius wished for no better weapon with which to crush the Arians, who denied the Deity of Christ.

The snow fell ever more thickly, till at last it was a snowstorm. Julian was as white as though he wore a shroud, but he did not move, for he was beside himself with rage against himself, against the demons who had enticed him to choose this play, and against the heavenly powers who mocked him.

The whole audience was covered with snow, and discussed theology; the rabble laughed and quarrelled. The only ones who were protected against the inclemency of the weather were the actors under the canopy. But the damp snow was heavy, and the linen awning presently bent and broke.

Then the whole audience rose and burst into laughter; the actors crept out from under the masses of snow, the doors opened, and all fled except Julian and his philosophers.

* * * * *

As soon as Julian had been elected Emperor, he had sent an ambassador to the Emperor at Byzantium, and now awaited his reply. It was about the time of the winter solstice and the turn of the year. The Christians had, at this period, just begun to celebrate the birth of Christ, and had adopted certain Roman customs from the Saturnalia, the feast in honour of Saturn. Julian, irritated by the challenge of the Nazarenes, began to arm himself for resistance and attack. Now he determined to use his power to give back to heathendom what belonged to it, and to show the Christians whence they had derived their knowledge of the highest things. At the same time he wished to lend heathenism a Christian colouring, so that, at its return, it might be able to conquer everything. The old Temple of Jupiter, on the island in the river, was opened one night, and lights were seen in it. There was also a noise of hammers and saws, mattocks and trowels. This lasted for some time, and people talked about it in the town.