Translators note: Emperor Marcus Aurelius was noted not only among the emperors of Rome, but among all historical leaders, as one who came closest to the ideal of the philosopher-king. His most important work, the Meditations, is written as a guide on living a good life. Those books are addressed to himself, and were, as far as anyone knows, never intended to be published. The main theme is a stoic acceptance of the true nature of the world. From this, guidelines for many realms of life, most of all, the social, are derived.
To this day, historians struggle with the fact that this wise and benevolent ruler prosecuted the early Christians more harshly than his immediate predecessors, as well as any of his direct successors. Aurelius himself stayed quiet on the matter. Though this recently unearthed final volume of the mediations is of doubtful authenticity, it may nonetheless shed some light on the matter.
I have always thought that only those men who exhibit a certain rigidity of character make a mark on the world. Perhaps you, dear reader, will be surprised to hear that I, Marcus Aurelius, Emperor of Rome, wavered in the dark hours of the night, and doubted myself. Perhaps you will not; certainly not if you have read the diaries I left behind for future generations. The strength and certainty I have shown has been borrowed, in part, from those pillars formed of ink and paper. The words I wrote paint the picture of a wise and resolute man, meant to inspire not only me, but also those who come after me.
I know I have claimed different. In the texts themselves, I wrote that they are intended for my eyes only. I have had occasion to see how the public listens to the man on the lectern; they applaud, yet true weight is lent to the words of those who speak in private. Heavy are the words of the dead, compared to those of the living; this is why I arranged to have my diaries distributed only after my death.
I fear death. A common affliction on the death bed, I am aware. Yet death has always loomed over me, a shadow larger than life's lights and pleasures. You disbelieve me, dear reader. Know that this is my true insecurity: every virtue I described, I wished desperately for myself, and staunchness in the face of the final annihilation was the one I lacked most of all. It stems from an episode of my childhood... I have been roundabout in an effort to postpone telling this story. However, this cup will not pass me by, for when you hold these writings in your hands, my previous efforts will have failed, and all my shadowed intrigues laid to waste. Now, I shall open every curtain, and pray that the cleansing rays of the sun accomplish what my schemes have not.
It was a night in my eleventh summer. I remember the scene clearly; the humid air beading on my skin, the sound of flies buzzing through the garden, and the shadowed alcove in which my philosophy teacher sat, where not even the rays of the moon reached him. Among my many teachers, he is the only one I never praised in my writings, just as I took care to never mention his flock. Yet he might have been the sharpest man I ever met.
"Zeno of Cithium," my teacher said, "was a wise man among wise men. Wise men strive for betterment. Yet Zeno considered passive acceptance of nature's tribulations the highest virtue of all. Explain this."
I licked my lips, my mind racing. I wished for nothing more than to impress my teacher; I adored him. "Though all men should by their nature strive for betterment of their circumstances, not all seek to achieve this through betterment of their environment. As Zeno lived in turbulent times, where the world around him seemed uncontrollable, he strove for inner peace as a means of maximizing happiness."
"Why am I not content with that approach?"
This was how my teacher guided me; he always wanted me to take both sides of the argument. "Happiness alone cannot be a sufficient metric. Otherwise Odysseus ought to have been content on the island of the lotus eaters. Yet the true quality of his character shines through in the fact that he rejected happiness for true betterment."
"True betterment is to be your metric of success, then? How would Zeno answer that proposal?"
"He would question what true betterment is. Any way of measuring it would be relative; the measuring stick it is compared to would undoubtedly be the state of nature." I hesitated. The words had come easily, yet the conclusion of the hypothetical seemed far out of reach.
"Your argument is not complete," my teacher said.
I nodded. "Indeed. I feel that I mentioned many of Zeno's core ideas, yet I am not able to form a valid argument from them. Please enlighten me."
My teacher scoffed softly. "In failing to find a coherent argument, you have uncovered the weakness of Zeno's philosophy. Later stoics took other approaches, but they do not matter to today's lesson. Do you understand what I wished to teach you?"
I bit my lip. My teacher's lessons were never about the obvious. Instead of teaching me about the beliefs of ancient philosophers, he taught me how to think about them, and as such, his true lessons were hidden not in the content of the discussion, but in its structure. "You want me to trust in my doubts."
My teacher smiled a rare smile, and his teeth gleamed. "Do not hide your light under a bushel." It was one of the many strange sayings my teacher was prone to, and it strengthened a suspicion within me.
"Teacher," I said. "I fear I might be raising this matter indelicately, yet I need to ask. I am aware of something I am not supposed to be aware of; it concerns what you know, or perhaps more particularly, what you have read."
He frowned. "I am not aware what you speak of. Do you wish to suggest you have read some manner of forbidden text?"
"The allusions... they are too frequent to be mere coincidences, and you are not a man to act without deliberation. You are trying to tell me something, and I—"
"Not a word further." My teacher's voice was firm. "Do not sully my name, or yours, with accusations you are not sure of."
"I've just... the rumors..." I trailed of, unsure how to continue under my teacher's stern gaze. Every word seemed a misstep. "I'm sorry," I finally said. "It's nothing."
My teacher nodded gravely. "Then I will continue to teach you whatever you are worthy of."
It was as clear a hint as any he had given me. I was not worthy yet to know, but I could become so. A quiet determination filled me, for in those days, I worshipped the very ground my teacher walked on, and his recognition was a boon I would have given anything for, including my immortal soul. And if my suspicions were correct, that was the exact price he would demand.
Years passed without any progress. My respect for my teacher kept me from pressing the issue, at first. It was evident that he would know best when to initiate me into the deeper mysteries he was no doubt grooming me for.
When I reached my thirteenth year, I discovered fear. My father had died when I was three years old, too young to understand. It was only now, on the occasion of my birthday, that I started to count backwards from his example, and understood that, however many years I had left, they were limited.
I now felt the real weight of mortality on my soul, and it was crushing. This alone would have fanned the flames of my curiosity, but a set of observations made it even more pressing. My own research into my teacher had yielded the following confusing hints: first, that he had never been seen in the light of day; second, that no one was entirely sure what his age was, or his country of origin. A hypothesis grew within me, an outrageous theory of the sort only a child can hold to with conviction.
I was no longer a child. My explanation, fantastical as it was, needed more than imagination to sustain it. I knew better than to confront my teacher; rather, I decided to embark on my own research. That is what he taught me, over all those years: the art of distinguishing fact from fiction. In my youthful enthusiasm, I thought that by uncovering his secrets using the methods he had taught me, I might make him proud, and gain the approval I craved.
It was easy to gain entrance into a Christian congregation. For all that they were a secret society, their hunger for new members gave them away. Any fundamentally good person who believes he holds the key to true salvation needs to share it, and it was easy enough to find a kind soul among them.
I had read some of their texts beforehand, those they called the gospels, and those parts of the Tora that were necessary to understand them. Those writings had not prepared me for what I saw within the catacombs.
The congregations, lit only by candles, were wreathed in shadows. In Greek, a priest read from their sacred texts; in Latin, the congregation answered, as if they knew everything by heart. The atmosphere was dark, yet powerful, and my thirteen-year-old heart hammered in my throat in reaction to the power I felt there. The priest held an impassioned speech on life after death — a boon promised by the Christ — and within his words, I saw hints of a promise more immediate, more corporeal than a life after death. And in the crowd, others than me reacted to those hints with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. Not everyone picked up on the hints, though, and I felt that there was a divide there. A large number of the faithful had come here for religion, and nothing else, while a few sought access to deeper, more powerful mysteries.
Understanding came to me when the ritual of communion started. I had read of the last supper; a powerful scene in the gospels, cementing the intention behind the Christ's sacrifice with powerful symbolism. Yet I had not imagined they would reenact it, and I surely had not imagined that they would talk of their bread and wine as if it was truly the flesh and blood of their messiah.
I partook of it. I am not a Christian, and I never was, yet I felt the power within that ritual. Consuming a god's body... Now I understood how some of the Christians could believe in immortality; their entire religion was built as an inversion of the natural order. For the Christians, it was not unthinkable for a man to grasp God's nature.
When I returned home, I was shaking. A part of me had hoped that visiting the Christians would disprove my theory, that I could return to my teacher cured of my curiosity. Yet the knowledge I now held would truly up-end the status quo. I could no longer sit by and wait whether my teacher judged me worthy of receiving the power he held. I needed to do whatever was necessary to take it.
I confronted him as our next lesson drew to a close.
"You are a Christian," I simply said.
My teacher measured me with his gaze. "So you are no longer content to be patient," he said. "Is it your wish, then, that I judge whether you are worthy right now?"
I bit my lip. I had anticipated this reply; it was similar to his earlier rebuttal. "If it is necessary, I will face your judgment," I said. "Yet I know that I have much to learn. It is simply my curiosity that leads me here, my unquenchable thirst for knowledge. Is it true that you hold the key to eternal life?"
My teacher frowned. "The Christians believe that their messiah is the key to an eternal life after death."
"No," I said. "Not paradise, but a fleshly immortality on earth."
At this, my teacher's frown eased, but the emotion that came to replace it was unreadable. With his pale face free of furrows, he seemed more youthful than ever before, yet more ancient. "Is this what I have taught you? To grasp for wild fantasies, for fool's gold?"
"You have told me to use my intellect to seize whatever advantages there might be. And no matter my objective, the biggest advantage would be infinite time in which to pursue it. As to whether I am fool, do tell me. I need to know."
Silence reigned over the courtyard for minutes. My teacher, sitting in the shadows, seemed to barely breathe as he thought. I was at peace; I had given my fate into his hands, and no amount of fretting would now change it.
Finally, he spoke. "You stand at a crossroads. Revelation equals initiation; the only other option is full rejection. You show some promise, but you are not worthy, not as you are now. I had intended to teach you for five more years before I judged your character. Yet forcing the issue as you did is a sign that you will never grow into what I would have demanded of you. You lack patience, and therefore, the answer is no."
"No means that you do not accept me?" My voice shook.
"No means that I am not a Christian, and certainly not immortal. I will not be your teacher any longer. For your own good, you should forget this conversation and live your life in peace."
"I can't accept that," I said. "If you want me to wait until I am fully grown, I can do so, but I will seek you out again."
"Do not look for me. I can promise that you would not survive meeting me in the future."
I bit my lip. There was an edge to his threat, and his unknown power made it more likely to cut true. "Then I will not look for you. I will defeat you without a physical confrontation, and bring you to your knees. I will take what I need from you, if that is what you want."
My teacher stood up. He was not a large man, and even as a youth, I stood taller than him, yet in the darkness of the night, he seemed to tower over me. "Do you not have an ounce of sense in your head, boy? Why would you threaten what you believe to be an immortal? If your theory is true, I will outlast any mortal grudge."
"Though your kind may not die of age alone, I do not believe you cannot be killed. And though you may outlast any mortal, my legacy will cast a shadow on you until the end of your days. If you let me die, you will regret it forever, for I will plant seeds of poison in the hearts of men and thus salt the very earth your kind grows on."
My teacher merely laughed, turned away, and was gone from my life forever.
This is my shame, and my pride: my life was spent in pursuit of immortality. I became an emperor to hold power. I wrote books to ensure my legacy. I persecuted the Christians. Not like Nero, in state-wide organized massacres, but more subtly, locally, so that I could officially claim not to have any interest in the Christians at all, while my agents tracked my teacher across the empire, putting his congregations to the fire. I sent letters to him, again and again, promising that the persecution would not end with my death, that without me to direct it, it would need to burn across the empire like a wildfire. Yet, he never wrote back.
It might seem childish of me to continue with this plan, monstrous even. After all, the seeds I have planted will cause the death of thousands of Christians, if not directly, then within the coming centuries. And even deep in the future, my diaries will discourage others from seeking the immortality I have dedicated my entire life to. Yet those deaths are what I was prepared to cause even back then, as I confronted my teacher. Otherwise, my threat would not have had weight.
If these writings found their way into your hands, I have failed. The people of your time do not accept death; the Christians have not been extinguished; the immortals who drink the blood of gods walk in the night even now, converting a chosen few to their side.
I have failed, yet this text is my last strike at them. You know that they have their roots deep within the Christian sect, in the shadows behind their high priests. You know that they avoid the rays of the sun. I give you this knowledge because they do not wish you to have it. Use it as you will.