by Gore Vidal
• • •
Helena was somewhat better that winter. She was particularly animated whenever she discussed her visit to Rome. "Do you think we shall ever be able to live there?" she asked me one day, when—rather unusually—we found ourselves dining alone.
"That is for your brother to decide," I said. "Personally, I like Gaul. I could be quite happy living here the rest of my life."
"In Paris?" The way she said it revealed how much she hated our life.
"Yes, but then who knows what will happen next year, next week?"
"You would love the house in Via Nomentana," she said wistfully. "I have the most beautiful gardens…"
"Better than ours? Here?" We were quite proud in Paris of the many flowers and fruit trees that grew with small effort.
"Infinitely!" she sighed. "I should so much like to go back."
"I'm sorry." This was an awkward moment and I silently cursed whoever it was had contrived for us to be alone together for a meal. I don't think it ever happened again.
"My brother respects you." This was also unusual. We seldom spoke of Constantius. "He only fears that you will… listen to wrong advice." She put the case tactfully.
"He has nothing to fear," I said. "Either from me or my advisers. I have no intention of usurping the throne. I want only to do what I was sent here to do: pacify Gaul. And I may say your brother has not made it easy for me."
"Perhaps he listens to bad advisers." That was the most she would admit.
I nodded grimly. "And I can name them, starting with Eusebius…"
She broke in, "You have one friend at court." She pushed her plate from her, as though clearing a place for something new to be set down. "The Empress."
"I know…" I began. But Helena stopped me with a strange look; for the first time in our marriage she struck an intimate note.
"Eusebia loves you." Helena said this in such a way that I could not precisely tell what she meant by that overused and always ambivalent verb. "Her love is constant," she went on, adding but not defining. "While she lives, you are safe. Of course, that may not be long." Her voice shifted; she became more ordinary, more of a woman telling gossip. "The night we arrived at Rome, there was a reception for Constantius in the palace on the Palatine. The senate of Rome and all the consulars were present. I've never seen anything quite so splendid. My brother meant it when he said, 'This is the great moment of my life!' I suppose it always is when a Roman emperor first comes to Rome. Anyway, Constantius wore the crown, and Eusebia sat beside him. She seemed tired but no one suspected she was ill. Then during the Emperor's reply to the senate's welcome, she turned deathly pale. She tried to rise but her robes were too heavy for her. Since everyone was watching Constantius, hardly anyone noticed her. But I did. I was the first to see the blood flow from her mouth. Then she fell backwards on to the floor. She was unconscious when they carried her from the room."
I was appalled. Not only at this bad news, but at Helena's pleasure in Eusebia's pain. "Naturally, my brother—all of us—were concerned. But in a few days she was all right. And of course she was most kind to me when it came my turn to… bleed. All through my labour, Eusebia was beside me. She could not have been more kind. She even arranged for our dead child to be buried in Constantia's mausoleum. She was as thoughtful as though I were her own sister… instead of her enemy." Helena flung this last word at me, and got to her feet. I was startled by the quality of her rage.
"Your friend, your protectress, killed both our children." Helena was now at the door. She spoke with complete calm, like a Sophist who has studied exactly what and how he will say a written speech. "You pride yourself on your philosophy, your love of harmony and balance. Well, how do you measure this in your scales? Two children here." She held up her left hand. "Eusebia here." She held up her right hand and made the scales even. I did not answer her. How could I? Then Helena left the room. We never spoke of this matter again, but I respected her passion, realizing that one can never entirely know another human being even though one has shared the same bed and the same life. A month later, we received word that Eusebia was dead.
• • •
While I wintered at Gaul, Constantius was a thousand miles away at Sirmium, a large city on the border between Dalmatia and Illyricum. Unlike me, he had a troubled winter. First Eusebia died. Then, though he managed to put down the Sarmatians for a second time, the Danube was far from pacified. The tribes were constantly on the move, causing much damage to us. Constantius, however, issued a proclamation declaring that as victor once again over the Sarmatians, he was for a second time taking the title of "Sarmaticus". He did not say how he wished to be styled but Priscus thought we should refer to him as Constantius Sarmaticus Sarmaticus.
My own relations with Constantius were no worse than usual. Actually, his reverses tended to keep his mind off me. I do know that he always referred contemptuously to my "success" in Gaul. In fact, Eusebius used to delight in thinking up epithets for me, knowing that they would amuse his master. Among the ones repeated to me—and it is amazing how much princes are told if they choose to listen—were "chattering mule", "ape in purple", "Greekish pedant", and "nanny goat" because I had let my beard grow again.
Men are curious when it comes to fashion. Since Constantine and his heirs were clean-shaven, everyone must now be cleanshaven, especially high officials. I always answer those who criticize my beard by pointing out that Hadrian and his successors were all bearded, and that I consider their age superior to ours. Actually, my beard is resented because philosophy is resented. Philosophers wear beards; Julian wears a beard; therefore Julian is a philosopher and may well share with that subversive tribe sentiments hostile to the superstitions of the Galileans. I have elsewhere described that year's campaign. In brief, I rebuilt seven ruined towns on or near the Rhine, restored their defences, filled their granaries and garrisoned them. The towns were: Fort Hercules, Schenkenschanz, Kellern, Nuys, Andernach, Bonn and Bingen. All were regained without great effort.
• • •
At Bingen, I had a surprise. The praetorian prefect Florentius, whom I had not seen for more than two years, suddenly appeared at the head of his army to assist me in my task. Since the campaign was nearly over, I could do no more than thank him for the graciousness of his gesture and extort as much grain and gold as I could from him. We had an amusing interview.
Both our camps were pitched outside Bingen. I chose to live in my tent since the town was in considerable turmoil with rebuilding, while the praetorian prefect's army was encamped to the south of me, close to the river. Florentius requested audience the day after our armies had converged. I granted it to him, noting with some pleasure that Florentius now came to me instead of insisting that I attend him.
Florentius arrived at sundown. I received him inside my tent, alone. He saluted me with unusual ceremony. He was noticeably changed. There was no ironic reference to my Spartan quarters. He was plainly nervous. But why?
We sat in folding chairs near the opening of the tent through which came the golden light of a summer evening. Birds sang. The noise of the army about us was constant but soothing. In the distance one could see, just above the green of woods, the grey walls of Bingen. Florentius began the dialogue. "You know, Caesar, that Persia is now in arms against us."
I said that I knew only what was common knowledge, that an embassy Constantius had sent to Sapor had failed.
"I'm afraid it's worse than that." Her nervous gaze flitted here and there like a bird searching for a branch to light on. His hands trembled. "Several months ago Sapor marched on Mesopotamia. He laid siege to Areida."
I was surprised, not so much that Sapor had attacked us as I was that the news had been kept from me. Ordinarily not a head can fall in the empire that word of it does not circulate thousands of miles in an instant, like the wind—no, swifter, like the sun's rays. No one knows how it is that news travels faster than men and horses, but it does. Yet this news had not. I said as much.
Florentius gestured. "The Augustus," he said. "He has kept the matter as secret as possible. You know how he is."
It was part of Florentius's task in dealing with me to make subtly derogatory remarks about Constantius, hoping to lure me into expressing treasonable sentiments. But I never fell into this trap, and he knew that I never would; yet we continued to play the familiar game, rather like those old men one sees in the villages who sit hour after hour, year after year, playing draughts with one another, making the same moves and countermoves to the end of their lives.
I was puzzled. "Why would he want to keep the matter secret?"
"Because, Caesar, it is a disaster." Florentius withdrew his purse of doeskin and fingered his gold. "Amida has been destroyed."
I could not have been more affected if he had said that Antioch or even Constantinople had fallen to the barbarians. Amida was the most important of our border cities, and supposedly impregnable.
"The city was besieged for twenty-three days. I have a full account for you, if you want to study it. There were seven legions inside the city walls. Those troops, plus the inhabitants, meant that one hundred and twenty thousand people were crowded in a single small space. They suffered from plague, hunger, thirst. Sapor himself fought in the first ranks. Fortunately, we fought better, and Sapor lost thirty thousand men."
"But we lost Amida?"
"Yes, Caesar."
"What now?"
"The Augustus plans to move to Antioch for the winter. Next spring he will launch a major offensive against Persia. He has sworn to recover Amida."
"And Sapor?"
"He has withdrawn to Ctesiphon to prepare… who knows for what?"
We sat in silence as the light fell behind the trees. The warm air was full of the smell of cooking. Men laughed. Metal struck metal. Horses whinnied; a soldier's dog barked. I thought of Amida, destroyed.
"Naturally, the Augustus will want all the troops he can muster."
I said this first, knowing that was why Florentius had come to see me.
"Yes, Caesar."
"Has he specified what he will want from me?"
"No, Caesar. Not yet."
"I have, all told, twenty-three thousand men, as you know."
"Yes, Caesar. I know."
"Most of my men are Gallic volunteers. They joined me on condition that they fight only in Gaul for the protection of their own country."
"I am aware of that, Caesar. But they are also Roman soldiers. They have taken the oath of allegiance to the Emperor. They must obey him."
"Even so, I cannot guarantee how they will act if the word I gave them should be broken."
"Let that be my responsibility, Caesar." Florentius put away the purse.
"Nothing in Gaul can be done without me, Prefect. All responsibility is mine." I let that hard statement fall between us like a slab of marble dropping into place.
"Such is the will of Caesar," said Florentius politely, with only the slightest trace of his usual irony. We both rose. At the opening to the tent, he paused. "Might I see the agent Gaudentius?"
"Haven't you already talked to him?" I was as bland as he. "But of course you may. Ask my chamberlain. He'll know where to find him. I'm sure you will find Gaudentius in excellent health, and informative, as always."
Florentius saluted me. Then he disappeared into the twilight. I sat alone for a long time. It was my duty to let Constantius have whatever troops he wanted; yet if I sent the Gauls to Asia I would have broken my word to them. I would also be fatally weakened as a commander. What to do?
In the next few days, every detail of the fall of Amida was known to the army. We also learned that Constantius had dispatched Paul "the chain" to the Orient to conduct treason trials. It was Constantius's inevitable reaction. Any defeat must be the work of traitors. For a season, Paul wreaked havoc in Asia, and many blameless men were exiled or executed.
The remainder of that summer I spent on the Rhine, treating with the German kings, sometimes severely, sometimes generously. The Germans are innately treacherous, and their word means nothing. They are unfathomable. If we had taken their forestcountry away from them, I might understand their constant duplicity: love for one's own land is common to all, even to barbarians. But it was not their land and cities we took from them, but our own, held by us for centuries and ravaged by them. Yet whenever a treaty could be broken, they would break it. Whenever any dishonourable thing might be done, it was done. Why are the Germans like this? I don't know. They are difficult to understand, even those who have been educated by us (ever since Julius Caesar we have taken kings' sons as hostages and civilized them, but to no avail). They are wild by nature. They love fighting as much as Greeks and Romans hate it.
To govern at all, it was necessary for me to obtain a reputation for strictness. I achieved it. I executed kings who broke their word. I crossed the Rhine whenever I chose. I was hard. I was just. Slowly it dawned upon the Germans that I meant to keep them to their side of the Rhine and that any man who chose to rise against me would be struck down. When I left Gaul, the province was at peace.
XIII
My third and last winter at Paris was crucial. I had heard nothing from Constantius directly or indirectly since the meeting with Florentius. The prefect preferred to stay at Vienne while I remained at Paris. We did not meet, though documents continually passed between us. Aware that there might soon be a crisis in our affairs, I proposed at one point that Florentius join me for the winter at Paris. But he declined. Obviously he wanted to keep what authority he could. In principle I was the master of Britain, Gaul, Spain and Morocco. In fact Florentius administered that part of Gaul which is south of Vienne, as well as Spain and Morocco. I controlled Britain. For the time being, we had tacitly agreed not to interfere in each other's territories.
Helena's health grew worse, and when the cold weather came, she took to her bed. The pains increased. I sent for Oribasius. He was not hopeful. "I'm afraid the best I can do is keep her out of pain. She has a turnout of the stomach. There is nothing to be done." And he told me of a new herb he had discovered which causes the flesh to lose sensation.
Oribasius was a comforting companion. So was Priscus, though he kept threatening to go home. His wife Hippia had sent him several angry letters, and he longed for Athens, though he denied it. Priscus always likes to appear more unfeeling than he actually is. Eutherius was a constant source of intelligence. But except for these three friends, I was quite isolated. My chief of staff Lupicinus, who had replaced Sallust, was arrogant and ignorant, while Sintula, the cavalry commander, was hardly company. Nevitta, that splendid officer, I kept at Cologne, to guard the Rhine.
Rather desperately, I wrote letters to old friends, inviting them to Paris. To those who liked to hunt I promised whole packs of deer and a clement season. To philosophers I praised the delights of Parisian intellectual life, though there was none except for the Galilean bishop and his entourage, from whom I kept my distance. But no one came. Even Maximus was unable to make the journey, though he wrote me often, in a code of his own devising. At about this time, November or December, I had a prophetic dream. In the third watch of the night I fell asleep, tired from dictating the notes which later became my commentary on the Battle of Strasbourg. As often happens when I have something specific on my mind, I dreamed first of the battle. Then the battle vanished, as things do in dreams, and I found myself in a large room at the centre of which grew a tall tree; at the time this seemed perfectly natural. But then the tree fell to the floor, and I noticed that a smaller tree was growing among its roots, and that the smaller tree had not been uprooted by its parent's fall. "The tree is dead," I heard myself say. "And now the smaller one will die, too." And I was filled with a pity all out of proportion to the event. Suddenly I was aware of a man beside me. He took my arm. But though I could not make out his face, he did not seem strange.
"Don't despair." He pointed. "See? The small tree's root is in the ground. As long as it is there, it will grow, even more
securely than before."
Then the dream ended, and I knew that I had spoken to my patron deity, Hermes.
When I told Oribasius of this, he interpreted it as meaning that Constantius would fall while I would flourish, my roots in the AllSeeing One. Needless to say, we kept this dream a secret. Men were regularly executed for innocent dreams and mine was hardly innocent. It was prophecy.
• • •
In December our quiet court was interrupted by the news that the Picts and Scots who inhabit the north of Britain were menacing the border. Our governor begged for reinforcements. I was in a quandary. I had few enough troops as it was and I knew that my chances of keeping even those were slim for it was everywhere rumoured that the Caesar at Gaul was to be stripped of his army the day Constantius took the field against Persia. But Britain was of great economic importance to us. Since so many Gallic farms had been ravaged by the Germans; we were forced that year to rely on British grain to feed the people.
I took counsel and it was decided that Lupicinus must go immediately to Britain. He was a good commander, though we used often to wonder whether he was more covetous than cruel, or more cruel than covetous.
On the day that Lupicinus arrived in Britain, the tribune Decentius, an imperial state secretary, arrived at Paris with a considerable retinue of lawyers and fiscal agents. Before coming to me, he had spent several days in Vienne with Florentius. I did not take this well, since it is usual to pay homage first to the Caesar. Decentius was an exhausted man when he arrived. So I allowed him to sit while he read me the Emperor's letter. The tone was friendly, but it was absolute in its demands. I was to send Constantius the Aeruli, the Batavians, the Celts and the Petulantes—the best of my legions—as well as three hundred men from each of the remaining legions. They were to start for Antioch without delay, in time for a spring offensive against Persia.