The Philosopher Prince

by Paul Waters

  But when Julian asked for corn they pointed to the still-green shoots in their fields and said they had nothing to give.

  Day by day, the ration of biscuit dwindled, and the men grew uneasy.

  One evening, I was sitting with Marcellus and his cavalry friends around the fire, drinking watered wine. The night was cool; above us the sky was speckled with glinting stars. We had been talking of Julian’s early campaigns, from the time before Marcellus and I arrived at Paris. Now there was a pause. One, whose name was Plancus, shook his head and said, ‘Yet how soon the men forget what he has done for them.’

  ‘Not so, Plancus,’ said young bright-eyed Rufus who was sitting beside him. ‘They would not have followed another as they have followed him – and all of it without pay.’

  ‘Without pay?’ I said, looking up.

  ‘Oh, didn’t you know, Drusus? They’ve had nothing since before Strasburg. The emperor will not authorize the funds.’

  ‘Well they can’t blame Julian for that!’ said another. ‘They don’t,’ said Plancus. ‘But if you leave a man with an empty purse, then best make sure his belly is full.’

  A third, who liked to joke, said, ‘Anyway, Plancus, you look well enough fed.’ Comically he began caressing Plancus’s belly with his hand. ‘What is your secret? Have you found some barbarian girl to slip you a fine meal each night? And what does she get in return?’ He made a face, and pulled at Plancus’s kilt to show what he meant. There was laughter.

  Plancus pushed him off. ‘Very funny, Maudio. But listen to this. When I was down at the horse-pens today, I heard some ugly talk.’

  The laughter died. ‘What talk?’

  ‘Mutiny talk, if you ask me. If my horse wasn’t lame I shouldn’t have been there at all. I heard the men across the wall, where the latrines are. They were complaining about Julian, calling him a foolish Greek and saying he had led them on, that he should have stuck to his books and left generalship to those that know it… Like I said, they have short memories.’

  ‘Well, every trooper loves to complain. Serves you right for pressing your ear to the shithouse door.’

  ‘Ha! ha! Go ahead and laugh. But mark my words: something is afoot.’

  In the two days that followed the men grew less careful with their grumbling. Julian took it hard. He never pandered to a crowd, but he liked to be liked, all the same. Ever since his first victories the troops had adored him. They were local men, recruited from Gaul; he had fought beside them to save their homes and families. And now they wanted to turn back.

  I asked Marcellus if Severus was of the same mind, for he was an old hand with soldiers and knew their moods better than anyone.

  ‘He says march on; we have no choice now. If we turn back, the Frankish tribes will rise up behind us. They can smell weakness like a pig rooting out truffles. We would not get out alive.’

  Somewhere in the camp there began the clangour of hammer on metal. Marcellus’s head went up.

  ‘It’s only one of the farriers at his anvil,’ I said, placing my hand on his shoulder.

  He listened; then nodded. ‘So it is. I’m as tense as a bowstring today.’

  We all were. A stillness had settled on the camp. It was not the quiet of happy men; it was the bristling calm before the tempest, when the leaves hang limp on the trees, and even the birds fall silent. One ends up wishing it to break, so it may be over.

  That evening, shortly before sundown, I was with Julian and the others, going over the next day’s march. He had been about to speak, but in the pause there came from across the camp the sound of men’s voices raised in anger. Julian glanced up frowning. No one needed to tell him what it meant.

  He said, ‘I shall go to them.’ And before anyone thought to stop him, he had ducked out under the tent flap.

  We all looked at one another, open-mouthed; then rushed out after him, among the makeshift huts and tents and smouldering cook-fires. The fires stood abandoned. There was an eerie quiet everywhere, except from the middle of the camp, where the assembly-ground was. ‘By God!’ cried Severus, ‘he must not go there alone.’ And then we ran.

  Eventually we saw him, about forty paces ahead. Already the crowd of men was closing around him. I could hear his voice, speaking in his careful Greek-speaker’s Latin, trying to make himself heard over the din. Pent-up violence hung in the air. But now there was confusion too. The men had not expected him to come alone.

  He was talking on, reasonable and measured, trying to make them understand. Maybe those closest to him could follow his words – if they cared to. But he was losing the rest. I saw them looking about, speaking to one another and shaking their heads.

  Then, just as we drew near, a surge of men came running from the avenue of tents on the far side. They poured in among the rest like a river into a lake. Something had already fired their spirits, like men who arrive at the games drunk and spoiling for a fight. They started whistling and calling, saying that Julian was a deceiver and a Greek amateur who should leave war to those who knew it.

  Still Julian was trying to reason with them. I saw Severus shake his short-cropped, grizzled head: one does not reason with a mob. To the common soldier a general should be incapable of error. They do not want to hear excuses. Just then, close by, a different sound caught my ear. There was something not quite right, something all of a sudden rehearsed and staged in the jeering. But I had no time to reflect on it. We were quickly being encircled as the men pressed round. Soon there would be no way out.

  I glanced about, quickly taking my bearings. Marcellus was close by. Rufus was beside him, his young face alert and full of moment. I do not think he had quite grasped the danger. But Marcellus knew, and was keeping the boy close. He nodded at me, and gave a private sign of acknowledgement. Two paces off, Severus stood poised, like a solid warhorse, with one hand at his sword-belt, and the other held out as a signal for us to wait upon his word. As a hunt-dog sniffs the air, he was gauging the shifting mood of the crowd. It was not yet mutiny – not quite. But to move too soon would provoke it.

  Suddenly Julian’s voice rang out, clear and sharp. His tone had changed. He was losing the men. He had realized his mistake.

  ‘What is all this?’ he cried. ‘Look at you all! You put me in mind of a parcel of women, who stand clucking at the bread-shop door when the baker is late. Have you grown afraid of your own shadows? Where are the men that served me at Strasburg? There the danger was real, and yet we prevailed. Have you forgotten what you are capable of?’

  All around the voices began to fall silent.

  ‘You are in enemy country. If we turn back now, what will the barbarians think? They will cast their treaties into the river and fall upon us. I have not come this far, and endured such hardship, to turn back now, when victory is within my grasp. I am going to finish what I have begun. But leave, if you wish. I shall not compel unwilling men. Go to your wives and children! I shall not stop you. I will defend your homes without you.’

  There was a pause, a faltering. And then, from within the crowd, different, quieter voices spoke up, assenting, remembering their past glories. Someone even ventured a cheer; it rose and died; but after a moment was picked up by those around him.

  Julian had shamed them.

  I saw the muscles in Severus’s back and shoulders ease. His hand moved away from his sword-hilt. He stepped forward, his soldier’s horse-sense telling him it was time for the men to remember their duty.

  ‘Dismiss!’ he barked out in his loudest parade-ground voice.

  The men’s backs straightened; slowly they began to disperse. I felt a touch on my arm. It was Marcellus.

  ‘See who’s here?’ he said, nodding at the crowd.

  I looked. The man was stumbling away, ducking down, trying to conceal himself between the tents. He had his back to us. But even at a distance, no one could mistake the brush of red hair that stuck up from under his pulled-up hood.

  ‘Gaudentius!’ I said, watching with disdain as he scuttled away. �
��But why? How can it benefit him to stir up a mutiny?’

  But even as I spoke, I thought again of Eutherius’s words, and remembered the jeering and the catcalls. Understanding dawned, like a sickness in my belly. I swallowed, and looked at Marcellus.

  ‘This was not unprompted,’ I said bitterly. ‘The men have been worked on. Someone is seeking to undermine Julian, and whoever it is doesn’t care what it costs.’

  At first light next morning Julian called for his horse. He would brook no discussion. His mind was set. He rode straight to the nearest Frankish settlement – one of those that had recently promised peace and sworn a treaty – pulled up in the muddy open ground, and demanded to see the chief.

  There was only a small band of us with him – Severus, Marcellus and I, and two others. The rest, at Julian’s insistence, had remained at the camp. He would do this alone.

  There was an uneasy wait. Outside the huts, tall fierce-looking Frankish wives and their yellow-haired children left off what they were doing and glared. Eventually, from within the long thatched building that was the chief’s house, there was a stirring, and an ancient white-haired man emerged, leaning on a heavy oak pole carved with whorls and dragon-heads. Six young men stepped out beside him, dressed in heavy leather and armed with swords.

  ‘I have come for corn,’ declared Julian, ‘in accordance with our treaty.’

  The chief shook his head. Whether it was in refusal, or because he did not understand, I could not tell.

  But Julian was in no mood for games. He strode to where a woman was sitting on a low rough-wood stool beside a quern-stone. ‘This!’ he cried, grabbing at the wheat in the basket and letting it pour out through his fingers.

  From the surrounding huts, armed men had begun to emerge. They stood silent and threatening, their swords ready in their hands – old Roman swords, I noticed. The white-haired chieftain made a slight gesture; and at this the men paused, like well-trained dogs waiting for a word from their master. The chieftain peered at Julian with sharp cobalt-blue eyes, then loudly cleared his throat, moved his mouth, and spat into the mud.

  ‘What shall we eat, Roman, if you take our corn?’

  ‘I ask only for a part of what you have; I shall repay double what I take. In corn or in gold. You have my word.’

  Murmurs arose from the men standing about. They could understand Latin when they wished.

  The chief looked at us. There was nothing foolish about him. He must have guessed we were alone, and outnumbered. Perhaps he was weighing up the benefit of taking us hostage against the revenge that would be sure to follow. Or perhaps, as is told, the Germans respect individual courage above all else.

  But he was master of his features, and gave nothing away.

  ‘We cannot eat gold,’ he said.

  ‘Then you shall have corn.’

  ‘And when you are gone, will you remember our corn? I think not.’

  ‘I shall remember.’

  The chief eyed Julian carefully, studying his face as a man might try to spy a still fish at the bottom of a murky pool. And Julian looked steadily back at him. There was a long, tense pause. Then, with sudden force, he raised the carved oak stave in his hand and pointing to the sky spoke out to the others in his guttural tongue. There were discontented mutterings from the young men, silenced by a cutting sweep of the chief’s arm.

  Then he turned to Julian. He did not smile. But there was the hint of laughter under his heavy white brow. ‘You shall have your corn,’ he said.

  A steady rain was falling by the time we returned to the camp. Word had got round, and a shamefaced deputation of common soldiers had gathered outside Julian’s tent.

  There were too many to fit within, so he received them outside, standing with them in the rain. He ought to have taken them with him, they said, chiding; he had risked his life for them. How could he go into such danger and leave them behind?

  There were tears, and embraces; and afterwards he gave each man in turn a coin from the little he had. It was no more than a token; but as the men turned to leave, wiping their eyes and casting affectionate backward looks, there was a sudden shifting from the back of the crowd and Gaudentius pushed forward. In a loud, officious voice he declared, ‘It is against the law for a Caesar to pay a donative to the troops.’

  Julian turned, his eyes widening. Across the rain-soaked, muddy square the band of retreating men paused and stared. Anyone else would have had Gaudentius dragged off; but Julian was so lacking in the usual arrogance of power that I doubt it even occurred to him.

  ‘Donative?’ he asked. ‘What are you talking about? It was barely enough for a shave.’ He spoke mildly, trying to make light of it. But Gaudentius, fool that he was, pressed on, saying the amount was immaterial, that he was obliged to take the money back.

  ‘A man does not take back a gift,’ cried Julian, his voice rising, ‘have you lost your mind?’

  Gaudentius, possessed of I know not what insane self-confidence, even began to answer this, quoting some rule or statute at him. But Julian cut him short. ‘Who are you, by Hades, to interfere? Do you think I need some barrack-room lawyer to tell me my work?’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘But wait, I know you, I have seen you at Paris… You are Florentius’s man, are you not? Then what are you doing here?’ And when Gaudentius made to speak, Julian cried, ‘Be silent! Florentius cannot do his own job; I will not have him – or you – instruct me in mine!’

  He turned away. The little ceremony of reconciliation, under the drizzle, in that muddy patch of northern Gaul, had been spoiled; yet even now Julian left the matter. But as he moved off Gaudentius called out, ‘You have no authority. The money must be returned.’

  Julian froze in his step. Everyone was staring, even old Severus, whom little surprised.

  Slowly Julian turned. His eyes moved to the group of soldiers he had rewarded, who were standing now in one corner, open-mouthed.

  ‘Remove this man,’ he ordered. ‘Give him a horse and send him back to his master. But see he leaves today – by the point of a sword if necessary.’

  Then, grim-faced, he strode to his tent, slapping the leather flap aside as he entered.

  We proceeded to the great barrier of the Rhine, and here the supply train arrived at last, escorted personally by Florentius.

  He was received by me, Julian having ridden out that morning to inspect the boat-bridge he was building to carry us over the river. I dispatched a messenger, and waited with the prefect in the abandoned farmhouse, which just then Julian was using as his quarters.

  Florentius stood in silence, long-faced, tapping his calfskin boot impatiently on the stone slab. Somehow, I noticed, he had found time to have his hair curled and prepared. To be civil, I tried to speak to him, asking him about his journey and such things. But he answered shortly, as if I were one of his slaves, and soon I gave up and relapsed into awkward silence. By now, I knew, Gaudentius would have reported back to him; and, if I was any judge of Gaudentius, the story would have been embellished in the telling. At last, voices sounded outside. Julian came clattering in at the door, accompanied by the chief engineer, and by Oribasius and Severus. His boots and cloak were mud-spattered, and there was a smear across his brow where he had wiped it. He looked as if he had been clambering all over the riverbank, as I daresay he had, for he was not one to leave the dirty work to others. He was a little out of breath, and the glow of enthusiasm still showed in his face. He even smiled.

  ‘You have come yourself,’ he said pleasantly.

  Florentius returned his smile with an icy stare. ‘How not? The matter was pressing, so I was told.’

  ‘Yes, well, that is true. Even so, I thank you for your trouble.’

  There was a difficult pause. Julian coughed and glanced at me. ‘Nevertheless,’ he said, and then went on to ask after particular items he had been waiting for – cured meat and biscuit for the men, amphoras of oil and wine, a consignment of armour from the military factories, and various building supplies.

&n
bsp; ‘I cannot possibly tell you about any of these things,’ broke in Florentius in a hard voice, ‘you will have to ask the quartermaster. I do not concern myself with minor details. What does concern me, however, is that I am told you propose to cross the Rhine into German territory. I hope these reports are mistaken. I fear they are not.’

  ‘They are not. The German tribes have been plundering our river traffic. They have made the Rhine impassable.’

  Florentius gave a loud sigh, like a man who is forced to repeat himself to a fool. ‘You are new to Gaul, Caesar, so perhaps you are unaware, but it is our policy to pay a subsidy to the barbarians, and in return they permit unhindered passage for our ships.’

  Julian stared at him. ‘A subsidy? We pay them a subsidy?’

  ‘Why, yes. I should consider, ah, let us say two thousand pounds of silver as sufficient, though of course each year they expect more than before; but, as I say, two thousand pounds is reasonable.’

  ‘Two thousand pounds, you say?’

  ‘I believe that will prove acceptable. If they want more, they will tell us.’

  Julian drew his breath and scanned the room, with a look that said: save me from this man. ‘And yet,’ he said slowly, ‘when I ask you for funds to pay my troops, you tell me there is nothing.’

  ‘That is a different matter entirely, a different account, which I—’

  ‘No, wait; let me be clear. My men go hungry for lack of pay or supplies, and you talk of handing a ransom to barbarians? The same barbarians I am in the midst of making war upon so that we may traverse our own territory?’

  ‘It is the custom.’

  ‘The custom,’ repeated Julian flatly. ‘We hand out money to our enemies, because it is the custom.’

  Their eyes locked. Florentius said, ‘I have been here for some time, Caesar. I know how to manage matters. To stir up the German tribes is rash – reckless even. The emperor should be consulted.’