The Philosopher Prince

by Paul Waters

  Each day, as we moved east, the river grew wider. The wooded hill-country gave way to the plains of Illyricum, with its fields of beans and yellowing barley. We made swift progress. The winds favoured us; our oarsmen, which included me and Marcellus, were strong and eager. At length, after days on the water, the pilot of our boat pointed to high ground in the distance, rising from the plain. It was Mount Alma, which lies between the Danube river and Sirmium, our goal.

  We made landfall at dusk.

  We beached our vessels on low, spreading mud-flats. Here we were at our most vulnerable; but apart from a lone goat-boy, who stood with his herd and stared, we were greeted by no one. By now, we knew, the fast imperial couriers would have brought word to Lucillian at Sirmium, warning him of the advance of our main army into northern Italy. He was, as Eutherius had reminded us, an experienced general; he would have sent men to guard the great military highways to the south and west.

  ‘But,’ said Julian, ‘if the gods are with us, he will not be expecting us from the north.’

  Even so, there was no time to lose. We could not remain unnoticed for long. At once Julian assembled a band of light-armed volunteers: fifteen in all, with me and Marcellus leading. Our task was to go swiftly ahead, that same night, under cover of darkness, over Mount Alma to Sirmium.

  ‘Find Lucillian,’ said Julian, giving us our orders, ‘and bring him here. Let him think our whole army is upon him. He thinks we are still many leagues away.’

  We set off under a faint crescent moon, heading south over Alma, keeping the summit on our left and following the farm tracks over the vine slopes.

  Venus was rising by the time we descended into the far plain. Our scout paused and pointed. Ahead, across the barley fields, the dark loom of Sirmium’s northern wall showed black against the stars.

  We pressed on. By the time we reached the suburbs of scattered houses and smallholdings that lay outside the walls, the sky was greying with the first hint of dawn. In the paddocks and market-gardens, people were stirring, going about their early-morning business. They glanced up, but otherwise took no notice of us. They were used to seeing soldiers. We made our way along the quiet paths unhindered.

  But at the northern gate, as we had expected, there was a guard.

  We approached in an ordered line, like a troop back from patrol. At the gate Marcellus saluted, and said that we were on the business of the Augustus himself, bringing an urgent message for Lucillian. We waited, ready to draw our swords at the first sign of challenge or suspicion. But the guard merely wiped the sleep from his eyes and waved us on. It did not occur to him to ask which Augustus we were talking of.

  The streets beyond were quiet still. We passed a public fountain where a few women had gathered to fill their pitchers. In the street a bread-seller with a wooden handcart gazed at us. We strode on, with the confident air of troops back from manoeuvres, and made for the centre of the city.

  We came to an archway faced with carved marble garlands; and passing beneath it we entered a wide oval precinct flanked by colonnaded courts, as large as the hippodrome at Vienne. The man beside me gazed about and muttered, ‘Now what? Where are we?’

  ‘It’s part of the imperial palace,’ I said. ‘Lucillian will be here somewhere. Look like you know where you are going.’

  But, of course, we did not know. Already the first shafts of morning sunlight were lancing across the sky in streaks of rose-red against deep blue. We made for the colonnaded walkway on one side of the precinct, where we could pause and consider. From the doorways of the surrounding buildings people were beginning to appear, men with the look of clerks and bureaucrats. Just then a young mop-haired slave-boy came ambling past. Marcellus caught him by the shoulder and with a friendly look said, ‘Tell me, which way are Lucillian’s quarters?’

  The boy – he could have been no more than ten – regarded us for a moment, his eyes passing over Marcellus’s uniform and sword-belt. Then returning his smile with a bright, gap-toothed smile of his own he directed us in his young flute-like voice through a stone arch.

  ‘Good lad,’ said Marcellus, ruffling his hair. The boy walked off with a wave, and we went on, emerging into a smaller, marble-paved court. In the middle was a fountain, with a bronze youth pouring water from a pitcher into a circular mosaic basin. Beyond stood a grand house, three storeys high, with a columned porch, and steps, and pilasters topped with golden acanthus leaves.

  There was no one about. We strode ahead, quickly mounted the steps, and entered through the small servants’ postern.

  Inside we paused. We were in a long gallery. Statues stood in marbled recesses upon pedestals of onyx. Between the columns, pale-blue silken hangings swayed gently in the breeze from the upper windows. But there were no guards.

  Then, as we were wondering which way to go, approaching footsteps sounded from somewhere beyond the hangings. My hand moved to my sword-hilt. The hangings parted and a middle-aged liveried servant stepped in, humming cheerfully to himself, bearing a great pile of linen on his outstretched arms.

  Seeing us he halted and stared. Quickly I said, ‘I was told Lucillian was here. I have urgent business.’

  He eyed us suspiciously, peering over the heap of folded cloth. Then he said, ‘Lucillian is still in his bedchamber. Who are you?’

  ‘It cannot wait,’ said Marcellus, brisk but pleasant. ‘We have come from the emperor.’

  At this the man turned and set down his cargo on a ledge. ‘Ah, well; you didn’t say. Then I will go and call him.’

  He walked off, intending, no doubt, for us to wait. But we followed him, fifteen uniformed men, passing out of the room through high carved double-doors, and up a wide ornate staircase onto a broad landing above.

  The servant decided not to comment on this, and presently he halted before a door set within a sculpted marble lintel. All the while his eyes had been nervously, discreetly assessing us. He was washed and groomed, and wore a well-cut tunic of gold and white. He was, I guessed, some high-ranking domestic of the household, who would know procedure and have his wits about him. His frowning glances reminded me how we must have looked – and smelt – after our long journey, with our uniforms faded by the sun and water, and our tanned faces dusty from the road.

  Finally, at the door, his uneasiness got the better of him. I saw his mouth firm, and knew what was coming.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘This is irregular. I am going to call the head steward.’ But before he could move, Marcellus caught him by the wrist.

  ‘There will be no need for that,’ he said in a low voice.

  The servant’s eyes widened, first at Marcellus, then at the dagger I had drawn and was holding up to him. Thereafter there was no more need of pretence.

  Marcellus moved the man aside, pressed his ear to the door, listened for a moment, then carefully raised the latch.

  Inside was a square, high-ceilinged room whose walls were decorated with painted panels. On one side was a polished writing-table, with papers strewn about, and three or four leather scroll-cases, of the kind used for imper ial dispatches. There was a couch with gilded lion’s feet, upholstered in green and white, and beside it on a low cypress-wood stand a glass pitcher and golden cups.

  But Lucillian was not there.

  I raised my blade at the servant. ‘Where is he?’ I said.

  He swallowed, and nodded across the room to where, in the corner beyond the writing-table, plush scarlet hangings, half-drawn, concealed a second, smaller door. I wiped a line of sweat from my brow and stepped quietly across the polished floor. Marcellus was at my side. I gestured to the others, and they crept up behind. I listened. There was no sound within. I cast a warning look at the servant; then, gently, I eased open the door.

  The shutters were closed. Morning sunlight shafted through the cracks. From the bed a voice mumbled wearily, ‘Not now, Agilo; go away.’

  He was lying on his side, the covers pulled up around his neck, his face buried in the white linen bolster.
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  On tiptoe we advanced and gathered round the bed. Then, when we were ready, one of the men stooped down and whispered, ‘Time to get up, sir.’

  For a moment he did not move. Then, in a scramble of twisted sheets, he bolted upright. He froze, staring at the fifteen sword-points bearing down at him.

  ‘Forgive me, sir,’ I said, ‘for startling you. It is a fine morning, and the emperor Julian would like a word. So be so good as to dress yourself, and we shall go to him directly.’

  Thus Sirmium, the mighty imperial city where Constantius had held court only months before, fell to fifteen men. Lucillian put up no resistance. No one else challenged us. All during the short journey back to the Danube, he kept asking how it was that our armies had reached the city without his knowing. We said nothing; and after a while he grew quiet, suspecting, I believe, that he was to be put to death that day and that we had no heart to converse with a condemned man.

  But when we arrived at our small rude camp beside the river, Julian greeted him civilly and told him he need not fear for his life, and to pick himself up out of the dust where he had prostrated himself.

  At this Lucillian got to his feet, brushed the soil from his clothes, and began glancing around at the tents and pulled-up boats.

  ‘Are you not reckless, Caesar, to strike so far from Gaul with so few men?’

  Julian, who had been turning to leave, turned back and looked at him in surprise.

  ‘What now, Lucillian?’ he said with a laugh. ‘Will you teach me strategy? Keep your wise words for Constantius. I have not come all this way in order to seek your advice.’

  Later that day our force of three thousand marched into Sirmium. Citizens lined the route, holding lights, casting flowers, and calling out blessings.

  Julian beamed, waving and extending his palm in thanks. I remembered the time when, as a boy, I had watched Constantius’s brother Constans ride into London, gazing straight before him as if his head were held in a vice as he passed disdainfully through the throng of townsfolk.

  That was not Julian’s way. He meant what he had said in Gaul. An emperor should show himself among his people, a man among other men, leading not by fear, but by the example of his virtue. Here was the nature of kingship – to set oneself above the common people not by force, but by wisdom, and self-mastery, and moderation. In this, and this alone, lay the true title to rule.

  He had found these precepts first in books, where wise men had set them down. And for that his enemies had laughed at him.

  But, I thought, they would not be laughing now.

  ELEVEN

  IN THE GREAT COLONNADED precinct Julian received the surrender of Lucillian’s forces. He reassured them. They were fine soldiers, he said; he would send them west to Gaul, where he had need of them.

  Then, to show himself before the people, as was expected, he devoted the next day to chariot races. He attended at the great hippodrome beside Sirmium’s imperial palace, dressed in the heavy purple and gold finery he disliked so much, doing his best to appear engaged as the charioteers swept past the stand in clouds of dust. But the crowd loved it. They roared approval, and waved their green and blue banners, the colours of their favourite teams.

  That evening Marcellus and I celebrated with the rest, walking along the cresset-lit streets, pausing at each tavern as men we knew hailed us. Everyone wanted to hear our story; it seemed my cup was never empty.

  Later, my head light and carefree from the wine, we left the others and strolled through the fragrant night towards the river.

  ‘Tonight we are heroes,’ I said laughing. ‘Fifteen men against the might of Illyricum, and we have not even fought a battle.’ I threw my arm over his shoulder and pulled him to me.

  He said, ‘It’s what Julian wanted. Only our enemies gain when Roman fights Roman. But Constantius has not given up yet.’

  I dismissed his serious thoughts with an unsteady sweep at the dome of glittering stars. ‘See, Marcellus, how beautiful they look. Just like you. Do you suppose they hold the answer to all man’s mystery, as the astrologers say?’

  He smiled. ‘Not unless we first know our own souls, and that is harder than any stargazing.’

  I laughed and kissed him, and looking up once more I stumbled on the cobbles.

  Marcellus caught me before I fell. ‘You’re drunk!’ he cried.

  ‘What of it?’ And I kissed him again. ‘We have a bed at last, after a month of damp straw and ants crawling in our ears. That’s something to celebrate.’

  He laughed. ‘After so much wine, you could sleep on a midden.’

  ‘And you with me.’

  And so our foolish talk went on, leaning one on the other, our voices echoing off the dark, shuttered houses. Presently we rounded a corner and came out in the street of the embankment. Here we paused, leaning on the wall beside the river. The smooth black water shone with the reflected light of a nearby tavern. There was a terrace with tables, and lanterns suspended from a row of plane trees.

  ‘Come, Marcellus,’ I said, pointing. ‘One more jar of wine, just you and me. Not once this evening have we been alone.’

  We sat at a table near the water. A pretty dark-eyed servant-girl brought our wine, and laughed at my drunkenness. We fell to reminiscing, gazing out as we talked at the flickering lights and the darkness beyond. At some point I went off to relieve myself, and returning started saying some thought that had come to me; but Marcellus silenced me with a quick warning gesture of his hand.

  I broke off and went up to him in silence.

  ‘Listen,’ he whispered, taking my arm, ‘but do not stare.’ He signalled with his eyes towards the neighbouring table, which was screened from us by a low, spreading laurel growing in a stone pot.

  The men must have arrived while I was away. They were soldiers, judging from their talk; but they were not our men. They too had been drinking, but there was no joy in their voices. I edged closer, along the wooden bench.

  One, picking up the conversation of his comrade, was saying he could stomach being beaten fair and square, which was the fate of war. There was no dishonour in being trounced in an honest fight. But to be taken by guile, and by an inferior force… He paused significantly, and from the others there rose murmurs of agreement.

  Another said, ‘And now Julian is sending us away to Gaul, like prisoners.’

  ‘He would keep us with him if he trusted us.’

  ‘So I told you.’

  ‘What favours can we hope for now? We are done for.’ Another, with the intonation of a barrack-room sage, pronounced, ‘Seldom seen, soon forgotten.’

  I met Marcellus’s eye. No soldier likes defeat, but I do not know what else they expected. They were two legions and a cohort of archers against our three thousand, and though Julian sorely needed reinforcements, he dared not pit them in battle against Constantius so soon after their surrender.

  They went grumbling on. Lucillian, they were saying, should have resisted. He could easily have defeated our rag-tag force. ‘And you are not the first to say so,’ said another, naming friends of his in other companies who thought the same. Then someone else, speaking in a low, dangerous voice, said, ‘We are not too late to do something about it… not yet, anyway.’

  We needed to hear no more. Ducking down behind the laurels we slipped away.

  When we were out of earshot I said, suddenly sober, ‘They must be confined to barracks. This will spread like fire in a hay-barn.’

  ‘Yes it will. Come on, we had better find Julian. There will be a mutiny by morning.’

  That night, when the troops were back in barracks, guards were quietly posted. Many commanders, at such a time, when all hung in the balance, would have disbanded the men and executed everyone who was suspected. Julian, however, announced he intended to speak to them.

  We all argued against it. But Julian countered that the men had given their word. It was better, he said, to credit a man with honour he does not possess, than to take him at less than his worth. S
o at first light he went to the barracks and talked to them, saying they had no cause to feel shame, that he had true and honourable need of them in Gaul.

  When he finished there was a ripple of cheering. Perhaps it was just that the men had sore heads.

  But when, soon after, they departed west for Gaul, they went with their heads hanging low, like men being led into captivity.

  We were glad to see them go. But we had not heard the last of them.

  We did not delay at Sirmium. Soon we were on the march once more, taking the imperial highway eastwards, to the city of Naissus.

  Naissus was the final stronghold in the western half of the empire, and it opened its gates to us without a fight. From the nearby heights, Marcellus and I stood with Julian and looked out. Along the river and over the barrier of the mountains lay Thrace, the first province of the East; and then, after that, the great imperial capital of Constantinople – Constantine’s city, whom the Christians call ‘Great’, because he turned away from the old gods.

  Julian turned and frowned down at the new-built, bald-domed churches dotted here and there within the city walls. Constantine had built them, with the gold he had plundered from the temples. He had demolished whatever had stood before. The new buildings glared like moth-holes in some fine old garment.

  ‘I should not like to be at court when Constantius hears that Naissus has surrendered so willingly.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ I said with a laugh. We all knew that the great Constantine, Constantius’s father, had been born in Naissus. It was the ancestral home. Constantius would feel the loss bitterly.

  We soon saw that Constantine’s loot had been spent not only on the Christians and their grim churches. Three miles outside the city walls, beyond the suburban villas, he had built a summer palace – a complex of high-vaulted halls, mosaic courtyards and marble colonnades as large as a town – and populated it with cooks and chamber-boys, bath-slaves, clerks, gardeners, and men of every trade he could conceive of needing. It was a city of servants, awaiting an always-absent emperor, for Constantine had never found time to return.