Gods and Legions

by Michael Curtis Ford

'No!' I shouted, and leaped back a half dozen steps to the other side of the dock. A hundred men went suddenly silent as all eyes turned to me with expressions of surprise and amusement, like a crowd watching an epileptic.

  'No!' I repeated. 'It's sawdust from the ice! Back away! Put out your lanterns!

  The hundred pairs of uncomprehending eyes filled with confusion. The smith crouched as if frozen, holding the hatch door open, while men edged away from the deck, not understanding my words, but sensing something was terribly amiss. I too turned, and began walking swiftly toward the foot of the bridge, but kept my eyes fixed on the hold, when I witnessed the bravest and perhaps most terrible act in my life.

  The Germanic auxiliary, like everyone else, had stopped short just at the opening, holding high aloft his flaming lantern as his eyes flashed between me and the dark opening of the hatch. His face, and his alone, was calm and lacking fear — rather, he wore a fixed expression of dead determination. Pausing only a moment, he looked at the smith still squatting motionless at the hatch opening, and then with a loud cry of 'Long live Chonodomarius!' he brandished his torch, took one step forward, and dropped feet-first into the inky darkness of the hold.

  There was a brief pause during which time seemed to stand still. I turned my head toward the shore and began to run. Men looked at me in puzzlement and fear, unsure themselves whether to turn and flee or to step forward in curiosity as to what had set off my fright, and I tried to call out to them to run for their lives, but no words came from my mouth. My legs felt leaden and unresponsive, and in the end, my body leaning forward in an attempt to move faster, I stumbled, my fingers grazing the rough, wooden planks, picking up jagged splinters in my knuckles as my feet left the decking. I flew headlong into a crowd of surprised carpenters running up to join in the commotion, my shoulder driving roughly into the face of one of them and stifling the oath he had just begun to shout at my clumsy fleeing.

  As I landed I felt the ground beneath me, the solid ground, tremble and rumble noiselessly for a moment. I then was hit by a rushing blast of hot air from behind. I turned and was almost blinded as an enormous ball of flame welled up from the ship's hold, fed by the naphtha-impregnated sawdust inside. It engulfed what had been the ice vessel, and expanded to swallow everything around it for a hundred feet, a hundred and fifty feet, more. I scrambled up again and began running, and this time I found purchase on the solid ground and sprinted headlong through the paralyzed crowds of men, who stared as the fireball swelled, grew, and then rose upwards, and we were hit by the heat as if from the open door of a blast furnace, a heat that blinded and toppled men not even touched by the direct impact of the flames.

  I continued running until I reached the street and was able to pause behind the solid wall of a long building, and found myself praising God for the shelter of those overhanging eaves. The air was thick with a rain of flaming planks and shards of wood, support beams and molten nails, in such density that it appeared solid with steel and flame. These were followed by grislier objects — arms and feet, open-mouthed heads with hair aflame like screaming Gorgons, torsos and entire, intact bodies. Moments after these had landed, the air thickened again with flaming pellets and droplets of pitch, a fiery, hellish rain that stuck to the skin and burned like branding irons, impossible to shake off, or to be plucked without sticking to the sensitive tips of one's fingers — an excruciating pain impossible to remedy short of scuffing dirt onto the droplets to extinguish their flame. Finally, a sound as if of hail — the light sprinkling of six months' supply of grain for five Roman legions, raining out of the sky whence it had been blown in the destruction of the warehouse.

  I stepped cautiously around the corner where I had taken refuge to survey what was left of the bridge, and was faced with an unspeakable sight. The warehouse had been obliterated, as had been the bridge for a quarter of its distance into the river. The span beyond that, which had not yet been connected to the missing center section, had come unfastened from its moorings in the blast, and now drifted slowly down the river, spinning lazily in the current like a piece of driftwood tossed into a stream by an idle boy. Charred bodies lay everywhere amidst smoldering stacks of timbers and overturned oxcarts. Several of the hospital barracks and houses nearest the foot of the bridge had collapsed in the blast and were now burning fiercely, and invalid men crawled slowly out of the wreckage, moaning in pain, some with their clothing and hair aflame. Even my physician's instincts had deserted me for the moment, and I stood frozen at the sight.

  From far across the river, where the still-intact bridge of the left bank stood, faint shouts came drifting over the nearby groans, and fearing the impact of another fire ship, I clambered atop a pile of smoldering wreckage to better see across the dark expanse of water. There, too, were fires, though no explosion, and no ship. The shouts grew louder and more distinct, however, and as the flames rose higher I could see that the entire far end of the bridge was now engulfed, and that men were leaping over the side of the structure into the dark waters to escape. How did the flames from the blast reach even that far? And then after a moment, I saw the answer.

  At that end of the bridge, a full five hundred yards across, a small sister encampment had been constructed to feed and house the soldiers building the bridge from that end. There, I saw new flames shoot up, and in front of them the silhouettes of horses and riders — only a few at first, then dozens, then hundreds, lances raised, riding and shouting shrilly in triumph. Racing back and forth, they clubbed and struck down the unarmed men on foot whom I could see attempting to race into the darkness or leap into the water, until all the screams from the far side of the river had been silenced. An enormous steed then trotted calmly into the water by the light of the flaming barracks on the far side of the river, ridden by a man whose tremendous breadth of shoulder and waist-length hair tossing loosely in the fire-whipped breeze was visible even from where I stood. He raised his gigantic harpoon far above his head and slammed it point first into the surf beside him, where it stuck, its haft quivering like an arrow that has just found its bloody mark. His shrill, mocking cry came drifting over the groans of the dying: 'Death to the Romans! Death to Rome!'

  The river continued its slow, implacable journey to the sea, washing clean its bloody banks, carrying away the detritus of men's vanity, its immortal movements unstilled and unaffected by the actions of the puny beings along its shores.

  II

  Here, Your Holiness, I might interject my own brief observation, as my brother's isolation in Gaul rendered him fairly ignorant as to events much beyond his immediate circle. Since I myself had some contact with Constantius' court at that time, I might more easily enlighten you as to General Barbatio's fate. For as Roman armies are undaunted by defeat, so too are their generals undeterred in their opinions of their own greatness. Barbatio did as his instincts led him, for reasons of both expediency and blindness as to the true situation — he declared a great victory and retreated his army to winter quarters, while announcing his own glorious retirement.

  Soon afterwards, as hapless as he ever had been when building his bridges across the Rhine, General Barbatio died in a fitting manner. It appears that just before he had departed on the Rhine campaign, his house had been visited by an enormous swarm of bees, which caused him great anxiety. He consulted experts in the interpretation of omens, who warned him that the swarm foreshadowed great danger in war. This unfortunate event, and its foolish interpretation, somehow led Barbatio's wife, Assyria, whose ambition was exceeded only by her stupidity, to become mentally unhinged. After her husband left on campaign, she labored under the illusion that Constantius was about to die, and that her husband was destined to succeed him as Emperor, but she worried that Barbatio might cast her off in favor of a marriage with the beautiful Empress Eusebia. Assyria's fears were so great that she wrote an exceedingly ill-advised letter to her husband pleading with him not to do such a thing after he assumed power.

  Thus God makes all things to be as they should,
though it need cause no surprise that men, whose minds we sometimes believe to be near to the Divine, distort God's intent. Man confounds and confuses place, time, and nature. He destroys and disfigures everything and loves all that is deformed and monstrous. He will have nothing as God has made it, but insists on shaping the world and his destiny to his own taste. In this regard, Assyria would have been much wiser to trust in the benevolence of God and to remain silent. As it happened, her tearful letter was intercepted by Constantius' spies and brought to his hands, and in retribution the Emperor caused both Barbatio and his wife to be decapitated.

  So much, then, for these things.

  On another topic, I offer belated apologies, Your Holiness, for my brother's rather florid writing. Many times in the past I attempted to instill in him a joy in the purity of God's creation and an optimistic hope in the future through simpler verbiage. How difficult can it be for him to forgo his overwrought descriptions of sunrises, for example, and simply note that another day had dawned? In this I may have failed, though whether it was due to a defect in his faith or to his persisting rebellion against his older brother's authority, I leave to your superior insight.

  Let us return to Caesarius.

  BOOK FIVE

  STRASBOURG

  Ubi solitudinem faciunt pacem appellant.

  When they have wrought desolation, they call it peace.

  — Tacitus

  I

  It was the most oppressive of the summer's dog days, a day so hot that trees and men alike wilted and drooped — the trees from the sheer effort of enduring the shadeless heat, the blinding glare of the sun until nightfall finally arrived to bring some relief, but the men — the men, my Lord. I had to keep reminding myself why exactly it was that we were marching in that heat and dust, voluntarily and obediently, no less, some of us even with determination and ferocity, as we picked our way slowly and carefully across the unnaturally empty and silent landscape.

  The road wound low between two gentle ridges, as if centuries of tramping by countless Roman legionaries, barbarian invaders, and the daily collections of peddlers and princes had somehow actually sunk the road several feet into the surrounding countryside, as a gently babbling rivulet over time gouges deep fissures into the solid rock beneath. The fields on both sides were dense with ripening wheat, interspersed with occasional thick hedges centuries old, or low walls of stone picked from the fields by the farmers, or by their grandfathers or great-grandfathers in Trajan's day or earlier. The stillness and silence bespoke a permanence about the place, an unchanging persistence, a stubborn certainty, if you will, that the march of a mere thirteen thousand men on a single day, in that particular year out of hundreds or thousands of other years, would not affect the land in the slightest.

  Not a farmer was to be seen. The houses were abandoned, boarded up, some burned and still smoldering. Cut hay lay untended and scattered in the fields. The pastures, normally studded with bemused, dully observant livestock, lay open and empty. The sense of abandonment was overwhelming.

  Barbatio's shameful retreat the week before had outwardly caused little effect on Julian — he was loath to demonstrate any disappointment or anger at the performance of his colleague in the presence of his men, as this would simply add fuel to the rumors that had been circulating of outright hostility between the two generals — but in private he was seething. The loss of Barbatio's twenty-five thousand troops was a severe blow to Julian's ambitions to rid Gaul of the barbarians — and the news brought by riders from his border garrisons only days earlier was of the worst sort.

  Seven powerful Alemanni clan chieftains, led by Chonodomarius, had assembled at Strasbourg on the Rhine. Even more troublesome than the gathering of these barbarian leaders, however, were the thirty-five thousand armed men of various tribes they had brought with them, some of them serving for pay, others under the terms of family alliances, and all of them eager for plunder and Roman head. Without Barbatio, Julian's chances for success against the gathering enemy forces seemed meager, and several nights before, he had called Sallustius and his generals and captains into council to discuss the matter.

  'We have less than half the troops they do,' Sallustius pointed out without emotion. 'We'll be fighting on unfamiliar ground, with a long supply line to defend. I don't like the odds.'

  Bainobaudes, the Cornuti tribune who had defeated the Alemanni river raiders a few weeks earlier, scoffed. He had been admitted to Julian's inner council only recently, after his impressive victory, and his Frankish mannerisms, which had not been effaced even by his long service as a Roman auxiliary, were still crude and lacking in all deference.

  'They're barbarians!' he growled. 'They're strong, but they've got no discipline. It's each man for himself. Our legions have tactics and training. I'd throw even our auxiliaries against the Beast's men any day.'

  Several others weighed in with their own opinions, for and against attempting to force a battle under the circumstances, as Julian listened silently, pondering each man's words carefully, and then dismissing us all from his field tent. As usual, his lamp could be seen glowing through the canvas walls far into the night. I, too, remained awake and was therefore not surprised when a guard peered into my tent only several hours before dawn, summoning me back to Julian's quarters.

  I arrived to find him flipping through a well-thumbed travel codex of Marcus Aurelius and occasionally jotting quick notes in his cramped, minuscule hand. I began to greet him, but he stopped me with a quick glance, indicating for me to wait a moment as if he was in the middle of something of the utmost importance. I wondered at his seeming lack of concern over the issue of whether or not to take his army into battle, when he suddenly set down his reed with a gesture of finality and looked up at me with a half smile on his face.

  'Only a friend such as you, Caesarius, would adapt his very waking hours to match my own,' he said.

  'Nonsense,' I rejoined with a smile, brushing off his compliment. 'I was about to drop by anyway. Oribasius gave me a package of smoked pheasant before we left. We should enjoy it before it spoils.' And I pulled the little bundle from out of my tunic.

  He glanced at it indifferently, then stood up and began pacing. I watched him for a moment, then shrugged, opened the bundle myself, and picked out a slice of the delicately flavored meat.

  Julian stopped his pacing and looked at me hard. 'I've been thinking,' he said, 'that a philosopher's training is precisely what the army needs.'

  I stared at him in puzzlement for a moment, but he sat down and returned to his book, as if having lost his train of thought. I stood there wondering, but after a moment he looked up at me again.

  'Who deserves greater admiration, Caesarius: Socrates, or Alexander the Great?'

  I paused, unsure of his expectations. 'In view of the fact that Alexander crucified his own physician,' I said cautiously, 'I believe I would have to vote for Socrates.'

  He looked at me briefly, then continued, as would a teacher before a dull student.

  'Correct. From Socrates came the wisdom of Plato, the courage of Xenophon, the boldness of Antisthenes, the Phaedo and the Republic, the Lyceum, the Stoa, and all the Academies. Socrates changed the world! From Alexander came… nothing. Who has ever found salvation or comfort through Alexander's victories? What city was ever better governed because of them, what person's life was ever improved? Of course, many men were enriched by his conquests, or by the slaughter afterwards, but no one was ever made wiser or more temperate. More likely, men became even more insolent and arrogant than before. All men who have been saved through philosophy, all countries who are better governed because of it, owe their salvation to Socrates.'

  I shrugged. 'So… you perhaps intend to teach the troops philosophy?'

  He looked up, surprised, and then smiled briefly.

  'No, of course not. I only meant to show that philosophy must be the basis for all our deeds. All my tacticians and advisers and specialists can counsel me only on specifics — comparative
troop counts, locational deployments, lay of the land, procurement status — you saw that tonight. In the end, it almost helps to be ignorant of such matters when making the decision, and let information on road conditions and whatnot have a bearing only after deciding whether to fight or flee.'

  I looked at him in astonishment. 'What criteria do you intend to apply when deciding?' I asked.

  He looked up again, in surprise. 'You have to get down to first principles,' he said. 'And the first principle of all is that we are Romans. We have no choice.'

  'No choice? I don't understand.'

  'As Romans, we cannot fail to attack. If we flee instead, then it is not only the Alemanni massing along the Rhine who will pour into Gaul, but every middling tribe from the Alps to the northern sea and from the Rhine to the Black Forest will pour out their hidden valleys and caves and rush like floodwaters into our cities. That, Caesarius, is a certainty. If we attack and lose, the same thing will happen. However, if we do attack, there is at least a chance that we might win. Logically, our chances in an attack are not good — but they are zero if we flee. If we flee, the Western Empire will be no more, and ultimately, the fate of Rome itself will be at risk. I have made myself a commander, and thus I am bound to take into consideration military variables. But I am first and foremost a Roman. I will listen to no more expositions on relative troop counts.'

  I pondered this. 'That raises another issue,' I said. 'Constantius, as Emperor, is never seen at the front lines of his troops, actually fighting barbarians with his sword. His life is too valuable for that, and there is not a man in his army who would even think otherwise. Aren't you taking an unnecessary risk with your own habit of riding into the fighting and slashing away like a common soldier? Even if your physical skills were formidable — and let's be honest, Julian — how much can one man contribute, compared to the loss Gaul would suffer if you fell in battle?'