Gods and Legions

by Michael Curtis Ford

  His quarters he decorated sparingly, a cross on the west wall to catch the light of the rising sun, and various dusty archaeological artifacts in which he had taken a recent interest heaped in the corners — strange, stonelike bones of giant creatures, shells of unknown mollusks that had been found on mountaintops, and, most especially, heads, torsos, and other body parts of various idols that had been found beneath the ground's surface when his engineers were excavating for new walls and buildings. Once, upon surveying an especially large deposit of what appeared to be pieces of sarcophagi littering his hallway and anteroom, I lost patience with — I'm not sure with what exactly, Brother, perhaps with what I viewed as merely the frivolity and futility of collecting and storing such vestiges of dead, or rather never-existent, gods.

  'Julian,' I said, striving to maintain a neutral but pointed tone to my voice. 'Your collections are becoming a hazard to the guards. The corridors look like a pagan graveyard. Your Greek deities far outnumber the crosses.'

  'More pagan gods than crosses?' he echoed absently. 'That is how it should be.'

  'How so?' I asked suspiciously.

  He stopped fidgeting with the stacks of papers covering his desk and looked at me in puzzlement. 'Just as one morsel of bread is sufficient when receiving the Eucharist, is it not? In fact, according to the Orthodox, even one crumb of the Host is sufficient for you to receive all of Christ's presence and grace. Grace is not doubled if you get back in line to receive two morsels, nor trebled if you receive three. Do you agree?'

  'Of course. But what are you saying, precisely?'

  'Only this: one cross in the room is sufficient for all God's purposes.'

  'And one pagan statue is not sufficient?' I inquired, somewhat annoyed. 'You need thirty?'

  'Ah, so your objection is not to the clutter after all.' He surveyed the rows of mutilated godlets and body parts with what seemed, I thought, an expression of supreme satisfaction. 'There are many pagan deities. And I… well, as you can see, I am a collector.'

  By candles and lamps he continued his studies of philosophy and poetry, and his intellect ranged widely over the long history of Roman domestic and foreign affairs. Though he preferred to speak in Greek with me and whomever else was conversant in his native language, he made a thoroughgoing study of Latin as well, becoming quite fluent over time. Julian's true life was spent in working by lamplight, like his ancient hero Demosthenes, whose adversaries had sarcastically claimed that his orations smelled of lamp oil. To the lamp he remained bound, even to the evening of his death.

  So too did he develop his rhetorical skills at this time, declaiming endlessly by night in the echoing baths, engaging in mock arguments with himself or with a favored instructor or two, while I or another of his friends passed judgment and offered observations. In this his criteria for success was not that which would impress the savants, but rather that which would move the common soldier, the rough stalwart unencumbered by formal education yet blessed by an unerring degree of common sense. Consequently, such flourishes as might have left a professional rhetorician cold, he practiced and learned because of his conviction that they would strike to the heart of the common soldier. In response to my skepticism at the usefulness of these efforts, he reminded me that Aristotle, the greatest rhetorical theoretician of all, had been hired by the great Philip of Macedon to tutor his son Alexander, the greatest general of all, and therefore it had been recognized for centuries that eloquence went part and parcel with military success; he felt it to be a great shortcoming of modern education that this fact had been forgotten or ignored. He set his sights higher by aiming his rhetoric lower, at the men of arms who supported him.

  His second driving force, after stripping his life to the bare fundamentals, was religion, and of the Christian faith he was a faithful supporter and financial contributor. The Bishop of Paris was a frequent guest at his dinner table and partner in animated discussions, particularly on the nature of the Trinity, which was a topic of much interest and concern to Julian. On the fifth anniversary of his appointment to the office of Caesar, a large celebration was held at the palace, of course, but he took special care in preparing for a solemn service of blessing at the Cathedral of Vienne, the first city in Gaul at which he had arrived five years earlier. In a rather belabored commemoration of the Caesar's skill at unifying the peoples and armies under his command, the local bishop, a passable amateur musician, herded together four disparate groups outside the cathedral to sing parts of the service in the four biblical tongues: Hebrew, Latin, the Greek of the Gospels, and that undocumentable dialect, the speech of lunatics possessed by demons. Under the bishop's skillful direction, the music of this combined chorus ascended to the heavens in perfect, otherworldly counterpoint and rhythm. The sequel, however, was less harmonious, as the three sane choruses proceeded into the church to continue their efforts in the nave, while the lunatics were enjoined to maintain beggarly silence outside. Several weeks later, at the feast of Epiphany, Julian celebrated another solemn Mass presided over jointly by the bishops of Vienne, Sens, and Paris, and arranged for a general absolution of sins, for which all those in attendance thanked him profusely. At this event he wore a magnificent diadem set with gleaming gems, in contrast to the beginning of his reign five years before, when he had worn only a cheap crown like the president of a local athletic meet.

  That very evening, poor, troubled Helena died of the stomach malady from which she had long been suffering. She departed this world, however, with a smile on her face, no doubt her last thought being that she would soon be united with the one of her flesh who had preceded her by four years into heaven, if indeed it can be said that the unbaptized, even if innocent children, ever can enter the Kingdom, a matter on which you, Brother, are better qualified to opine than am I. Shortly thereafter we received word that the Empress Eusebia had died as well, on the very next day, in Rome. Both husbands shed tears, I am certain, though what were the proportions dedicated to which wives it is impossible to say.

  As for the third force in his life: I had no idea at the time, though I realized it much later, that his driving motivation, indeed his very essence, was such an ungodly one. That flame of determination that made him rise in the morning and work himself to exhaustion the entire day and half the night was so unworthy of a philosopher, yet perhaps so meritorious in a Caesar, that it could scarcely have occurred to me during those days in Gaul. Yet now as I write this years later I have the eyes and the wisdom to identify and name the obvious, his third drive, the very force of his existence.

  It was vengeance.

  I did not have occasion to reflect long on such things, however, for it was during these times, just after my return from Sens with the news of the midwife's daughter, that another event became of much more concern to me. One sleepless night I had gone to his rooms seeking company, knowing that he would be awake and most likely happy to talk. When I arrived, however, I found his door closed, and soft conversation coming from within. Not the dramatic pauses and cries of declamation, as when he practiced his speeches, but rather animated conversation, even argument, and I stood thinking, uncertain whether to knock. I resolved not to interrupt him, and so sat a moment on a bench in the corridor outside his rooms, until my own thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the scribe who had been scheduled to take Julian's dictation for a shift.

  It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps Julian had been dictating inside, and I spoke to the scribe.

  'I believe he's busy with your predecessor,' I said as he went to open the door. 'Don't interrupt the Caesar until he finishes.'

  The man looked at me in puzzlement. 'Can't be,' he said. 'I'm the first scribe he's scheduled for this evening.'

  I stood up, surprised, and followed the man into the room, finding Julian sitting flustered behind his table, his books closed and set to the side, and a vacant, almost clouded look in his eye. There was no other person in the room. It was the first of many evenings that I would find him talking to himself. />
  IV

  Julian's jaw dropped in astonishment as he stared at the ancient Eutherius, who, for the first time I had ever seen, had lost his normally unflappable composure.

  'Half my troops? Half?' he roared, as the distraught old servant stood shifting from one foot to the other, wringing his hands.

  'Those are the orders brought by the tribune Decentius, my lord,' Eutherius said. 'And, it is not merely half your troops, but the best half. The Emperor specifies that the Aeruli, the Batavi, the Celts, and the Petulantes are to be transferred in their entirety, with an additional three hundred men to be taken from each of the army's other units. Furthermore, the best of the scutarii and gentiles, your personal bodyguard, are also to be sent at once to the Emperor. Decentius is lodged at the city prefect's palace, and is awaiting a response to this demand by… by Sintula.'

  Julian's head snapped up. 'Sintula? The head squire? The orders were sent to my squire?'

  'Not precisely, my lord… they were sent to the cavalry commander Lupicinus, although I informed Decentius that he is currently in Britain with the auxiliaries, putting down an uprising by the Picts. Instead the orders were delivered to the letter's secondary recipient, Sintula, whom I regret to say is now hastening to obey them and is selecting the finest troops from your legions as we speak.'

  Julian had been caught off guard, but almost immediately regained his composure. Naturally the Emperor, as the highest authority of the state, had every right to skip hierarchy and to pass orders to lower-ranking subordinates if he so chose, but this was unprecedented, unnatural, a case that the law books would refer to as summum ius, summa iniuria — a right pushed to its extreme may be an injustice.

  He set his jaw. 'Summon this Decentius immediately,' he said simply and curtly. Eutherius' eyes widened, and he began hastily backing out of the room, but Julian suddenly called him back. 'And, Eutherius,' he said, thoughtfully and slowly, 'summon the physician Oribasius also, for a consultation.' At my questioning look he averted his eyes for a moment. 'I have not spoken with my old friend for some time,' he said quietly, before putting his head back down to his work.

  Decentius apparently defined the word 'immediately' differently than did Julian, for he was idling in his rooms when Eutherius arrived, and insisted that after his long journey he be allowed to take a short nap and freshen up before attending to the Caesar's summons. Besides, he said, his business was with Sintula, and he saw no need to respond to Julian's request — if he did decide to meet with him, it would be at his pleasure, not the Caesar's.

  Six hours later, past midnight, he strode insolently into Julian's office, no doubt thinking to surprise him in a weary and impatient state of mind by arriving at such an hour — though in this case it was he himself who was surprised, for Julian had just wakened from his own nap a few moments before, was chatting with me, and was as rested and relaxed as a baby. The tribune hid any reaction he might have had, however, and after a cursory bow to the Caesar, sat down silent and uninvited, and looked around with clear distaste at the bare walls and shabby furnishings of the Spartan workroom.

  Julian stared at him a moment as if sizing him up. The man was a senior courtier to Constantius, accustomed to being sent on sensitive embassies, and evidently bored with his duties at remote outposts like Paris, though not with the finer lifestyle that accrued to him while at home in Rome. He was a large man, gone soft from recent years of inactivity but still bearing a muscular frame and the stately posture of the senator he had once been. The fine linen of his toga and the exquisite, understated quality of the expensive rings on his hands were in sharp contrast to the Caesar's plain, unadorned, and almost purposefully unkempt appearance, which some might have attributed to his lingering mourning for Helena, but which was simply due to his refusal to waste time or money on superficialities. Finally Julian allowed himself a small, sly smile as he looked straight into the man's eyes.

  'Thank you for your visit, Tribune. You are welcome to any of my services or facilities for as long as you stay in Paris. Perhaps I might even arrange for you a tour of our nearby garrisons and camps?'

  This time Decentius found it impossible to hide his surprise, for he had clearly been expecting a hostile reaction. Though at first taken aback, he recovered quickly.

  'I see no need to prolong my visit. I have delivered my orders to Sintula and will be departing as soon as the troops have been readied.'

  Julian nodded slowly. 'I have been informed of the Emperor's orders, and I hasten to do all that I can to comply with the will of my ruler. As you know, however, over the past five years I have spent considerable time in the field, training and campaigning with my troops, and I feel a good deal of affection toward them, as a father toward his newly grown sons. And just as a father would, I feel a concern for their welfare which the Augustus, in all his wisdom, might perhaps not have anticipated. Might I therefore ask what the Emperor's intentions are for my men?'

  Decentius stared at him warily, as if attempting to discern whether any treachery might be involved in his question, but seeing none in Julian's face, he finally shrugged.

  'I see no reason why you should not know. The Emperor intends to place your Gallic troops at the spearhead of his campaign against Persia. King Sapor has recently attacked our eastern frontiers, and our legions in the East have a pressing need for troops. The Emperor has concluded that there is no threat of war in Gaul, as the barbarians have abandoned all their aggressions, apparently in fear of his reprisals. The fame of his Gallic troops has spread far beyond their region, even to the court of Sapor, who trembles at the thought of facing Constantius' courageous Gauls. Hence his determination to transfer unneeded troops from your command to that of his generals in the East.'

  Julian's eyes widened and he paused, absorbing this information. 'Again, I hasten to fulfill the Emperor's orders. There is, however, a small legal matter to be overcome. When I first conscripted the Gallic soldiers the Emperor is demanding, it was on the express condition that they would never be taken to regions beyond the Alps. To them it is unbearable to be sent far from their homes. Not only would their transfer to the East be a violation of this condition, but my future ability to recruit Gallic auxiliaries would be compromised if they feared being sent to hot lands far from their families.'

  Decentius shrugged and stood up. 'Your private treaties with the barbarians are not my concern, nor do they have any bearing on the Emperor's orders. It is perhaps for that reason that the demand was directed not to you, in any case, but to Lupicinus and Sintula. You have been relieved of responsibility, and, I daresay, you would do well to do nothing to impede the transfer. Good evening.'

  And without so much as a bow or a flourish, the man swept out of the room.

  Julian sat smoldering in silence for a moment, then slammed his hand down on the tabletop, sending parchments fluttering to the floor. I stood up with a start.

  'Damn his eyes, Caesarius! Invading Persia — with my troops! The man's mad, he's mad — what could the Emperor possibly gain from this venture?'

  'He needs to make his mark, Julian,' I said calmly. 'Constantius has been in power for over a decade and he has yet to engage in war, to conquer significant territory-'

  'So all this is just for the history books?' Julian interrupted, beginning to pace. 'He's seizing my troops illegally to bolster his own reputation?'

  'It's not illegal. He's the Emperor.'

  Julian whirled. 'Even the Emperor is beholden to the good of the Empire,' he hissed. 'He is not Nero, for God's sake — he's the son of Constantine!'

  'And does that exempt him from ambition?'

  'No — but it does not exempt him from wisdom either. The western provinces are secure and at peace, money and trade are flowing, and the Persians can easily be contained in their current position with some deft negotiations and a bolstered garrison or two. He risks all these lives, all this treasure, all we have gained over the past five years by this insane venture — merely to put his name in the history
books? Caesarius, that's insanity!'

  'Yet you risk destabilizing the Empire by disobeying him. Would you compound his error?'

  Julian sat down heavily in his chair, deep in thought, considering the distasteful options facing him. If he had learned anything from Sallustius, from his Christian faith over the years, it was that authority was to be obeyed — yet to what extent? To the point, even, of compromising one's values, one's patriotism? To the extreme of endangering the security of Rome itself?

  The night was long and sleepless for Julian and his various advisers and courtiers, and I finally retired to my room, almost colliding on my way out with Oribasius as he scuttled in for the requested consultation with Julian. I questioned him good-naturedly, for it was unusual for the normally lethargic physician to be up and about, indeed to be looking so downright energetic, at such an ungodly hour, but he simply smiled mysteriously and slipped into Julian's office. Preparations were already beginning to be made for the departure of the troops, at the instigation of eager-to-please Sintula. The selected men, or at least those who suspected that their companies were to be selected, had already begun to assemble somewhat nervously. The worst thing, however, was the wailing. As you know, Brother, auxiliary troops do not serve in their own home region without copious numbers of camp followers, their wives and children, sometimes even mothers and other relatives, as well as large numbers of females involved in less licit but equally noisy relationships when the time arrives for the departure of their menfolk. Hence the wailing.

  With daybreak, the wailing rose to a higher pitch even than during the previous night, for a reason that soon became apparent as I strode out of my apartments and into the streets. Unidentified parties had taken the occasion to churn out numerous copies of a secret letter in an astonishingly short period of time. It was addressed to the Petulantes and Celts and others rumored to be transferred to the eastern front, and was full of vile accusations against the Emperor Constantius, complaining bitterly of his betrayal of the faithful Gauls, and of his disgrace of Julian. We are to be driven to the ends of the earth like common criminals, the letter said, in crude camp Latin and equally crude Gallic written in Greek characters, and our dear families, whom we have set free from their earlier bondage only through murderous fighting, will once again become the slaves of the Alemanni. The letter continued with wicked and obscene slander of the Emperor that I dare not repeat here, and which gave such concern to Julian's advisers, fearful that he would be blamed for its libelous language, that both they and Decentius' cohort sought jointly to suppress it before it spread.