Gods and Legions

by Michael Curtis Ford

  The contraptions were enormous, cunningly designed to topple or batter through the flimsy, stacked-rock fortifications our troops were rushing to complete before the first snows arrived. Huge ballistarii to fling heavy stones at our troops as they worked, catapults armed with enormous iron-tipped bolts, quantities of other equipment, all intended to soften up our defenses and prevent us from strengthening our own fortifications. Why, you might ask, did we not build our own engines, and rain destruction down on our attackers from the heights with gravity as our ally, to prevent them from establishing a base so near our lines? I hesitate to place blame, Brother, but this was clearly an oversight on our part — for on our side of the pass for many tens of miles there grew no trees sturdy enough to support the enormous stresses caused by the whipping of the levers or the weight of the boulders, much less to construct the carts needed on which to mount such devices; nor did we have the manpower to send off into distant woods to cut and move such timber. The oversight? That Julian had failed to foresee this lack of materials, and remedy it by capturing territory in the valley on the far side of the pass, where the trees grew larger and in greater profusion, and where he could have set up a more defensible forward position, using the heights of the pass as a fallback.

  All this our troops watched with wonder, their confidence in their leader's skills beginning to wane, despite the fact that several times in the past Julian had faced overwhelming odds but had returned victorious. All our past victories, however, had been against untrained barbarian troops. Now, for the first time, we were facing a Roman army, and the difference was clear, in the deliberation of its preparations, the ponderous inevitability of its movements, the sheer discipline evoked in the straight lines of the streets of tents laid out in the camp below, the simplicity yet impermeability of the log palisades, the hourly trumpet blasts we could hear from our heights, calling the troops to review, to dinner, to rise, to sleep, to parade and drill. We were facing a Roman army, each man worth any three barbarians we had ever faced before; and their loyalty to their own Emperor was unshakable.

  Our men might have been able to endure this, even through the entire winter, had it not been for the enemy's letter. How much of this sad tale has been subject to the impact of a letter? A letter addressed not to Julian but to our men, and its effectiveness rivaled that of its twin earlier in the year, the one drafted by Oribasius, which had so fired up our own troops and their families as to acclaim him a new emperor. After the enemy had set up its first ballista, an enormous, ugly affair with a sling braided of the hair of Persian prisoners, and its wheels and stave painted jet black to appear more ominous, they took careful aim and fired a test round at our garrison on the top of the pass, containing not a boulder or incendiary pellets, but rather a sturdy wooden chest filled with hundreds of small sheets of papyrus, which burst when it landed upon the rocky soil of our fortification, strewing the papers about and sending them flying to the four winds.

  Each of our two thousand troops on rotation at the pass that week seized one, of course, which turned out to contain the transcript of a speech Constantius had given to his assembled army on the eastern front several weeks before. Nor was it lacking in oratorical skill. In it the Emperor assumed the position of a disappointed father, one who had lavished favor and praises on his trustee Julian, who had returned this love with ingratitude tantamount to patricide. What Julian's actions amounted to, according to the speech, was not only an attack on the unity of the entire Empire, but on the very life of his mentor. Constantius, therefore, had entrusted his soldiers with the task of restoring sanity to the earth by punishing the ungrateful and clearly deranged young man, and by bringing his supporters to justice. All of this was to be meted out with the assistance of the Supreme Deity, whom Constantius, in his sagacity and knowledge of the mixed religious loyalties within his army, declined to identify. In what seemed a pointed reference to Julian's own love of Homer, the Emperor closed his speech with an uncharacteristic quote from the Iliad rather than the Scriptures: A multitude of rulers is not a good thing; let there be one ruler and one king. On some of the letters the scribes were even kind enough to describe the reaction of Constantius' troops upon hearing this vibrant speech, which naturally involved enthusiastic applause and demonstrations entirely analogous to those that had greeted Julian's own harangue to his soldiers the year before.

  The effect on our troops was immediately clear. While desertions in an army under stress are a fact of life, the letter sparked a furor that Julian was unable to contain. The military guard around the camp had to be doubled, then tripled, not to repel the enemy but rather to contain our own troops, until even the guard itself began deserting in droves. The prison stockade that had been hastily assembled was soon filled, until as a gesture of mercy all of those convicted of desertion were released on condition that they not attempt it again. In vain. Within a fortnight of the letter's arrival, a third of our troops had disappeared, either into the cold scrub around us, or, what is more likely, to the enemy position below. Julian's army was falling apart before our very eyes, and Julian himself was increasingly exposed to betrayal or assassination. At this rate, Marcianus and Arbetio would be able to defeat us exactly as they had the King of Kings — without losing a man.

  In the absence of any response from Julian, the opposing Romans in the valley became bolder. They had found their aim with the ballistae, and now launched random barrages at us, without so much as a warning from their trumpets. Our troops would be hunkered down in their blankets at night, or dispiritedly picking at their cold breakfasts, when suddenly the air would be filled with a rushing and humming sound, as if infested by a flock of gigantic birds. Dozens of stones, some as big as sheep, would come crashing into the camp, sending men diving out of their fragile tents and into the holes they had dug for such an occasion, where they would cower, cursing, festering in their own waste because they were afraid to emerge, waiting for the next volley, which might come five minutes later, or not until late the next day. Though few men were killed in such attacks, the very randomness of the volleys was wearing on us. It was a clear sign, as if we were still ignorant of it, that Constantius' legions were toying with us, knowing they could trample us any day they chose by sheer superiority of numbers, but preferring to wait us out, to risk as few dead on their own side as possible, until our untenable supply lines and our troops' desertions simply caused us to collapse.

  Still, however, Julian took no action. Now he hardly emerged from his tent, and only rarely did he even confer with his generals, for there was little to discuss. His contacts were limited to his closest friends, and when I was with him his expression bore a tremendous strain, the tension between the improbability of his hopes and the inevitability of his fears. In the field, there was no movement from either side, with the exception of the continual jostling and blaring of the Roman troops in the valley, who were reinforced by the thousands every day as the eastern legions arrived from the Persian campaign. More leaflets were showered on us by ballista, more rocks and missiles, and our men's nerves were at a breaking point. I was sure we could hold no more than a few more days, since even with the desertions there was insufficient food, and Julian had ordered all men on half rations.

  On a cold, drizzling day in mid-November two riders were spotted picking their way carefully up the pass. They were dressed in full ambassadorial regalia, and followed at a respectful distance by a small squadron of armed cavalry. Julian was not present at the pass that day, and so the captain in charge of the garrison, a Gaul named Honorius, waited until they had come within easy earshot and then shouted at them to halt, identify themselves, and state their business.

  The two ambassadors shouted back that they were Counts Theolaif and Aligildus, that they had just arrived from Constantius' court, and that they demanded to see the Caesar immediately. Honorius had to think quickly. He was under strict orders not to let any of the enemy cross behind his lines on the pretext of negotiations or consultations, for fear the
y would see how truly thin our defenses were, though by now the enemy must have had a good idea of our predicament from their interrogation of deserters. Nevertheless, although constrained by his orders, he felt the ambassadors might not strictly be covered by the Caesar's prohibition.

  Shouting back that he would admit the two counts, but not their bodyguard, the ambassadors quickly conferred with each other, and then, nodding their agreement, raised both their hands and rode slowly up to our lines, where their horses' bridles were seized by our men. The Roman guard stood still for a moment, watching, until the two ambassadors disappeared from view, and then slowly trotted back to their own position.

  Honorius raced ahead of the procession to Naissus to inform the Caesar of his guests' imminent arrival, and as the news was broken, a look almost of relief passed across Julian's face.

  'So it has come to this,' he said after a moment, dismissing Honorius to await the ambassadors' arrival. 'The ultimatum I have been expecting. How go your prayers, Caesarius? Be current with your confessions, because surely you will either die in the attack today if I refuse their demands, or be slowly flayed when you are brought before Constantius if I surrender.'

  Within moments of Honorius' departure Theolaif and Aligildus arrived and were ushered into the headquarters. Their faces were as inscrutable as those of peasants, and to their credit, I thought, they at least avoided the smug, victorious expression that Constantius would certainly have worn under similar circumstances. Julian stood up to greet them, and they cordially bowed to him, even then acknowledging his superior rank.

  'Greetings, friends,' Julian said magnanimously, though with his voice constricted with emotion. 'A pity we were unable to meet under less… trying circumstances.'

  'On the contrary,' said the taller of the two, whom I later identified as the Briton Theolaif, in perfectly inflected Greek. Where, I wondered, had a Briton learned Greek? 'We find the circumstances quite propitious. Indeed, we have traveled from the Emperor's court as fast as the courier roads could take us over the past two weeks to find you, and we are delighted to have encountered you and your troops in this position, before any blood is shed unnecessarily. Clearly a battle under these conditions would be devastating.'

  Oddly, however, despite their gloating words of overwhelming military superiority, I saw no matching boastfulness in their faces. Nor did Julian, and as his eyes darted back and forth between the two a look of puzzlement came over him.

  'Let us come straight to the point, then,' he said finally. 'May I ask the terms of the surrender you are demanding?'

  Theolaif and Aligildus glanced meaningfully at each other.

  'We ask no surrender,' said Theolaif in his resonant voice. 'Only your favor. Hail Julian Augustus. Constantius is dead.'

  V

  He rode in triumph through the streets of Constantinople on a white stallion that had been groomed for Constantius' own planned triumphal entry, past the magnificent churches of Saint Sophia and Saint Irene, the famous library known as the Royal Porch, at which he gazed longingly, the colonnades of the jewelry makers, the Baths of Zeuxippus located between the Imperial Palace and the Hippodrome, and two miles down the length of the High Street. For the entire distance he was preceded by a thousand priests and bishops in the finery of their office, intoning a solemn hymn and asperging the genuflecting crowds with conifer sprigs dipped in holy water. The street was thronging with celebrating citizens, and had been decorated with thousands of wreaths and silken banners. Even the paving stones were strewn with petals. Children threw flowers and called to him, and women screamed at the sight of him, reaching out their hands to touch his foot or even his horse's braided tail as he rode by. The remainder of the thirteen thousand Gauls who had not deserted him on the cold mountain pass three weeks before marched proudly in formation behind, fitted with new bronze and polished leather, feted with the customary gift of five pounds of silver per man from the new Augustus, and basking in their appointment to his personal guard.

  At each of the great forums through which we passed — Arcadius, the Amastrian, Brotherly Love — the prefects of each city district approached with heads bowed, seizing his hands to make obeisance and offering words and gifts of welcome. At the Ox Market, he leaned down and picked up a small boy, perhaps five years old, who had run up to his horse and begun waving wildly to him. Placing him on his lap, Julian and the lad rode to thunderous cheers from the onlookers. I reflected that the boy was about the same age that Julian's own son would have been, and that had he lived he would have been riding in exactly that same position, on his father's legs, heir to the throne of the entire Empire. Upon finally arriving at the massive Square of Constantine, a fanfare of horns was sounded, the city militia marched out in a precision drill, and the Emperor Julian Augustus saluted Constantinople, the first city of the Eastern Empire.

  The fame of his victories in Gaul, and the audacity of his break with his mentor, had made him a celebrity to the population, relieved at being spared the prospects of a civil war that might have destroyed the unity of the Empire. The capital was a whirlwind of celebration and well-wishing, despite the funeral services being held simultaneously for the dead Emperor, over which Julian himself presided as the deceased's nearest living relative, and for whom he even managed to squeeze a tear or two in a reasonable semblance of grief. As it happened, Constantius had suffered an untimely bout of fever at Tarsus, the birthplace of the Apostle Paul, and died shortly afterwards, at the age of forty-four, having reigned for twenty-four years. Julian's first significant act was to order a generous pension to be awarded to his predecessor's bereaved widow, Faustina, who had been married to him for only several months and who, against all expectations and without the assistance, it is assumed, of any intermediaries save for the saints, had managed to conceive by the former emperor. The baby girl was born early the following year.

  His second act was to order the liberation and recall of Sallustius, who had been awaiting execution in a prison in Milan, and to promote him to chief magistrate of the court trying political crimes under Constantius' administration.

  As he entered the Imperial Palace for the first time as Emperor, he peered around at the magnificence of the marble and mosaics, the richness of the wall tapestries, the sheer, overwhelming opulence of all he encountered, and immediately requested that a small pantry off the enormous kitchens be cleared, in which he would prepare his unpretentious study. The crowds of fluttering eunuchs around us were aghast at such slovenliness, but at his insistence did his bidding. That night, as I settled in with some medical texts in a chair in his room, munching a piece of flat bread I had filched from the kitchen just outside the door, he leaned back on his hard stool and surveyed the small, dim space with as much satisfaction as if it had been the most lavish throne room of King Sapor himself.

  'Caesarius,' he said to my dismay, 'now do you doubt the significance of your fall in the mud?'

  BOOK EIGHT

  EMPEROR FOR LIFE

  I was once a fortunate man, but I lost it, I know not how.

  — Marcus Aurelius

  I

  He was a very short man with the unlikely name of Maximus, scarcely taller than a dwarf, and I daresay there was much that was dwarflike about him, for his large head, overdeveloped torso, and short, spindly legs caused him to walk with a sort of swaying waddle that never failed to elicit snickers from the small-minded palace eunuchs as he passed. His clothes were old and patched, which is no sin, for I have no doubt that Our Lord Himself wore nothing better, though I hesitate to think that He might have washed and repaired His garments as seldom as did Maximus; for the latter's were perpetually stained with the unidentifiable contents of past meals and activities, some of them, I feared, long past. From what I could see, he never wore but the one tattered, brownish tunic and overlong mantle that dragged in the dust behind him when he walked, picking up the filth of Constantinople's streets and trailing it into any room he entered.

  Though of a certain age, it
was difficult to estimate whether Maximus was fifty, sixty, or even older. His dark skin was of the kind, like well-oiled leather, that resists wrinkling and prevents one from determining the owner's true age by mere appearance. His otherwise well-performing epidermis, however, was marred by a rather large patch of scaly, lichenlike growth below his left ear, of about two fingers' breadth and length, that threatened periodically to crack and even bleed and which thirsted for some healing salve, of which I had plenty and would have gladly applied had he even given the least indication of wanting any — but every time I even made an attempt to approach him regarding this or any other matter, his hard, hostile stare stopped me cold.

  The most extraordinary thing about Maximus, however, was his demeanor, for in his way of talking, walking, and even entering a room, he acted as if there were only two people in the entire world — himself and Julian. The first time I saw this little man was the very day we had arrived in Constantinople, while the newly crowned Emperor was conferring with the palace steward about some matter or another in a corridor near the main entrance. In the confusion of the day, Maximus had somehow wormed his way through the crowd outside, talked his way past the overwhelmed palace guards, and strode imperiously straight through the gaggle of eunuchs who were desperately seeking a quick audience to ensure the preservation of their positions. Maximus walked quickly, his tiny legs churning and his head and shoulders bobbing like a duck's, straight to where the Emperor stood examining a plan of the palace and its dependencies.

  It took a moment for Julian to look down and focus his gaze on the extraordinary little man who stood before him, but when he did, his eyes lit up, his mouth broadened into a beaming smile and he swept Maximus up in an enthusiastic embrace that astonished the queasy courtiers as much as it did me.