by Unknown
I awakened Callistrus. "Fetch me Maximus. And Mastara. Quickly."
When they arrived, I told them about the star. I showed them exactly where it had fallen in the sky.
Mastara interpreted. "According to the book of Tages, when a meteor is seen to fall in time of war, no battle must be undertaken for twenty-four hours, nor a move of any kind."
I turned to Maximus. "Well, at least it was not my star."
Maximus was reassuring, but Mastara was firm. "One thing is certain. You must remain here in camp another day."
"But I have given orders. Tomorrow we cross to the Tigris."
"You asked me, Highest Priest, for the word of Tages and I have given it."
I allowed Mastara to go. Then I told Maximus of the dream. He was troubled. "Are you so certain the figure was Rome?"
"Yes. I saw him once before, in Parris, when he ordered me to take the purple."
Maximus frowned. "It could of course be a demon. They are everywhere in this cursed land. Why, even as I walked here tonight, I felt them all about me, tugging at my beard, my staff, testing my power."
"This was not a demon. It was the Spirit of Rome. And he abandoned me."
"Don't say that! After all, in three weeks we shall be home. You can raise a new army. Then you shall complete Alexander's work…"
"Perhaps." Suddenly I found myself tired of Maximus. He means to be helpful, but he is not always right. He is not a god; nor am I.
Much against his wish, I sent him away. Before he left, he begged me not to break camp tomorrow. But I told him we must move on no matter what the omens tell us.
Callistus is polishing my armour. He says the breastplate straps are broken, but he will have the armourer fix them before we leave tomorrow. The deaf mute sits at my feet. He plays a Lydian song, very old and very strange; yet one can recognize the voice of Dionysos in the melody. To think, the god sings to us still, though the golden age is gone and the sacred groves deserted.
For an hour I walked among the tents, unobserved by the men.
I gather strength from the army. They are my life, the element in which I have my being. That is the final irony. I who wanted to live at Athens as a student have been eight years a general. Such is fate.
I paused at Anatolius's tent. Through the flap, I could see Anatolius and Priscus playing draughts. I nearly spoke to them. But then I realized that I am hardly the best of company tonight. So instead I sat in front of my tent, watching the sky. My own star bums bright as ever. If it were not for tonight's troubling dream, I would be content. Without reinforcements, we have done all that we could do in this place. But what's to be done with Victor and the Galileans? Nevitta tells me that I am not safe. Yet what can they do to me? If I am openly murdered, the Gauls and Franks will slaughter the Asiatics. If secretly… but when an emperor dies suddenly in his youth it is not secret. No, they do not dare strike at me, yet. Curious, as I lie here on the lion bed, I think of something Mardonius once told Gallus and me
Priscus: That is the last entry, broken off by sleep, and then by death.
XXIII
Priscus: The next morning Julian gave the order to march west to the Tigris. We were in a dry desolate country of sand and stone. Our slow passage made clouds of white choking dust as we rode towards a series of low hills where waiting Persians watched us, like so many scorpions among the rocks.
I was with Julian in the vanguard. He wore no armour. His servant had not yet repaired the leather straps. "Just as well," he said. Like all of us, he was soaked with sweat, even at dawn. Flies clung to our lips and eyes. Most of us suffered from dysentery. Yet despite the heat and the discomfort, Julian was in excellent spirits. For one thing, he had finally interpreted the dream to his own liking. "The Genius of Rome deserted me. There's no denying that. But he left by the tent door, which was to the west. That means this campaign is finished, and we must return home to the west."
"But you said the face was grieving."
"So is mine when I think of what we might have done here. Even so…" As we talked, messengers came to him at regular intervals. Persians sighted in the valley ahead. Skirmishing on the left flank. Count Victor fears an attack.
"No attack," said Julian. "They won't meet us again in battle. They will harass us, but nothing more." He gave rapid orders. The left flank to be reinforced. The Saracens to go to the rear. Count Victor to be soothed. Suddenly a courier arrived from Arintheus: Persian cavalry was attacking the rear-guard. Julian promptly turned his horse about and rode to the rear, followed by Callistus. Some thirty minutes after Julian left us, the van was attacked by Persian archers hidden in the cliffs to the right of the trail. Nevitta called for battle formation. I quickly joined my fellow noncombatants at the centre.
Safe among the baggage, I found Maximus calmly combing his beard, unaware we were being attacked. When I told him what was happening, he was not in the least alarmed. "No more set battles," he said, echoing Julian. "Only guerrilla warfare. Nothing to fear."
But Anatolius was roused by this information. "I must join the Tertiaci. They count on me." Then the absurd creature was off, the plump little body kept astride his horse only by the weight of armour. It should be noted that if one is at the centre of an army whose vanguard is ten miles from its rear-guard, a considerable battle can take place and one not know it. Huddled among the wagons, Maximus and I might just as well have been travelling from Athens to Sirmium as in the midst of a Persian war.
Now this is what happened to Julian. Halfway to the rear, he was stopped by a second courier, who told him that the vanguard was also under attack. Julian started back. He had gone perhaps a mile when the Persians attacked our centre. Elephants, cavalrymen, archers swept down from the hills so suddenly that the left flank momentarily gave way. Julian rushed into this action, his only armour a shield. He rallied the troops. They struck back at the Persians. With swords and axes they hacked the trunks and legs of the elephants.
The Persians retreated. Julian rode after them, waving to the household troops to follow him. Suddenly he and Callistus were caught up in a confused melée of retreating Persians. For some minutes both men were lost to view. Finally the last of the Persians fled and Julian was again visible. He rejoined the household troops, who cheered him, relieved that he was safe. Not until he had come quite close did they notice the spear that had penetrated his side.
"It is not much," said Julian. But when he tried to draw the spear, he gave a cry, for the shaft was razor-sharp and cut his fingers. I am told that he sat a long moment staring straight ahead. Then suddenly he hurled his own blood straight at the sun. "It is not much," he said again, and pitched headlong to the ground. Julian was carried in a litter to his tent. At his own insistence, he was completely covered by a cavalryman's cloak so that no one might know the Emperor had fallen.
When I saw the litter approaching the tent, I thought stupidly: Someone has killed a deer and they're bringing it for our supper. When I realized that it was Julian in the litter, I felt as if I had been struck very hard in the chest. I looked at Maximus. He too was stunned. Together we followed the litter into the tent. Julian was now conscious.
"There is a lesson in this," he murmured, while Maximus leaned over him, as though to hear the words of an oracle.
"Yes, Julian." Maximus whispered prayerfully.
"Always, in war-no matter what-wear armour." Julian smiled weakly at us. Then he turned to the frightened Callistus.
"Are the straps fixed yet?"
"Yes, Lord. Yes." Callistus began to sob.
The surgeons meanwhile had cut away Julian's tunic. The head of the spear had entered just below the rib cage, penetrating the lower lobe of the liver. There was almost no blood on the white skin. Julian glanced down at his wound with an air of distaste, like a sculptor who detects a flaw in the figure he is shaping. "Only my hand gives me pain," he said. Then he turned to Salutius who had joined us. "How is the battle?"
"We are turning them back."
; "Good. But even so, I'd better show myself. The men must see that I'm still alive." Though the surgeons tried to restrain him, he sat up. "It's all right. I feel no pain. The wound's not deep. Callistus, my armour." He turned to the surgeons. "If you can't draw the spear, at least cut it short so I can hide it under my cloak."
He swung his legs over the bed; blood gushed from the wound; he fainted. I nearly did, too. Swiftly, the surgeons worked to stanch the flow.
It was Salutius who asked the surgeons, "Will he die?"
"Yes, Prefect, he will die, very soon." We looked at one another like idiots, amazed, unbelieving.
Nevitta appeared at the tent's opening. "Emperor!" he shouted to the pale unconscious figure on the lion bed.
Salutius shook his head and put his fingers to his lips. With a howl like an animal in pain, Nevitta fled the tent. Salutius followed him. That day the Gauls and Franks, the Celts and Germans slaughtered half the Persian army to avenge their Emperor. The fighting did not end until nightfall. But I saw none of it. With Maximus, I sat in that stifling tent and watched Julian die. He was conscious most of the time. He did not become delirious. His mind never wandered. He suffered little pain. For a long time he pretended that all he had suffered was a flesh wound.
"But how?" I asked. The javelin in his side looked absurd, like a long pin struck in a child's doll.
"I don't know. How?" Julian turned to Callistus, who sat on the ground like a terrified dog, close to the armour stand. "Did you see how it happened?"
"No, Lord. I was behind you. The Persians were all around us. I lost sight of you. Not until we were free of them did I see what had happened."
"At the time I hardly felt it; a light blow, as if I'd been struck by a fist." Julian motioned to the deaf-mute boy to give him water. But at the surgeons' request, he did not swallow.
News of the battle was brought us regularly. When Julian learned that the Persian generals Merena and Nahodares were dead, he was delighted. "They were the best of Sapor's officers. This is the last battle. I'm sure of it
I confess that for once I was grateful for Maximus's logorrhoea. There were no silences that day as he told us endless anecdotes of the various gods he had spoken to. Apparently, all Olympus delighted in his company.
At sundown, the bleeding started again. When it was finally stopped, Julian's face was ashy beneath sunburned skin. "Will you be able to draw the spear?" he asked the surgeons.
"No, Lord." That was the death sentence, and Julian knew it. He nodded and shut his eyes. He seemed to sleep. I sweated nervously. Maximus drew designs on the sandy floor. From far off, the sound of battle grew fainter. Just as Callistus was lighting the lamps, Salutius and Nevitta entered the tent. Julian opened his eyes. "How goes it?" His voice was low but firm.
Salutius placed an ornate bronze helmet at the edge of Julian's cot. "This belonged to General Merena. The Persian army is defeated. So far we have counted fifty of their greatest lords among the dead."
"We won't see that army soon again," said Nevitta.
"You fought well." Julian touched the Persian general's helmet with his good hand. "This war is over."
"But we nearly lost Salutius." Nevitta attempted heartiness.
"They had him surrounded. Because of the purple cloak, they thought he was you. So he had to fight just like a Frank to get away. Never thought such an old man could have so much energy."
Julian smiled dimly. "The old man won't be able to walk tomorrow, from stiffness."
"He can hardly move now." Salutius kept up the badinage. Julian gave a sudden quick gasp. He gripped his sides as though the chest were about to burst. Sweat glistened on his body. The muscles of his stomach contracted in pain.
"Helios," he muttered. Then he added, "Where are we? What is this place called?"
It was Maximus who answered, "Phrygia." And dully Julian said, "Then the thing is done."
Incidentally, I have always wanted to know whether or not that patch of desert was indeed called Phrygia. Knowing Maximus, I suspect him of lying; after all, his reputation as a prophet was at stake. But true or false, it is now a matter of historic record that the Emperor Julian was struck down in Phrygia, as foretold by Maximus and Sosipatra.
Julian turned to the surgeons. "Will I die soon?"
"Lord, we cannot say. The liver is pierced. A few hours…"
Callistus began to weep again. Nevitta clenched and unclenched his huge hands as though ready to break to bits bony death himself. Salutius sat limply on a stool, weak from the long day's battle
"So I have seen the sun -living -for the last time." Julian said this in a matter-of-fact voice. "I should have made sacrifice. Now of course I am the sacrifice."
"Augustus." Salutius was urgent. "You must determine the succession. Who is to be our emperor when the gods take you back?"
Julian was silent. For a moment it seemed as if he had not heard. Then he said, "I must add certain things to my will, personal bequests. Send for Anatolius."
It was Salutius who said, "He is happy, Lord." The classic expression which means that a man has died honourably in battle. I was particularly upset by this.
Julian was startled. "Anatolius dead?" Tears came to his eyes. Then he laughed. "Here I am a dying man mourning the dead! That, Priscus, should appeal to your sense of the incongruous." He became businesslike. "There is a will at Constantinople, Salutius, you know where it is. See that it is honoured. Nevitta, summon the generals. Maximus, my friends. I am ready to say good-bye." He grinned and looked suddenly like a schoolboy again. "You know, most of our emperors died too swiftly to be able to prepare a final speech. While the ones who were allowed sufficient time proved disappointing. Vespasian made a bad ioke. 'Dear me,' he said, 'I seem to be turning into a god.' Augustus rambled. Hadrian discussed astronomy. None took advantage of the occasion. Well, I mean to be an exception."
Julian nodded to Callistus, who brought him a small chest from which he withdrew a scroll. "As always, the gods have been kind to me. I shall die unique: the first emperor to deliver himself of a well-written (if I say so myself) farewell." He smiled at me. "Yes, I wrote my last words in Antioch, just in case. So no matter what happens to my reputation, I shall always be remembered for this departure." He spoke with such a delicate self-mockery that even Salutius smiled and said, "You have surpassed Marcus Aurelius."
"Thank you," said Julian. Then he shut his eyes and waited. In a matter of minutes the tent was crowded with friends, priests, generals. Almost as if by design, the Asiatic generals stood at one side of the bed, while the Europeans were ranged at the other.
When all were present, Julian motioned for the surgeon to prop him up, a physical effort which caused him some pain. Breathing hard, he ordered Callistus to light more lamps, remarking, again to me, "At the end, Priscus, we can be extravagant." I of course could think of nothing to say.
Julian opened the scroll. "Friends," he began. He looked about him. Victor did not stir when Julian's gaze fell on him. "Friends," he repeated. Then he read rapidly, as though afraid he might not live long enough to get to the end. "Most opportunely do I leave this life which I am pleased to return to Creation, at her demand, like an honourable man who pays his debts when they come due. Nor am I—as some might think…" he paused once more and looked about the tent at the faces of his generals, curiously shifting and grotesque in the uneven lamplight… "sad"—he stressed the word oddly—"at going."
He returned to the text. "For I have learned from philosophy that the soul is happier than the body; therefore, when a better condition is severed from a worse, one should rejoice, not grieve. Nor should we forget that the gods deliberately give death to the greatest of men as the ultimate reward. I am confident that this gift was given me so that I might not yield to certain difficulties, nor ever suffer the humiliation of defeat. After all, sorrow can only overwhelm weakness; it flees before strength. I regret nothing I have ever done. I am not tormented by the memory of any great misdeed. Both before and after I was rai
sed to the principate, I preserved my own god-given soul and kept it without grievous fault, or so I think. I conducted the business of the state with moderation. I made war—or peace—only after much deliberation, realizing that success and careful planning do not necessarily go hand in hand, since the gods, finally, must determine the outcome. Even so, believing as I did that the purpose of a iust rule is the welfare and security of the people, I was always—as you know inclined to peaceful measures, never indulging in that licence which is the corruption of deeds and of charity." He stopped. He took several long deep breaths, as though he could not get enough air in his lungs.
I looked about me. All eyes were on Julian. Nevitta and Jovian wept openly; the one from emotion, the other from drink. Victor stood on tiptoe at the edge of the bed, like some predatory bird ready to strike. Of that company, only Maximus was his usual self, muttering spells and crumbling dried herbs on to the nearest lamp, no doubt sending messages ahead to the underworld.
Julian continued, his voice weaker. "I am happy that the state like an imperious parent so often exposed me to danger. I was forced to be strong, to hold my own, to resist the storms of fate, even though I knew what the end would be, for I long ago learned from an oracle that I would die by the sword. For this good death,! thank Helios, since it is the fear of those in my place that we die ignobly by secret plots or, even worse, by some long illness. I am happy that I die in mid-career, victorious, and I am honoured that the gods have found me worthy of so noble a departure from this world. For a man is weak and cowardly who wants not to die when he ought, or tries to avoid his hour when it comes…" These last few words were said almost in a whisper. The scroll dropped from his hand. He seemed to have difficulty in concentrating his thoughts.
"There is more," he said at last. "But I cannot… I am… I will not ramble." An attempt at a smile failed. Instead a muscle in his cheek began to twitch spasmodically. Yet his next words came out clearly. "Now as to the choice of an emperor." Instinctively, the generals moved closer to the bed, the scent of power exciting them much as blood draws wolves to a wounded deer. Even in his pain, Julian understood precisely the nature of the beasts who encircled him; he spoke slowly and carefully. "If I select someone as my heir and you reject him, as you might, I shall have put a worthy man in a fatal position. My successor would not let him live. Also I might, through ignorance"—this time he did manage a faint smile—"pass over the worthiest man of all, and I would not want that stain on my memory, for I am a dutiful child of Rome and I want a good ruler to succeed me. That is why I leave the choice to you. I propose no one."