Gods and Legions (29 page)

'Good for you, Caesarius!' he said. 'The adventure is only beginning. Would that I myself could complete what I started!'

What
he
had started? I paused in puzzlement and looked over to the table where he had been sitting, with the piles of broadsheets, all upside down to me so I could not read them from where I stood. It occurred to me that I had never actually seen Oribasius read or write anything – in fact, I had often wondered if he was illiterate, and his talk of compiling a vast medical encyclopedia merely a sham. The stacks of sheets were strange to find in the camp hut, and it was even stranger to find him burning valuable parchment, but a light was slowly dawning.

'Oribasius,' I said, pointing to the stacks of texts on his table, 'what have you been burning in here so diligently?'

He smiled mysteriously, but shifted his considerable bulk slightly so as to hide my view of the texts. Though upside down, their letters, I saw, were large and crudely written, and it would be easy for me to make them out if I could just stand a little closer...

'Nothing important,' he chuckled, attempting to disguise the slight wince of alarm as he saw where my attention was directed. 'A few medical texts of your misguided Hippocratics,' he joked.

I shouldered past him, attempting to mask my sudden suspicion with a lame joke of my own: 'Oribasius, I didn't even know you could write! And here you are practicing your ABC's.'

Moving to the side of the table I stopped short as I saw the top sheet on the stack, and the crude Latin words instantly jumped out at my eyes:
We are to be driven to the ends of the earth like common criminals, 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...

'Oribasius!' I hissed, barely containing the fury in my voice at finally identifying the author of the anonymous missive that had caused such an uproar. 'You didn't... This is your work?'

His cunning smile never faltered, even as he shrugged his shoulders self-deprecatingly.

'My work – yes. And Julian's as well, of course.' He sighed dramatically. 'Though truth be told, the original idea was certainly mine. And the text of the broadsheet as well. Ah well – the secret would be out sooner or later. The crudity of the Latin was a nice touch, though, don't you think?'

'Do you realize this may be the death of Julian and of all of us?' I shouted.

Oribasius shook his head, his smile fading as his small, piggish eyes took on a look of dead seriousness. 'Do not cross me, Caesarius,' he intoned, though his voice was not threatening but rather that of a father scolding a dense son, 'for by crossing me in this, you cross Julian himself, and through Julian your destiny is made. You are young, and your adventure is just beginning. I am fat and lame, I have now completed my duty to the Emperor, and I expect nothing from my actions, except...'

He paused.

'Except
what,
you fool?' I pressed angrily, seeing his focus wander off as if he were deep in thought. He looked back at me.

'Just this,' he said, 'and you are the only man to whom I have told it: the fact is, I take great satisfaction in knowing that it was not the crowds, not the generals, not even the gods themselves, but rather fat, jolly Oribasius with his clever pen and ambitious mind – I, Oribasius – who made Julian Emperor. Oh, Julian knew of my actions, of course, for I proposed them shortly after the arrival of that buffoon Decentius – but the execution was all mine. History may forget me as a physician, Caesarius, it may even deride me as an encyclopedist; but as a king-maker, I rank among the best.'

II

Of our march, Brother, I have hardly a word to say, for although we and Jovinus' unit constituted the first hostile armies in generations to pass those ancient Roman cobbled roads through the Alps, to Italy and beyond, we met not a single enemy, none of the ambushes and other obstructions we had anticipated, not so much as a stone thrown by a mischievous boy. You may doubt whether such a short description as the one that follows can adequately cover the story of a secret march of nearly eight hundred miles through hostile territory. Yet I truly cannot recall any events I have omitted that might swell this brief recounting to something more substantial. The troops were force-marched twenty miles a day and more, and the speed of the army's sweep and its surprise tactics created the intended effect, without need for us to strike a single blow. Panic ensued in the lands around us. Days before our arrival word had already been spread by Constantius' scouts, and cities were emptied, their garrisons scattered or force-marched farther south and east. The praetorian prefect for Italy, the most powerful civil official in the province, fled before Jovinus, taking with him the prefect of Illyricum as well. The speed and smoothness of our approach to the Danube was breathtaking, almost worrisome in its lack of impediment, as if Constantius were reserving his forces for some massive attack upon our arrival.

Smooth and speedy, I say, except for my own duties. As master of the couriers I worked day and night coordinating the messages and dispatches between Jovinus and Nevitta, as well as all the myriad details unrelated to official correspondence with the three armies – arranging advance supplies, resolving administrative issues back in Gaul, and promotions and transfers within the legions, but in one area, the most important of my duties, I failed miserably, and this I was sick about. For during the long, uneventful weeks of our march, not a single contact did I make with Julian – not a single order received from him, not a single progress report successfully sent to him. Every one of my post-riders returned to me weeks after having been sent off, unable or unwilling to enter far into the Black Forest in search of him, stymied in their attempts to obtain news of his whereabouts. The forest is big, I mused, huge – but large enough to swallow an Emperor and three thousand men without a trace?

At first I attributed the loss of Julian simply to my post-riders' incompetence, or to mine in giving them faulty instructions or incentive. Week after week of silence from one's commander, however, gives one pause. Nevitta was outraged, terrified at having committed his life and promising career to the insane venture of rebelling against Constantius with a meager force of ten thousand men, and with his leader consumed by wild beasts or tribes in the wilderness. All we could do, I told him, was to arrive at Sirmium ourselves to wait for him, pray, and hope for the best.

Limping sore-footed into Sirmium on the appointed day, with Jovinus' troops still two weeks' march behind us in their arrival, we were astonished to see the city gates wide open in welcome. Cheers erupted from the town walls and battlements as the population gathered to throw flowers down on our weary troops. We were met at the entry by fresh and rested Gallic troops, who escorted us to the central forum, where we were greeted smilingly by – who else? – Julian, who had, unbelievably, arrived two days earlier, having outrun every single one of my messengers along the way with his three thousand cavalry, and arranged the welcoming party for us upon our arrival. Our jaws dropped upon seeing him thus, and I wager that the only person more surprised than we was one Lucillianus, the Roman commander in charge of Pannonia before our arrival, whose story is worth a slight diversion to make up for the lack of events to recount to you of our own march.

Count Lucillianus was a veteran soldier who had fought bravely against the Persians and had recently been promoted to his present position. Several days before, he had received vague intelligence of Julian's approach, which, to give the man credit, was more than I myself had been able to arrange. Thinking, however, that he had several days or a week by which to arrange his defenses successfully and thereby garner great favor from Constantius, he went to bed that night content in the thought of his upcoming victory. He slept soundly until he was rudely awakened in the dim hours of the morning by the point of a sword against his throat and a crowd of evilly grinning men gathered about his bed. No answer was given to his shouts of protest, but he was bound, gagged, placed on the first available beast they were able to find in the barracks outside, which happened to be a donkey, and driven like a wretched prisoner past his own personal guard, themselves gagged and trussed like chickens, to the military quarters in the center of town. Upon being frog-marched into his office, Lucillian found Julian calmly sitting in his own chair, reading Marcus Aurelius.

It seemed that the Caesar had encountered an unexpected bit of luck in his journey. They say that as a harsh taskmaster, Alexander the Great was unexcelled – his idea of breakfast was a long march, and of supper, a light breakfast. Julian was typically somewhat more generous with his own breakfast, treating himself to an entire glass of water, when available, but in all other respects he followed Alexander's example in driving his troops and their horses mercilessly in their nonstop charge through the forest, fortunately having not met with any unicorns or other such creatures that might have slowed their progress. When they gained the Danube they captured a sufficient quantity of small boats to transport his entire force straight down the current, which was fast that fall, and which they augmented even further by steady rowing. The superhuman labors of his men at the oars, as well as a week of favorable winds, had carried his fleet over seven hundred miles in a mere eleven days. Landing nineteen miles above Sirmium, Julian had taken advantage of the moonless night to thunder his troops straight to the city in a matter of two hours, silently overwhelming the guards before they had even known they were under attack, and capturing the commander.

Lucillianus nearly died of fright, but upon recognizing the Caesar, who was wearing the imperial purple and who promised him clemency in return for an oath of fealty, he decided to make the best of his situation, and even attempted to show his gratitude for the reprieve by offering some timely advice.

'It is rash and reckless of you, Emperor, to invade another's territory with so few men,' the Count proffered cautiously.

Julian answered with a bitter smile. 'Save your wise words for Constantius, soldier. You may kiss the imperial purple not because I need your advice, but to calm your own nerves.'

Lucillianus did, immediately swore fealty to his new Emperor, and was given a position of command in Julian's legions.

III

In Sirmium, Julian spent but three days, for time was of the essence and momentum was on his side. Thus far he had moved with his entire army faster than Constantius' couriers and spies would be able to report his movements back. Conversely the Emperor, unaware of the speed of Julian's march, had been content to lumber slowly along on his return from Syria, stopping in each major city along the way to receive the acclamations of his subjects.

Julian paused only long enough to restock his supplies, stage a chariot race as a reward to the city for the favorable reception its people had given him upon his arrival, and secure the outlying garrisons. Reinforced now by Nevitta's troops, he resumed his rapid march on Constantinople. Advancing down the Danube, he entered Moesia, which was bordered on the south by Thrace. Thrace, in turn, was bounded on its southern coast by the Sea of Marmara, on which Constantinople, his goal, was located. He had therefore already accomplished almost half his journey without the loss of a single soldier or the death of a single Roman citizen.

The road ahead of him, however, was by far the most hazardous, for the region of Thrace was well fortified with strongly walled cities such as Philippopolis and Adrianopolis. These would have to be taken and passed before the capital could be reached, and the sentiments of the garrisons and citizens of those cities were anything but certain. What is more, like an eel trap with its spikes of sharpened reeds pointing inward to prevent its quarry from escaping once it had entered to take the bait, Thrace was an easy region to access, but almost impossible from which to withdraw under hostile conditions. The approach was a vast range of mountains running from east to west, with only a single pass across it, through the valley of Soucis. Although the valley was an easy march to anyone descending from Moesia, as Julian and his army would do upon their approach, it offered considerable obstacles to negotiate on a retreat north out of Thrace, even if there were no enemy troops defending it. And if a sizable garrison of the enemy were posted there, retreat would be virtually impossible. Recall, Brother, that eels are a delicacy to be flayed and fried while still alive, twitching and quivering in the pan.

After scouting the pass for himself, Julian concluded that with his meager forces it would be foolhardy to march further without first attempting diplomatic entreaties with the fortified cities below. He occupied the pass with a sizable garrison under Nevitta's command, and withdrew to the nearby city of Naissus, a well-stocked town in which he and his troops could comfortably pass some time.

That fall, things turned black. Though well entrenched and supplied at Naissus, his efforts to dissuade the surrounding fortified towns from supporting his cousin failed. The city elders hardly needed to consult with one another long to determine on whose side their destiny rested – Constantius' legions, fresh from victory in the East and supported by the treasure and resources of three-quarters of the Roman Empire, or Julian's tired, ragged band of men tenuously clinging to a remote mountain pass in upper Thrace. And even with this meager territory captured, our army was stretched untenably thin – military and political problems both locally and in Gaul were a constant source of vexation, and lines of communication with Paris were irregular. He made efforts to shore up his support in the region by lavishing attention on the general public welfare, restoring aqueducts and towers, reviving the city leadership, and lowering the taxes in some areas, as he had successfully done in Gaul the year before; and he spent countless hours attempting to rouse the people to his side through personal meetings and writings to influential officials. Still, the limp handshakes and slack-jawed smiles of a dozen city officials, though welcome, are nothing compared with the hard biceps and armor of a Roman legion, and in this Julian was sorely lacking.

The days became crisp in early November, and snow had already begun to fall during the cold nights. Julian grudgingly resorted to the leather Gallic leggings he wore to sustain him on his endless rounds of the encampment. The men had settled into their long winter routine, hunkering down to await the spring thaw that would allow them to resume their campaign, their critical march on Constantinople. For the time being, their fate would be in the hands of the diplomats.

Julian and I stood surveying the camp as it awoke one morning, the men emerging from the rows of crude log huts they had built as sturdier shelter against the cold than the campaign tents. For once, even Julian looked red-eyed and ill rested, and I marveled that he still had the energy to rise before his men, well before sunrise. The night before had been one of terror for the army.

Nevitta and the generals had been in council in the Caesar's own unprepossessing hut, which I attended as well. The generals had departed about midnight, rubbing their eyes and stretching. I dawdled for a moment in the hut, gathering papers and other items I had left lying about, and then made my way slowly to the entrance, some moments after the others had departed. Julian stood outside the door, gazing at the sky, and I began to slip by him, but he seized my arm as I made my way past. I stopped and looked at him, but he did not release his grip, and I saw that his gaze was still directed elsewhere, out toward the camp, but beyond it. I followed his line of sight, up into the inky blackness, studded with a million stars flashing brilliantly in the cosmos like sparks from a roaring fire. Far in the distance, above the northwest horizon toward which we were looking, shone the slow, searing blaze of a falling star, cleaving the heavens in a broad arc with its fiery trail. I watched, transfixed, for a long moment, before it disappeared as suddenly as a torch thrown into the sea. Julian stood motionless, gripping my upper arm tightly as scattered shouts rose from the sentries around the camp who had also witnessed the phenomenon, and the silhouettes of men roused by the commotion appeared in front of the smoldering campfires. Finally, he relaxed his grip and turned to me slowly, almost reluctantly, managing an apologetic smile.

'Pardon me, Caesarius,' he said, patting me gently on the arm where he had gripped it hard. 'A comet – well, the omen is not a good one.'

I brushed off his remark. 'You mean that old saw about portending the death of a ruler? We're educated men. Place your trust in God, not the stars. All will be well.'

Julian nodded. The camp, however, was in an uproar, the men demanding that he appear before them personally so they could witness the fact that he was still alive and breathing. For hours they milled about in the cold, calling to one another, doubling and tripling the watch to warn against any unseen enemy, posting enormous detachments of guards around his hut out of fear for his safety, despite his protests. Their superstition disgusted me, their fear aroused pity, their loyalty to their Caesar was humbling.

I remained at the hut with Julian for some time as he reassured his nervous men, and I did not leave until he finally lay down on his bare camp cot for some much-needed sleep. As I slipped out the door, Julian scarcely noticed me depart – he was again mumbling and talking to himself as he drifted off, which he did increasingly during times of stress. I had much to think about as I finally made my way back to my own quarters.

It was several days afterwards, while he was again preparing for his morning rounds of the camp, that I fell flat on my face.

Normally, of course, this would scarcely be cause for comment, particularly to you, Brother, knowing as you do how bereft I can sometimes be in the way of physical grace. As it was, I had just finished conferring with Julian about something insignificant, some pulled muscle or other from which he had been suffering, and was walking him to his horse before he left to make the rounds of the camp. While giving him my hand to help him mount, however, my foot slipped in the frozen mud, and although he recovered and was able to rise easily to his horse, I, on the other hand, lost my balance completely and fell prostrate on the ground before him. Standing up ruefully and beginning to wipe the sticky filth off my face and tunic, I was surprised to hear no sound from Julian – no apology, no hoot of laughter, no reprimand for my clumsiness, all of which I would have been unsurprised to hear from his lips.

Rather, after clearing the mud from my eyes I looked at him and found him sitting stock-still on his restless horse, staring at me with wide
eyes.
'It's a sign,' he said finally, unable to tear his eyes off me. 'The man who raised me to my high position has fallen.'

It took me a moment to understand what he had said, and that he was referring to my tumble as a prophecy of the fate of Constantius himself. I glared at him.

'First of all, a word of sympathy would be in order,' I retorted, forgetting my custom of speaking deferentially to him when in public. 'Secondly, I resent your inference. I am not an auspice, like a piece of entrail drawn from a dead goat, and Christians do not even believe in such superstitious foolishness.'

He stared at me in silence a moment longer before finally shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts.

'Caesarius,' he said, 'let us talk. Take another horse from the stable and come with me.'

The seriousness of his expression puzzled me, and the groom who had been holding his horse immediately left us for a moment to fetch another animal. This I mounted myself without difficulty, and we took a circuitous path along the inside of the city walls, which would eventually bring us to the open field in which the bulk of the garrison troops were camped.

As we trotted side by side he assumed a thoughtful demeanor.

'Caesarius, I meant to give you fair warning earlier, but was unable to, for lack of time as well as will. Your comment just now, however, leaves me no choice but to bring up a difficult subject.'

'For almost six years I have been counsel to you,' I said. 'There is little you could say that would surprise me.'

'This, I believe, may shock you. The men have not recovered from their fear at seeing the comet the other night. They have asked me to lead them in performing a hecatomb.'

A burnt offering. Chanting to the god of war, reading entrails, an orgiastic devouring of bloody meat.
Shocked
is not the word. I was appalled.

'And you refused, of course, as a good Christian...'

He looked at me steadily as we trotted. 'I did not. Caesarius, I have barely thirteen thousand men. Jovinus is facing an outright rebellion at my back, and I see a hundred thousand Roman veterans approaching me from the front. This is no time to embroil my men in a religious squabble.'

'"Squabble!"' I sputtered. 'You're speaking about burnt offerings to pagan idols!'

He gently interrupted my outrage. 'This is a Roman army, not a Christian one. First we do battle. Then we determine the army's religious direction, if any.'

'I would think that as a Christian general you should do the latter
in order
to do the former.'

He sighed. 'Caesarius, this army is a microcosm of the Empire. As the army is divided by religion, so is the world, all the more so since Constantine legalized a new religion. Half the East is Arian Christian. I myself was raised Arian. Who am I to say whether they or their Orthodox rivals, such as
you,
are living a lie, based solely on semantic subtleties that I find incomprehensible? Half of Africa is Donatist, a type of Christian political party that Constantius has not prohibited, because it is not exactly a heretical view, though it is not Orthodox either; and only the other half of Africa is Orthodox. Should the Emperor tell half his subjects on that continent that they are wrong in their beliefs, and that they should be left to the murderous tendencies of the other half? And these are
Christians,
Caesarius! With divisions like these among the ruling religion, why would you have me stir up even greater tension by antagonizing the pagans as well, denying them a peaceful sacrifice? There will be plenty of time, when I am Emperor, to tread on toes and consolidate a state religion.'

'
When
you are Emperor?' I rejoined. 'With all due respect, Julian, you make it sound like a foregone conclusion. Any betting man seeing your situation and comparing it to Constantius' might think you had better spend your time elsewhere.'

Julian's eyes narrowed as he pulled his horse up short. 'I hope you are simply playing the advocate, my friend, and not speaking your true feelings.'

I paused to consider my words, realizing now that I was walking a path as fine as the blade of a dagger.

'I am saying,' I continued cautiously, 'that you should first attend to your immortal soul, and only then to the opinions of others. Don't make me belabor the obvious. No man is immortal, no man can know when his time comes, and if you promote paganism among your troops now, and then fall in battle—'

'And if I don't allow this sacrifice,' he interrupted darkly, 'I may still fall in battle – but by a shot from behind.'

'You exaggerate. These men would follow you to the ends of the earth.'

'You overrate their loyalty. There are currents among the troops which you know nothing about, Caesarius, holed up with your books all day long.'

I gaped at him. '
I
holed up with my books!'

'I certainly don't see you training in swordplay and drinking soup with the men every morning.'

'I do not need to drink soldier's broth to know that by encouraging sacrifices you will offend every Christian in the army, and that
when
you become Emperor, you will offend every Christian in the Empire.'

At my frank words his face flushed and he wheeled his horse, startling my animal into a whinny and blocking me from moving forward. He stared at me sharply.

'I engender far less hatred,' he said coldly, by "promoting paganism," as you say – by allowing the harmless worship of Helios and Mithras – than by forcing Christianity, and thereby taking one side or the other in the Orthodoxy dispute. If you are worried about me dying, believe me, this course of action is far more prudent. Haven't you noticed? Christians are much more charitable toward pagans and nonbelievers, whom they hope to convert, than toward sects and heresies
within
Christianity. Pagans are tolerated. Heretics, however, are killed.'