Gods and Legions (31 page)

'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.

'Maximus, old friend!' he exulted, and I don't believe I had ever seen such joy on his face as I saw at that moment. He immediately excused himself from the steward and led the dwarf down the corridor to a private conference room on the side, the little man bearing a smug, haughty expression as he swept past the advisers and impatiently waiting retainers, into private conference with the Emperor.

Nor was it the only time I saw this occur during those first few weeks – for although the Emperor's effusiveness dwindled with the familiarity of having the dwarf constantly in his presence, the look of joy on his face upon seeing his arrival never did diminish. The same cannot be said, however, for the rest of the palace dwellers. The eunuchs and courtiers hated the little man, and their feelings were reciprocated, for when he was not ignoring them completely he muttered oaths at them under his breath and roughly shouldered them aside if they attempted to block his access, even if they were merely seeking to announce his presence. Even I, to my shame, grew to despise him, for the man's rudeness knew no bounds; he appeared to have no human feelings in him whatsoever for anyone but Julian. I once took Oribasius aside, after his arrival from Gaul, to ask him about the queer little fellow, about whom no one in the palace seemed to know anything, and even the voluble Asclepian took some convincing before he would speak freely.

'I avoid him like the plague,' Oribasius told me. 'The fellow gives me indigestion.'

'But Julian must see something in him,' I argued. 'What is their connection?'

'He is an old teacher of his. A pagan, but not of the easygoing sort like myself. The man takes his worship of the ancient gods very seriously, almost, I would venture to say, murderously. He has performed astonishing feats of magic, raising spirits from the dead, causing inanimate objects to move, producing horrifying noises and smells from the empty air. Rumor has it he is skilled in certain black arts, poisoning and such, though I ascribe such tales to the malicious whispering of the eunuchs, who no doubt whisper about me as well. Still, several men who have crossed him in the past have died under mysterious circumstances.'

'Mysterious circumstances?' I repeated skeptically. 'Oribasius, you're a skilled physician, and so am I. There are no "mysterious circumstances."'

'That is true,' he admitted. 'Still, people have died for surprising reasons, people whose death he certainly did not regret. I recall years ago how one of his rivals at the institute at Ephesus died of cholera—'

'That is hardly mysterious,' I interjected. 'Thousands die of cholera all the time during the epidemics.'

'There was no epidemic at the time.' Oribasius sighed. 'His was the one and only case that year, extremely unusual, you must admit. A bishop who had scolded him once suffered a stroke and was paralyzed – yet he was only thirty-five years old at the time. He suffered gravely for many days before he finally died of pure starvation, unable to eat. I could cite several others, but you get the idea.'

'Wives' tales,' I scoffed. 'Call him what you will: hierophant, magician, thaumaturge, evoker of the gods – his techniques are nothing but sleight of hand. It's appalling that Julian has fallen for such utter foolery.'

'Don't underestimate him, Caesarius,' Oribasius said warily. 'You may think Maximus a charlatan, but that word is not so easily defined. He calls himself a "theurgist," a worker of the divine. When he performs his "miracles," he uses every law known to science and to the gods – chemical, physical, optical – to achieve the effects he wishes to achieve. Since the gods made mirrors, or at least made men who made mirrors, he and his ilk see no contradiction in using them as props to obtain the desired theurgic effect. Blast it, mirrors are easy – he uses things that can't be easily explained, and convinces his followers that it is the gods' hand at work. Why are sparks created when certain rags of linen and wool are brushed against each other? Why does lodestone from Magnesia make iron jump through the air in its attraction to it? How do humble materials like saltpeter and charcoal, when combined, produce thunder and lightning? No one can explain these things, they believe them to be magic, and when Maximus uses them in his techniques they see him as a magician. You may think him a fraud, but since he employs materials provided by nature, indeed by the very gods, his tricks and manipulations are no fraud to his eyes. And you will make an enemy of him if you so dismissingly call him one. When Maximus is around I prefer to keep my mouth shut.'

Still, the more I thought about Maximus' history and his crude behavior, and about how the entire palace staff was being upset by his presence, the more it disturbed me. I finally resolved to raise the issue at the first opportunity. Several nights after my conversation with Oribasius, I was studying with Julian in his tiny pantry office when he suddenly looked up from his work, rubbed his eyes, and stood as if to stretch. He looked around absentmindedly as if searching for something to distract him from his meditations for a moment and I seized the occasion.

'Julian,' I said. 'I say this to you as a friend, with only your interests at heart, and I pray you take no offense.'

Julian smiled. 'When have you ever minced words with me? Sometimes you're like the voice of my conscience, Caesarius, but I would have it no other way. Please – say your piece.'

I hesitated. 'Your comrade Maximus is... an unusual sort. He has rather affronted some of the palace staff and set the eunuchs unreasonably against him. Is he so important that he requires unrestricted access to the palace and to you?'

He looked at me cautiously for a long moment, as if seeking to guess my intent; then he slowly stood up, crossed the small room, and closed the door. A feeling of dread came over me, as one feels when about to be informed of a friend's death, and indeed Julian, as I knew him, died that day, in a way. He resumed his seat and his intense gaze at me, and then sighed.

'Caesarius,' he said, 'not everything an emperor does is public knowledge. My entire boyhood, for example, was a very private one, despite the fact that I was closely related to the Emperor and was a nephew of Constantine himself. I spent many years in seclusion, shuttling between banishment and acceptance, never for reasons of my own doing, but because of passing political winds. My tutor Mardonius and I moved several times, between Constantinople, Nicomedia, my remote estate at Macellum, back to Constantinople—'

'Julian,' I interrupted, 'your moves and your devotion to study are well known to all. You needn't explain them.'

'Just so,' he said. 'But the following events you did not know. In my twentieth year Constantius sent me to the academy at Nicomedia, to distance me from the distractions of Constantinople. I quickly learned all I was able from the instructors there, and pleaded to the Emperor to allow me to travel further, to expand my horizons. In the end he relented, provided that I continued to travel with Mardonius, who was ordered to send in regular reports.

'During my travels I resolved to visit Pergamum, for I had heard of its famous center for Asclepian studies and I had in mind that I might wish to investigate the healing arts. You needn't furrow your brows at me that way, Caesarius, I know your feelings about the Asclepians, and in any case I ended by doing nothing to pursue that course of study. There will be plenty for you in a moment to make your brows furrow, and worse.

'In Pergamum I fell in with Aedesius the mystic. Aedesius was ancient, and at the time failing in bodily strength, but he had developed about him a circle of extremely vigorous disciples, including Eusebius and our friend Maximus. Caesarius, the first time I attended one of Aedesius' gatherings, I confess I couldn't leave; like those in the legend who are bitten by the "thirsty-serpent," I longed to gulp down huge mouthfuls of the wisdom the old man had to offer. Aedesius wouldn't allow it, however. He claimed that since he was so feeble, he would be unable to do justice to my thirst for knowledge, and he recommended instead that I look to his disciples to satisfy my questions. Perhaps he also feared the consequences if Constantius were to hear of my growing curiosity for mysticism. Yet the old man promised me: "Once you have been admitted to their mysteries, you will rise above your base physicality, far beyond human nature, to become one with the spirits." How could I resist – could
you,
if you had been you in my place, Caesarius?

'Thus at the old man's request, I took up my studies under Eusebius, as Maximus had gone away to Ephesus. I worked hard, though I was still dissatisfied with the fact that I seemed to have fallen in with Eusebius merely as a matter of circumstance, rather than because he was the most appropriate teacher. In fact, I learned that there were considerable differences between the disciples. Maximus, for example, was a student of the occult sciences and theurgy, while Eusebius claimed that such practices were the work of charlatans, prestidigitators, and the insane, who had been led astray into the exercise of certain dark powers. They were both students of old Aedesius, but they had rather poor opinions of each other's work. I asked Eusebius about the discrepancies between their beliefs.

'"Maximus is Aedesius' oldest and most brilliant disciple," he said. "Because of his standing with the old man, and his own overwhelming eloquence, he feels he is beyond all rational proofs in these matters. Let me offer you an illustration.

'"A short while ago," Eusebius continued, "Maximus invited several of us to visit him at the temple of Hecate, goddess of the moon and witchcraft, patroness of doorways and crossroads, the deity who delights in sacrifices of dogs. The temple was abandoned, practically a shambles, with all the furnishings long stripped by thieves but for the massive statue of Hecate herself. There Maximus boasted that he was one of the goddess's favored few, and how far he surpassed ordinary men in her eyes. As he talked, he burned a bit of incense, and even sang a hymn of praise in his own honor. And then, Julian, it happened, we all saw it. The enormous statue began to smile, even to beam at him, and finally to actually laugh out loud in joy. We were alarmed, but Maximus calmed us by saying he was in complete control of the situation, and as proof he would ask for more light, so we would not be trembling in near darkness. In a loud voice, he called to Hecate to provide greater light, and lo, the torches the goddess was holding in her hands burst into flame, casting a bright, dancing light on all around us. We were struck dumb, both by Maximus' power and by his mastery of such black arts, and we left the temple in great fear. I tell you this privately, Julian, out of earshot of my old master: you do not want to become close to Maximus."'

'It was with good reason that Eusebius was skeptical of the man's work,' I interrupted. 'This Maximus is clearly a charlatan like those you have described. That is the nature of the theurgists, Julian. They pretend to be able to control the order of nature, to define the future, to command the loyalty of the lower demons, to converse with the gods, to disengage the soul from its physical bounds – but they are false, they abuse your credulity. Those old tricks of talking statues have been used for centuries to fool the simpleminded out of donations they could ill afford to make. They are nothing that can't be replicated with a length of copper tubing and a voice funnel.'