Julian (33 page)

Julian sat his horse, with his standard-bearer beside him holding a spear on which the imperial dragon fluttered in the hot wind, purple and ominous. The infantry filled the narrow declivity at the foot of the hill where Julian and his staff were posted, all kneedeep in ripened grain, for we were in the midst of a large farm.

Trumpets blared in unison. Squadrons of cavalry, cuirassiers and archers moved in from left and right until Julian was surrounded. When at last they were all assembled and silent, he spoke to them. He was never more subtle though his manner was vigorous and forthright. He wanted to persuade them to fight immediately, but knowing that they were tired and hot from the sun, he realized that he would have to trick them into wanting what he wanted.

"The thing we most care for is the safety of our men, and though we are eager to engage the enemy, we also realize that rashness can be dangerous and caution a virtue. Though we are all young men and inclined to be impetuous, as Caesar I must be the one to move warily, though—as you know—I am far from being timid. Now here is our situation. It is almost noon. The heat is terrible. It will get worse. We are all of us tired from a long march. We are not certain of sufficient water this side of the Rhine. The enemy is fresh, and waiting. So I suggest that we erect pickets, that we eat and sleep and make ready for battle tomorrow, when, if it be God's will, we shall strike at first light and with our eagles in the advance, drive the Germans from Roman soil…"

But the legions interrupted him. They gnashed their teeth, a terrible sound, and struck their spears against their shields.

Then one of the standard-bearers shouted, "Forward, Caesar! Follow your star!" He turned dramatically to the legions. "We have a general who will win! So if it be God's will, we shall free Gaul this day! Hail, Caesar!"

This was all that was needed. As the legions cheered, Julian gave the order to prepare for battle. After this, I had him to myself for a moment. We were so close to one another that our stirrups clashed. "A fine speech," I said. "Suitable for history."

He grinned like a schoolboy. "How did you like the standardbearer's speech?"

"Exactly what was required."

"I coached him in it last night, with gestures." Then Julian deployed his troops. The Germans were already in battle formation. To left and right as far as the eye could see, their forces lined the river. In their first rank was King Chnodomar, a big man with a great belly who wore a scarlet plume in his helmet.

At noon, Julian ordered the attack. The Germans had dug a number of trenches in our path and there, hidden by green boughs, archers suddenly fired at the legions who halted in consternation. They did not retreat; but they did not advance.

Julian was now in his element. Voice cracking with tension, he darted from squadron to squadron, legion to legion. He drove the men to attack. Those who fell back, he threatened. I cannot remember exactly what he said, but the burden of it was: these are savages, these are the spoilers of Gaul,
now
is the chance to break them, this is the moment we have waited for! He also used a wily approach for those who seemed bent on retreat. "I beg you, don't follow the enemy too closely! Stop at the Rhine! Let them drown. But you be careful!"

For me, the day was confusion. In the course of that sweltering afternoon, the battle was several times in doubt. At one point our cavalry broke; they would have fled had they not come up against a solid wall of infantry reserves behind them. My most vivid memory is of the German faces. I have never seen anything like them, nor hope to again in this world. Should there be a hell, I am sure that I shall spend it entirely in the company of Germans in battle. Their dyed red hair is worn long, and hangs about the face like a lion's mane. They grind their teeth and shout words which are not words but sounds of rage. Their eyes are quite mad and staring, the veins thick in their necks. I suspect many of them were drunk but not drunk enough to lose their ferocity. I killed several, and was myself nearly killed.

After the Germans had split our cavalry, they turned on the infantry, thinking to overwhelm them by sheer numbers. But they did not reckon with the two best legions of Rome: the Cornuti and the Bracchiati. These men in tortoise formation, heads masked by their shields, steadily advanced into the German horde. This was the crisis of the battle, just as Oribasius maintains that there is a crisis in a fever when all at once it is decided whether the sick man lives or dies. We lived. The Germans died. It was a great—a sickening—butchery. Wounded and dying men lay four and five deep on the river bank; some were suffocated by the bodies above them; some literally drowned in blood. I was never again to see a day quite like that one, for which I am thankful.

Suddenly, as though by some signal (but it was merely instinct; other witnesses of war have noticed this same phenomenon), the Germans broke for the river. Our men followed. It was a lurid sight. The savages desperately tried to swim to the other side. At one point, and this is no chronicler's exaggeration, the Rhine was indeed red with blood.

It was now late afternoon. Aching in every muscle and trembling from what I had seen and done, I found Julian and his staff already encamped on a high bluff beside the river. Julian's tent had been pitched in a grove of ash trees, and though his face was black with sweat and dust, he seemed as fresh as when he began the day. He embraced me warmly.

"Now we're all here!" he exclaimed. "And still alive." We drank wine as the shadows of the trees around us lengthened, and Sallust reported that we had lost four officers and two hundred and fortythree men. No one could reckon the German losses but the next day they were figured to be somewhere between five and six thousand. It was the greatest victory for Roman arms in Gaul since Julius Caesar. Difficult though it is for me to delight in military affairs, I could not help but be caught up by the general excitement, which increased when shortly before midnight King Chnodomar himself was brought to us, arms pinned behind him, great belly sagging, eyes white with terror. The Germans lack true pride, as others have so often remarked. In victory they are overbearing; in defeat cringing. The king threw himself at Julian's feet, moaning his submission. The next day Julian sent him to Constantius, who had him imprisoned in Rome's Castra Peregrina on the Caelian Hill, where he died of old age. All in all, a better fate than was to befall his conqueror.

Julian records nothing of the rest of the year. He decently buried the Gallic dead. He returned to Savernes. He ordered captives and booty to be taken to Metz. Then he crossed the Rhine into German territory. He seized all livestock and grain; he burned the houses, which are built exactly like ours even though the Germans are supposed to prefer living in forest huts—so much for legend. Then we penetrated those awesome vast woods which fill the centre of Europe. There is nothing like them in the world. The trees are so dense that only a dim green light ever penetrates to the ground. Trees old as time make passage difficult. Here the savage tribes are safe from attack, for what stranger could find his way through that green labyrinth? and who would want to conquer those haunted woods? Except the Emperor Trajan. We stumbled upon one of his abandoned forts, and Julian had it rebuilt and garrisoned. Then we crossed the Rhine once more and went into winter quarters at Paris, a city which the Romans always refer to, with their usual elegance, as Mudtown.

Julian Augustus

Of the cities of Gaul, I like Paris the best and I spent three contented winters there. The town is on a small island in the River Seine. Wooden bridges connect it to both banks where the townspeople cultivate the land. It is lovely green country where almost anything will grow, even fig trees. My first winter I set out a dozen (jacketed in straw) and all but one survived. Of course the Paris winters are not as cold as those at Sens or Vienne because the nearness of the ocean warms the air. As a result, the Seine seldom freezes over; and its water—as anyone knows who has ever visited there—is remarkably sweet and good to drink. The town is built of wood and brick, with a fair-sized prefect's palace which I used as headquarters. From my second-floor study, I could see the water as it divided at the island's sharp tip, like the sea breaking on a ship's prow. In fact, if one stares hard enough at that point in the river one has a curious sense of movement, of indeed being on a ship in full sail, the green shore rushing past.

As for the Parisians, they are a hard-working people who delight in the theatre and (alas) in Galilean ceremonies. In the winter they are townsfolk, and in the summer peasants. By the most remarkable good luck, they combine the best rather than the worst aspects of the two estates. We got on very well together, the Parisians and I.

Relations with Florentius grew worse. At every turn he tried to undermine my authority. Finally I fell out with him over money. Because of the German invasion, the landowners had suffered great losses. Year after year, whole harvests had been destroyed, buildings burned, livestock stolen. To lessen the burden of men already bankrupt, I proposed that both the poll tax and the land tax be reduced from twenty-five to seven gold pieces a year. Florentius vetoed this, countering with an outrageous proposal that a special levy be raised against all property, to defray the cost of my campaign! Not only was this proposed tax unjust, it would have caused a revolt.

Now although Florentius controlled the administration and civil service, as resident Caesar, no measure was legal without my seal.

So when Florentius sent me the proposed capital levy, I sent it back to him unsigned. I also enclosed a long memorandum reviewing the financial situation of Gaul, proving by exact figures that more than sufficient revenue was now being raised through the conventional forms of taxation. I also reminded him that many provinces had been wrecked before by such measures as he proposedparticularly Illyricum.

Messengers spent the winter dashing back and forth along the icy roads from Paris to Vienne. The capital levy was dropped, but Florentius was still determined to raise taxes. When he sent me a proposal to increase the land tax, I would not sign it. In fact, I tore it up and told the messenger to return the pieces to the praetorian prefect, with my compliments.

Florentius then appealed to Constantius, who wrote me a surprisingly mild letter. Part of it read: "You must realize, my dear brother, that it hurts us if you undermine confidence in our appointed officers of state at Gaul. Florentius has his faults, although youthful impetuosity is not one of them." (I was now quite hardened to this sort of insult.) "He is a capable administrator with great experience, particularly in the field of taxation. We have every confidence in him, nor can we in all honesty disapprove any effort towards increasing the state's revenue at a time when the empire is threatened both on the Danube and in Mesopotamia. We recommend to our brother that he be less zealous in his attempts to gain fayour with the Gauls, and more helpful in our prefect's honest attempts to finance your defence of the province."

A year earlier I would have bowed to Constantius without question. I would also have been furious at the reference to my victory at Strasbourg as a mere "defence of the province", but I was learning wisdom. I also knew that if I were to succeed in Gaul, I needed the wholehearted support of the people. Already they looked to me as their defender, not only against the savages but against the avarice of Florentius.

I wrote Constantius that though I accepted his judgment in all things, we could not hope to hold the province by increasing the taxes of ruined men. I said that unless the Emperor directly ordered me to sign the tax increase, I would not allow it to take effect.

There was consternation at Paris. We waited several weeks for some answer. The betting, I am told, was rather heavily in fayour of my being recalled. But I was not. By not answering, Constantius condoned my action. I then reduced taxes. So grateful and astonished were the provincials that we obtained our full tax revenue
before
the usual time of payment. Today, Gaul is on a sound financial basis. I mean to make similar tax reforms elsewhere.

I am told that Constantius was shattered by the news of my victory at Strasbourg. He was even more distressed when I sent him King Chnodomar in chains, as visine proof of my victory. But men have a way of evading hard fact, especially emperors who are surrounded by toadies who invariably tell them what they want to hear. The court nicknamed me "Victorinus" to emphasize the tininess—in their eyes—of my victory. Later in the winter, I was astonished to read how Constantius had personally taken Strasbourg and pacified Gaul. Proclamations of
his
great victory were read in every corner of the empire, with no mention of me. I have since been told by those who were at Milan that Constantius eventually came to believe that he had indeed been in Strasbourg that hot August day and with his own hands made captive the German king. On the throne of the world, any delusion can become fact.

The only sad matter that winter was my wife's health. She had had another miscarriage while visiting Rome, and she complained continually of pain in the stomach. Oribasius did his best for her, but although he could lessen the pain, he could not cure her.

My own health—since I seem never to refer to the subject—is invariably good. Partly because I eat and drink sparingly, and partly because our family is of strong stock. But I did come near to death that winter. It happened in February. As I have said, my quarters in the governor's palace overlooked the river, and my rooms were not equipped with the usual heating through the floor. As a result, I was always slightly cold. But I endured this, realizing that I was hardening myself for days in the field. My wife used to beg me to use braziers but I refused, pointing out that if the rooms were overheated, the damp walls would steam, making the air poisonous.

But one evening I could bear the cold no longer. I was reading late—poetry, as I recall. I summoned my secretary and ordered a brazier of hot coals. It was brought. I continued to read. Soothed by the lapping of the river beneath my window, I got drowsier and drowsier. Then I fainted. The fumes from the coal combined with the steam from the walls nearly suffocated me.