Julian (34 page)

Fortunately, one of the guards, seeing steam escape from underneath the door, broke in and dragged me into the corridor where I finally came to. I vomited for hours. Oribasius said a few more minutes in that room and I would have been dead. So my Spartan habits saved my life; though some, of course, would say it was my stinginess! Curiously enough, thinking back on that night, I cannot help but reflect what a pleasant death it might have been. One moment reading Pindar, the next a pleasant drowsiness, and then the end. Every day I pray to Helios that my death when it comes be as swift and as painless as that night's beginning.

•          •          •

My days were full. I gave justice or, as some say, merely executed the law, since there is no true justice that is man-made. I conferred daily on administrative problems with the various officers of the province, and each month I personally paid the salaries of the high officials. This is an ancient custom and I have always meant to investigate its origins. They date, I suspect, from the early Republic. Among those I personally paid were the secret agents. Though I disapproved of them—and knew that their main occupation at Paris was watching me and reporting on my movements to Milan—I usually concealed my dislike. Except on one occasion.

I sat at a table covered with hides. Gold in various piles was set before me. When it came time to pay the chief agent, Gaudentius, he reached forward and took the gold for himself, not waiting for me to give it to him. Even his fellow agents were startled by this rude gesture, to which I responded: "You see, gentlemen, it is seizing, not accepting, that agents understand." This was much quoted.

Evenings were spent, first, in business, then in sleep and, finally, the best part, late at night, talking philosophy and literature with friends, who used to wonder how I could so quickly fall asleep and then awake at exactly the hour I wanted. I don't know myself how this is done but I have always been able to do it. If I tell myself I wish to awaken in the first hour of the night, I shall—to the minute. I attribute this lucky gift to Hermes. But Oribasius thinks it has to do with something in my brain and he wants to take a look at it when I am dead!

Sallust was a considerable historian and drilled me extensively in both domestic and foreign history. We particularly studied the era of Diocletian, for it was he who renewed the empire in the last century and his reforms are still with us.

One of our continuing arguments concerns Diocletian's edict which ordered all men to remain for life at whatever happened to be their craft or labour; also, their descendants must continue in the same way: a farmer's son must be a farmer, a cobbler's son must be a cobbler, and the punishment for changing one's estate is severe. Sallust maintained, as did Diocletian, that this law was necessary for social stability. In the old days, people drifted from city to city, living on doles or through crime. As a result, production of all things was inadequate. Diocletian not only stabilized production but he even tried to set prices for food and other essentials. This last failed, which was a pity. A few months ago I myself tried to set the price of grain at Antioch, and though I have for the moment failed, I think in time this sort of manipulation will succeed.

Priscus took the view that Diocletian's law was too rigid. He thought the people should be allowed to change their lot
if
they showed sufftcient capacity. But who is to iudge their capacity? He was never able to answer this. Oribasius proposed that the court send out commissions to the main cities to examine the young men to determine which ones showed ability. I pointed out that the corruption involved would be formidable; not to mention the impossibility of judging thousands correctly. Personally,! believe that the lower orders do, on occasion, produce men of ability and I believe that that ability, if it is sufficiently great, will be somehow recognized and used. For one thing, there is always the army. A farmer's son who is ambitious can join the army, which is—in the old Greek sense—the most democratic of institutions: anyone can rise through the ranks, no matter how humble his origins. Pdscus responded to this by saying that not every one of abiliW is inclined to warfare. I was forced to agree that there is indeed some hardship for a man whose talents might be for literature or for the law, but as Sallust was quick to point out, the law schools at Beirut and Constantinople are crowded, and the civil service has more "capable" candidates than it can find jobs for. We have quite enough lawyers.

Priscus thinks that there should be widespread literacy. Sallust thinks not, on the grounds that a knowledge of literature would only make the humble dissatisfied with their condition. I am of two minds. A superficial education would be worse than none: envy and idleness would be encouraged. But a full education would open every man's eyes to the nature of human existence; and we are all of us brothers, as Epictetus reminds us. I have not yet made up my mind as to this problem. It is doubly difficult because of language. To educate anyone properly he must be taught Greek. Yet in a supposedly Hellenic city like Antioch, less than half the population knows Greek; the rest speak one or another of the Semitic languages. The same is true of Alexandria and the cities of Asia. A further complication is the matter of Latin. The language of both law and army is Latin, while that of literature and administration is Greek. As a result, an educated man must be bilingual. If he were the son, say, of a Syrian tailor in Antioch he would have to be trilingual. Just learning languages would take up most of his time. I know. As much as I have studied Latin, I'can still hardly read it. And though I speak the military jargon easily, it bears little relation to Cicero whom I read in Greek translation! So we argued among ourselves in the best of spirits through the winter and a most beautiful spring which covered the banks of the Seine with flowers, and reminded us, in life, what Eleusis shows us in mystery.

At the beginning of June the idyll ended. Constantius transferred Sallust to army headquarters at Milan. He cut off my right arm. My response: grief, rage, and, finally, in imitation of the philosophers, I composed a long essay on the gods, and dedicated it to Sallust.

Insert account of that summer's campaign.

Priscus
: That year's campaign was a troublesome one. Constantit:s had neglected to supply Julian with money to pay his troops. Also, supplies were short and what grain Julian could amass, he was forced to render into hard tack, not the sort of ration calculated to please troops already exhausted from much fighting, Julian was so short of funds that on at least one occasion when a soldier asked him for what the men call "shave money" or "the barber's due", he was not able to give the man even one small coin.

Julian moved north to Flanders. In a most guileful way, he conquered a Frankish tribe which occupied the city of Tongres. Then he defeated a German tribe called the Chornevi who dwell at the mouth of the Rhine. After that he marched to the Meuse River and restored three of our ruined fortresses. At this point, the food gave out. The local harvest was late, and the troops were on the verge of mutiny. They jeered Julian in public and called him

"Asiatic" and "Greekling". But he comported himself with dignity, stripped the countryside of what food there was, and quelled the mutiny.

Next Julian built a pontoon bridge across the Rhine and we crossed over into the country of the German king, Suomarius… but all that is in the military history. After this short campaign, we recrossed the Rhine and returned to Paris for the winter.

Julian Augustus

Our second winter in Paris was even more agreeable than the first, though I missed Sallust more than I could say—but then I
did
say it, in panegyric prose! I still had no money. I was watched and reported on by the secret agent Gaudentius. My wife continued to be ill. Yet despite all this, I was content. I had grown used to governing, and I no longer thought wistfully of a private life, teaching at Athens. I was well pleased to be Caesar in Gaul.

The principal event of the winter was the first major trial I was to preside over. Numerius, governor of Gallia Narbonensis (one of the Mediterranean provinces), was accused of embezzling state funds. Enemies had prepared a damning case against him. He was brought to Paris for trial. It was a fascinating experience for me and almost as interesting for the Parisians as their beloved theatre, for I allowed the public to attend the trial.

Day after day the hall of justice was crowded. It was soon apparent that there was no proper evidence against Numerius. He was a striking-looking man, tall and stately. He chose to defend himself against Delphidius, the public prosecutor. Now Delphidius is one of the most vigorous speakers and cunning legal minds in the empire but even he could not make evidence out of air, though he certainly tried, using his own breath.

Numerius had made political enemies, as we all do, and they had trumped up charges against him in the hope that I might remove him. Point by point Numerius refuted every charge against him so skilfully that Delphidius finally turned to me and shouted angrily, "Can anyone, great Caesar,
ever
be found guilty if all he must do is deny the charge?" To which I answered in one of those rare unpremeditated bursts in which—at least so I like to thinkthe gods speak through me: "Can anyone ever be found innocent, if all you must do is accuse him?" There was a sudden silence in the hall. Then a great burst of applause, and that was the end of the trial.

I tell this story out of vanity, of course. I am very pleased with what I—or Hermes—said. But to be honest, I am not the best judge in the world. Often when I think I am making some subtle point, I am actually only spreading confusion. Yet I mention this story because it demonstrates, I believe, the true basis of law. Those of the earth's governors who have been tyrants have always presumed that if a man is
thought
guilty then he must be guilty because why otherwise would he find himself in such a situation. Now any tyrant knows that a man may be perfectly blameless but have powerful enemies (very often the tyrant himself is chief among them), which is why I prefer to place the burden of proof on the accuser rather than on the accused.

•          •          •

Helena was somewhat better that winter. She was particularly animated whenever she discussed her visit to Rome. "Do you think we shall ever be able to live there?" she asked me one day, when—rather unusually—we found ourselves dining alone.

"That is for your brother to decide," I said. "Personally, I like Gaul. I could be quite happy living here the rest of my life."

"In
Paris?
" The way she said it revealed how much she hated our life.

"Yes, but then who knows what will happen next year, next week?"

"You would love the house in Via Nomentana," she said wistfully. "I have the most beautiful gardens…"

"Better than ours? Here?" We were quite proud in Paris of the many flowers and fruit trees that grew with small effort.

"Infinitely!" she sighed. "I should so much like to go back."

"I'm sorry." This was an awkward moment and I silently cursed whoever it was had contrived for us to be alone together for a meal. I don't think it ever happened again.

"My brother respects you." This was also unusual. We seldom spoke of Constantius. "He only fears that you will… listen to wrong advice." She put the case tactfully.

"He has nothing to fear," I said. "Either from me or my advisers. I have no intention of usurping the throne. I want only to do what I was sent here to do: pacify Gaul. And I may say your brother has not made it easy for me."

"Perhaps
he
listens to bad advisers." That was the most she would admit.

I nodded grimly. "And I can name them, starting with Eusebius…"

She broke in, "You have one friend at court." She pushed her plate from her, as though clearing a place for something new to be set down. "The Empress."

"I know…" I began. But Helena stopped me with a strange look; for the first time in our marriage she struck an intimate note.

"Eusebia loves you." Helena said this in such a way that I could not precisely tell what she meant by that overused and always ambivalent verb. "Her love is constant," she went on, adding but not defining. "While she lives, you are safe. Of course, that may not be long." Her voice shifted; she became more ordinary, more of a woman telling gossip. "The night we arrived at Rome, there was a reception for Constantius in the palace on the Palatine. The senate of Rome and all the consulars were present. I've never seen anything quite so splendid. My brother meant it when he said, 'This is the great moment of my life!' I suppose it always is when a Roman emperor first comes to Rome. Anyway, Constantius wore the crown, and Eusebia sat beside him. She seemed tired but no one suspected she was ill. Then during the Emperor's reply to the senate's welcome, she turned deathly pale. She tried to rise but her robes were too heavy for her. Since everyone was watching Constantius, hardly anyone noticed her. But I did. I was the first to see the blood flow from her mouth. Then she fell backwards on to the floor. She was unconscious when they carried her from the room."

I was appalled. Not only at this bad news, but at Helena's pleasure in Eusebia's pain. "Naturally, my brother—all of us—were concerned. But in a few days she was all right. And of course she was most kind to me when it came
my
turn to… bleed. All through my labour, Eusebia was beside me. She could not have been more kind. She even arranged for our dead child to be buried in Constantia's mausoleum. She was as thoughtful as though I were her own sister… instead of her enemy." Helena flung this last word at me, and got to her feet. I was startled by the quality of her rage.

"Your friend, your protectress, killed both our children." Helena was now at the door. She spoke with complete calm, like a Sophist who has studied exactly what and how he will say a written speech. "You pride yourself on your philosophy, your love of harmony and balance. Well, how do you measure
this
in your scales? Two children here." She held up her left hand. "Eusebia here." She held up her right hand and made the scales even. I did not answer her. How could I? Then Helena left the room. We never spoke of this matter again, but I respected her passion, realizing that one can never entirely know another human being even though one has shared the same bed and the same life. A month later, we received word that Eusebia was dead.