Julian (61 page)

Nevitta almost asked "when?" but then he thought better of it. After all, as a Roman consul he is expected to know something of Roman history. Yet as far as I know, he has never read a book of any kind, though in preparation for this campaign he told me, quite seriously, that he was studying Alexander. When I asked which biography he was reading, he said, Alexander and the Wicked Magician, a popular novel!

I reassured Nevitta. I told him about the victories of Lucullus, Pompey and Ventidius, Trajan, Verus and Severus. Apparently, these names had a somewhat familiar ring and he looked relieved, I did not of course mention our defeats. "50 tell the soldiers that their fear of the Persians is the result of Constantius's fear of war."

"You tell them, Emperor." Nevitta is the only man who addresses me by that military title. "They don't know these things. And there's a lot of talk about how bad things are going to be."

"The Galileans?"

Nevitta shrugged. "I don't know who starts it. But there's talk. You'd better give them one of your history lectures." That is the closest Nevitta ever comes to humour. I laughed to show that I appreciated his attempt.

"I'11 speak to them when we get to Dura." Nevitta saluted and started to go. I stopped him.

"It might be useful…" I began. But then—I don't know why—I chose not to finish. "Tomorrow, Nevitta."

He left me alone in the shadow of the tomb. I had meant to ask him to find out who was spreading rumours. But I thought better of it. Nothing destroys the spirit of an army more quickly than the use of secret agents and midnight interrogations. Even so, I have been warned. I must be on guard.

We set out for Dura. We were only a few miles south of Zaitha when two horsemen appeared from the east, carrying something in a sling between them. At first I thought it was a man, but when they came close I saw that it was a dead lion of great size. Maximus whispered excitedly in my ear, "A king will die in Persia!" But I had already got the point to the omen quite on my own. I also refrained from making the obvious retort: "Which king?" But as this Persian lion was killed by Roman spears it seems likely that the Persian King Sapor will be killed by Roman arms.

This lion, incidentally, was the first I'd ever seen close to; even in death, he was terrifying, with teeth long as my thumb and yellow eyes still glaring with life's hot rage. I ordered the lion skinned. I shall use its pelt for my bed.

As we continued towards Dura, the sun vanished, the sky turned grey, lightning flashed. A violent thunderstorm broke. We were all soaked and chilled by the rain, but we continued our march. Shortly before evening, Victor rode up to me. "Augustus, a soldier has been killed by lightning." Though Victor is a Galilean he has the usual military man's interest in omens. "The soldier was watering two horses at the river when the storm broke. He was just about to lead them back to his cohort when he was struck by lightning. He was killed instantly."

"What was his name?"

"Jovian, Augustus." I pretended to take this merely as an added detail. "Bury him," I said, and rode on. Maximus was the first to speak. "The sign is ambiguous. The fact he is named after the king of the gods, the thunderer Jove himself, does not necessarily mean that a king is involved." But I did not listen. This was a matter for the Etruscans.

We made camp on the outskirts of Dura, a long-deserted town whose houses of brick are slowly returning to the dust from which they were shaped by dead hands. The streets were empty except for herds of deer. I allowed the men to kill as many as they could for food. It was an amusing sight to see our best archers and cavalrymen careering through muddy streets in pursuit of the deer, who promptly fled to the river and, like seasoned troops obeying an agreed-upon plan, swam to the other side. In midstream the bargemen killed many of them with their oars.

That night Maximus, Priscus and I dined on fresh venison in my tent. Afterward we were joined by the Etruscan priests. Their chief is an elderly man named Mastara. He is held in high regard at Rome, where he used to be consultant to the senate. I record here, privately, that Mastara has been against this campaign from the beginning. He even interpreted the killing of the lion as unfavourable to me.

In general, the Etruscan religion is well known; in particular, it is obscure. From the beginning of time, the genius of the Etruscan religion has been its peculiar harmony with the natural forces of creation. The first revelation is known to all. Tages, a divine child, appeared in the field of a peasant named Tarchon, and dictated to him a holy book which is the basis of their religion. Later Vegoia, a young goddess, appeared during a ceremony to the thunder god and gave the priests a second book which contained instructions on how to interpret heavenly signs, particularly lightning. According to this book, the sky is divided into sixteen parts, each sacred to a particular god (though the same god may at times influence a section not his own). One can discover which god has manifested himself by the direction from which the lightning comes, the angle at which it strikes, and of course the place where it strikes. Mastara wasted no time. He had already analysed the death of the soldier Jovian. "Highest Priest, the lightning came from the ninth house." I knew what this meant even before he interpreted it.

"The house of Ares. The house of war. At the eleventh hour Ares struck down the soldier Jovian beside the river to our west. That means a soldier from the west, a king, will be killed late in a war. We are now making projections as to the exact day and hour of this king's death. By tomorrow we should be able to tell you when this… warning shall become fact."

There it was. We were all quite still for several moments. Maximus sat opposite me, hand wound in his beard, eyes shut as though listening to some voice within. Priscus shifted his long frame uneasily on a hard bench. The Etruscans were motionless, their eyes downcast.

"The king," I said at last, "
could
be Sapor."

"Highest Priest, Sapor does not come from the west."

"Nor do I, to be exact." I was ready to quibble as people always do when a prophecy has gone against them. "I come from the north. The only kings hereabout who are from the west are the Saracen princes. My own interpretation is that one of them will die in battle."

"Then shall we continue with our projection, Highest Priest?"

Mastara did not show emotion. He was a priest speaking to his superior, correct, demure, obedient.

"No," I said firmly. "I see no need. But to the extent that the army is apt to hear of your first interpretation, I must ask you to allow the second—and correct—interpretation to be generally known."

Mastara bowed. He and his priests departed. Priscus gave that dry chuckle of his. "I see now why the early emperors always insisted on being Highest Priest, too."

"I don't think I misinterpreted the sign." But realizing this sounded weak, I turned to Maximus for help. He opened his eyes. Then he leapt to his feet and turned first west then east then north then south. "Not even a Saracen!" he said abruptly. "Africa. Mauretania. There is the doomed king."

At first I wondered if perhaps Maximus was not trying deliberately to raise my spirits, but as he was in such an exuberant mood for the rest of the evening I now believe him. I have just written a letter to Sallust, asking him to send me news of the Mauretanian kings.

It is daybreak. I have not slept in twenty-four hours, nor will I sleep for another twelve. We must be on the march within the hour. I hear my servant Callistus outside the tent, giving the guam the password. I must now make notes for the speech I give to the troops today. My head is empty. My eyes burn. How to begin?

Priscus
: The speech was a success. If Julian was tired, he did not show it. Incidentally, in his description of that seance with the Etruscans he omits my remark to him, "What is the point of listening to soothsayers, if you won't believe what they tell you?" But Julian was very like the Christians who are able to make their hol7 book endorse anything they want it to.

Julian's speech had a good effect. In the briefest but most convincing way, he explained to the men how often Roman armies had won victories in this country and he warned them against listening to defeatists, particularly those who had been set among us by the Persians, whose cunning and treachery he emphasized. When he finished, there was a great racket of approval. The Gauls were vociferous, but the eastern legions were unenthusiastic, par. ticularly Victor's cavalry. I mentioned this later to Julian. Yes, he had noticed it, too. "But they don't know me. The Gauls do. When they've won a few battles and looted a few cities they will love their leader." Julian the practical soldier, not the Hellenic humanist!

L. Arin., Orm., Cav.; R. Nev. Tert., Pet., C.; C. inf. J… Dag., Vic.; Van. 1500 sc.; Pyrr.; Luc. fleet; Anatha island: Luc. 1000. Waiting. Cyb. Mith. Her.

Priscus
: I think I can interpret this entry. Julian is noting for himself our military order during the march south. On the right, skirting the river bank, Nevitta commanded the Tertiaci, Petulantes and Celts. In the centre Julian commanded the main part of the infantry—the baggage and the philosophers were also in the centre. On the left—or east—Arintheus and Ormisda commanded the cavalry. Though Ormisda was an infantry general, in the field there is a good deal of shifting back and forth of high-ranking officers. Dagalaif and Victor brought up the rear, while 1,500 mounted scouts ranged the countryside before us. Lucillianus commanded the fleet which accompanied us downriver.

"Anatha island: Luc 1000?" refers to the first Persian stronghold we came to, a heavily fortified island in the middle of the river, four days' march from Dura. Julian sent Lucillianus with a thousand light-armed troops to make a night landing under the walls of the fortress. As there was also a heavy mist that evening, Julian hoped to take the island by surprise. But at dawn the mist suddenly lifted and a Persian soldier sent out to draw water, seeing Lucillianus's men, shouted a warning and that was the end of Julian's surprise attack.

A few hours later, Julian crossed over to the island. One look at those huge walls decided him against a siege. He would have to take the fort by other means. Incidentally, this was to be his policy during the whole campaign. Between the Roman border and Ctesiphon—a distance of more than three hundred miles—there were a dozen fortresses and walled cities. Julian had the power to take any one of them but at the cost of weeks' or even months' delay. He could not afford this. So he chose to isolate the fortresses, knowing that once the Great King fell all the cities would be his. Julian sent word to the governor of Anatha that he would spare the lives of the garrison if they surrendered. The governor asked for a parley with Ormisda. Julian describes this in the next entry.

"Waiting." These notes were made late in the night of the fourteenth when Lucillianus was still hidden on the island.

"Cyb. Mith. Her." A prayer: Cybele, Mithras, Hermes.

Anatha has surrendered! Our first victory on Persian soil. At noon the governor of the island, Pusaeus, asked me to send him Ormisda to work out the details of the surrender. I confess I was nervous while awaiting the outcome of the conference. Pusaeus could so easily murder Ormisda. But less than an hour after Ormisda entered the fortress, the gates swung open and a garlanded ox was led forth by a Persian priest as sign of peace. There was a great cheer from our legions. Then Ormisda and the governor appeared Pusaeus is a dark intense man, reputedly a good soldier (why else would he have been entrusted with this important fort?). He saluted me as he would have saluted the Great King, flat on his belly. Then, face full of dust, he asked me what I intended to do with the inhabitants of the town.

I motioned to Anatolius and his notaries to join us. Then I said,

"Governor, since you have shown yourself friendly to us and honourable in your dealings, we shall, at our own expense, move your people to Syria, to the city of Chalcis, where they will be able to live as they have lived here."

He thanked me warmly, his head rolling about in the dirt until I told him to get up. Pusaeus then asked me if I would take him into the Roman army. I turned to Ormisda. "Should I?"

Ormisda's face is a sea of delicate responses; by the slightest quiver of a brow or the flaring of a nostril he is able to communicate without words. The face said: beware! The voice said, "Yes, but perhaps not here, perhaps with a garrison in Spain or Egypt."

So I made Pusaeus a tribune and posted him to Egypt.

All this took place in the main square of Anatha, a town of wood and thatch and mud brick, exactly like every other town, Persian or Roman, in this part of the world. While we talked, the people passed by us. The women balanced rolls of bedding and clothing on their heads while the men carfled weapons and cooking utensils. Suddenly a frail old man, supported by two women, approached us. He gave me the Roman salute and said in soldierLatin: "Maximanus, foot soldier with the Ziannis, reporting for duty." He stood shakily at attention. I looked at him with wonder.

"Where are you from? Who are you?"

"A Roman soldier, General. In the army of Galerius Augustus."

Salutius said flatly, "That's impossible. It's a hundred years since Galerius died."

"No, Prefect," said the old man (he still knew a praetorian prefect when he saw one), "Galerius was here sixty-six years ago. And I was with him. I was eighteen years old. I'd enlisted at Philippopolis in Thrace. We won great victories here."

"But why are you still here?" Easily the most fatuous question one could ask a man in his eighties. But I was quite overwhelmed by this relic of another age.

"I fell ill with the fever. My tribune, Decius—never got on with him—thought I was going to die. So he left me here with a family who said they'd bury me properly when the time came. Then the army left." He laughed, an old rooster cackling. "Well, they haven't buried me yet. You can see that, I guess! And they're all gone: Galerius, Decius, Marius… he was a good friend, but got the pox… he's gone, too. So the family here that was willing to bury me took me in and I married two of their daughters. Both good girls. Dead now. These are later wives." He indicated the women who stood, ready to support him should he stumble.