Gods and Legions

II

The day after departing from the Emperor's camp, Julian remained closeted in his litter, brooding.

I spurred my horse up through the straggling ascetics as they struggled to keep up with the indefatigable sedan-bearers. The exhausted, unfit recruits stared longingly at my horse, and then continued with their uneven strides. They were laughable for men playing the part of Roman soldiers, though they themselves saw nothing humorous in their situation; nor did I, considering the fact that within two weeks' time we would be passing through territory that had recently been subject to bloody raids from roving bands of Alemanni warriors. Almighty God, I prayed: Thank you for the spiritual support you have provided us in the person of these monks; a few good archers, however, would have been even more welcome.

Trotting up to Julian's litter, I greeted him warmly, and he absentmindedly drew back the curtain. Helena, riding in a separate litter behind, remained veiled. A group of hermit soldiers behind us broke into an ill-tuned but enthusiastic hymn, to raise their spirits.

'Caesar…' I began, but he waved me off wearily.

'Don't mock me, Caesarius. I've always been simply Julian to you, and just because I've been invested with a sham title doesn't make me royalty. My own name will do perfectly well.'

He smiled wanly, closing his eyes for a moment as if in great weariness.

'I didn't sleep well last night,' he said, after a pause. 'The pressures of command, I imagine, if you can call them that. How ironic. Following the path of my predecessor, Julius Caesar, to recapture what he had so brutally and magnificently seized four hundred years ago. Is it man's destiny to constantly repeat his mistakes, to gain Rome and then lose it?'

'That is not his destiny, but it is his will. May I speak with you frankly?'

'I would have it no other way.'

'You are on your own now, all the way to Vienne. That is dangerous. You are your own master, for the first time in months, perhaps in your entire life. That is a boon. You have three hundred sixty singing monks, who at this point are more a source of amusement than protection. That is potentially… well… whatever we make it to be. You also have an ample supply train, though precisely what supplies it contains is anyone's guess, for the Emperor appears to have neglected to assign you a quartermaster. And you have four Roman army officers to advise you, several of whom, I'm afraid, are rather on the knavish side.'

At this, Julian straightened out of his lethargic slouch and looked up at me with frank interest.

'Perhaps,' I continued tentatively, 'this would be a good time to discuss the qualities of your "advisers"? At least as far as I know them?'

'And how far do you know them?'

'I confess that it is largely by observation, rather than firsthand acquaintance. But I am a physician, Julian — I have some skill at diagnosing men, both body and temperament. I have lived at court, I have heard the eunuchs and courtiers whisper, I have seen whom the Emperor trusts, whom he despises-'

'Enough!' Julian interrupted with an uneasy chuckle. 'No need to display your credentials, I'm convinced. By all means — tell me about my "advisers."'

I looked curiously at the litter-bearers, whose hooded gazes betrayed no interest in our conversation, but who were within easy earshot nevertheless.

'Perhaps we should speak in Greek,' I suggested, to which he nodded his relieved consent.

'The first two of your advisers,' I continued, 'are Pentadius and Gaudentius. If I did not already know that Constantius has no sense of humor, I would think that these jackasses had been assigned to you as a joke. They are utterly worthless as officers, though they have on occasion proven their skills at pandering and pimping for the generals they have served. I can't imagine that the Emperor thought they could be of use to you, so I can only conclude that he sent them to relieve himself of the burden of maintaining them in Milan. In any event, they're yours now, until you decide how best to chase them off.'

Julian sighed. 'Another fine omen for beginning our journey. Who else do we have?'

I paused. 'The third man is Paul, who is not actually an officer, but rather a sycophant of Constantius, and a spy.'

'You mean the Spaniard, the one they call the Chain? He looks innocent enough but I notice he always seems to be whispering in the Emperor's ear.'

'The same,' I confirmed, 'much to your ill-fortune.'

'Oh? Why that epithet, the Chain?'

'He gained it several years ago, when the Emperor sent him to Britain to fetch back certain officers who had been accused of conspiracy. He went far beyond his original instructions, and descended like a whirlwind over the entire province, seizing goods and chattel and even entire estates in the name of Constantius. He placed a huge number of free men and citizens in handcuffs, and patched together a fabric of false accusations. He finally returned to the Emperor's palace steeped in blood, and trailing a chain of prisoners behind him in squalid misery. When they arrived, he even advised the executioner as to which types of hooks and instruments of torture would be most effective on which prisoners to make them confess their imaginary crimes. Since then he's been known as Paul the Chain.'

Julian stared at me. 'Unbelievable. This is a man my cousin has sent to accompany me?'

I nodded.

'So what am I expected to do with him?'

I shrugged. 'Keep him as far from you as possible, I suppose.'

He turned and gazed straight ahead with a shocked look on his face. 'So we have two pimps and a spy. Who is the fourth man, Caesarius?'

'Him I do not know. He joined us in camp only last night. A nobleman by his bearing. He keeps apart from the other three when traveling. Perhaps that is a good sign.'

'Indeed.' Julian pursed his lips and thought silently for a moment. 'Call him over here, please. I should like to have a word with this man.'

I dropped back to fetch the stranger from where he was riding in the very last ranks, seeking out stragglers who were attempting to sit at the side of the road, and swatting them with his sword. He was a tall, thin man, almost gaunt, with piercing blue eyes and a long ridged nose that betrayed a non-Roman heritage. His skin was dark and leathery, like that of a peasant who has spent his entire life outdoors in the weather, yet his bearing was graceful, and his clothing, though plain, was of a quality and fit indicative of a cost far beyond the means of a mere officer. He was a silent man, preferring the Roman nobleman's habit of communicating orders by a mere finger gesture or a flicker of a glance; when he turned to my summons I noticed his entire body poise and tense, like that of a finely trained boar hound on the scent of his quarry. He spoke Latin with a stiff ease and a slightly lilting foreign intonation that was barely perceptible, and impossible for me to place — one of those foreigners who have been so well schooled that they speak Latin better than native Romans, thereby betraying their foreign origins by their ability to speak too correctly. He heard me out, and then, reluctantly it seemed, spurred his horse up to take his place at the side of the Caesar's rocking sedan chair, while I followed close behind.

When he arrived, he reined in his horse and saluted elegantly.

'You summoned me, Caesar?'

Julian looked at him. 'You are the man who joined our party yesterday, just before we separated from the Emperor? I don't even know your name.'

'Sallustius,' the man said simply. 'Secundus Saturninus Sallustius.'

'Sallustius,' Julian repeated thoughtfully. 'An unusual name. Are you Roman?'

'I am. My father was a Romanized Gaul, a citizen and a nobleman, and I have been in the Emperor's service my entire career.'

'Grew up — in Gaul?'

'Yes, Caesar. My father's estate was outside Marseilles.'

'You are different from the other men my cousin has assigned me. What horrible crime have you committed to be given the pleasure of this feeble company?'

The man smiled sardonically. 'I volunteered.'

Julian almost choked. 'Volunteered? Good God, why?' The man looked carefully at him for a long moment.

Finally, his gaze turned to its habitual position on the far horizon and he shrugged.

'Because I believe, I suppose,' he said, switching effortlessly to Greek, much to Julian's surprise, 'I believe that new blood is needed among Rome's command in Gaul. I believe that a man who comes from outside the standing school of plunder and abuse is needed to tame the province. If that means the Emperor's inexperienced young Greek-speaking cousin — then perhaps all the better.'

Julian stared at him. 'You know that is not my mandate from the Emperor.'

Sallustius did not miss a beat. 'I also believe that the Fates do not intend you to be a mere figurehead. And moreover, that you do not intend to be one either.'

'So you feel there may be a purpose in this madness.'

Sallustius shrugged again. 'I don't claim to divine a purpose. I just don't see the situation as hopeless — yet. Beyond that I can express no opinion.'

'Sallustius, assume you were in my shoes. What would you do now?'

The man spoke as if he had been waiting for precisely that question.

'You are the Caesar. You have been legitimately appointed, duly invested. Regardless of your experience, or lack of it, you have been given command of a province. You must identify your opportunities, seize the authority due you, and fill your role — the role of a Caesar.'

Julian stared at him, wide-eyed, in silence. 'That's the first time anyone has honestly said, in so many words, what I myself have felt ever since I was appointed to this wretched post.'

'Because it's the truth. Your very survival depends upon it. And what is more — so does Rome's.'

Julian took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. Already, I could see, he was beginning to like and, more important, to trust this stranger. A hint of a smile appeared at his lips.

'Since you seem to have no qualms about speaking frankly, Sallustius, I will ask you again, and perhaps this time you will be more specific: If you were in my place, what would you do?'

Sallustius met his gaze and spoke quietly and evenly.

'First, make this mob march like a Roman cohort, or we will be meat for the barbarian wolves when we descend through the Alps.'

'Can you do that?'

He thought for a moment. 'I am not a professional military man, but yes, I have served my tours of duty. We will need to take some time off from the march to train. I'll need three weeks.'

Julian scoffed. 'It will soon be December. The passes will be closed by snow in a matter of days. I'll give you one week.'

'Fair enough.'

'And what would you have me do — be a soldier as well?'

'That, Caesar, is up to you. If you order me to, I will.'

'I order you to. A good, solid Roman soldier. What should I do?'

'You may not wish to hear it.'

'I am a philosopher. I take what life gives me.'

The man paused and took a deep breath. Then he turned directly to Julian.

'Very well. First, get your ass out of that chair.'

Julian stared in astonishment, and then the wry smile crept back to the corners of his mouth. Reverting to Latin, he called out to his bearers to stop and set him down.

With a collective sigh of relief, the entire procession stopped immediately, and the ascetics collapsed to the ground in exhaustion, praising God all the while. Julian stepped out of his sedan chair. I noticed the curtains on Helena's chair part, and her gauzily veiled face peer out curiously.

Sallustius dismounted and stood before him, towering over him by a full head.

'Next, remove the toga.'

At this, Julian himself breathed an audible sigh of relief and stripped off the fussy ceremonial garment, with which he was forever fidgeting and tugging to keep properly aligned on his shoulders. He called to one of the sedan-bearers, who rummaged around in the duffel bag inside the compartment until he located an old, threadbare school tunic and a wool cloak, which Julian donned as protection from the air's coolness.

Sallustius stood appraising the Caesar's body critically, noting the thin chest and legs, the beginnings of a paunch.

'Are you fit?' he asked, somewhat doubtfully.

'I travel with my physician,' Julian answered confidently, nodding at me. Sallustius looked briefly at me and snorted.

'That's not what I asked,' he said. 'I need to know how strong you are. A weak body burdens the mind. The art of medicine has caused more harm in the world than all the sicknesses it claims to heal. I don't know what illnesses physicians are capable of healing, beyond binding up battle wounds, which I can do myself. But I do know the diseases they cause: laziness, credulity, fear of death. I don't care if they can make cadavers walk; what your crew needs is men, and your physician can't give us that.'

Julian stood thunderstruck at this diatribe. He glanced at me with uncertainty, though under Sallustius' fierce glare he seemed unable to pronounce a challenge. Finally he found his voice.

'Homer said that one physician is worth many men.'

'Then let Homer lead your troops.'

Julian sighed in resignation. 'What next?' he grumbled.

'No court sandals.'

He looked down in surprise at his feet. He had worn the thin-soled, loosely strapped footwear his entire life, and it had never occurred to him that any other might be necessary.

'I can't go barefoot.'

Sallustius looked back down the train and spied one of the supply wagons stopped a short distance away. Trotting over to it, he conferred briefly with the slave driving its mules, who flipped back a tarpaulin and began rummaging in some crates in the back, finally locating what Sallustius was seeking. He then trotted back to the Emperor, who was standing rather sheepishly before the staring crowd of ascetics and his wife, and handed him a pair of Roman army sandals.

Julian whistled audibly as he hefted them: a full half-inch of tanned ox hide, stiff as a board, with dozens of hobnails protruding from the sole for a better grip. Brass fittings protected the toe tips, and thick, pliable leather straps wrapped the ankle and calf almost to the knee. He tied the straps, then stood and stomped a few steps, stiff-legged.

'They feel like boats on my feet. Heavy boats.' Then he slowly smiled. 'Roman boats.'

'You asked me what you should do.'

'So I did. Now what?'

'Now march.'