Gods and Legions

III

Thus began peaceful, scholarly Julian's ascent as a soldier, and it is doubtful that there had ever been a more inauspicious beginning to a warrior's career since Telemachus, who was denied the firm guidance of his kingly father Odysseus until the day he was suddenly thrust into battle against Penelope's hundred thirty-six suitors.

His training under Sallustius commenced, and the difficulty of the master's regime was exceeded only by the student's stubbornness. The Caesar had never in his life experienced the slightest physical hardship. Until this time, all his training had been of the mind: courses of philosophy, rhetoric and composition, Greek literary works of good authorship. You may have heard it sometimes argued that children of lesser parentage should not be educated, on the grounds that their best hopes for advancement are in the military. As the old saying goes, 'A scholar made is a soldier betrayed.' Such people point to the most fearsome of the barbarian nations, the Franks and the Huns, whose leaders are all soldiers by training and custom, and who denigrate book learning as unworthy of their skills. To my knowledge, however, in almost all cases truly successful military leaders are educated to at least some degree, or if they are not, they are ashamed of their ignorance and seek to remedy it.

Certainly Julian's education had not neglected the military classics, such as Thucydides' recounting of the war of thrice nine years between Sparta and Athens, and Themistogenes' shameless embellishment of Xenophon's Persian campaign. Nor was he ignorant of the devastation that had been wreaked on the Roman people by the Germanic tribes over the centuries: the loss of five entire armies, all commanded by Consuls; the destruction even of the supreme general Varus and three legions; how though the Germanics had actually been defeated several times, by Caius Marius in Italy, Julius in Gaul, and Tiberius and Germanicus in their native territories, it had been accomplished only with great difficulty and enormous loss of Roman life. Julian was well versed in strategic theory, the uses and benefits of diplomatic policy and coercion to facilitate military aims, and other such grand issues as are discussed at length in the classics. But when one's entire marching force in hostile territory consists of three hundred sixty footsore ascetics, and one's very survival is at stake, such lessons in international political theory and strategic military alliances are of little import. What Sallustius would seek to impress upon him both now and in the years to come were what I might term the lesser military arts: drill and basic tactics, military protocol, use of the bow, lance, and sword, and effective riding; and what Sallustius began with first was marching.

Dear God, Sallustius drilled us ceaselessly, and it was not a matter of doing so at leisure in a well-tended Field of Mars, for it was still necessary to make sufficient progress each day on our way to Vienne. For a solid week we practiced the Pyrrhic march-step and its related maneuvers to the maddeningly monotonous beat of a drum pounded by Sallustius himself, and the skirling of a pipe played haltingly by one of the hermits who had once as a boy, while working as a shepherd, taught himself a single tune, which he now repeated incessantly. Sallustius' only concession to the exigencies of travel was to allow us to halt our progress through the Alps perhaps one hour earlier each day than we otherwise would have, at which point he drilled us for another three hours under sodden, iron skies until the weaker ones collapsed with trembling knees, whispering prayers or curses under their breath, and Julian's face was drawn and ashen. The physician Oribasius refused even to watch after the first day or two, his pudgy hands fluttering helplessly and his balding head bobbing in distress. I marched every step of every drill along with the troops, if only to better perform my duty of monitoring Julian's health. The whole scene was the source of much hilarity to Pentadius and Gaudentius, who strove to do as little as possible to assist with Sallustius' efforts. Paul the Chain, for the most part, confined himself to his own tent, depriving us of his company, which few seemed to miss.

Happily, within two weeks of late-afternoon drill sessions, the ragged mob had begun to imitate a reasonable semblance of a Roman military detachment, at least in their marching order and discipline, which had naturally been Sallustius' first order of business. The older man's initial fear had been that if the Alemanni scouts we frequently saw spying on us from ridge tops had noted a chaotic, bedraggled band of civilians wending through the foothills in a long train, we would be ripe for attack and slaughter. This danger was now allayed, and as is often the case when discipline is established, morale increased as well. Indeed, I would even venture to say that this period may have been the happiest in Julian's entire life — for what young man would not be happy, after having been set free from a virtual captivity in a city he detested, by a man he loathed, to travel to new lands with a new wife, bearing the ring of a Caesar no less?

When after a month we finally arrived at the Roman city of Vienne, the capital of Gallia Viennensis, a hundred miles up the Rhone from its spill into the Mediterranean, it was to shouts of joy by our troops that could not have been more heartfelt than those exclaimed by Xenophon's men upon their first glimpse of the sea. And to the surprise and delight of all, their elation was matched by that of the people of the elegant city, who greeted Julian's arrival as if he were the answer to their prayers. They thronged the streets, flocking from the countryside miles around, like the crowds in Jerusalem that fateful day three centuries before, swelling the population of the city to thrice its normal size. They paraded before him on his route, singing the praises of the young commander who would rid them of the barbarians and restore them to their former prosperity. They gazed the more eagerly on his royal pomp because he was a lawfully invested prince; and they were amazed and delighted when his soldiers spontaneously broke out in a perfectly modulated hymn of glory and praise sung in ecclesiastical Latin, rather than the obscene camp ditties and rough marching tunes they were accustomed to hearing from entering soldiers.

That afternoon, Julian's warrior monks celebrated a solemn service at the Church of Saint Stephen in thanksgiving for their safe arrival, and Sallustius gave us our first reprieve in a month from his nightly drills, with the stern warning that they would recommence the next day. We then participated in a citywide banquet sponsored by some local patricians, consisting of five hundred roasted winter lambs, the first fresh meat we had eaten since departing Milan. The occasion was indeed historic — for even Sallustius smiled.

Later on, long after the last soldier had said his prayers and retired, Helena sent a messenger to the barracks where I was sharing a room with Oribasius, to fetch me to the Bishop's palace, where she and her husband had been temporarily lodged upon their arrival. I rode breathlessly on the horse the messenger had brought, concerned that Julian had somehow injured himself or become indisposed from his unaccustomed feasting that evening. Rather, it was she who was feeling out of sorts, with symptoms that would not normally have occasioned any alarm in a person experiencing them, but which were a source of concern to her, for being an exceptionally robust and healthy girl, with a naturally hearty appetite, she had never in her life felt even a twinge of indigestion of any kind.

I performed a cursory examination of her, familiar as I was with her family history, and sooner than I expected, I left the Bishop's residence smiling in relief, and with Helena blushing deeply at the results of my palpations and questioning.

The Caesar's wife was with child.