Gods and Legions

I

God, Brother, is not to be found in the bronze statues of Zeus and Apollo in the temples of Athens, which you, of course, will be the first to assert; nor residing on the heights of Olympus or in a palace in the depths of the wine-dark sea, or skulking in a cave surrounded by voiceless wraiths deep beneath the earth, all of which you again will laughingly dismiss as unworthy even of your briefest consideration. Nor, however, is He to be found in the tear-stained icon adorning the wall of the anchorite's cell, nor even in any of the myriad splinters and shards of the True Cross reverently traded by wealthy pilgrims and Desert Fathers alike, in such quantities that they would be capable of rebuilding the entire Ark of Noah. And it is only among those of the deepest faith in the Mystery of Mysteries that God may be found in the morsel of bread and drop of wine in the Eucharist. Among the vast majority of lesser mortals, belief in His presence therein ebbs and flows, rising and falling like the tides, with the swelling and shrinking of our faith, dependent as it is on the circumstances of our own lives and fortunes. I say this not to denigrate those favored ones, like yourself, who have been graced with the gift of unquestioning belief, but rather to acknowledge the reality facing the rest of humankind, who struggle daily in the quest for God and meaning in their lives.

For at the risk of descending into the bathos that the Greek tragedians so wished to avoid, God is to be found not in so many exotic and obscure locations as remote mountaintops, or in the preserved finger joints of centuries-dead martyrs. Rather, He is here before us, every day, in the birth and miraculous presence of a baby, in man's constant capacity for redeeming the errors of his existence and creating himself anew, in a perfect, unstained, and sinless regeneration of himself, without lust or ambition or evil intent, a confirmation of the image in which he was created, and of his ultimate rightness with God. Chastise me if you will for my heresy, Brother, but I knew, as I saw Julian that evening by the flickering firelight, holding and gazing in rapture at the son that was the guarantor of his immortality, that God had descended into our midst as surely as He had in Bethlehem three and a half centuries before, as surely as He does so briefly and mysteriously into the Sacred Host that is the very lifeblood of our faith.

'What age so happy brought thee to birth? How worthy thy parents to have begotten such a creature!'

Still softly murmuring the lines from Virgil, Julian handed his son, only minutes old, back to Helena's midwife Flaminia, a well-known Gallic birther who had tended her and accompanied her on the journey north from Vienne. The midwife took the baby to a corner, carefully rewrapped him in his swaddles, and carried him into Helena's bedchamber. Oribasius, who as a rule disliked births, had scuttled back to his quarters as soon as the procedure was complete, leaving Flaminia to perform the cleanup and postpartum care, along with her daughter, who was assisting her. I waited where I sat, in the candlelit anteroom outside the chamber, hearing Julian's low voice as he talked softly to his sleepy and satisfied wife, and to the cooing of the midwife as she deposited the young prince onto Helena's soft breast. Matilda, the daughter, remained in the anteroom with me, waiting for her mother to emerge so they could return home. She was a frail, jittery lass, scarcely out of girlhood, yet unlike her thoroughly professional mother she seemed unable to sit still, constantly fidgeting with her hands and face, picking at her chewed cuticles. I observed her calmly, noting that with a disposition like hers, it seemed doubtful she would ever make a skilled midwife, as her mother was training her to be. My attempts at conversation were fruitless — it was difficult for her to remain on a topic, her Latin was halting, and even her Gallic, though fluent, was tinged with an odd accent. Her father, apparently, was a Germanic immigrant and the girl spoke his dialect at home.

I soon gave up trying to put the girl at ease, and peeked carefully into the room where Flaminia was settling the baby and mother. Moments later, Flaminia tiptoed out, bidding me good night with a tired smile as she and Matilda gathered their things and slipped out the door to their temporary lodgings down the corridor, and then Julian too finally left the chamber, closing the door softly behind him with a click. He settled himself down across from me, and though his eyes were red-rimmed from fatigue, he nevertheless began rummaging in the small map case he had ordered brought in from his staff office, and I saw without surprise that he was beginning the next phase of his workday.

I asked him if he would mind some company, as my nerves were too worked up to even contemplate sleeping at that time, and he smiled happily.

'Of course not, old friend,' he said. 'It would be a welcome change from the shifts of dreary scribes who usually accompany me at night. I'm afraid I'm not up to conversation, but if you can endure my silence, please stay.'

I wanted nothing more, and having neglected to bring any reading materials of my own, I contented myself with merely gazing into the coals of the fire.

It must have been about two hours after midnight when I was awakened from a light sleep I did not even realize I had fallen into. I jerked my head up with a start and glanced over at Julian. I assumed it had been the cry of the baby that had awakened me, and marveled at how long the infant had slept between feedings. Julian looked at me expectantly, however, and I then realized that the sound in question was a soft rapping at the door, and that the Caesar, surrounded as he was by maps and parchments and with his quill dripping ink, was hoping that I would be better disposed to get up and answer it. Shaking my head groggily I stood and stretched, then walked the three steps across the small room to open the door.

Two sentries stood before me, a spitting, struggling woman standing between them with her hands bound in front of her and a heavy woolen cloak over her head and shoulders. In the flickering torchlight behind them I was unable to make out her identity.

'Beg pardon, sir,' said the sentry on the left. 'We seek the Caesar.'

I heard Julian quickly rise behind me from his stool and stride to the open door, where he stood looking quizzically at the strange trio. 'Yes?' he inquired amiably.

The men shuffled awkwardly. 'We disturb you only because we know you keep late hours, sir,' the first one said tensely. 'We just came off our shift at the outpost, sir, five miles beyond the city walls on the south road, when we came across this woman, ridin' hell-for-leather on a horse from your stables, sir, and with no baggage to speak of but her little kit, and a pouch of new coins. We found it passing strange, to say the least, at this hour of the night, and thought it best to bring her back and confirm she has leave to borrow the horse. Another woman was with her, sir, but slipped past us in the dark.'

Julian stood perplexed for a moment, blinking in the dim light, and then stepped away from the door.

'By all means,' he responded. 'Bring her in, but quietly, if you please.'

The two sentries, looking uncomfortable, stepped into the room, pushing the woman in front of them, who stumbled slightly as she stepped over the threshold and cursed under her breath. Julian led her over to the light of the candles he kept burning brightly around his desk, and ordered her to remove her cloak so he could see her face.

The woman threw back her head defiantly, letting the hood of the cloak slip off, and as she did we froze. It was Flaminia the midwife, her kindly, patient expression now replaced by one of ill temper and exasperation.

'Caesar, these men have unjustly accused me and disturbed your rest,' she began loudly, knowing as well as anyone present the reason to keep our voices down. 'I received word that I was urgently needed for a birth in an outlying village, and had simply borrowed the fast horse to make greater speed.'

At ill-mannered Flaminia's loud words, I sighed and stepped over to Helena's door, intending to enter quietly and put her mind at rest, for assuredly all the commotion in the anteroom had awakened her and the baby. Ignoring the midwife's hoarsely whispered protests that I would be disturbing the mother's sleep, I stepped inside. As the light from the anteroom flooded across the bed, Helena's eyes fluttered open sleepily and she lifted her head in befuddlement and with a slight grimace of pain.

I saw with relief that the baby was lying quietly at her breast in the crook of her arm, precisely where the midwife had placed him earlier that evening, and I stepped forward to apologize to Helena for disturbing her at such an hour. She smiled contentedly, and I reached down absentmindedly to stroke the baby's tiny head, and to gently feel the pulse through the soft spot at the top where the skull was not yet fused.

The pulse was not there. The baby's head was stone cold.

I hesitate to describe the horrible scene that ensued, Brother, for whatever you can imagine, it was ten times worse. Thinking I had made some mistake, had somehow lost my touch, I placed both hands on the infant's head and palpated frantically, then pried him from Helena's arms and lifted him to the light to examine him more closely. The skin was deathly white, the eyes rolled back into the head, the joints stiff and hard; such symptoms are terrifying enough when seen in a man who has fallen in battle, perhaps unconscious and facedown in a pool of his own blood. But in an infant, in a tiny vessel of Almighty God Himself, the effects of it are perverse, the very image of evil. I let out a cry, and Helena struggled to a sitting position, reaching for her baby at the same time as Julian rushed in and saw me clutching the infant in horror. He snatched the tiny creature from me and brought him into the light of the anteroom, where he collapsed to his knees, holding the baby to his chest.

'H-how can this be?' he stammered questioningly at Flaminia, his eyes filled with confusion. Helena struggled out of bed and stood leaning against the door frame as I supported her on the other side. 'Help my son,' he pleaded to the midwife, 'he's not breathing.'

Flaminia looked sorrowfully down at him. 'Your wife must have rolled over and suffocated him in his sleep, Caesar,' she said. 'It happens often enough to first-time mothers. I should never have placed him in her arms this night and then left. My God, I intended to return later and check on them, but I received this urgent message. Lord knows what has become of the other baby I was called upon to deliver this evening.'

Julian stared at her uncomprehendingly, and then turned to look at Helena, who had straightened up in wild-eyed astonishment, clutching her belly in pain and rocking back and forth on the balls of her bare feet. Tears coursed down her cheeks as she contemplated the implications of what the midwife had just said.

'Please, my lord, it will be daylight soon,' the midwife pleaded. 'I first left the palace over two hours ago — I have an urgent assignment that I must attend.'

'Urgent assignment…' he muttered, then he looked up fiercely. 'Begone with you, then! I'll not be the cause of another…'

Flaminia smiled triumphantly at the two sentries, who quickly stepped forward to cut her bonds. My mind raced at the thought of what had happened, as the midwife's ropes dropped free. She stepped quickly to the door, massaging the feeling back into her numb hands that were white where the tight knots had bound them, knots that had slowly cut off the flow of blood… the flow of blood…

'Wait!' I shouted, and everyone in the room jumped. Flaminia stepped quickly out the door and I could hear her steps as she began racing down the corridor. I leaped away from Helena, who was only barely able to brace herself in the door frame on her own, and ran out the door. I skidded around the corner into the polished-marble corridor and saw Flaminia running pell-mell toward the staircase and the exit. The two sentries, after recovering from their initial startlement, themselves raced out the doorway to follow my strangled cry.

'Hold that woman! Hold the midwife!' I shouted, and there was no contest, for although I was tired, I was still a young man, and it cost me little effort to catch up with a woman twenty years my senior. I was not gentle, however, and seizing her about the waist I tackled her as do boys playing a game of chase in the dust. We fell heavily onto the marble floor, where she hit her jaw hard, and narrowly avoided being trampled by the sentries following close on our heels.

'What in God's name?' shouted Julian, himself emerging from the anteroom and running to where we had all gathered around the moaning midwife. 'What are you doing, Caesarius? Are you mad? Will you cause the death of another infant tonight?'

'My lord,' I gasped, 'this woman must be held until I can examine the baby. I assure you,' and I gulped hard, thinking of the white skin and already stiffened joints, 'I assure you that Helena did not kill your son.'

Julian stared at me, wild-eyed, then whirled on Flaminia in a fury. By now half the palace had been awakened and was in an uproar. Servants were running into the corridor in their nightclothes, hair bedraggled, and a trio of household dogs had set up a mad yammering, running through people's legs and leaping at the soldiers as they struggled to lift the writhing midwife, blood pouring from her broken teeth and split chin, and place her again in fetters.

'Throw her in the cellar, and may God damn her,' Julian shouted at the guards as Flaminia spit and clawed at him frantically. 'I want a full confession!' His voice was choked and his breathing labored now, and he glared at the woman with an expression as crazed as I had ever seen on the apoplectic Constantius during one of his own fits of rage.

'Julian,' I began, trying to remain calm. 'Julian, I must examine the baby first. We can't know what happened until-'

'A full confession, damn her!' he screamed at the guards as they dragged their prisoner away. He whirled on me. 'Caesarius!' he barked. Despite the wild commotion around us and Flaminia's frantic screaming echoing down the corridor, I jumped. For a moment I was afraid he would order me to extract the confession, for a physician's knowledge of pain centers and joints was sometimes used for just such a purpose. My fear on this score, however, was quickly allayed, as he paused for a moment, still staring at me, trembling in rage. Then his face softened slightly as, struggling, he gained control over his emotions, and turned away, slowly but still shaking. 'I have an assignment for Paul the Chain,' he muttered, to himself more than anyone, before sweeping past the pandemonium of hysterical maidservants to return to his sobbing wife.

Minutes later, the reluctant Oribasius and I examined the body of the baby, much to my colleague's distaste, as he had little use for autopsies, particularly on infants.

'The midwife was probably correct,' he said laconically before we began. 'Helena simply rolled over on him in her sleep. She's a big girl, Caesarius. It happens all the time.'

I was not convinced. 'I saw her myself, Oribasius,' I countered. 'Helena sleeps soundly, without moving the entire night. As her physician, I have witnessed this many times in the past. When I found her and the baby, they were in precisely the same position as when the midwife had left them. Besides, the baby was white, not blue as he would have been had he suffocated.'

Oribasius shrugged. 'Proceed, then,' he said. 'I will observe your efforts, but don't ask me to participate.'

As it happened, an autopsy was unnecessary. When we unwrapped the swaddles, we were surprised to find not the normal two layers, but five full sets of wrappings — the outer ones hiding the inner layers, which were soaked in blood.

'The infant's cord was not tied,' I noted grimly. 'He bled to death.'

Oribasius peered at the bloody little corpse in astonishment.

'But I saw her tie it off?' he exclaimed. 'I held the cord in my fingers while she knotted the string — it was still pulsating!'

We stood staring at the baby in silence.

'And then,' I began slowly, 'and then you left, and Flaminia gave the baby to Julian to hold.' I thought hard, straining to remember all the insignificant details of the past night. 'A few minutes later she took him back, and then she and her daughter went to the corner and changed his swaddlings, before taking him in to Helena.'

'Changed his swaddlings? So soon?' Oribasius asked, puzzled.

'To murder him. She clipped off the cord above the knot, then wrapped extra cloths around him to hide the bleeding. My God — for a newborn, just losing a small cup's worth of blood would be fatal.'

He had died in his sleep in his mother's arms, losing blood so quickly as to be unable to sustain life in his little body for more than an hour or two at the most, or even to gasp in distress to his sleeping mother — but long enough for the culprit to make her escape.

As Julian had ordered, Flaminia was placed in the cellar below the palace, where in times past noble hostages who had been captured in battle were kept in relatively comfortable surroundings while awaiting ransom payments from their relatives. Prisoners had not been kept in those cells for two centuries or more, however, and the quarters now were far less accommodating. Her unceasing shrieks and howls, like those of a maddened dog, jangled our nerves that entire night and most of the next morning as Paul applied his instruments and techniques of interrogation. The sounds wafted up through the kitchen flues and ash drops, anywhere there was a vent or duct communicating with the cellars, and they trebled in volume a few hours later when Flaminia's husband and several other immigrant men were brought in, after being captured while attempting to flee disguised as beggars. The prisoners' incessant wailing drove all of us to near lunacy, and their cries were joined periodically by those of Helena, who herself drifted in and out of lucidity in her madness and grief. The only thing worse was the sudden silence from the cellar shortly after sunrise, almost at the peak of one of Flaminia's screams, leaving only the howling of the men, which itself was cut just as abruptly, one by one, moments later.

Oribasius looked at me and sighed, realizing the implications as well as I. We had just finished our own investigation and now walked slowly down the long hall to Julian's office, the same anteroom where I had left him the night before. He sat disheveled, his clothes unchanged, his face unwashed, a few of the candles still sputtering on the sills where he had left them lit, most of them dissolved into stinking masses of tallow. Papers and books were strewn on the floor where he had swept them off the tables in his misery and fury. Muffled sobs could be heard from the adjacent room where Helena lay, mixed with the soft voice of her Gallic nurse attempting to soothe her. In the midst of the chaos stood Paul the Chain, clean, freshly shaven, with a hint of perfumed scent and a faint, condescending smile on his lips as he calmly surveyed our rumpled clothes and hollow-eyed faces. He was flanked on either side by Pentadius and Gaudentius, looking somewhat less prim.

'The court physicians have arrived, Your Majesty,' he said unctuously, though Julian scarcely looked up from his vacant stare at the wall. Then casting an apologetic glance at us, he continued, 'I was just about to report the results of my investigation into the mat-'

'Our suspicions were confirmed, Caesar,' I hastily interrupted, wanting to avoid hearing the details of Paul's report. 'The child was murdered, by the midwife. If you wish me to explain how, I will be happy to do so.'

There was a long pause, during which the silence was broken only by the unremitting, choking sobs emerging from behind the thick oaken door of the next room. 'I do not,' Julian finally replied almost inaudibly, without moving. 'It is enough for me to know that she has been found and caught, the murderous bitch. Now all others involved in the conspiracy must be uncovered.'

At this Paul, as if on cue, stepped forward. 'Indeed, Caesar, they already have.'

Julian slowly turned his head, not yet facing us, for like anyone who has suffered a soul-crushing loss, he was not yet capable of looking another man directly in the face. He maintained his silence, however, and Paul continued.

'The midwife's husband was a German, who though a permanent immigrant to these parts was clearly bent on revenge at your defeat of his people. He was assisted by several Germanic cronies, relations of his, and they had infected the woman Flaminia with their hatred for Rome. Obviously they were in the pay of Chonodomarius' agents. Their gold, which the woman was carrying, has been sent to the imperial treasury, and the woman, her husband, and their collaborators… dispatched. We are still seeking the daughter.' Pentadius and Gaudentius, silent as leeches, nodded vigorously.

Julian remained motionless for some time, looking as wretched and careworn as any man I had ever seen, having aged twenty years in a night. Finally, he stood up with a motion slow and deliberate, facing us all and straightening his shoulders from their habitual slump with what seemed a mighty effort.

'Chonodomarius will die for this. Slowly and painfully. I shall make it not only my personal goal, but the mission of the entire Western Empire, and this I pledge: Chonodomarius will die.'

Matilda, the daughter, was captured several weeks later, purely by accident, when she was recognized begging in the city by one of the palace staff — she had returned after her escape, knowing of no safe place to hide. Since Paul had by then been recalled to Milan, and Julian could not be approached about the matter, Sallustius ordered that she be quietly executed. At my remonstrance, however, as to her youth and to the fact that the wretched girl was probably innocent of her parents' crimes, he shrugged dismissively and demanded simply that she be imprisoned outside the city walls, away from our sight. She was, and promptly forgotten.