Julian (42 page)

I turned to Mamertinus. "Give the word to the army. We march to Sirmium."

Sirmium is a large city, highly suitable for an imperial capital, standing as it does upon the border between the prefecture of Illyricum and the diocese of Thrace—the westernmost country of the prefecture of the East. I was now at the beginning of the territory traditionally assigned to the Augustus of the East. I had warned my officers that there might be incidents. I did not expect the city to surrender without token resistance, even though its commander was now with us, riding at my side. But to my astonishment, we were met outside the gates by a vast crowd of men, women and children, carrying chains of flowers, boughs of trees and numerous sacred objects. I was hailed as Augustus with the most extraordinary enthusiasm. I turned to Lucillianus and shouted to him above the din, "Did you arrange this?"

He shook his head. He was too stupid to lie. "No, Augustus. I don't know who arranged it…"

"Legend!" said Oribasius. "They know you'll win. They always do."

A large bouquet of flowers hit me in the face. Eyes stinging, I swept it aside; a blood-red poppy caught in my beard. Men and women kissed my robe, my legs, my horse. Thus was I escorted into the capital of Illyricum while the grapes were still green. It was the first great city ever to fall to me, twice the size of Strasbourg or Cologne or even Treyes. The date was 3 October 361. I went straight to the palace, and to business. I received the senate of the city. I allayed their fears. They swore loyalty to me, as did the legions within the city. I ordered a week of chariot races next day to amuse the populace, one of the burdens the conquered invariably put upon the conqueror. With great pleasure I received Nevitta who, true to his promise, arrived at Sirmium after a victorious passage through Raetia. The West was ours.

I called a staff meeting, and we discussed our next move. Some favoured marching straight to Constantinople, two hundred miles distant. Dagalaif argued that with Constantius in Antioch, Constantinople would fall to us without a battle. Nevitta was not so certain. He was afraid that Constantius was probably already on the march from Antioch to the capital. If this were so, we were hardly a match for what was, in fact, the largest army on earth. I agreed with Nevitta. We would remain where we were for the winter.

I entrusted to Nevitta the defence of the Succi Pass, a narrow defile in the high mountains that separate Thrace from Illyricum. Whoever holds this pass is safe from attack by land. I then sent two of the Sirmium legions to Aquileia, to hold that important seaport for us. With the main part of the army I withdrew some fifty miles north-west to Nish (where Constantine was born); here I went into winter quarters.

The weeks at Nish were busy ones. Every night I dictated until dawn. I was determined to present my case against Constantius as clearly as possible for all to read and comprehend. I sent a lengthy message to the Roman senate. I also composed separate letters for the senates of Sparta, Corinth and Athens, explaining what I had done and what I intended to do. Heavily but justly, I placed the blame for all that had happened on Constantius. Then—though Oribasius warned me not to—I assured the various senates that I intended to restore the worship of the old gods, making the point that I personally imitated them in order that, by having the fewest possible needs, I might do good to the greatest possible number. These letters were read at every public gathering. They made a profound and favourable impression.

During this period I planned an amphibious attack on Constantinople to take place as soon as the winds favoured us. We were in a good position militarily. At Succi we controlled the land approach to the West. At Aquileia we controlled the sea approach to northern Italy. I felt reasonably secure, and was confident that before civil war broke out, Constantius would come to terms with me. But my sense of security was rudely shattered when I learned that the two legions I had sent to Aquileia had promptly gone over to Constantius. The port was now his, and I was vulnerable to an attack by sea. Since I was not able to leave Nish and Nevitta could not leave Succi, my only hope was Jovinus, who was in Austria en route to Nish. I sent him a frantic message: proceed immediately to Aquileia. My situation was now most precarious. Constantius could at any time land an army at Aquileia and cut me off from Italy and Gaul. I was in despair, confident that the gods had deserted me. But they had not. At the last moment, they intervened. On the night of 20 November I was working late. Lamps filled with cheap oil smoked abominably. The three night secretaries sat at a long table, mountains of parchment stacked in front of them.

At a separate table I was writing a letter to my uncle Julian, trying to reassure him—and myself—that victory was certain. I had just finished the letter with one of those postscripts which even old friends say they cannot decipher, when I heard footsteps quickly approaching. Without ceremony the door flew open. The clerks and I leapt to our feet. One never knows if assassins are at hand. But it was Oribasius, out of breath, a letter in his hand.

"It's happened!" he gasped. Then he did something he had never done before. He dropped on his knees before me, and offered me the letter. "This is for you… Augustus."

I read the first line. Then the words blurred together and I could read no more. "Constantius is dead." As I said those extraordinary words, the clerks one by one fell to their knees. Then, as in a dream, the room began to fill with people. All knew what had happened. All paid me silent homage for I had, miraculously, with the stopping of one man's breath, become sole Augustus, Emperor of Rome, Lord of the world. To my astonishment, I wept.

Priscus
: That is the way it happened. At least that is the way Julian says it happened. As you must gather, he omits a number of details. To read his account one would think that there had been no resistance at all to him, other than from the wicked Constantius. This was hardly true. I should say that a majority of the "responsible" men in the empire preferred Constantius to Julian, nor was this on religious grounds, since Julian's passion for Hellenism was not generally known as of November 361. I am sure you will want to state matters as they actually were. Your famous balance would be seriously deranged if you were to record that Julian's success was the result of a popular uprising against Constantius. It was not-despite the impression you gave in your justly celebrated oration at the time of Julian's death. But then the great wings of a memorial, like those of a panegyric, are not expected to be clipped by tedious fact.

Libanius
: How typical!

Priscus
: Julian notes in passing that he sent various messages to different cities. Indeed he did! He must have composed at least a dozen lengthy harangues, addressed variously to the senates at Rome and Constantinople—a not unnatural precaution—but then an equal number of apologias were sent to such cities as Corinth and Sparta, as if they still mattered in the scale of power. Their poor backwoods town councils must have been astonished to receive an emperor's homage.

I was present at the senate in Athens when the message to us was read. Since I know that you want only the truth, I must tell you that the letter was not well received, and of all cities Athens was most inclined to Julian.

I sat beside Prohaeresius while the message was read. The old man was amused, but cautious. So was I. Of course, everyone in Athens was aware that I had only recently come from Julian; even so, I was firm in saying that I knew nothing of his plans. I even praised Constantius on several public occasions. After all, Constantius might have lived. Julian might have been defeated. I might have been executed for treason. Like everyone else, I prefer to avoid undue distress at the hands of tyrants.

We were all quite nervous at the beginning of the message. (If you don't have a copy of this address, I will send you mine, free of charge.) Naturally, we were flattered by Julian's references to our ancient past, as well as respectful of his quite skilful mastery of rhetoric, even though he was prone to cliches, especially when he was tired or writing too fast. He could seldom prepare a message without "Xerxes defying nature", or trotting out that damned "oak tree" which no contemporary writer seems able to avoid.

But after a good beginning, Julian then denounced Constantius. He named all the murders. He made a point of Constantius's infertility (not knowing that Constantius's new wife Faustina was pregnant). He denounced the eunuchs, particularly Eusebius. He gave us a considerable autobiography, generally accurate, ending with the statement that he was now in the field because no one could trust the word of Constantius, since it was, he declared (relying again on a familiar phrase), "written in ashes". At this point the senators of Athens began to clear their throats and scuff their sandals on the floor, always a bad sign.

At the end of the message there was no discussion. The senate, wisely, went on to other matters. No one had the courage to behave as the senate at Rome did when they were read their letters, and Tertullus, the city's prefect, shouted, "We demand reverence for Constantius, who raised you up!"

When the senate adjourned, Prohaeresius and I left the chamber together. No one spoke to anyone else. Then—as now—the secret service was ubiquitous. We knew nothing except that Julian was somewhere in the Balkans, that the West appeared to be his, and that Constantius was moving against him with a superior army.

It was not easy to know how to behave. Our sort is for ever courted by usurpers and asked to join in this or that undertaking. Since no one can know the future, it is quite easy to pick the wrong side. The death of Maximus was instructive, wasn't it, old friend?

But of course we are all so used to these sudden changes in government that there is almost an etiquette in how one responds to invitations which could as easily turn out disastrous as advantageous. First, one appears to ponder the request with grave attention; then one pleads a personal problem; finally, one does nothing. That is how you and I have managed to live to be so old in such a stormy time.

I recall vividly my walk with Prohaeresius. It must have been some time in the second week of November. The weather was cold, the wind sharp, the afternoon clouds more thick than usual. Absently, Prohaeresius put his arm through mine. We hurried through the crowd which had gathered outside the senate house.

Not till we were past the temple of Hephaestos did he speak. "You know him. What will happen?"

"I think he will win."

"How can he? Constantius has the army. The people are with him. They're certainly not with your… our young student. The senate's mood was perfectly plain."

"I think he will win, that's all." But I was by no means as confident as I sounded.

"The oracles…" But the old man stopped. He was not about to give himself away to me. "Come home with me."

I accepted, not yet eager for Hippia's company. My marriage, always unhappy, was at this time unbearable: Hippia was still furious at me for having spent nearly three years in Paris, despite the money I had been able to send her. Today, however, after fifty years of mutual loathing, we are quite dependent on one another. Habit is stronger than hate.

I was surprised to find Macrina at Prohaeresius's house. She had not been much in evidence since the birth of her child (ostensibly sired by the businessman husband). She had gained a little weight, which was attractive. Macrina greeted us in the inner court. She was ecstatic. "It's happened! He's all right!"

"What has happened? Who is all right?" Prohaeresius was irritable.

"Julian is Emperor!"

That is how we got the news at Athens. Apparently, the formal message to the senate had been delayed. But Julian had written Prohaeresius and me, taking it for granted that we had already heard the news. We were both invited to attend him at Constantinople.

Macrina was exultant. "We must all go to court. Every one of us. We'll all live in Constantinople. No more Athens. No more grubby students…"

"No more grubby husband?" I could not resist this. She stopped talking.

Prohaeresius, who had been studying the letter, frowned. "He says, 'I worship the true gods openly and all the troops with me worhsip them. I have offered the gods many oxen as thank-offerings for my victory, and I shall soon restore their worship in all its purity.'" The old man looked at us grimly. "So he means to do what he said he would do."

"Why not?" Macrina was sharp. "He can't be worse than the bishops."

"Except that now he's Emperor there won't be an ox left in the world!" I believe I was the first to make what was soon a universal joke: Julian's sacrifices were so rich that he was nicknamed "BullBurner".

Unlike Macrina and me, Prohaeresius was in a dark mood. "I see only trouble for us," he said.

"Trouble? When you are the man the Emperor most admires?"

Macrina was unbelieving. "Nonsense. It'll be the making of all you schoolteachers. He'll be another Marcus Aurelius. Well, Septimus Severus, anyway."

"Julian is better than Marcus Aurelius," I said, and I meant it. Marcus Aurelius has been enormously overrated as a philosopher. People—especially scholars—are so thrilled that an emperor can even write his own name that they tend to exaggerate the value of his literary productions. If you or I had written those Meditations, they would not, I am certain, be considered of any great value. They are certainly inferior to your own superb pensdes. Not for several weeks did we know the details of Constantius's death, or in what manner the succession had been assured. Julian gives his version of what happened.

Julian Augtustus

As far as I can make out, Constantius had been in poor health for some months. He had chronic stomach trouble, a family weakness from which I alone seem to be exempt (so far!). As soon as I had been given the news, I sent everyone out of the room except Oribasius. Then the two officers from the Consistory were brought to me. My first question was the obvious one: "How did he die?"