My third and last winter at Paris was crucial. I had heard nothing from Constantius directly or indirectly since the meeting with Florentius. The prefect preferred to stay at Vienne while I remained at Paris. We did not meet, though documents continually passed between us. Aware that there might soon be a crisis in our affairs, I proposed at one point that Florentius join me for the winter at Paris. But he declined. Obviously he wanted to keep what authority he could. In principle I was the master of Britain, Gaul, Spain and Morocco. In fact Florentius administered that part of Gaul which is south of Vienne, as well as Spain and Morocco. I controlled Britain. For the time being, we had tacitly agreed not to interfere in each other’s territories.
Helena’s health grew worse, and when the cold weather came, she took to her bed. The pains increased. I sent for Oribasius. He was not hopeful. “I’m afraid the best I can do is keep her out of pain.
She has a turnout of the stomach. There is nothing to be done.” And he told me of a new herb he had discovered which causes the flesh to lose sensation.
Oribasius was a comforting companion. So was Priscus, though he kept threatening to go home. His wife Hippia had sent him several angry letters, and he longed for Athens, though he denied it. Priscus always likes to appear more unfeeling than he actually is. Eutherius was a constant source of intelligence.
But except for these three friends, I was quite isolated. My chief of staff Lupicinus, who had replaced Sallust, was arrogant and ignorant, while Sintula, the cavalry commander, was hardly company. Nevitta, that splendid officer, I kept at Cologne, to guard the Rhine.
Rather desperately, I wrote letters to old friends, inviting them to Paris. To those who liked to hunt I promised whole packs of deer and a clement season. To philosophers I praised the delights of Parisian intellectual life, though there was none except for the Galilean bishop and his entourage, from whom I kept my distance. But no one came. Even Maximus was unable to make the journey, though he wrote me often, in a code of his own devising. At about this time, November or December, I had a prophetic dream. In the third watch of the night I fell asleep, tired from dictating the notes which later became my commentary on the Battle of Strasbourg. As often happens when I have something specific on my mind, I dreamed first of the battle. Then the battle vanished, as things do in dreams, and I found myself in a large room at the centre of which grew a tall tree; at the time this seemed perfectly natural. But then the tree fell to the floor, and I noticed that a smaller tree was growing among its roots, and that the smaller tree had not been uprooted by its parent’s fall. “The tree is dead,” I heard myself say. “And now the smaller one will die, too.” And I was filled with a pity all out of proportion to the event. Suddenly I was aware of a man beside me. He took my arm. But though I could not make out his face, he did not seem strange.
“Don’t despair.” He pointed. “See? The small tree’s root is in the ground. As long as it is there, it will grow, even more securely than before.”
Then the dream ended, and I knew that I had spoken to my patron deity, Hermes.
When I told Oribasius of this, he interpreted it as meaning that Constantius would fall while I would flourish, my roots in the AllSeeing One. Needless to say, we kept this dream a secret. Men were regularly executed for innocent dreams and mine was hardly innocent. It was prophecy.
• • • In December our quiet court was interrupted by the news that the Picts and Scots who inhabit the north of Britain were menacing the border. Our governor begged for reinforcements. I was in a quandary. I had few enough troops as it was and I knew that my chances of keeping even those were slim for it was everywhere rumoured that the Caesar at Gaul was to be stripped of his army the day Constantius took the field against Persia. But Britain was of great economic importance to us. Since so many Gallic farms had been ravaged by the Germans; we were forced that year to rely on British grain to feed the people.
I took counsel and it was decided that Lupicinus must go immediately to Britain. He was a good commander, though we used often to wonder whether he was more covetous than cruel, or more cruel than covetous.
On the day that Lupicinus arrived in Britain, the tribune Decentius, an imperial state secretary, arrived at Paris with a considerable retinue of lawyers and fiscal agents. Before coming to me, he had spent several days in Vienne with Florentius. I did not take this well, since it is usual to pay homage first to the Caesar. Decentius was an exhausted man when he arrived. So I allowed him to sit while he read me the Emperor’s letter. The tone was friendly, but it was absolute in its demands. I was to send Constantius the Aeruli, the Batavians, the Celts and the Petulantes—the best of my legions—as well as three hundred men from each of the remaining legions. They were to start for Antioch without delay, in time for a spring offensive against Persia.
When Decentius finished, I said as calmly as I could, “He wants slightly more than half my army.”
“Yes, Caesar. It will be a difficult war in Persia. Perhaps a decisive one.”
“Has the Emperor considered the effect this will have upon the Germans? My army is small enough to begin with. If I am allowed less than twelve thousand soldiers-and those the worst-the German tribes are sure to rise again.”
“But the Augustus was led to understand by your own reports that Gaul has been pacified for a generation, because of your great victories.” I wondered whether Decentius had thought of this on the spur of the moment or whether Constantius had instructed him ever so gently to prick me.
“No province is ever entirely pacified. As long as there is a German alive, we are in danger.”
“But no immediate danger, Caesar. You would agree to that?”
“No, Tribune, I would not. Also, at this moment, there is serious trouble in Britain.”
“There are always troubles, Caesar. Nevertheless, in the prosecution of the war against Persia, the Augustus feels he must have the best of all his armies with him. He feels…”
“Is he aware of the vow I made the Gallic soldiers: that they were not to fight outside the province?”
“Your vow to them is superseded by the oath they took to the Augustus.” This was stated with a sharp legality.
“True, but I must warn you, Tribune, there is a chance of mutiny.”
He looked at me intently. I knew what he was thinking. Will this supposedly unambitious Caesar now see his chance to stage a mutiny and usurp the West? Courtiers never take things at face value. When I said the troops might mutiny, he took this as a threat that I would, if provoked, incite them to revolt.
“I am,” I said carefully, “loyal to Constantius. I shall do as I am told. I merely warn you that there may be trouble. Meanwhile, we must wait at least a month before the troops can be sent to the East.”
“Augustus has said immediately…” Decentius began. I interrupted. “Tribune, as we sit here, the legions he asked for are now at sea, bound for Britain.” And I told him about Lupicinus. But then to demonstrate my good faith, I allowed him to listen as I dictated a letter to Lupicinus ordering him back from Britain. This done I sent Decentius to Sintula and gave orders that the Tribune was to be obeyed in every way. By the end of the week, some of my best soldiers had departed for Antioch. The subtle Decentius must have promised them various bounties, for they left in better humour than I thought
possible.
Now there are those who believe that at this point I planned to disobey Constantius and set myself up as the Augustus of the West. This is not true. I will not deny that I did not think of it as a possibility
—it would have been impossible not to. After all, through my efforts, the Rhine was secure and I governed a third of the world. Even so, I was not eager to break with Constantius. He was stronger than I. It was as simple as that. Also, I had no desire to challenge my cousin in that one field where he was pre-eminent: keeping his throne.
But I was considerably shaken when Decentius insisted that I order all the remaining troops in Gaul to come to Paris so that he might choose the best for the Persian campaign. We argued several days about this. Not until I threatened to abdicate did Decentius agree to maintain the Rhine garrisons at full strength. I then ordered the army of Gaul to converge on Paris. All obeyed me, except Lupicinus, who wrote to say that he could not possibly return to Paris before April. Decentius complained bitterly, but there was nothing to be done.
By the second week in February when the legions were encamped on both sides of the riverj Decentius dropped his courtly mask. He no longer wheedled; he ordered. Eutherius was with me when the Tribune finally pounded the table and shouted, “If you won’t speak to the legions, I will, in Constantius’s name!” I told him mildly that there was no need for him either to shout at me or to do my work. I then dismissed him. Eutherius and I were left alone in the council chamber. We looked at one another; he concerned, I wretched.
“Well, old friend,” I said at last, “what do I do?”
“As you are told. Unless…” He paused.
I shook my head. “No, I won’t go into rebellion.”
“Then tell the men that you have been ordered to send them east. The rest,” he said this slowly, with emphasis, “is up to them.”
The next day was 12 February. I was up at daybreak. I gave orders to my household that a dinner be prepared for all officers that evening. It was to be a sumptuous affair. I ordered the best wine from the palace cellars. All sorts of fowl and livestock were to be prepared. Though I pride myself on the austerity of my table, this time I chose to be lavish.
I then set out to make the rounds of the army, accompanied only by my standard-bearer. Our breaths were frosty as we clattered across the wooden bridge to the left hank. Slowly I made my way through the camp. I spoke to the men, singly, in groups. It was good-humoured talk, and I soon had an idea of their mood. They were well-disposed towards me, and suspicious of Constantius. There are no secrets in an army.
When I came to the encampment of the Petulantes, my own favourite among the legions, I paused to talk to a large group. We chatted lightly but guardedly. Finally, one of them stepped forward, with a letter in his hand. He saluted me. “Caesar, none of us can read.” There was some laughter at this broad deception. Well over half the Petulantes are reasonably literate. “When we got here, we found this on the door to the church.” He pointed to a nearby charnel house, a temple of Vesta converted by Galileans.
“Read it to us, Caesar.”
“If I can,” I said amiably. “It’s Latin, and I’m only an Asiatic, a Greekling…” Mention of two of the pleasanter nicknames they have for me made them laugh. The letter was in soldier-Latin. I started to read. “Men of the Petulantes, we are about to be sent to the ends of the earth like criminals…” I stopped, blinded for a moment by the pale sun to which I had turned almost instinctively, as though for guidance. The men shouted grimly, “Go on, Caesar!”
They already knew the contents of the anonymous letter. I shook my head and said firmly, “This is treason against the Emperor.”
I threw the letter to the ground and wheeled my horse about. “But not against *you! *” shouted the man who had given me the letter. I spurred my horse and with the standard-bearer lagging behind, I galloped back to the island. To this day I do not know who wrote the letter; naturally, I have been accused of having written it myself.
Shortly after noon the officers arrived at the palace. I received them in the great banqueting hall which had been made to look quite festive on such short notice. Evergreen boughs festooned ’ walls and rafters while coal-burning braziers cut the chill. It was the most costly banquet of my career thus far.
Helena was too ill to join us, so I did the honours alone. Decentius sat on my right, watching me carefully. But I neither said nor did anything remarkable.
When the officers had begun to grow boisterous with wine, Decentius said, “Now is the time to tell them that they must leave within the week.”
I made one last attempt, “Tribune, in April the legions from Britain will be here. If we wait until then…”
“Caesar,” Decentius shifted from presumptuousness to guileful reasonableness, “if you wait until then, people will say that the British legions forced you to obey the Augustus, but if you carry out your orders *now, * they will say it was of your own choice, and that you are indeed master of Gaul, not to mention loyal to the Augustus.”
There was no doubting the truth of this. I felt the trap spring. I surrendered. I agreed to make the announcement at the end of the dinner. Did I have any secret design? I think not. Yet at important moments in one’s life there is a tendency to do instinctively the necessary thing to survive.
During the banquet, I was saluted repeatedly by minor officers, in violation of etiquette. At one point, Eutherius murmured in my ear, “You have broken every rule governing Caesar’s table.” I smiled wanly. This was an old joke between us. “Caesar’s table” was a euphemism for the restrictions put on me by Constantius.
At the end of the dinner, I said a few words to the officers, who were now in a mood for anything from riot to battle. I told them that I had never known better troops. I told them that for the first time in my life I envied Constantius, for he was about to receive the world’s best soldiers into his own army.
There was muttering at this, but no more. I was careful not to play too much on their emotions. I chose not to provoke them.
Priscus: Yet.
Julian Augustus
After many tearful embraces, the banquet ended. I accompanied the officers as far as the square in front of the palace. Just to the right of the main door, there is a high stone tribunal from which proclamations are read. I stood at the foot of it, while the officers milled somewhat unsteadily about me.
As I said good-bye to this one and that one, I noticed that a large crowd had gathered in the arcades which border the square on two sides. When the people recognized me, they rushed forward. Quickly my guards drew swords and made a ring about me. But the crowd was not hostile. They were mostly women with children. They implored me not to send their husbands away. One woman waved a baby in front of me like a screaming flag. “Don’t send his father away! He’s all we have!”
Others shouted, “You promised us, Caesar! You promised!”
Unable to bear their cries, I turned away. At the door to the palace, Decentius was deep in conversation with the secret agent Gaudentius. They broke off guiltily when they saw me approaching.
“An old friend,” said Decentius.
“I am certain of that,” I said sharply. I motioned to the crowd.
“Do you hear them?”
Decentius looked at me blankly for a moment. Then he looked towards the square. “Oh, yes. Yes.
That’s quite usual in the provinces. The women always complain when the men are ordered away. When you have been in the army as long as I have, you won’t even notice them.”
“I am afraid I find it hard not to notice. You see, I did promise them…”
But Decentius had heard quite enough of my famous promise.
“My dear Caesar,” he said, and his tone was that of a father, “these women will each have found a new man by the time the warm weather comes round. They are animals. Nothing more.”
I left him in the square and went straight to my study on the second floor. I sent for Priscus, Oribasius and Eutherius. While waiting for them to arrive, I tried to read but I could not concentrate. I counted the tiles in the floor. I paced up and down. Finally, I opened the window on the Seine and looked out. The cold air was refreshing. My face burned as though I had the fever. My hands trembled. I took deep breaths, and started to count the blocks of broken ice as they floated downstream. I prayed to Helios. Eutherius was the first to come. I shut the window. I motioned for him to sit in my chair.
Because of his size no other chair would hold him and he tended to break stools.
“It is a plot,” he said. “Constantius has an army of nearly a hundred thousand men in Syria. Your Gauls will hardly make much difference.”
“But they will to me, if I lose them.”
“They will to you. And that is the plot. He wants you destroyed.”
I was surprised at Eutherius. Of all my friends and advisers he was the one who invariably preached caution. He loved good form, iustice, the orderly processes of the state at peace. He was not made for treason. But he had changed.“You believe this?”
Eutherius nodded, the small black eyes glittered like the eyes of an Egyptian statue.
“Then what shall I do?”
At this point Oribasius and Priscus entered. They heard my question. Oribasius answered for Eutherius. “Rebel,” he said promptly. That was, I swear by Helios, Mithras and my own Hermes, the first treasonable word that had ever passed openly among us. There was dead silence. Priscus sat on the edge of my heavy wood table. Oribasius stood at the room’s centre, staring intently at me. I turned to Priscus.
“What do you think?”
“You must consider everything. Can you remain in Gaul without those troops? If you can, what is Constantius apt to do? Will he remove you? Or will he be too occupied in Persia to do anything at all? I suspect,” and Priscus answered his own question, “that you have heard the last from Constantius for some time. He must retake Areida and defeat Sapor. That may be his life’s work. Meanwhile, you are master of the West and, should he die, emperor.”
Eutherius nodded. “That is the sensible point of view, of course.” He smiled. “Because it has been my own point of view all along. Yet I think the situation is a good deal more serious than that. You forget Florentius. My agents tell me that he is to be given full authority in Gaul as soon as Caesar loses his army. When that happens, there is nothing we can do but submit. Frankly, I think it better to resist now than to wait and be destroyed by Florentius.”
While they talked among themselves, I retreated again to the window and watched the sun, a bitter winter orange, fall in the west. Night fires blossomed on the river banks. What to do? There was a sudden pounding at the door. Angrily, I opened it, declaring,
“No one is to disturb us…”
But there stood Decentius, pale and distressed. “A thousand apologies, Caesar,” he saluted hurriedly.
“I should not have disturbed you, but they are here!”
" Who is *where? *"
“Can’t you hear them?” Decentius was chattering with fright. We all fell silent and listened to the far-off sound of men shouting and women wailing.
“Mutiny!” said Oribasius. He ran to the window and looked out. Though one ordinarily sees only the river and the tip of the island from my window, by craning one’s head it is just possible to see the wooden bridge to the north. “It’s the Celtic Legion. They’re crossing to the island!”
As I joined him at the window, there was a shout from just below us. “Caesar!” I looked down and saw a squad of infantry with swords drawn. They waved to me cheerfully but their voices were threatening. “Don’t let us go, Caesar. Keep us here One of the men, a tall fierce Celt with a blond moustache and a blind white eye, thrust his sword towards me and in a voice hoarse from many battles roared: “Hail, Augustus! Hail, Julian Augustus? The others took up the cry. I stepped back from the window. Decentius turned to me. “This is treason! Arrest those men!”
But I pushed him to one side and hurried to one of the rooms which look out on the square. I peered through a crack in the shutter. The square was filled with troops and they were by no means all drunk, as I had first suspected. This was indeed rebellion. In front of the palace, my personal guard stood with drawn swords and levelled spears, but the mob seemed in no mood to do violence. Instead, they shouted my name, demanded my presence, declared their loyalty. Then, as if by signal—who knows how these things suddenly start? I suspect Hermes—they began to chant, first one group, then another, then the entire crowd: “Augustus! Augustus! Julian Augustus!“I turned from the window.
“Attack them!” said Decentius. “Show them the Emperor’s image. They won’t dare defy that.”
“We have four hundred troops in the palace,” I said. “There are some twenty thousand men out there. Even an inexperienced soldier like myself avoids such odds. As for the imperial image, I’m afraid they will hack it to bits.”
“Treason!” was all Decentius could say.
“Treason,” I replied reasonably, as though identifying a particular star for one who wishes to know the nature of the heavens. Decentius rushed from the room. We looked at one another, the word
“Augustus” falling regularly on our ears like surf upon the beach.
“You will have to accept,” said Eutherius.
“You who always preach caution tell me this?”
Eutherius nodded. Oribasius was even more emphatic. “Go on. You have nothing to lose now.”
Priscus was cautious. “My interest, Caesar, is philosophy, not politics. If I were you, I would wait.”
“For what?” Oribasius turned on him indignantly.
“To see what happens,” said Priscus ambiguously. “To wait for a sign.”
I accepted this in the spirit Priscus meant it. He understood me. He knew that unless I believed I had heaven’s revealed blessing, I could not act with full force.
“Very well,” I motioned to the door. “Oribasius, see to the guard. Make sure no one is admitted to the palace. Eutherius, keep an eye on our friend the Tribune. Don’t let him out of your sight. Priscus, pray for me.” On that we parted.
In the main corridor, one of my wife’s ladies was waiting for me. She was close to hysteria. “Caesar, they’re going to kill us, all of us!” I took her by the shoulders and shook her till her teeth chattered; in fact, she bit her lower lip, which had a most calming effect. She then told me that my wife was asking for me.
Helena’s bedroom was dimly lit and unbearably warm. Her illness made her crave heat. A heavy
odour of incense and musk filled the room, yet it could not disguise the sweet-sharp odour of the dissolution of the flesh. I hated visiting Helena, and thought myself contemptible for this aversion.
Helena lay in bed, a prayer book on the coverlet. Beside her stood the bishop of Paris, a solemn charlatan who was her closest friend and adviser. He saluted me. “I dare say that the Caesar will want to speak to the Queen alone…”
“You have dared say it, Bishop. And it is true.” The bishop withdrew in a swirl of splendid robes, chanting loudly, as though we were a congregation.
I sat beside the bed. Helena was pale and she had lost much weight. Her eyes had grown large, as eyes appear to do when the face thins. She was a sickly yellow in the lamplight, and yet in a way she looked more appealing in her illness than ever she did in health. She no longer resembled the vigorous, hard-iawed Constantine. She was a woman now, delicate and melancholy, and I felt a sudden surge of feeling as I took her hand, hot with fever and delicate as a dead bird’s wing.
“I am sorry I was too ill for the reception…” she began. I cut her off. “It was of no importance. How is the pain?”
Her free hand touched her stomach reflexively. “Better,” she said, and lied. “Oribasius finds me a new herb every day. And I take whatever he finds. I tell him he must make me his collaborator when he writes his encyclopedia.” I tried not to look at her stomach, which curved large beneath the coverlet as though she were in the last month of pregnancy. For a moment neither of us spoke; then the silence was broken by the rhythmic chanting:
“Augustus!” She turned towards me.
“They have been shouting that for hours.”
I nodded. “They are angry because the Emperor wants them to fight in Persia.”
“They call you Augustus.” She looked at me very hard.
“They don’t mean it.”
“They do,” she said flatly. “They want you for Emperor.”
“I’ve refused to show myself to them. Anyway, now it’s dark, they’ll soon get cold and bored and go away, and tomorrow they will do as they’re told. Sintula has already gone, you know. He left yesterday with two legions.” I talked fast, but she would not be put off.
“Will you take what they have offered?”
I paused, uncertain what to say. Finally, neutrally, “It would be treason.”
“Traitors who prevail are patriots. Usurpers who succeed are divine emperors.”
I still could not tell what she wanted me to do. “Emperors are not made,” I said at last, “by a few thousand troops in a small provincial city.”
“Why not? After all, it is God’s will that raises us up, as it is God’s will that… throws us down.” She looked away and again her hand strayed to the seat of her mortality. “Those few soldiers are enough, if it is meant to be.”
“What do you want me to do?” For the first and only time I asked her a direct question, as one person to another; and I did wish to know her answer.
“Tonight? I don’t know. This may not be the moment. You must judge that. But I do know that you are meant to be Emperor of Rome.”
Our eyes met and we studied one another as though the face of each was new and unexplored. I responded with equal candour, “I know it, too,” I said. “I have had dreams. There have been signs.”
“Then take it!” She said this with unexpected force.
“Now? An act of treason? Against your brother?”
“My brother and his wife killed our two children. My loyalty has… shifted to my cousin, who is my
husband.” She smiled on the word “shifted” but her great eyes were solemn.
“Curious,” I said finally. “I always thought you preferred him to me.”
“I did, I did. Until that last visit to Rome. You know, he tried to keep me there after the baby died.
He said that there might be difficulties for you in Gaul.”
“But you came back.”
“I came back.”
“Leaving your beloved villa?”
“Leaving that was hardest of all!” She smiled, Then she indicated the window and the city beyond.
“Now the difficulties he promised have begun. You must decide very soon.”
“Yes.” I rose.
“Decentius was here,” she said suddenly.
I was startled. “When?”
“Just before the reception for your officers. He wanted to know if I would like to return to Rome. He said the Gallic legions would escort me as far as Milan.”
“He is sly.”
“Yes. I told him I chose to stay. He was disappointed.” She laughed softly. “Of course even if I wanted to go, I cannot travel… again.”
“Don’t say that. One day we shall go to Rome together.”
“I want that more than an)rthing,” she said. “But be quick about it…”
“I will be quick,” I said. “I swear it.”
I kissed her brow, holding my breath so as not to catch the scent of death. She clutched at me suddenly with all her strength, as though she were suffering a sharp spasm of pain. Then she let me go.
“What a pity I was so much older than you.”
I did not answer. I grasped her hands in silence. Then I left. The Bishop was in the anteroom with the ladies. “The Queen is improved, don’t you think, Caesar?”
“Yes, I do.” I was curt. I tried to get past him. But the Bishop had more to say.
“She is of course concerned by that mob outside. We all are. Most frightening. A terrible lapse of discipline. One hopes that the Caesar will dismiss this rabble with stern words.”
“The Caesar will do what the Caesar must.” I pushed past him into the main gallery. Servants rushed here and there, as though on urgent business. The ushers kept to their posts, but even they had lost their usual aplomb. All eyes were on me, wondering what I would do. As I crossed to the room which overlooks the square, I nearly stumbled over Gaudentius, lurking in the shadows. I was pleased to see that he was frightened.
“Caesar! The Tribune Decentius asks for audience. He is in the council chamber. They are all there.
They want to know what you intend to do. We are completely surrounded. No one can escape…”
“Tell the Tribune I am going to bed. I shall be happy to see him in the morning.” Before the agent could recover himself, I was halfway down the gallery to my own room. Outside my door stood the chief usher. I told him I was not to be disturbed unless there was an attack on the palace. I then went to my room and bolted the door after me.
It was a long night. I read. I prayed. I thought. I have never before nor since been so undecided.
Everything seemed to me to be premature; events were pushing me faster than I chose to go. Yet would a moment like this come again? How often is an emperor spontaneously made? We all know of ambitious generals who have staged “popular” coronations for themselves; yet these seldom occur without the general’s active collusion. I am sure that Julius Caesar very carefully instructed his friend to offer him the crown in punic, simply to see what the reaction might be. Now that same crown had come
to me, without my asking.
Still undecided, I slept. I dreamed and, as often happens, I found in dreaming what I must do awake.
I was seated in my consular chair, quite alone, when a figure appeared to me, dressed as the guardian spirit of the state, so often depicted in the old Republic.
He spoke to me. “I have watched you for a long time, Julian. And for a long time I have wished to raise you even higher than you are now. But each time I have tried, I have been rebuffed. Now I must warn you. If you turn me away again, when so many men’s voices are raised in agreement with me, I shall leave you as you are. But remember this: *if I go now, I shall never return. *”
I awakened in a cold sweat and leapt from my bed; my own room was suddenly strange and menacing, as sometimes happens when we have dreamed deeply. Was I awake or not? I opened the window; icy air restored me. The stars were fading. The east was pale.
The mob was still gathered in the square. They had built bonfires. From time to time they chanted
“Augustus!” I made up my mind. I summoned my body-servant. He dressed me in the purple. Then I went out into the gallery.
Apparently I was the only one who had slept that night. Men and women still scurried through rooms and corridors, like mice seeking holes. In the council chamber I found Decentius and most of my advisers. As I entered, Eutherius was saying in his most calming voice, “Everything rests now with the will of Caesar. There is nothing we can do to affect that…”
“Precisely,” I said. The room came to attention. Decentius, haggard, needing a shave, crossed to me and declared: “Only you can stop them! You must tell them to obey the Emperor. They will listen to you.”
“I intend to speak to them now.” I smiled at Eutherius. “You may all attend me on the tribunal… if you like.”
Decentius seemed not to want this honour. But my friends did. Together we went to the main door of the palace.
“Be prepared,” I said, “for anything. And don’t be startled by anything I say.” Then I motioned to the frightened guards to slip the bolt and open the gate.
With a deep breath, I stepped out into the square. When the mob saw me, they began to cheer.
Quickly I climbed the steps to the tribunal, my companions close behind me. Then my personal guard, swords drawn, surrounded the tribunal. The mob drew back. I waved for silence; it was a long time coming. When at last I spoke, I was temperate.
“You are angry. You have reason to be. And I take your side in this matter. What you want, I promise to get for you. But without revolution. You prefer service in your native land to the dangers of a foreign country and a distant war. So be it. Go each of you to his home and take with you my promise that none of you shall serve beyond the Alps. I assume full responsibility for this decision. I shall explain it to the Augustus, and I know that he will listen to me, for he is reasonable and just.”
With this speech, I dispatched my duty to Constantius. Honour was satisfied. Now what would happen? There was an instant of silence, and then shouts of “Augustus!” began again; also, insults to Constantius—and a few to me for weakness. The mob pushed closer and closer to the platform. I remained absolutely still, looking across the square to the place where day was coming, grey and cold above the houses of the town.
Eutherius whispered in my ear. “You must accept. They’ll kill you if you don’t.” I made no answer. I waited. I knew what was to come. I saw what was about to happen as clearly as I had seen the spirit of Rome in my dream. In fact, that whole morning was like a continuation of the night’s dream.
First, my guards broke and scattered as the mob pushed against the tribunal. One soldier climbed on to the back of another and seized me by the arm. I made no effort to resist. Then—again as in a dream
but that pleasant sort of dream where one knows one is dreaming and has no fear—I fell into the mob.
Hands, arms, shoulders broke my fall. All around me the deafening cry
“Augustus!” sounded; strong in my nostrils was the smell of sweat and of garlic, as hard bodies forced me up from the ground where I lay, lifted me up high above them all like a sacrifice to the sun.
In full view of the mob, the fiercest of the men seized me. “Accept!” he shouted, sword’s point held to my heart. I looked him in the face, saw red broken veins on the nose, smelled wine on his breath; that one glance was like a lifetime’s acquaintance. Then in a matter-of-fact voice I said, “I accept.”
The roar was tremendous. An infantryman’s shield was placed under me and I was borne around the square like a Gallic or a German king. Thus was I made Augustus not by Romans nor according to Roman custom, but by barbarians, and according to their ritual.
I was returned to the tribunal. Then someone shouted that I must wear the diadem. Now I did not possess a crown of any sort. It would have been worth my life to have owned one. I told the mob this.
“Get one from your wife!” shouted a cavalryman. The mob laughed good-naturedly. Worried that my life’s great moment might turn unexpectedly into low foolery, I answered quickly,
“You don’t want an emperor who wears a woman’s jewels.”
This went down well enough. Then a tall fellow named Marius, standard-bearer to the Petulantes, clambered on to the platform. He took from his neck the ring of metal which supports the chain that holds the regimental eagle in its place. He jerked the circlet free of the chain; then, holding the ring of metal high over my head, he shouted: “Hail, Julian Augustus!” As the mob repeated the phrase, Marius placed the battered circlet on my head. The thing was done. I motioned for silence, and got it. “You have this day made a solemn choice. I promise you that as long as I live you shall not regret it.” Then recalling the usual form in these matters, I said, “To each man here today I give five gold pieces and a pound of silver. May heaven bless this day, and what we have together done.”
Then I descended the steps of the tribunal two at a time and darted into the palace.