Julian Augustus
11 May
We have had excellent luck. Maiozamalcha fell with few casualties for us. I have just received Nabdates, the Persian commander. He hailed me as Lord of the World and I have spared his life. This should make a good impression. If the Persian lords believe that I am merciful, they will be more apt to surrender when overwhelmed. I hope so, since there is nothing so demoralizing for an army as to fight long sieges for unimportant cities.
Nabdates swears that he does not know where the Great King is, and I believe him. He suspects that Sapor is not at the capital but somewhere to the south. In any case, we shall soon meet, the Great King and I.
I write this in my tent beside the river. On its high hill the city of Maiozamalcha burns like a torch in the black night. With difficulty I prevented a slaughter in the city. The Gauls regard Persian resistance as an affront; they always do. Incidentally, they discovered several hundred women hidden in the citadel.
They promptly drew lots for them. At such times, the officers vanish and the men take over. Quite by acddent, I happened to be near the square during the lottery.
The women were huddled together, along with the city’s treasure: gold coins, ornaments, bolts of silk, whatever had been found in the ruins had been brought together for a fair division. One of the Petulantes, seeing me, shouted, “Something for Julian!”
So I joined the men on foot, like a legionnaire.
The centurion in charge of the lottery indicated one of the piles of gold. “That’s your share, soldier,”
he said, using the traditional phrase. I thanked him and took a single piece of gold. Then the men began to shout that I should take one of the women. They know of course that I am celibate, and find this fact infinitely comic. I refused amiably. But they kept pressing me. So I looked at the crowd of wretched women, thinking to take a child and set her free. But there was none, only a very handsome boy of about ten. So I pointed to him. The men were delighted. Better a boylover than a cellbate on the throne!
The boy turned out to be a deaf-mute of great intelligence. The signs he makes with his hands are swift and graceful and I find that I can understand him easily. I have made him my personal servant and he seems happy.
I am depressed tonight. Ordinarily, I would be exhilarated by victory. I can’t think what is wrong.
Perhaps it is the memoir. I have been dictating memories of my childhood at Macellum and remembering those years always puts me in a bad mood.
Interesting note: One of the men of the Herculani reports that at the height of the battle today he saw a huge man in strange armour climbing one of the siege ladders. Later he saw this same warrior in the thick of the fighting, but he could not identify him nor could any of the others who saw him. They are all certain that this warrior was the war god Ares himself. I must ask Maximus to find out.
12 May
It is afternoon. I am seated in the throne room of one of the Great King’s palaces, a fine building in the Roman style, more like a country villa than a formal palace. Next to it is a fenced-in game preserve.
Here all sorts of wild animals are kept in a wooded area… lions, boars and that truly terrible beast, the Persian bear. The men have just broken down the fences and are now hunting and killing the animals. I should have preferred for them not to indulge in this slaughter but they must be kept in a good mood, for we are close to Ctesiphon and the decisive battle. Jovian has just come and gone. He brought me the skin of a lion he killed, quite a large beast. “A match for the one on your bed.”
I thanked Jovian warmly. Of the Galilean officers, he is the one I trust the most, possibly because he is the stupidest. I gave him some wine we had found in the cellar of the palace. He drank it so greedily that I gave him two more flagons to take with him when he left. He was most pleased and slightly drunk.
Priscus and I explored the palace together. It is both beautiful and comfortable, a combination Roman emperors are not used to. Apparently the servants fled shortly before we arrived, leaving a dinner still warm in the kitchen. I was about to taste the contents of one of the pots when the deaf-mute boy struck the ladle from my hand. Then he tasted the mess, indicating that I should beware of poison. I never think of such things. No, that is not true. I do occasionally wonder if my evening bowl of polenta contains my death, but I never hesitate to eat it. If that is to be my end, there is nothing I can do about it. Fortunately, the dinner the Persians left us was not poisoned.
I have set the secretaries to work in the throne room, a cool dim room with latticed windows and a red lacquered throne on which I now sit scribbling. The Great King lives far more luxuriously than I. In one of the rooms we discovered hundreds of his silk robes… Priscus insists that I give them to Maximus.
Tonight I have planned a large dinner for the military staff. I have the beginnings of a plan for this last phase. Contrary to what historians may think, wars are mostly improvisation. One usually has an ultimate goal, but the means of attaining it cannot be determined in advance. That is why the favourite deity of generals—and of Rome—is Fortune.
16 May
Encamped for three days now at Coche. This is a village near the site of the now vanished city of Seleucia, built by Alexander’s general. Farther on are the ruins of yet another city, destroyed in the last century by the Emperor Carus. I thought it good policy to show this to the men, demonstrating yet again how victorious Roman arms have been in Persia.
I am still struck by the beauty of the countryside. Flowers bloom; fruits ripen; there are many forests; much water. This is an idyllic part of the world and I am sad that so many of its cities must be put to the torch. But what men build they can rebuild. I am with the Stoics, who regard all life as an infinite series of growth and decline, each temporary terminus marked with the clean impartiality of fire.
Near the city Carus destroyed, there is a small lake which empties into the Tigris. Here we beheld a gruesome sight. Impaled on stakes were the entire family of Mamersides, the officer who surrendered Pirisabora to us. Thus cruelly does the Great King punish those who disobey him. It was horrible to see not only women but children put to death in this painful way.
While we were at the lake, Ormisda and his Persian court (he now has over a hundred Persians in attendance on him) appeared, with Nabdates, the governor of Maiozamalcha. Ormisda saluted me formally. Then he said, “Augustus, I have passed sentence of death on Nabdates.“I asked him why.
Ormisda was grim. “Before the siege, we had a private understanding. He was to surrender the city to us. It was all arranged. Then he broke his oath to me, the highest oath a Persian can swear. Therefore, as Great King, I must put him to death, by fire.” I was impressed by Ormisda’s manner. The closer we
come to Ctesiphon, the more imperial and Persian he becomes. So I gave my assent, and the wretched man with his broken legs was dragged to the stake. I left before the burning began. I dislike all executions except those done with the sword.
I write these lines seated on a bench in what looks to be some nobleman’s park. It is a beautiful day; the sun is warm but not hot; as far as the eye can see the countryside is green and blooming. I am certain now of success. A messenger from Arintheus has just come and gone. A fortress some twenty miles to the east will not surrender.
I shall have to go there to determine whether or not there should be a siege. Now another messenger approaches. I feel lazy and comfortable. I would like to sit in this park for ever. A warm south wind suddenly brings me the scent of flowers: roses?
Priscus: The second messenger probably brought him the bad news that three of Dagalaif’s cohorts were set upon by the Persians at a town called Sabatha. While the cohorts were thus engaged, guerrillas sneaked up behind the army and slaughtered most of the pack animals and their attendants. This was a severe blow and Julian was furious with Dagalaif, who had left the beasts unguarded.
As for “the fortress some twenty miles to the east”, which would not surrender, Julian rode too close to its walls and was nearly killed; his armour-bearer was wounded.
That night Julian ordered the siege engines to be put in place. Unfortunately, the moon was nearly full and night was like day. While the mantlets and turrets were being placed against the walls, the Persians suddenly threw open their gates and charged our siege troops with sword and javelin. They killed the better part of a cohort, as well as the tribune in command.
How do I remember all this so clearly? Because I have just received by post a rough draft of Ammianus Marcellinus’s account of Julian’s Persian campaign. I wrote him months ago to ask him if he had written anything about those days. In a covering letter, he says that he kept “untidy notes in Persia, as usual”. I assume that his account is reliable. He is particularly good at describing military action. He ought to be. As a professional soldier, he served from Britain to Persia. I would send you his history, but since it is in Latin you won’t be able to read it and I am sure that you wouldn’t want to go to the expense of having it translated. By the way, he says that he intends to write the history of Julian’s reign
“just as it occurred”. I suppose he means “deadpan”, as though Julian’s reign took place a thousand years ago and were not of any contemporary interest. I wish him luck.
Where was I? The mauling of one of our cohorts by the Persians. As soon as the Persians had done their bloody work, they escaped inside the fortress. The next day Julian threw the full force of his army against the fortress. After fierce fighting, it fell. Julian was physically exhausted by this engagement. I am told that he led the siege himself, fighting for thirteen hours without a break. I don’t know because our camp was pitched ten miles away. We of the court rested comfortably while the soldiers fought.
What do I remember of that particular time? Not much. I used to play draughts with Anatolius. We would sit in front of his tent and play on a portable table whose top was inlaid with squares like a game board. Inside the tent, the clerks laboured incessantly. The Emperor’s correspondence is always kept up just as though he were at the palace in Constantinople. No matter how desperate the military situation, he must answer his mail.
Once when Anatolius and I were busy at draughts, Victor swept through the camp at the head of a column of light cavalry. We were nearly blinded by the dust. Anatolius was furious. “He does that deliberately! He knew we were sitting here!” He dabbed the dust from his eyes with the edge of his cloak.
“He behaves rather as the Gauls are supposed to.” I said this to be challenging. Anatolius was usually close-mouthed about the various factions at court.
“He is a good deal worse than any Gaul. More ambitious, too.”
“For the purple?”
“I can’t say.” Anatolius pursed his small mouth.
“What do you know?”
“Augustus knows what I know.” He said no more. I then won four silver pieces from him, which he never paid me. That is the sort of historian I am.
Julian Augustus
19 May
We are again spending the night in one of the Great King’s palaces. This one is even handsomer and more luxurious than the hunting lodge. It is surrounded by a large park of cypresses in a countryside rich with vineyards and orchards. We are now at high summer. What a fine season to be at war!
Victor reports that he was able to ride up to the walls of Ctesiphon and no one stopped him. The gates were shut. The guards on the walls made no move to fire at his men. According to rumour, the Great King’s army is still some miles to the south. We must now be ready to move fast. Once the capital falls, the war is over. Sapor will sue for peace. At the worst, he will risk everything in one set battle, and the Persians are not noted for their ability at conventional warfare. They are by nature marauders, like the Saracens.
I gave dinner to Maximus, Priscus, Anatolius and Ormisda. The dining room is particularly splendid with painted frescoes showing Sapor hunting lions and boars, all very realistic, the sort of painting I like, though I have not much taste for these things. Even so, after two months of staring at the wall of a tent, one enioys beauty.
I was surprised to find that Maximus is rather a connoisseur of art. This morning he made a careful tour of the palace, recommending to Anatolius what should he packed up and sent back to Constantinople. “But have you noticed, Augustus, how the paintings have only one subject? Killing.
Animals in the chase. Men at war. Beast against beast.” I hadn’t noticed this, but it was quite true.
“That is because we regard killing as a necessary and sacred part of life,” said Ormisda.
“So do we,” said Priscus. “Only we pretend to abhor it.”
I chose not to correct him. I was-am—in much too good a mood. I had bathed in the Great King’s marble bath, and put on one of his fine linen tunics. Apparently we are the same height. I also found a strongbox containing a number of Sapor’s personal ornaments, among them a gold ram’s head helmet with the imperial ensign on it. I gave it to Ormisda.
“You may as well get used to wearing this,” I said. He took it from me. Then he dropped to his knees and kissed my hand. “The House of Persia is grateful to you for all eternity.”
“A generation of peace will do,” I said dryly, wondering how long it would be before the Great King Ormisda would prove disloyal to Rome. Men are without gratitude, particularly kings.
Ormisda does not know it, but I have decided to maintain an army at Ctesiphon indefinitely.
While the philosophers amused themselves in debate, Ormisda and I met the generals in an adjoining room. On the table was a map of Ctesiphon which Ormisda had found in the Great King’s library. He believes it reliable. Victor, Nevitta, Dagalaif, and Arintheus were present; also the chief engineer.
I came straight to the point. “There is no way for us to approach Ctesiphon by water.” I pointed to the map. “We are within a triangle. Above us the King’s River; behind us the Euphrates; in front of us the Tigris. The Euphrates and Tigris Rivers meet here, just south of Ctesiphon. But we can’t sail from the Euphrates to the Tigris because Ctesiphon commands the Tigris at the natural juncture. Also, we
would be downstream from the city. As you know, we’d hoped to use the King’s River, which ioins the Tigris above Ctesiphon, but that section of the channel is dry. We are left only one choice, to open up Trajan’s canal.” I pointed to a dotted line on the chart. “When Traian was here, he dug a deep channel from the Euphrates to the Tigris, following the bed of an old Assyrian canal. The chief engineer has been studying this canal for the past two days. He believes it can be reopened.”
The chief happily listed the many difficulties involved in opening the canal, the principal being a stone dam the Persians had built across the channel to prevent invaders from using it as Trajan had. But once the dam was breached, the chief engineer was positive the canal would be navigable. After a brief discussion, I gave orders for the dam to be broken.
The generals are in a good humour. Dagalaif and Victor are particularly eager for a decisive battle.
Ormisda is nervous: so close to the fulfilment of all his dreams. I then dismissed everyone except Nevitta, who asked to stay behind. Disturbing. Ch.
Priscus: What did they talk about? I think Nevitta must have warned him that there was a plot against his life. “Disturbing” suggests this. “Ch” means the Christians. Put the two together and the meaning is plain.
On 24 May the channel was opened and the fleet crossed the three miles from the Euphrates to the Tigris, anchoring half a mile north of the city of Ctesiphon, which rose from the green valley of the Tigris like a mountain of brick whose massive weight seemed quite enough to cause the earth itself to bend. From our side of the river we could see nothing of the city except the walls, which are half again as high as those of Constantinople. At regular intervals, semicircular towers support the thick masonry.
Between the Tigris and the city there is an open plain where, during the night of 25 May, the army of the Great King gathered.
Anatolius woke me at sunrise and together we left the camp and went to the river bank, where half our army was already gathered to observe the enemy. It was a splendid sight. The Persian army numbered almost a hundred thousand men. Or so we now claim. No one ever knows how large the enemy’s army is, but we always say that it is three times the size of ours. I think this one probably was.
Behind a wooden palisade on the steep river bank, the Persians were drawn up in battle formation. A crossing seemed madness. All around us soldiers talked worriedly among themselves. It did not take a skilled veteran to realize how difficult it would be to cross that river under fire and, even worse, to climb the slippery river bank and assault the barricade.
I turned to Anatolius, who looked as worried as I felt. “We can’t cross here.”
“Perhaps the Emperor means to move upstream. To cross a few miles to the north then, circling round—you know, the classic Constantine manoeuvre…” But in spite of his amateur’s passion for strategy, Anatolius mumbled into silence. For almost an hour we stared gloomily at the Persians who stared right back. Then one of Julian’s heralds appeared, calling the men to assemble. The Emperor would give the day’s orders in personj.
“Nothing short of complete retreat will satisfy me,” I said, while Anatolius wondered what would happen if we simply ignored Ctesiphon and turned south to the Persian Gulf “where the pearls come from. Very rich country, too, from all accounts.”
Julian appeared to the assembled troops. He was exuberant: his eyes shone; his cloak for once was clean; his nose was only slightly peeling from sunburn.
“Men, you have seen the army of Persia. More important, they have seen us!” He paused for cheering.
There was none. He cut the silence short. Generals who allow an unfortunate pause to last too long are apt to find the silence filled with that one rude phrase which sets off mutiny.
But Julian had a surprise for us. “We are all tired today. It has been a difficult week, clearing the channel, moving the fleet, setting up camp. So today we shall have games. I propose horse racing, with gold prizes for the winners. The betting will be your affair since there are, I understand, a few Petulantes who know about racing odds. I’m sure they’ll help the rest of us. Have a good time.”
He dismissed the men with a wave, like a schoolteacher giving his pupils an unexpected holiday.
Everyone was stunned. If it had been any other general, the men would have thought him mad. But this was Julian who had never lost a battle. After the first gasp of surprise, the men delightedly cheered their young leader who could, with such aplomb, order games while the entire army of the Great King of Persia was drawn up only a mile away. To a man they trusted Julian’s luck and skill. If he was this confident, who were they to worry? So the army did as he told them, and spent the day in races and games.
That night Julian ordered a surprise crossing of the Tigris. The army was divided into three sections.
When the first had secured a footing on the far side, the second would embark, and so on. The generals opposed the plan. Victor pointed to the thousand Persian campfires which filled the horizon. “They have every military advantage.”
“Not every,” said Julian ambiguously. “You’ll see that I’m right. Tell your men to board ship. I want everyone across by morning.”
Four thousand men boarded five empty cargo ships, under the reluctant command of Victor. I’ve never seen soldiers so frightened. Just before they left, Victor quarrelled with Julian on the river bank.
None of us heard what was said, but Victor departed in a rage and Julian was uncharacteristically quiet.
The ships disappeared into the darkness. Silence. An hour passed. Julian paced up and down, pretending to be interested only in the remaining ships which were to take the rest of the army across the river once the Persian side had been secured. The army waited. Suddenly flaming arrows pierced the black night.
Victor’s men were landing. The Persians were attacking them. First one, then two, then all five of the boats were set afire by Persian arrows. Far off, we could hear Victor’s men shouting to one another as they clambered up the slippery river bank by the flickering light of burning ships. On our side of the river, panic was beginning. Julian saved the situation with one of his inspired lies. Just as we were all positive the landing had failed and the men were lost, Julian pointed to the five burning ships and shouted, “That’s it! The burning of the ships. That’s the signal, Victor’s signal. The landing’s a success!
To the boats! To the boats!”
I don’t know how he did it, but he made the men believe him. He raced up the down the river bank, shouting, pushing, coaxing the men on to the landing craft. Then he himself leapt into the first boat just as it was about to leave the shore. The men were now as excited as he. They crowded on to the remaining boats. Some even floated across the river on their shields. Convinced of total disaster, I watched the Roman army disappear on to the black river.
By dawn, to my amazement, we held the river bank. The next day Maximus and I, along with the priests and other timid folk, sat comfortably at the river’s edge and watched the Battle of Ctesiphon as though we were at the theatre. When we complained of the heat, umbrellas were brought us, and wine.
Never have philosophers watched in such comfort two empires collide so fatefully.
I sat between Maximus and the Etruscan Mastara. Anatolius was not with us, for he had bravely chosen to fight beside Julian that day, even though court marshals are not expected to be warriors. We teased him a good deal as he got ready for battle, his tiny mouth a firm military circle in his hopelessly soft face.
“Many years with the cavalry,” he said casually. His round stomach jiggled beneath ill-fitting armour as he motioned imperiously for the groom to bring him his horse. With a flourish, Anatolius mounted the horse and fell off the other side. I’m afraid we clerks laughed at our impetuous brother. But
Anatolius had his way; he followed his Emperor into battle.
At first we saw everything plain. The Persians were spread out in an arc between the walls of Ctesiphon and the river. Cavalry first; then infantry; then against the wall, like a range of mud hills, a hundred elephants each with an iron tower on its back, containing archers.
The Persian cavalry wear an extraordinary form of armour which consists of hundreds of small iron plates sewn together in such a way that not only is the soldier completely covered by armour but he is able to move easily, the iron fitting the contours of his body like cloth. Their horses are protected by leather blankets. In the hands of a capable general, the Persian cavalry is a remarkable weapon.
Fortunately for us, there were at this time no Persian generals of any distinction. Also, the Persian army is not a permanent institution like ours but a haphazard collection of conscripts, mercenaries, noblemen and slaves. At times of national crisis every able-bodied man is impressed into service, hardly the best of systems.
Behind the cavalry, the Persian infantry advanced in close order, protected by oblong wicker shields covered with rawhide. Among the elephants at the rear was the Grand Vizier, while on the walls of Ctesiphon the Great King and his court observed the battle in much the same way we philosophers watched it in our folding chairs on the river bank. We were too far away to recognize Sapor, though Maximus, as usual, claimed he saw him quite clearly.
“I am extraordinarily far-sighted, you know. Sapor is to the left of that tower by the gate. You see the blue canopy? Well, he is just under it, wearing scarlet. Those must be his sons with him. They look quite young…” And on he babbled. Actually, all any of us could see was a faint blur of colour on the battlements. But Julian was most visible, riding restlessly along the front line as our army advanced. He was easily identified not only by his white horse and purple cloak but by the dragon standard which always accompanied him.
Our trumpets sounded the advance. The infantry then began its curious stylized march, based on that of ancient Sparta’s artfly: two short steps, a pause, two short steps, a pause, all in perfect unison while the drums beat the tattoo. It is ominous both to hear and to see. Even Maximus was silent as the Roman army advanced. Then with a shout, our skirmishers in the front rank threw their javelins into the Persian cavalry. And the two armies vanished. For an instant I almost believed in Maximus’s magic. Where a hundred and thirty thousand men had been perfectly visible to us in the bright sun, there was now nothing but an oppressive cloud of dust. We could see nothing. But from the heart of the cloud we heard trumpets, drums, war cries, metal striking metal, the hiss of arrows.
The battle began at sunrise and continued until sundown. After an hour or two of watching dust, the Etruscans grew bored, and withdrew “to pray for victory”. Instead, they settled down in a near-by grove of date palms for a drinking party. They were prodigious drinkers. One of my few happy memories of the Persian campaign was the night when all five Etruscans were dead drunk during an important religious ceremony, It was a splendid debacle. They kept dropping sacred vessels and books, while Mastara solemnly assured the furious Julian that “the god has possessed us”. Maximus and I watched the wall of dust all day. The only sign we had of how the battle was going was the position of the dust cloud as, hour by hour, it shifted closer to the walls of Ctesiphon. The Persians were giving ground.
“On 15 June we shall return to Tarsus,” said Maximus suddenly; he had been making signs in the dust at our feet with his magician’s staff.
“In three weeks?”
“Three weeks? Is that three weeks?” He looked at me blankly.
“Why so it is! Amazing to think we shall conquer Persia in such a short time. Alexander hardly did as well. Perhaps I’ve made a mistake.” He studied the dust at his feet. I wanted to break his stick over his foolish head.
“No. The calculation is correct. 15 June. Plain as day. We must tell Julian. He’ll be so pleased.” He looked vaguely towards the battlefield.
“How do you know that the Emperor…” I emphasized the title. No one but Maximus ever referred to Julian by name. “… is still alive?”
“He has to be. 15 June. I just showed you. Look, in the Sun’s Fourth House…”
“And how do you know we shall win this battle?”
“Sometimes you amaze me, Priscus. It is all so plain. Sapor is about to fall, and we shall go home victorious. It is pre-ordained. And frankly I look forward to a return to private life. I’m here only because Julian insisted…”
While Maximus chattered, I stared at the walls of Ctesiphon, waiting for the battle’s end. Shortly before sunset, a soft breeze thinned the cloud of dust until we were again able to see the two armies, now in a hopeless tangle at the city’s gate. The elephants were running amok, trunks curled, tusks flashing. I am told the Persians use them to intimidate their own men quite as much as the enemy’s.
Persians as well as Romans were trampled by those hideous beasts.
As the red sun set, the gates of the city opened to receive the Persian army. Our men pursued them.
In a matter of seconds, the Persian army ceased to be an army and became a mob of frightened men, all trying to get within the gates. Then it was dark.
Julian Augustus
27 May
I cannot sleep. Within my tent, I walk up and down. I am exhausted from twelve hours of fighting—
but too excited to sleep, to do anything. I can barely write these lines. My hand shakes with tension.
I have defeated the Great King’s army! Twenty-five hundred Persians dead, and only seventy-five Romans! We could have taken Ctesiphon. Our infantry could have entered when the Persians did but Victor stopped them. He was afraid they might be outnumbered inside a strange city. I am not sure that he was right. Had I been at the gate, I would have ordered the men to go through. We should have taken the chance. The Persian army was in flight. That was our opportunity. But Victor is cautious. He was also wounded—an arrow in the right shoulder, not serious. Now we shall have to lay siege to the city. A long business. I saw the Great King today, and he saw me. Sapor was seated on the wall, beneath a canopy. I was only a few yards away. Though nearly seventy, Sapor looks much younger. He is lean and black-bearded (Ormisda says that his hair is dyed: Sapor is vain about his appearance, also his potency…
no one knows how many children he has). Sapor wore a gold crown with a scarlet plume. As a gesture of disdain, he wore court dress! He looked like a peacock, glaring down at me.
I waved my sword arm. “Come down!” I shouted, but in that tumult I doubt if he heard me. But he saw me and he knew who I was. The Great King saw the Emperor of Rome at the gate to his city! The courtiers around him looked terrified. No one made a move. Then I was distracted by the battle around me. The next time I looked at the wall, Sapor was gone.
Before we returned to camp, we buried our dead and stripped the Persian corpses. Many nobles were killed and their amour is much prized by us. Unfortunately, none of the Gauls and Germans can wear Persian armour. It is too small for them. So the best armour in the world goes to our worst soldiers, the Asiatics!
We had a victory dinner in my tent. The generals got drunk. But I could eat and drink nothing. I am too tense. Maximus says the war will be over in three weeks. Soldiers have been serenading me all night.
Many of them are drunk but I do not scold them. I go outside and embrace them and call them by name, telling them what fine fellows they are, and they tell me the same thing. Tomorrow I give out war
crowns to those who showed unusual valour. I shall also sacrifice to the war god Ares.
Why didn’t Victor go into the city?
Priscus: The next day was marred only by the sacrifice. After the men had been given their decorations, Julian tried to sacrifice a bull to Ares on a newly built altar. But for one reason or another, nine bulls were found wanting by the Etruscans. The tenth bull, acceptable, bolted at the last minute.
When it was finally caught and sacrificed, the liver indicated disaster. To everyone’s amazement, Julian threw down the sacrificial knife and shouted to the sky, “Never again will I sacrifice to you!” Maximus looked quite alarmed and even I was taken aback. Flushed and sweating from the hot sun, Julian disappeared into his tent. I can only attribute his strange action to the fact that he had not slept in two days.
The same day Anatolius took me on a tour of the battlefield. He was very soldierly. “Here the Herculani made a flanking movement to allow for the light-armed cohorts of Petulantes to break through…” That sort of thing. Anatolius was so pleased with his own military expertise that I did not have the heart to laugh at him as he led me over the dusty ground, still littered with Persian dead. I noticed one interesting phenomenon. Persians do not putrefy in the hot sun the way Europeans do.
After two days of this climate, a dead European is in an advanced state of decay. But not the Persians.
They simply dry up and become hard as leather. I once asked Oribasius about this and he said it was due to diet. According to him, we drink too much wine and eat too much grain while the Persians eat sparingly, preferring dates and lentils to our rich fare. Yet I have observed the dead bodies of lean Gauls
—yes, there are some—and though their owners lived austere lives, they decayed as swiftly as their corpulent brothers. It is very puzzling.
The Persians had been stripped of their armour and valuables, except for one who still wore a gold ring. I decided to take it as a souvenir. Even now I can remember the feel of that cold, hard hand as, wifh great effort, I bent straight the fingers which had been drawn into a brown fist. I stared at the dead man’s face. He was young; he wore no beard. I looked at him. He looked at me, eyes glazed as though with fever. Flies buzzed about his head.
“Spoils of war,” said Anatolius comfortably.
“Spoils of war,” I said to the dead Persian, letting him drop back on the ground with a thump. He seemed unconvinced. The flies settled on his face. I wore the ring until a few months ago when I lost it at the baths. I have become thin lately and the ring fell off in the hot room. Naturally, the attendants never return anything they find.
Two days later, on 29 May, Julian moved the army to Abuzatha, a Persian fort on the Tigris three miles from Ctesiphon. Here we made camp. For several days none of Julian’s friends saw him. He was closeted with his military staff. There was disagreement among the generals. Some wanted to lay siege to Ctesiphon. Others preferred to isolate the city and continue the conquest of Persia. A few advised returning to Roman territory. None of us knew what Julian’s plan was or even if he had a plan. Nor did any of us know that while we were in camp, he had received a secret embassy from Sapor. I confess that even if I had known, I would not have cared much. Like half the camp, I was ill with dysentery.
Julian Augustus
*30 May. *
The Persian envoys have just left. Ormisda is with them. I sit alone in my tent. Outside, Callistus is singing a mournful song. It is very hot. I am waiting for Maximus. If I withdraw from Persia, the Great
King has promised to cede me all of Mesopotamia north of Anatha; also, at his own expense, he will rebuild our city of Amida, and pay in gold or kind whatever we ask to defray the cost of this war. Persia is defeated.
The ambassadors came to me secretly. They wanted it that way. So did I. They were brought to me as though they were officers taken captive in a Saracen raid. No one except Ormisda and myself knows that this was an embassy. The chief ambassador is a brother of the Grand Vizier. He maintained a perfect dignity while proposing a treaty which, if I accept it, will mean that I have gained more of the East for Rome than any general since Pompey. Realizing this, the ambassador felt impelled to indulge himself in Persian rhetoric. “Never forget, Augustus, that our army is more numerous than the desert’s sand. One word from the Great King and you and all your host are lost. But Sapor is merciful.”
“Sapor is frightened,” said Ormisda, to my irritation. I prefer to seem indifferent while envoys talk, to give them no clue as to what I intend to do. But Ormisda has been unusually tense the last few days.
Despite his age, he fought like a youth at Ctesiphon. Now he sees the crown of Persia almost in his hands. He is terrified it will slip away. I am sympathetic. Yet my policy is not necessarily his policy.
Ormisda taunted the ambassadors. “I know what happens in the palace at Ctesiphon. I know what is whispered in the long halls, behind the ivory doors. Nothing that happens among you is kept from me.”
This was not entirely bluff. Ormisda’s spies are indeed well placed at the Persian court and he learns astonishing things. Also, as we conquer more and more of Persia, there is a tendency among the nervous courtiers to shift from the old king to what may be the new. But the ambassador was not one of those whom Ormisda could win.
“There are traitors in every palace, Prefect.” He used Ormisda’s Roman title. Then he turned to me.
“And in every army, Augustus.”
I did not acknowledge this dangerous truth. “But the Great King is merciful. He loves peace…”
Ormisda laughed theatrically. “Sapor wears rags, taken from a beggar. His beard and hair are full of ashes. He dines off the floor like an animal. He weeps, knowing his day is ended.” Ormisda was not exaggerating. During the last few hours we have had several harrowing descriptions of Sapor’s grief at my victory. He has every reason to be in mourning. Few monarchs have been so thoroughly humiliated.
The ambassador read me the draft of the treaty. I thanked him. Then I told Ormisda to take the embassy to Anatolius’s tent, which is next to mine. They will wait there until I have prepared an answer.
Ormisda wanted to stay behind and talk to me but I made him go. He is not Great King yet.
I now sit on the bed. The treaty is before me: two scrolls, one in Greek, one in Persian. I have placed them side by side on the lion skin. What to do? If I accept Sapor’s terms, it will be a triumph for me. If I stay, I am not entirely certain that a siege of Ctesiphon would be successful. It will certainly take a long time; perhaps a year, and I cannot be away from Constantinople that long. Today the Persian army is no threat, but who knows what sort of army Sapor might put in the field next week, next month?
Everything depends, finally, on Procopius. He is in the north, at Bezabde in Corduene. Or so I hear.
There has been no direct word from him.
• • • Maximus was brilliant just now. As always, he went straight to the heart of things.
“This treaty is a triumph; a province gained, peace assured for at least…”
“… a decade.”
“Perhaps longer. Amida rebuilt. A fortune in gold. Few emperors have accomplished so much. But then…” He looked at me thoughtfully. “Was it just for this we have come so far, to gain half a province?
or to conquer half a world?”
He paused. I waited. Like a true philosopher, he then turned the matter round, first to one side, then
to another. “There is no denying this is an excellent treaty, better than anyone would have dreamed…
except us, who know what no one else knows. Cybele herself promised you victory. You are Alexander, born again, set on earth to conquer Asia. You have no choice.”
Maximus is right. The gods have not brought me this far simply to have me turn back as though I were some Saracen chief raiding the border. I shall reject Sapor’s treaty and begin the siege of Ctesiphon. Once Procopius arrives, I shall be free to order a march straight into the morning sun. Yes, to the house of Helios himself, the father from whom I came and to whom I must return, in glory.
Priscus: Have you ever read such nonsense? If only I had known! But none of us knew what Maximus was up to, even though he was for ever dropping hints about “our plans”. But since those plans were never revealed, we were all equally in the dark. When the rumour that Sapor had sued for peace swept the camp, Julian firmly denied that there had been an embassy, and we believed him. I am certain that if the generals had known the terms of the treaty, they would have forced Julian to accept. But Julian and Maximus lied, as did Ormisda, who was not about to end his last hope of reigning in Persia. All three wanted the war to continue. From the moment of this decision, I trace the rapid decline of Julian.
Nothing went right again. In retrospect his actions are those of a madman. But since he seemed so entirely normal at the time, none of us seriously questioned his orders or thought anything he did unusual. We merely assumed that he had information we did not. Also, up until the last day of May, everything he had attempted had proven successful. Even so, the generals were becoming critical. And treason was in the air.