Julian Augustus
31 May
*Midnight. * The deaf-mute sits cross-legged at my feet, playing a Persian instrument much like a lute.
The melody is unfamiliar but pleasing. Callistus is arranging my armour on the stand beside the bed.
Ormisda has just left. He is pleased at my decision, but I am somewhat uneasy. For the first time I find myself in complete disagreement with my officers. What is worse, I cannot tell them why I know that the course I have embarked upon is the right one. At this evening’s staff meeting, Victor challenged me openly.
“We have not the force, Augustus, to attempt a long siege. Nor the supplies. We also have many wounded.” He touched his own bandaged shoulder.
“And no hope of reinforcements.” Arintheus automatically follows Victor’s lead.
“There is the army of Procopius and Sebastian,” said Ormisda. He sat on my right at the conference table, on which our only map of this part of Persia was unrolled. so far, the map has proved completely unreliable.
“Procopius!” Nevitta said the name contemptuously, concentrating in that one word a lifelong contempt for all things Greek.
“We’ll never see him here. Never!”
“I’ve sent Procopius orders…” I began.
“But why hasn’t he obeyed you?” Victor led the attack. “Why is he still in Corduene?”
“Yes, why? One is never certain whether Dagalaif is naïve or subtle.
“Because he is a traitor,” said Nevitta, the Frankish accent growing harsh and guttural, the words difficult to understand. “Because he and that Christian king of Armenia, your friend,” he turned malevolently on Ormisda—“want us all dead, so that Procopius can be the next Christian emperor.”
There was a shocked silence at this. I broke it, mildly. “We can’t be sure that that is the reason.”
“You can’t, Emperor, but I can. I know these Asiatics. I never trusted one in my life.” He looked straight at Victor who returned the hard gaze evenly.
I laughed. “I hope you trust me, Nevitta. I’m Asiatic.”
“You’re Thracian, Emperor, which is almost as good as being a Frank or a Gaul. Besides, you’re not a Christian, or so I’ve heard.”
Everyone laughed; the tension was relieved. Then Victor expressed the hope that we obtain as good a treaty as possible from Sapor. Ormisda and I exchanged a quick glance. I am sure that Victor knows nothing. I am also glad we kept the embassy a secret, especially now that I know Nevitta and Dagalaif are eager to go home. Except for me, no one believes Procopius will join us. I am certain that he will. If he does not…
Salutius proposed a compromise. “We should all assume that Procopius intends to obey his Emperor. Having recently executed a man whom I’d falsely accused of not doing his duty, I fayour giving Procopius every opportunity to prove himself loyal. After all, we don’t know what difficulties he
may have encountered. He may be ill, or dead. So I suggest that the Augustus wait at least a week before beginning the siege, or making any other plans.”
This compromise was accepted. Like most compromises it solves nothing while prolonging—perhaps dangerously—the time of indecision. But I said nothing beyond agreeing to delay the siege. I wanted to appear reasonable because I was about to propose what I knew would be a most unpopular action.
“Our fleet requires twenty thousand men to man and guard it. As long as we keep close to the river, the men can do both. But if we enter the interior-either to go home or to pursue the Great King’s army
—those men must go with us. If they go with us, the Persians will seize our ships. To prevent that, we must burn the fleet.”
They were stunned. Nevitta was the first to speak. He wanted to know how I expected to return to our own country without ships. I explained that whether we returned by way of the Euphrates or by way of the Tigris, we would have to go upstream, a slow and laborious business. The fleet would be an encumbrance. This point was conceded to me; even so, I was opposed by the entire staff except Ormisda, who realized that only by burning the fleet will I be able toget the legions to follow me into the interior. Yes, I am determined now to secure all of the provinces of Persia as far as the border of India, a thousand miles to the east. Alexander did as much. I am convinced that I can do it. Sapor’s army is no match for ours. With the harvest at hand, we shall not have to worry about supplies. Only one thing holds me back: Procopius. If he were here, I could set out confident that with Ormisda’s help Ctesiphon would fall and there would be no enemy at my back. But I cannot leave until I know where Procopius is. Meanwhile, I must burn the fleet.
Patiently, I answered the arguments of the generals. I convinced none but all acquiesced. As they were leaving my tent, Salutius took me to one side. I could feel the unpleasant heat of his breath on my skin as he whispered close to my ear the single word
“Mutiny”.
“Who?”
Though the last of the generals had left the tent, Salutius continued to whisper. “The Christians.”
“Victor?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps. My reports are vague. The men are singing a song that they will soon be home but you will not be.”
“That is treason.”
“The way the words run, the thing sounds innocent enough. Whoever wrote it was clever,”
“Who sing it? Gallleans?”
Salutius nodded. “The Zianni and the Herculani. Only a few are involved so far. But if you burn the fleet…”
“Salutius, believe in me.” I took his hand. “I know things that others don’t.”
“As you command, Lord.” Salutius bowed and left me. I have spent this night alone except for the deaf-mute and Callistus. I pray. I study Alexander’s campaign in Persia. I examine maps and read histories. Helios willing, I shall spend the winter on the border of India. No Roman emperor has ever annexed so great a territory to our world.
Julian Augustus
1 June
The fleet is burned. Twelve ships were spared, suitable for making bridges. We shall transport them on wagons. I have just sent Arintheus with the light-armed infantry to wipe out the remnants of the
Persian army in hiding near by. I have also ordered him to fire the surrounding fields and slaughter the cattle. Once we are gone it will take the inhabitaris of Ctesiphon many months to get sufficient food.
That will give us time. No word from Procopius.
Priscus: On a hot and windy morning, the fleet was set afire. Flames darted swiftly from ship to ship until the brown Tigris itself seemed to burn. As the sun’s heat increased, all objects were distorted by heatwaves. Creation seemed to be ending exactly as Stoics teach, in a vast, cleansing, terminal fire.
I watched the burning with Anatolius. For once I almost believed in Nemesis. The men, too, sensed that this time their Emperor had reached too far, plunging himself and them into the sun’s fierce maw.
Ordinarily, any order Julian gave was promptly obeyed, and the more puzzling it was the more certain were the men of his cleverness. But that day he was forced to fire the first ship himself. No one would do it for him. I saw fear in the faces of the men as Julian offered the fleet to Helios.
“Of course we are not generals,” said Anatolius tentatively, knowing what was in my mind. “The Emperor is a master of war.”
“He can still make a mistake.” Neither of us could take our eyes off the fire. What is there in the burning of man-made things which so thrills us? It is like Homer’s image of the two rivers in Hades: one of creation, the other of destruction, for ever held in uneasy balance. Men have always enjoyed destroying quite as much as building, which explains the popularity of war.
We were still gaping at the fiery river when a group of officers rode past us. One of them was Valentinian, his face scarlet with heat and rage. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” he snarled. Anatolius and I exchanged nervous glances. Was there to be a mutiny of officers? But there was none, despite the grumbling of the tribunes. Incidentally, I have never forgotten that brief glimpse I had of Valentinian, his face swollen with the same rage that was to kill him years later when he died of a stroke while bellowing at a German embassy.
By nightfall, the fleet was gone. In the distance one could see the Persians gathered on the walls of Ctesiphon to watch this extraordinary sight. No one will ever know what they made of it. The Roman Emperor burning the Roman fleet must have seemed to them perfectly incomprehensible. I could hardly believe it myself.
Julian Augustus
3 June
We have broken camp and are moving south-east, into the interior. The countryside is rich; there is plenty of water. The men are less apprehensive than they were. They see now that we do not need the river to survive.
Julian Augustus
4 June
All goes well. Nevitta: on guard. Victor. Ch. Close? How? Days grow hotter. May begin night marches.
Priscus: Nevitta again warned Julian of a Christian plot. This time Victor was directly involved. I know. I rode beside Julian that same afternoon. He spoke frankly of what Nevitta had told him.
“But if they kill me, who will take my place? There’s no one except Salutius and he is hardly a friend to them.”
“There is Victor.”
Julian smiled coldly. “He would be butchered by the Gauls.”
Then he frowned. “Nevitta says they have put someone close to me to… to do their work. Is it you?”
He turned on me and I saw that though his voice was light and playful his face was not. He stared at me with sun-dazzled eyes. Like all of us, his face was burned dark and his eyes were red from sand and sun, the lids suppurating. He had lost weight and one could see the working of the cordlike muscles of his forearms as he grasped the reins. He was a boy no longer, nor even young.
“No, not I.” I tried but could not think of a joke to make
“You’d make a very poor emperor.” He was his old self again. We rode on. Before and behind us, the army wound through bright country, rich with coming harvest.
Salutius joined us, wearing a headcloth.
“Look at that! A classic Roman consul!” Julian teased him. But Salutius for all his intelligence had no humour. He explained to us at solemn length why he could not wear a helmet in the sun because the heat made his forehead break out in a rash. Then he handed Julian a letter. “From the senate at Constantinople. To congratulate you on your victory.”
Julian sighed. “Too soon,” he said, giving the letter back. I recall how the sun shone on the back of his hand and the blond hairs glittered against sun-darkened skin. I also noticed what large nails he had inow that he’d ceased biting them). Curious the clarity with which one remembers the shape of a hand glimpsed years ago, while so many things of importance are lost.
Julian Augustus
5 June
Midnight: Fire. Trenches.
Priscus: That night the Persians set fire to the harvest. For miles around fields, vineyards, orchards, villages… everything caught fire, and night was like day. Although Julian ordered protective trenches dug around the camp, a number of our tents burned, as well as several wagons.
For three days and three nights the fire continued. Whenever I think of those weeks in Persia, I see fire in my mind, smell smoke, feel the terrible heat of sun blazing while fire burns. Luckily, there were springs in the camp and we had sufficient water. We also had food for perhaps a week. But after that, famine. As far as the eye could see, there was black desert. Nothing green survived.
I now shared a tent with Anatolius. This meant that I was more than usually involved in the business of the court. Ordinarily I kept out of such things, for I have always been bored by politics, but now I was very interested in what was going on. We all were. Our lives were at stake. It seemed that everyone had a plan to save us, except the Emperor.
The army was now almost evenly divided between Julian and Victor, between the Europeans and the Asiatics, between the Hellenists and the Christians, Julian of course was strongest because his adherents were, quite simply, the best soldiers. Yet as each day passed in that burnt-out wilderness, the party of Victor became all the louder and more demanding, insisting that the Emperor act. But Julian gave absolutely no hint of what he intended to do. In fact, without this journal we might never have known what was in his mincl.
Julian Augustus
6 June
Persian cavalry raided our supply depot just before dawn. Several of them killed. No casualties for us.
We must expect more of this.
At noon I prayed to Helios. I sacrificed a white bull. The augury was not decisive. What to do?
A sharp encounter with Victor at this afternoon’s staff meeting. My quarters are stifling. None of us wore armour. The generals were arranged about me on stools. At my feet sat the deaf-mute; he watches my every move with the alert, loving eyes of a pet dog. I have only to think I am thirsty for him to read it in my face and bring me water.
No sooner had I greeted the generals than Victor took the initiative. “Augustus, we must go back the way we came, through Assyria.” Arintheus promptly agreed with him. The others waited to see what I would say.
“That is always a possibility. Of course. Always.” I assumed the Mardonius manner: maddeningly reasonable yet perfectly evasive.
“But perhaps, Count, you will tell us, first, why you believe we must go back now and, second, why you prefer that route.”
Victor looked more than ever like the village bully trying to control himself in the presence of the schoolmaster. “First, as the Augustus knows, we shall soon be short of food. My scouts report that for twenty miles to south and east there are only ashes. To the north there is desert. That leaves us the west, where we came from.”
“Have you forgotten that we ourselves burned the fields around Ctesiphon?”
“Yes, we made that mistake, but…”
Nevitta made a threatening noise, deep in his throat, like a bull preparing for attack. One may not accuse the Emperor of making mistakes. But I motioned for Nevitta to keep silent. I tried to sound amiable. “But since this ‘mistake’ was made, what is the point of going from one devastated region to another?”
“Because, Augustus, there are still some regions which we did not burn. We can live off the country.
We can also use those forts we captured…”
… and burned? No, Count, those forts are of no use to us and you know it. So I ask you again: Why do you want to go back the way we came?”
“Because we know that country. We can live off it, somehow. The men will be reassured.”
“May I speak, Lord?” Ormisda has ceased to be Great King and is once more Greek courtier, a bad sign. “The army cannot return up the Euphrates because there is no longer a fleet. Nor have we the means to make bridges.”
“We can use the ships that were saved,” said Victor.
This time Salutius answered him. “Twelve small ships are not enough to cross the Tigris. Like it or not, we are now confined to this side of the river. If we set out for home it must be by way of Corduene.”
“Can’t we get ships from the Persians?” asked Dagalaif suddenly.
“There must be hundreds in the river ports.”
“They’ll burn them first,” said Ormisda.
“I have been making inquiries,” Salutius began, sounding as if he were sitting comfortably in his praetorian prefect’s chair at Constantinople, surrounded by notaries, instead of sweating in an airless
tent with a cloth wrapped about his sunburned head. “And it appears that what ships the Persians have are well out of range. Our only hope would be to build new ones, but of course we lack the materials.”
Ormisda finished the matter. “Even if we could cross the Tigris, we would have the same difficulties returning north we have had here. Sapor means to starve us out. He will burn all Persia if he has to.
Also, the rains have now begun in Mesopotamia. The winter ice in the mountains has melted. The road that brought us to Ctesiphon is a fever-swamp, swarming with insects. But of course we shall go wherever the Augustus bids.”
“So shall we all,” said Victor, “but what is his plan?” I looked into the bright eyes of my enemy and saw that he means to kill me. I have known it from the start.
I answered quietly. “Augustus means to consider every possibility before he comes to a decision. He also reminds the council that we have yet to hear from Procopius. There are rumours that he is even now on his way to us here. If he arrives, we shall lay siege to Ctesiphon.”
“Using what for food?” Victor challenged me.
“Procopius will bring supplies. Also, to get here, he will have to open up a line of communications from our province of Corduene. That’s only three hundred miles away. We don’t need to worry about supplies if Procopius comes.”
“But if he does not?” Victor leaned forward, a hunting dog who has got the quafry’s scent.
“Then we are where we are now. It seems agreed that we cannot return the way we came.”
“Because the fleet was burned.”
This was too much. I turned on Victor. “Count, you will not speak again until I give you leave.” As if struck, Victor blinked and sat back.
I continued. “We can always take our chances in the desert to the north. But it will be a hard march to Corduene.” I could see that Ormisda wanted to speak. I nodded.
“The Augustus should know that there are no maps of that territory. We shall have to rely on guides.
They may not be reliable.”
“Can’t we follow the course of the Tigris?” Dagalaif fanned himself with the frond of a date palm.
“Not easily,” said Ormisda. “There are many strong fortresses…”
“And we shall be a retreating army, not a conquering one. We would be unable to lay siege to the cities.” I let this sink in. Until now no one has mentioned the possibility of our defeat. Mter all, we have broken the Great King’s army; half Persia is ours. Yet now we must talk of retreat because we have been burned out by Persian zealots. It is tragedy. I should have anticipated it. But I did not. The fault is mine.
It is hard to believe that without the loss of a single battle one can so swiftly cease to be a conqueror and become the chieftain of a band of frightened men who want only to go home as fast as possible. Is this the revenge of Ares for what I said to him during the sacrifice at Ctesiphon?
Arintheus took my challenge. “We’re not retreating, Augustus. How could we be? Why, old Sapor will make a treaty with you tomorrow, giving you anything you want if only we go home.” News of the Persian embassy has been in the air for a week Nothing is secret for long in an army. I suspect the Persians themselves of spreading the rumour, to create discord: why is your Emperor driving you so hard when we are willing to give you gold and territory and a safe passage home? The Persians are expert at this sort of thing.
“Victor seems to feel that we have been defeated,” I said. “I don’t. I think we must wait a few days longer for Procopius. If he does not come, we shall consider whether to go north to Corduene or keep on south to the Persian Gulf.” I said this casually. It was the first time I have suggested such a thing to the generals. They were astonished.
“The Persian Gulf!” Victor momentarily forgot my ban of silence. He quickly muttered an apology.
Salutius spoke for what, I am afraid, is the majority. “It is too far, Augustus. We are only three hundred miles from Roman territory and it seems like three thousand miles. If we continue any deeper into Persia, we’ll be swallowed up.”
“The men won’t go.” Nevitta was abrupt. “They’re already frightened. Order them to go south and you’ll have a first-class mutiny on your hands.”
“But the cities of the Gulf are rich and unprotected…”
“They won’t go, General. Not now. But even if they would, what’s to keep the Persians from burning everything in our path? They’re crazy enough to. We’d starve to death before we ever saw the Gulf.”
So I have abandoned this dream. For now, I dismissed the council.
I sit on my cot, writing this on my knees. Callistus is preparing the sacrificial robes. The deaf-mute plays the lute. In a few minutes Maximus joins me. In an hour I pray first to Zeus, then to the Great Mother. Where have I failed? Is this the revenge of Ares?
Julian Augustus
7 June
The omens are bad. The auguries inconclusive. They advise against returning home by way of Assyria, they also advise against going north to Corduene. One indicated that I should go south to the Gulf! But the troops would not obey. They are already close to mutiny. I must bring Victor to heel or face rebellion.
Julian Augustus
8 June
I have not slept for days. The heat at night is almost as bad as the heat by day. It is like having the fever. We all resemble driedup cadavers. I lose my temper with everyone. I struck Callistus when he fumbled with the fastening of my robes. I quarrelled with Salutius over a trivial matter, and he was in the right. Tonight Maximus was with me. We were alone together because Priscus is sick with dysentery and Anatolius nurses him. While I was having supper, Maximus tried to cheer me up. He achieved the opposite.
“But it’s so simple. Give the order to march south. They must obey. You are the Emperor.”
“I shall have been the Emperor. They’ll kill me first.”
“But Cybele herself has told us that you must complete your work. After all, you are Alexander.”
I erupted at this. “No, I am not Alexander, who is dead. I am Julian, about to die in this forsaken place…”
“No. No! The gods…”
“… misled us! The gods laugh at us! They raise us up for sport, and throw us down again. There is no more gratitude in heaven than there is on earth.”
“Julian…”
“You say I was born to do great things. Well, I have done them. I conquered the Persians. I conquered the Germans. I saved Gaul.
For what? To delay this world’s end for a year or two? Certainly no longer.”
“You were born to restore the worship of the true gods.”
“Then why do they let me fail?”
“You are Emperor still!”
I seized a handful of charred earth from the tent’s floor. “That is all that’s left to me. Ashes.”
“You will live…”
“I shall be as dead as Alexander soon enough, but when I go I take Rome with me. For nothing good will come after. The Goths and the Galileans will inherit the state, and like vultures and maggots they’ll make clean bones of what is dead, until there is not even so much as the shadow of a god anywhere on earth.”
Maximus hid his face in his hands while I raged on. But after a time I stopped, ashamed of having made a fool of myself. “It’s no use,” I said finally, “I am in Helios’s hands, and we are both at the end of the day. So good night, Maximus, and pray for me that it will indeed be a good night.”
But I can’t believe it is over yet. Our army is intact. The Persian army is broken. We can still go north to Corduene. If Helios deserts me now, there will be no one to restore his worship. But this is madness!
Why am I suddenly in such despair? Why should I die now, at the height of my reign, at the age of… I had to stop to count! I am thirty-two.
Julian Augustus
10 June
Afternoon. We are still encamped. Food is running low. No word from Procopius. Yesterday and again this morning, Persian cavalry attacked us. They strike at the outskirts of the camp. Then when we sound the call to arms, they vanish. This is the most demoralizing kind of warfare.
I must soon decide what to do. Meanwhile, I make daily sacrifice. The omens are not good. The auguries confused. I want to put Victor under arrest. Salutius thinks I should wait.
Julian Augustus
14 June
During this morning’s staff meeting, there was a sudden racket outside my tent. I heard the tribune who commands my bodyguard shout, “Stand back! Stand back!”
I went outside. A thousand men, mostly Asiatics, surrounded the tent. They begged me to lead them home by way of Assyria. They had been well coached. They shouted and whined, wept and threatened. It took me some minutes to silence them. Then I said,
“We shall start for home only when our work is done.” Several jeered at this. I pretended not to hear.
“When we do go home, it cannot be by the way we came. Your general Victor will tell you why.” This was a pleasantly ironic move. Victor was now forced to placate the men he had himself incited. He did it very well, explaining why the Euphrates route was no longer open to us. He was plausible, and the men listened to him respectfully. When he had finished, I assured them that I was as eager as they to return to safety. At the proper time we would go; meanwhile, I asked them not to take seriously the Persianinspired rumours which I knew were going about the camp. They dispersed. I turned to Victor.
“This is not the way to force us,” I said carefully.
“But, Augustus…”
I dismissed him. He has been warned.
Later, I spoke privately to each of the generals. Most are loyal. For instance, Jovian sat on a stool in my tent, his tunic wet with perspiration, his face flushed from wine as well as heat. “Whatever Augustus commands, I will obey.” His voice is deep and somewhat hoarse, for he drinks those harsh German
spirits which burn the throat.
“Even if I say go south to the Persian Gulf?”
Jovian squirmed uncomfortably. “That is far away. But if the Augustus orders us…”
“No, I shall not order you. Not now.”
He was relieved. “Then that means we’ll be going back soon, won’t we?”
I said nothing.
“Because the longer we stay here, the more difficult it will be. What with the heat, the Persians…”
“The Persians are defeated.”
“But the Great King still has a good many soldiers and this is their country, not ours.”
“Half of it is ours, by right of conquest.”
“Yes, Lord. But can we hold it? I’m for getting out. They say demons ride with the Persians, especially at night.”
I almost laughed in his foolish face. But instead I proposed: “Pray to your man-god to make them go away.”
“If demons haunt us, it is because Christ wills it,” he said piously.
I smiled. “I prefer a god who protects those who worship him.”
“I don’t know about these things, Augustus, but I say let’s make terms with the Persians and leave this place. Not that it’s for me to decide.”
“No, it is not for you to decide. But! shall bear in mind your advice.” I dismissed Jovian, more depressed than ever. I make sacrifice in a few minutes.
Julian Augustus
15 June
Mastara sees great peril no matter what I do. I sacrificed yesterday and again this morning. There is still no sign. The gods are silent. I prayed more than an hour to Helios. I looked straight at him until I was blind. Nothing. I have offended. But how? I cannot believe that my anger at the war god would turn all heaven against me. Who else will do their work?
Nevitta brings me word that the Asiatic troops already speak of my successor “who will save them”.
But apparently there is no popular choice. They follow Victor hut do not love him. Arintheus?
Emperor? No. Not even his boys would accept that. Salutius? He is loyal to me and yet… I grow suspicious. I am like Constantius now. I suspect treason on every side. For the first time I fear the knife in the dark. I make Callistus sleep on the ground beside my bed while the deaf-mute remains awake most of the night, watching for the assassin’s shadow to fall across the door to my tent. I never believed that I would become like this. I have never feared death in battle, and I never thought that I feared murder.
But I do. I find it hard to sleep. When I do, my dreams are of death, sudden, black, violent. What has gone wrong?
Beside my bed there is a hook by Aeschylus. Just now I picked it up and read this at random: “Take heart. Suffering when it climbs highest lasts but a little time.” Well, I am near the peak. Will it be swift?
or slow?
Priscus and Maximus spent most of the evening with me. We talked philosophy. No one mentioned our situation and for a time I was able to forget that the gods have abandoned me. Yet why do I think this? Merely because the Persians have burned the countryside? Or because of the treachery of Procopius, which does not come as a surprise? Although things are not so bad as I feel they are, the fact that I have this sense of foreboding is in itself a message from the gods.
Maximus wanted to stay behind after Priscus left. But I would not let him, pleading fatigue. I suspect even him. Why should he be in league with Victor? Everyone knows he has influence over me, and certainly anyone could buy him if they met his price. This is insane. Of course Maximus is loyal to me.
He has to be. The Galileans would have his head if I were not here to protect him. I must stop this brooding or I shall become as mad as those emperors who feared the long night of death more than they loved the brief living day. I am still alive; still Augustus; still conqueror of Persia. Tomorrow we start for home. I gave the order at sundown. The men cheered me. They don’t know what a long journey it is from here to Corduene. All they know is that we are leaving Persia. All I know is that the goddess Cybele revealed to me that I was Alexander born again, and I have failed both her and Alexander, who is once more a ghost, while I am nothing.
I should have agreed to Sapor’s treaty. Now that we are withdrawing, we shall get worse terms.
Priscus: As well as I knew Julian, I never suspected that he was in such despair. The exhausted man who scribbled the journal, and the proud laughing general Maximus and I used to dine with are two different creatures. Naturally, we knew that he was worried. But he never betrayed to us that morbid fear of assassination he writes about. He joked occasionally about the succession, saying that if Rome were to have a Christian emperor he hoped it would be Victor because in a year there would be a million converts to Hellenism. But that was all. He talked as he always talked: rapidly, enthusiastically, late into the night, reading aloud to us from the classics, quarrelling with me over Plato’s meanings, teasing Maximus for his ignorance of literature. The great magician, having always been in such close communion with the gods, seldom condescended to read the reports of those who could only guess at the mysteries he knew.
On 15 June Julian gave the order to go north along the Tigris to Corduene and Armenia. The thing was finished. Even Ormisda now realized that he would never rule in Persia.
At dawn 16 June we broke camp. Julian asked me to ride with him. I did not realize until I read the journal what a good actor he was. That day he was the exuberant, legendary hero, hair and beard burned a dull gold by the sun, arms and legs dark, face as clear and untroubled as a child’s; even the constant nose-peeling had finally stopped and his head looked as if it had been carved from African wood. We were all quite black except for the pale Gauls, who turn painfully red in the sun and stay that way. There was much sunstroke among them.
As we rode through fire-blackened hills, Julian seemed unusually cheerful. “We haven’t done too badly. The campaign has been a success, though not exactly what I had hoped for.”
“Because Ormisda is not Great King?”
“Yes.” He did not elaborate.
We were interrupted by the tribune Valens. It was the only other time I recall seeing him in Persia.
He was not bad-looking, though physically rather dirty, even as soldiers go. He was profoundly nervous in Julian’s presence. “Augustus, the scouts report an army approaching. From the north.”
Julian dug his heels into his horse’s ribs and cantered down the road to the head of the army, two miles distant. Within half an hour, the sky was dark with swirling dust. The rumour went about quickly: Procopius has come! But Julian took no chances. We made a war camp on the spot, with a triple row of shields placed around us. Then we waited to see whose army it was, Procopius’s or Sapor’s.
We were on battle alert all day. I bet Anatolius five silver pieces at three-to-one odds that the army was Sapor’s. Neither of us won. The “army” turned out to be a herd of wild asses.
But that night the Great King’s army materialized.
Julian Augustus
17 June
Sapor’s army still exists. They are encamped a mile from us. Cannot tell what their numbers are but not so many as were assembled at Ctesiphon. Our troops eager for battle. Had to restrain them all morning. At noon Persian cavalry attacked one of our battalions. General Machameus killed. Though wounded, his brother Maurus fought his way to where the body was lying and carried it back into camp.
The heat is beyond anything I have ever before endured. Though we are all of us giddy from too much sun, I ordered the march to be continued. At first the Persians fell back; then they rallied and tried to stop us. We butchered them. By afternoon they were all of them gone except for a band of Saracens who follow us even now, waiting for the right moment to raid our baggage train. I write this sitting on a stool beneath a date palm. Everywhere I look I see green circles before my eyes. I am dazzled by Helios.
The air is so hot it scorches the lungs. My sweat mingles with the ink on the page. The letters blur. Few casualties.
Julian Augustus
20 June
For two days we have been encamped at Hucumbra, the estate of a Persian nobleman who, luckily for us, did not burn his crops and orchards. Food and water are plentiful. The men are almost happy. I have ordered them to take all the food they can for we must burn this place as soon as we leave it. We shall not find so much food again until we reach our own territory, twenty days’ march from here.
Julian Augustus
21 June
On the march. The country is hilly and barren. We are about twenty miles to the west of the Tigris, moving north. Early today the Persian cavalry attacked our infantry rear-guard. Fortunately, the cavalry of the Petulantes was near by and drove them off. One of the Great King’s counsellors, Adaces, was killed and his armour brought me by the soldier who struck him down. As I gave the usual reward, Salutius suddenly said, “We were good friends, Adaces and I.” He then reminded me that the Persian had once been Sapor’s envoy to Constantius.
An ugly business tonight. Instead of attacking the Persians at the same time as the Petulantes, the cavalry of the Tertiaci gave way. As a result, what might have been a complete rout of the Persians became only a skirmish. I broke four tribunes but took no other action. We shall soon need every man we have, coward or brave. We are no longer certain where we are. We move in a line north, but there are no maps to show us where water and villages are. But two days ago, at Hucumbra, an old Persian who knows the province well offered to lead us to fertile country. Ormisda talked with him at length and believes he is not a spy. The old man says there will be three days of barren country and then we shall be in the rich valley of Maranga.
Julian Augustus
22 June
Battle. Execution. Vetranio. Victory. Where?
Priscus: The old Persian was of course a spy who led us straight into an ambush at Maranga, which was not a “rich valley” but a stony place where we were exposed on all sides to the Persian army. Julian was just able to form the army into a crescent when they attacked. The first rain of Persian arrows did little harm. There was no second flurry. Julian was able to resort to his favourite tactical exercise, throwing his infantry at the enemy’s archers before they could get proper range.
The fighting went on all day in ovenlike heat. I remained with the baggage and saw very little of what happened. My principal memory is of heat, of blood on white rocks, of the hideous trumpeting of elephants reverberating through the narrow valley.
“Execution.” The old Persian was crucified when it was discovered that he had deliberately led us into this trap.
“Vetranio.” He was commanding officer of the Zianni; he was killed.
“Victory.” The Persian army disappeared at nightfall. Their casualties were three to our one. But the men were frightened. The business of the Persian spy had particularly alarmed them. How far out of the way had he taken us? Wouldn’t it be betterif riskier—to follow the crooked Tigris north? All these questions were addressed to Julian whenever he appeared among the troops. But he seemed confident as always.
“Where?” Where indeed!
Julian Augustus
23 June
We are now eight miles from the Tigris. I have decided to follow the river north, though that is the longest and most dangerous route, since we shall have to pass many fortresses. Even so, I am alarmed by this wilderness. We have no idea where we are. The advantage is entirely the enemy’s. We are short of food. I have ordered my own supplies given to the men. Ormisda tells me that the Great King is again ready to make peace on terms still favourable to us. Ormisda advises me to accept the treaty. This alarms me most. If Ormisda has given up his dream of the Persian throne, the war is lost.
Julian Augustus
25 June
There seems to be a tacit truce between the Persians and us. They have completely vanished. We are remaining in camp, tending to the wounded, repairing armour, getting ready for the long journey north.
I feel like Xenophon, who also went this way.
A while ago I fell asleep while reading The March Upcountry. So deep was my sleep that I did not realize I was dreaming (usually I do). I thought I was wide awake. I was even aware of the oil lamp sputtering as insects passed through its flame and burned. Suddenly I felt someone watching me. I looked up and there at the door to the tent was the tall figure of a man with head veiled; in one hand he held the horn of plenty. At first, I tried to speak, but could not-tried to rise but could not. For a long moment the spectre looked at me sadly. Then without a word the figure turned and left my tent, and I awakened, cold as a corpse. I leapt to my feet and crossed to the tent opening. I looked out. Except for the sleepy sentry no one was in sight. Small fires glowed in the darkness. I looked up just as a star fell in the west; it came from on high, flared briefly, then vanished.
I awakened Callistrus. “Fetch me Maximus. And Mastara. Quickly.”
When they arrived, I told them about the star. I showed them exactly where it had fallen in the sky.
Mastara interpreted. “According to the book of Tages, when a meteor is seen to fall in time of war, no battle must be undertaken for twenty-four hours, nor a move of any kind.”
I turned to Maximus. “Well, at least it was not my star.”
Maximus was reassuring, but Mastara was firm. “One thing is certain. You must remain here in camp another day.”
“But I have given orders. Tomorrow we cross to the Tigris.”
“You asked me, Highest Priest, for the word of Tages and I have given it.”
I allowed Mastara to go. Then I told Maximus of the dream. He was troubled. “Are you so certain the figure was Rome?”
“Yes. I saw him once before, in Parris, when he ordered me to take the purple.”
Maximus frowned. “It could of course be a demon. They are everywhere in this cursed land. Why, even as I walked here tonight, I felt them all about me, tugging at my beard, my staff, testing my power.”
“This was not a demon. It was the Spirit of Rome. And he abandoned me.”
“Don’t say that! After all, in three weeks we shall be home. You can raise a new army. Then you shall complete Alexander’s work…”
“Perhaps.” Suddenly I found myself tired of Maximus. He means to be helpful, but he is not always right. He is not a god; nor am I.
Much against his wish, I sent him away. Before he left, he begged me not to break camp tomorrow.
But I told him we must move on no matter what the omens tell us.
Callistus is polishing my armour. He says the breastplate straps are broken, but he will have the armourer fix them before we leave tomorrow. The deaf mute sits at my feet. He plays a Lydian song, very old and very strange; yet one can recognize the voice of Dionysos in the melody. To think, the god sings to us still, though the golden age is gone and the sacred groves deserted.
For an hour I walked among the tents, unobserved by the men.
I gather strength from the army. They are my life, the element in which I have my being. That is the final irony. I who wanted to live at Athens as a student have been eight years a general. Such is fate.
I paused at Anatolius’s tent. Through the flap, I could see Anatolius and Priscus playing draughts. I nearly spoke to them. But then I realized that I am hardly the best of company tonight. So instead I sat in front of my tent, watching the sky. My own star bums bright as ever. If it were not for tonight’s troubling dream, I would be content. Without reinforcements, we have done all that we could do in this place. But what’s to be done with Victor and the Galileans? Nevitta tells me that I am not safe. Yet what can they do to me? If I am openly murdered, the Gauls and Franks will slaughter the Asiatics. If secretly… but when an emperor dies suddenly in his youth it is not secret. No, they do not dare strike at me, yet. Curious, as I lie here on the lion bed, I think of something Mardonius once told Gallus and me Priscus: That is the last entry, broken off by sleep, and then by death.