XX

The Journal of Julian Augustus

*Callinicum on the Euphrates, *

27 March 363

Waiting for the fleet. They should have been here when we arrived. Callinicum is a rich city, strongly fortified. Morale is good. Dictating this while riding in a carriage to the river. Today is the festival of the Mother of the Gods. There is a great ceremony at Rome. I hold a small one here. The sun is hot. People crowd about the carriage. I dictate to the secretary. I wave to the crowd. I am in ceremonial vestments.

Maximus and Priscus are with me. The local priests are waiting at the river bank. The people who crowd around are dark-skinned with long thin arms that reach towards me like the tentacles of some twisting vine. They chatter, shrill as Egyptians.

Priscus: This is the first entry. Most of the journal is written in Julian’s own hand. He usually wrote late at night, after he had finished dictating his memoir. I recall this particular day in Callinicum as one of the “good days”. They were so few that each is relatively vivid in my mind.

Several thousand people lined the Euphrates when we arrived for the ceremony. A few were pious, most were merely curious. The Euphrates is a broad muddy river set in rolling country, at this season green.

Julian handled the ceremonies with his usual efficiency. This particular bit of nonsense involved the immersion and ritual washing of the carriage in which the image of the goddess is carried. Julian was thoroughly soaked but happy as he carried out his duties as Pantifex Maximus. Later he gave us dinner (if mashed beans, native bread and fresh tough venison can be called dinner) in the prefect’s house. We were all in excellent spirits.

As I wrote you in one of my letters (at least I think I wrote you: I often don’t remember nowadays whether something I meant to say I did say or not), the generals were seldom a part of Julian’s inner circle. For one thing, they don’t stay up late; while Aristotle, as the beautiful Arintheus so often used to say, makes the military head ache. Nevertheless, these particular officers were superior men; and of course three of them became emperors.

The generals fell in two categories. The Christian-Asiatics and the Hellenist-Europeans. The first group had been loyal to Constantius; the second to Julian.

For the record, I give you my impression of the principal commanders.

The Asiatics

Count Victor: In appearance, a typical Sarmatian, short, bandylegged, with a large head, pale eyes slanted like a Hun’s. He spoke both Greek and Latin with a barbarous accent. A devout Christian, he was profoundly contemptuous of Julian’s philosopher friends. I always mistrusted him.

Arintheus: Julian has described him. Once his beauty has been noted, there is not much else to say.

He and Victor led the Christian party.

Jovian: An extraordinarily tall man, even taller than I—or would have been had he ever stood up straight. He tended to eat and drink too much, though he never gained weight. He had the reputation for being stupid, and I see no reason for altering this common judgment. Jovian was well connected, which largely explains his later moment of glory. His father was the famous general Varronian, and his wife was the daughter of the egregious Count Lucillianus. I am told that Jovian had a monstrous childhood, living under “field conditions” until he was seventeen. Old Varronian was an insufferable martinet. Jovian commanded the household troops.

The Europeans

Nevitta: He was a large man, red-faced, blue-eyed, perhaps forty years old at the time. He was an illiterate boor but a fine soldier and completely loyal to Julian. Even so, we all hated him. To his credit he hated no one. We were beneath his contempt. Dagalaif: He was an amiable sort. Stocky and fair (are all good soldiers blond? shall we offer this as a topic of debate for our students?), Dagalaif spoke excellent Greek and Latin. He was a marvellous cavalryman and much of Julian’s legendary swiftness was due to Dagalaif’s ability to manceuvre men and horses. He used to ask me for reading lists. He longed to be civilized. Three years later, when he was made consul, he wrote me a panegyric, with surprisingly few mistakes.

Salutius Secundus: A mild, elderly man. We got on famously, though he had almost no conversation.

In that sea of youth our grey hairs and ageing muscles called out to one another, like to like. As praetorian prefect he spared Julian many tedious details. He was an excellent administrator who would have made an admirable emperor.

Among others of the court, I should mention the chief marshal, Anatolius, a nice fat little man who managed to create quite a lot of confusion in a position where one is supposed to make order. Also, the notary Phosphorius, whose family forced him to enter the civil service. Solely through merit and hard work he rose to a place on the Consistory; his career was unique. I have never known another like it. As for Julian’s philosopher friends, you met them all at Antioch. The only new addition was the Etruscan high priest Mastara. He was exactly what you might think.

On the march, we would usually make camp at sundown. As soon as Julian’s tent was raised, we would dine with him, Maximus and I, and sometimes one or another of the commanders. At first Julian was in marvellous spirits. He had every reason to be. Sapor was demoralized at the speed of our attack.

The weather was good. The countryside was rich in grain that soon would come to harvest. All things promised well, except the omens.

Julian’s tent was a plain affair, necessarily large ‘but simply furnished, not half so comfortable as the tent of any of his generals. As I recall, there were two large folding tables, a number of folding chairs, stools, and several large chests containing state papers and the small library Julian always travelled with.

There were several tripod lamps, although seldom was more than one lit at a time. Julian wondered if he was mean: yes, he was mean, but compared to the lavish waste of his predecessors this was a virtuous fault. In a corner, his black lion-skinned bed was screened by a woven Persian rug.

Julian was invariably dictating when we presented ourselves. He would smile at us and indicate that we sit down without once breaking the flow of his thought. He did an amazing amount of work, nearly all of it necessary. He conducted a lot of business usually left to notaries or eunuchs. When he had completely exhausted one set of secretaries, he would send for another. All complained that he dictated too fast. And he did, as if he suspected there was hardly time to put on paper all the ideas he h.ad in his brain. We know his famous postscripts, No sooner was a letter sealed than he would have it opened again so that he could scribble some afterthought in his own hand, apologizing with his usual phrase, “I write fast, without taking breath.” His fingers were always black with ink by the time we arrived for supper.

Before we ate, Maximus or I would read him Homer and he would wash his hands in a plain earthen jug, listening all the time. The meal was always simple. But then you know his crotchets about food. I usually had another dinner later that night. I am sure Maximus ate before. Sometimes we would be joined by Salutius, an intelligent man for a general, or by Arintheus, whom I always thought a bore.

Incidentally, Arintheus was in Athens several years ago. I was shocked to see him. He is now stout and bald, and though he was no favourite of mine, I nearly wept at what time had done. But tears were stopped by his conversation, which had undergone no change. When he saw me at the proconsul’s reception, he gave a loud empty laugh and shouted across the room in a voice hoarse from battle and wine, “That Aristotle of yours still makes my head ache!” And that I’m afraid is all that passed between us after so many years and so much history.

As I have said, the philosophers and warriors seldom mingled. That night in Callinicum was one of the few occasions when Julian’s two worlds confronted one another.

I sat in a corner and watched Julian play his various roles. Up to a point, we all tend to assume different masks with different people. But Julian changed completely with each person. With the Gallic soldiers, he became a harsh-voiced, loud-laughing Gaul. With the Asiatics, he was graceful but remote, another Constantius. Not until he turned to a philosopher friend was he himself. Himself? We shall never know which was the true Julian, the abrupt military genius or the charming philosophy-mad student. Obviously he was both. Yet it was disquieting to watch him become a stranger before one’s eyes, and an antipathetic one at that. I was joined in my corner by Victor. He asked if he could sit down.

I beamed fatuously. Why are we all so physically awed by soldiers? “By all means, Count,” I dithered. He sat down heavily; he smelled of wine but he was not drunk.

“You’re a long way from the Academy at Athens.” he said.

I agreed. “But then Gaul was a long way, too, and the Battle of Strasbourg.” Silently I cursed myself for having boasted of a military career. The ideal philosopher would have conducted the conversation entirely in his own terms; he would never compete in an alien field. But then I am not the ideal philosopher. Everyone says so.

“Yes… Gaul,” he said, as though that were enough. I could not divine his mood or attitude. We were both silent, watching Maximus as he held a number of the young officers spellbound with some nonsense or other. His flowing beard was exquisitely combed and he wore a robe of saffron-yellow silk, the gift of a magician in China, or so he said. He probably found it in the market at Antioch.

“Can you make your gods appear?” asked Victor suddenly, “the way he does?” Because Victor would not dignify Maximus by giving him a name, my heart went out to him, briefly.

“No,” I said. “The gods rather leave me alone. But then I make no effort to talk to them.”

“Do you believe?” He spoke with such passionate urgency that I turned to look at him. I have never seen such cold eyes as those which stared at me beneath thick pale brows. It was like coming face to face with a lion.

“Believe in what?”

“Christ.”

“I believe that he existed.” I was myself again. “But I don’t think of him as a god.”

Victor was again the Roman commander. “It will be a long campaign,” he said, as though speaking of the weather. “But we shall win it.”

Julian Augustus

3 April

We are at Circesium, ninety-eight miles south of Callinicum. We have been here two days. All goes well.

On 28 March while I was still at Callinicum, four tribes of Saracens appeared at the city’s gate. Their princes wished to speak to me. Now the Saracens are among the most savage and unreliable of this world’s races. They live in tents in the desert. They never build so much as a hut nor till an acre of ground. Restlessly, they roam through the deserts of Assyria, Egypt, Morocco. They live on game, wild birds, whatever grows of itself. Few have tasted grain or wine. They love warfare, but on their own terms. They are good at striking swiftly (their ponies and camels are especially bred for fleetness), but since they fight only for plunder, they are useless in a formal engagement. They are best at scouting and harassing an enemy.

Salutius did not want me to see them. “They will offer to help you. Then they will make the same offer to Sapor—if they haven’t already—and betray you both.”

“So we shall be on our guard.” I was not in the least disturbed. I received the Saracen princes. They are small, sinewy, dark from the sun. They wear full cloaks to their knees. Beneath their cloaks, they wear only leather drawers. Of the dozen princes, only one could speak Greek.

“We come, Lord, to pay homage to the ruler of the world.” The Saracen then motioned to one of his fellows, who gave him an object wrapped in silk. The prince removed the silk to reveal a heavy gold crown. Hermes knows what king lost it to them. I took the crown and made them a little speech, to which the prince replied, “Lord, we wish to fight beside you in your war against Sapor. Our courage is known to all the desert. Our loyalty to our ruler is so far beyond that of the merely human that it partakes of the divine…” Salutius cleared his throat but I did not dare look at him. “Therefore, Lord, with us beside you in the desert, you need never fear…”

At that moment Nevitta broke into the meeting, to the horror of Anatolius. “Caesar, the fleet is here!” I’m afraid we all behaved like excited children. I turned the Saracens over to Salutius. Then, followed by the entire Consistory, I made my way to the docks where, as far as the eye could see, the river was filled with ships. 50 W.S., 64 P.B., 1403 C.S., Ct. Luc.

Priscus: This entry breaks off here. The abbreviations mean that there were 50 ships of war, 64

pontoon boats used for making bridges, 1403 cargo ships containing food, weapons, foundries, siege engines; Count Lucillianus was in charge of the fleet. As you will recall, he was the commander at Sirmium whom Dagalaif captured in the middle of the night. Though he was a ridiculous creature, Julian used him because he was an important strand in that web of men and families which governs the world. Despite the vastness of the empire, the actual rulers are a small, close-knit family. Every general knows or has heard of every other general, and they talk of nothing else except, “How is old Marcellus?

still with the same wife? got a different post?”

Lucillianus was waiting at the fiver bank when Julian and the Consistory arrived. He greeted Julian with meticulous ceremony and formally turned the fleet over to him. Suddenly Dagalaif said,

“Lucillianus, where’s your nightshirt?” Everyone laughed except Julian, who muttered, “Shut up, Dagalaif.” I noticed that Lucillianus’s son-in-law Jovian scowled. He was less than amused.

Julian Augustus

4 April

I have been working for three hours on my memoir. It is nearly dawn. My voice is hoarse. The secretaries have just gone. I scribble these random notes. We are still at Circeslum. It is a large city, well

fortified by Diocletian. The city occupies a promontory between the Euphrates River and the place where the Abora River empties into the Euphrates. The Abora is the traditional border between Rome and Persia. Circesium is our last important outpost. From now on we shall be in enemy country.

All night the troops have been crossing the river. The engineers are complaining because the river is swollen with spring rains. But engineers always complain. So far their pontoon bridge is holding. Scouts report no sign of the Persian army. The Saracens tell me that Sapor is astonished at the suddenness of our attack. Apparently, he did not expect us until May. That means he has not yet assembled his army.

All of this is marvellous for us. Yet I am not so energetic and hopeful as I ought to be. For one thing, I have just received a long letter from Sallust at Paris. He is unimpressed by the good omens. He begs me not to cross into Persia. Like Libanius, he wishes I would remain at Constantinople and execute the reforms I have proposed. As usual he puts his case superbly, and I am thoroughly depressed.

Tonight I sent away everyone except Maximus. I showed him what Sallust had written, remarking that since Sallust was seldom wrong when it came to politics, we ought at least to consider his advice.

Maximus agreed. He praised Sallust at extraordinary length and I wonder how I had ever got the impression they were not friends. For almost an hour Maximus and I discussed the pros and cons of the Persian campaign. We agreed it must continue; although Maximus pointed out that there were any number. of precedents for assembling an army and then not using it. Constantius used to do this every year, maintaining that the assembling of an army is in itself a deterrent; perhaps it is.

“But then of course Sallust does not know what we know,” I said at last, referring to Maximus’s vision of Cybele.

“There is something else he does not know.” Maximus fixed me with those luminous eyes which have looked upon so many secret and forbidden things. “Something I have not told even you.”

There was a long silence. I knew Maximus well enough not to hurry him. I waited, heart’s blood pounding in my ears. Maximus got to his feet. The robe of yellow silk fell about him in hieratic folds. In the wavering lamplight he cast a huge shadow on the wall. I felt the imminence of some extraordinary force, that premonitory chill which signals the approach of deity. To ward off demons, Maximus drew a circle around us with his staff. Then he spoke.

“Last night, at the darkest hour, I summoned from the depths of Tartarus, Persephone herself, the Queen of all the Dead that are and ever shall be.”

The lamps flickered; his shadow danced upon the wall; though the night was warm, I shivered with cold.

“I asked her the one question that must not be asked, but since the question concerned not me but you, not you but Rome, not Rome but the worship of the gods, I believed that I could ask this awful question without incurring the wrath of the Furies, or tangling the web of Fate.”

I knew the question. I waited. I could hardly breathe. Maximus drew precautionary symbols on the floor, murmuring spells as he did.

“I asked: ‘Dread Queen of Tartarus, tell me the place where your loyal son Julian will meet his death.’”

Maximus suddenly stopped. His hand went to his throat. He choked; he stumbled; only by clutching at his staff was he able to keep from falling. Something invisible wrestled with him. I did not move to help him for fear of breaking the power of the circle he had drawn. At last he was free. “Demons,” he whispered. “But we have the highest power. Helios is our shield…. Persephone said, ‘While all men mourn and all gods rejoice at a new hero come to Olympus, our beloved son Julian will die in Phrygia.’”

Maximus’s voice faded as though from great weariness. I sat very still, cold as my own Phrygian death. Then Maximus clapped his hands and said in a matter-of-fact voice, “We are quite a long way from Phrygia, my dear fellow.”

I laughed weakly, from relief. “And if I have my way, I shall never set foot in that province again.” I then told Maximus that I had been told the same thing by Sosipatra. He was most surprised. He had not known.

“In any case, you see now—why I am not concerned by Sallust’s letter. Persephone has spoken to us.

You know what few men have ever known, the place of your death.”

“And the hour?”

“… impossible, for that would be an affront to Fate herself. But we do know that you will survive the Persian campaign. If you survive it, that means you will have conquered.”

“Like Alexander!” In a rush my confidence was restored. Am I not Alexander come again to finish the great work of bringing to the barbarous East the truth of Hellas? We cannot fail now.

Priscus: That was Maximus at his very best, and further proof that Sosipatra and Maximus were in league together. Maximus should have been an actor. But then he was an actor, and Julian was his devoted audience.

I don’t remember much else about Circesium except that a supply master was executed because the grain barges he had promised for 4 April did not arrive. An hour after the wretch was put to death, the barges were sighted. It was an unpleasant business and Salutius, who had ordered the execution, was most unhappy at what he had done.

At dawn the next day, unable to sleep, I walked to the river bank where Salutius sat in his praetorian prefect’s chair, while the army laboriously crossed the pontoon bridge into Assyria, as that part of Persia is called. I remember that cool dawn as though it were today’s. A pale pink light in the east, the Abora River muddy and swollen, the cavalry on the bridge, horses shying, men cursing, armour rattling. As far as the eye could see men waited, their armour gleaming like stars in the first light, their voices unnaturally subdued, even apprehensive, for it had been many years since a Roman army had pursued the Great King into his own land. I sat on a stool beside Salutius while aides came to him at regular intervals: could the Tertiaci Legion cross before the Victores, who weren’t ready? in what order were the siege engines to be moved? were the Saracens to cross now with the cavalry or later with the infantry?

Patiently, Salutius kept all things in order.

In between messengers, we chatted. I asked him bluntly what he thought of the campaign. He shrugged. “Militarily, we have nothing to fear from the Persians.” He indicated the legions about us.

“These are the best soldiers in the world, and the Emperor is the best general. We shall beat them in every battle.”

“But they avoid battles. And this is their country. They know how to harass an enemy.”

“Even so, we are the superior force. Only…”

“Only?” Salutius studied the list of legions which rested on his lap. “Only?” I repeated.

But at that moment a centurion rode up, cursing the Saracens, who insisted on crossing at the same time as the cavalry “with those damned wild horses of theirs!” Salutius soothed the man, effected a compromise, by which time a notary had come to tell me that the Emperor wished me to attend him. As I left, Salutius said, “Be on your guard, Priscus. We are not safe.” An understatement, as it turned out.

Julian Augustus 6 April

I crossed the Abora River yesterday afternoon. As Highest Priest I made sacrifice to Zeus. All omens were good except one: my horse nearly rode over the body of a quartermaster who had been executed by order of the praetorian prefect. Luckily, one of my aides pulled the horse to one side, nearly unseating me in the process.

We then rode some fifteen miles to a village called Zaitha, which means “olive tree” in Persian. The

day was cool, and our spirits were high. Miles before we got to Zaitha we could see its principal monument, the tall circular mausoleum built for the Emperor Gordian. In 242 Gordian conducted a successful campaign against the Persians. Two years later he was murdered by his own men, who had been incited to mutiny by an Arab named Philip who became—briefly—emperor. A sad story, and typical. How often have emperors won great victories and saved the state only to be struck down by an unsuspected rival! Gordian decisively defeated the Persian king at Resaina, only to be murdered by Philip. As a result, a lasting victory over Persia was promptly thrown away by that pusillanimous Arab who wanted only to loot an empire gained by murder.

We stopped for an hour at the tomb, which is in good repair since the Persians respect monuments to the dead, while the roving Saracens fear all buildings. I offered a sacrifice to Gordian’s spirit and prayed that I be spared his fate. I must get a biography of him.

I know almost nothing of his life, except of course that he was a friend of Plotinus. Maximus says Gordian still haunts this part of the world, demanding vengeance. Unhappy spirit!

While we were still at the tomb, Nevitta got me to one side. He was troubled because, “The men believe this is the first time Romans have ever invaded Persia. They believe that…” he gestured to include all the south… “this country has a spell on it.”

We were standing in the shadow of the tomb. I reached out my hand and touched the rough-hewn tufa. “Here is the proof that we have been in Persia before.”

“Exactly, Emperor. They say that this old emperor was killed by Persian demons because he dared to cross the Abora River. They say lightning struck him dead. They say Persia is forbidden to us.”

I was astonished. Nevitta, who fears no man, is frightened of demons. I spoke to him as teacher to child. “Nevitta, Gordian defeated the Great King in a battle one hundred and twenty years ago. Then he was killed by his own men. The Persians had nothing to do with his death. They are not demons. They are men. Men can be defeated, especially Persians. We have defeated Persians many times before.”

Nevitta almost asked “when?” but then he thought better of it. After all, as a Roman consul he is expected to know something of Roman history. Yet as far as I know, he has never read a book of any kind, though in preparation for this campaign he told me, quite seriously, that he was studying Alexander. When I asked which biography he was reading, he said, Alexander and the Wicked Magician, a popular novel!

I reassured Nevitta. I told him about the victories of Lucullus, Pompey and Ventidius, Trajan, Verus and Severus. Apparently, these names had a somewhat familiar ring and he looked relieved, I did not of course mention our defeats. “50 tell the soldiers that their fear of the Persians is the result of Constantius’s fear of war.”

“You tell them, Emperor.” Nevitta is the only man who addresses me by that military title. “They don’t know these things. And there’s a lot of talk about how bad things are going to be.”

“The Galileans?”

Nevitta shrugged. “I don’t know who starts it. But there’s talk. You’d better give them one of your history lectures.” That is the closest Nevitta ever comes to humour. I laughed to show that I appreciated his attempt.

“I'11 speak to them when we get to Dura.” Nevitta saluted and started to go. I stopped him.

“It might be useful…” I began. But then—I don’t know why—I chose not to finish. “Tomorrow, Nevitta.”

He left me alone in the shadow of the tomb. I had meant to ask him to find out who was spreading rumours. But I thought better of it. Nothing destroys the spirit of an army more quickly than the use of secret agents and midnight interrogations. Even so, I have been warned. I must be on guard.

We set out for Dura. We were only a few miles south of Zaitha when two horsemen appeared from

the east, carrying something in a sling between them. At first I thought it was a man, but when they came close I saw that it was a dead lion of great size. Maximus whispered excitedly in my ear, “A king will die in Persia!” But I had already got the point to the omen quite on my own. I also refrained from making the obvious retort: “Which king?” But as this Persian lion was killed by Roman spears it seems likely that the Persian King Sapor will be killed by Roman arms.

This lion, incidentally, was the first I’d ever seen close to; even in death, he was terrifying, with teeth long as my thumb and yellow eyes still glaring with life’s hot rage. I ordered the lion skinned. I shall use its pelt for my bed.

As we continued towards Dura, the sun vanished, the sky turned grey, lightning flashed. A violent thunderstorm broke. We were all soaked and chilled by the rain, but we continued our march. Shortly before evening, Victor rode up to me. “Augustus, a soldier has been killed by lightning.” Though Victor is a Galilean he has the usual military man’s interest in omens. “The soldier was watering two horses at the river when the storm broke. He was just about to lead them back to his cohort when he was struck by lightning. He was killed instantly.”

“What was his name?”

“Jovian, Augustus.” I pretended to take this merely as an added detail. “Bury him,” I said, and rode on. Maximus was the first to speak. “The sign is ambiguous. The fact he is named after the king of the gods, the thunderer Jove himself, does not necessarily mean that a king is involved.” But I did not listen.

This was a matter for the Etruscans.

We made camp on the outskirts of Dura, a long-deserted town whose houses of brick are slowly returning to the dust from which they were shaped by dead hands. The streets were empty except for herds of deer. I allowed the men to kill as many as they could for food. It was an amusing sight to see our best archers and cavalrymen careering through muddy streets in pursuit of the deer, who promptly fled to the river and, like seasoned troops obeying an agreed-upon plan, swam to the other side. In midstream the bargemen killed many of them with their oars.

That night Maximus, Priscus and I dined on fresh venison in my tent. Afterward we were joined by the Etruscan priests. Their chief is an elderly man named Mastara. He is held in high regard at Rome, where he used to be consultant to the senate. I record here, privately, that Mastara has been against this campaign from the beginning. He even interpreted the killing of the lion as unfavourable to me.

In general, the Etruscan religion is well known; in particular, it is obscure. From the beginning of time, the genius of the Etruscan religion has been its peculiar harmony with the natural forces of creation. The first revelation is known to all. Tages, a divine child, appeared in the field of a peasant named Tarchon, and dictated to him a holy book which is the basis of their religion. Later Vegoia, a young goddess, appeared during a ceremony to the thunder god and gave the priests a second book which contained instructions on how to interpret heavenly signs, particularly lightning. According to this book, the sky is divided into sixteen parts, each sacred to a particular god (though the same god may at times influence a section not his own). One can discover which god has manifested himself by the direction from which the lightning comes, the angle at which it strikes, and of course the place where it strikes. Mastara wasted no time. He had already analysed the death of the soldier Jovian. “Highest Priest, the lightning came from the ninth house.” I knew what this meant even before he interpreted it.

“The house of Ares. The house of war. At the eleventh hour Ares struck down the soldier Jovian beside the river to our west. That means a soldier from the west, a king, will be killed late in a war. We are now making projections as to the exact day and hour of this king’s death. By tomorrow we should be able to tell you when this… warning shall become fact.”

There it was. We were all quite still for several moments. Maximus sat opposite me, hand wound in his beard, eyes shut as though listening to some voice within. Priscus shifted his long frame uneasily on a

hard bench. The Etruscans were motionless, their eyes downcast.

“The king,” I said at last, " could be Sapor."

“Highest Priest, Sapor does not come from the west.”

“Nor do I, to be exact.” I was ready to quibble as people always do when a prophecy has gone against them. “I come from the north. The only kings hereabout who are from the west are the Saracen princes.

My own interpretation is that one of them will die in battle.”

“Then shall we continue with our projection, Highest Priest?”

Mastara did not show emotion. He was a priest speaking to his superior, correct, demure, obedient.

“No,” I said firmly. “I see no need. But to the extent that the army is apt to hear of your first interpretation, I must ask you to allow the second—and correct—interpretation to be generally known.”

Mastara bowed. He and his priests departed. Priscus gave that dry chuckle of his. “I see now why the early emperors always insisted on being Highest Priest, too.”

“I don’t think I misinterpreted the sign.” But realizing this sounded weak, I turned to Maximus for help. He opened his eyes. Then he leapt to his feet and turned first west then east then north then south.

“Not even a Saracen!” he said abruptly. “Africa. Mauretania. There is the doomed king.”

At first I wondered if perhaps Maximus was not trying deliberately to raise my spirits, but as he was in such an exuberant mood for the rest of the evening I now believe him. I have just written a letter to Sallust, asking him to send me news of the Mauretanian kings.

It is daybreak. I have not slept in twenty-four hours, nor will I sleep for another twelve. We must be on the march within the hour. I hear my servant Callistus outside the tent, giving the guam the password. I must now make notes for the speech I give to the troops today. My head is empty. My eyes burn. How to begin?

Priscus: The speech was a success. If Julian was tired, he did not show it. Incidentally, in his description of that seance with the Etruscans he omits my remark to him, “What is the point of listening to soothsayers, if you won’t believe what they tell you?” But Julian was very like the Christians who are able to make their hol7 book endorse anything they want it to.

Julian’s speech had a good effect. In the briefest but most convincing way, he explained to the men how often Roman armies had won victories in this country and he warned them against listening to defeatists, particularly those who had been set among us by the Persians, whose cunning and treachery he emphasized. When he finished, there was a great racket of approval. The Gauls were vociferous, but the eastern legions were unenthusiastic, par. ticularly Victor’s cavalry. I mentioned this later to Julian.

Yes, he had noticed it, too. “But they don’t know me. The Gauls do. When they’ve won a few battles and looted a few cities they will love their leader.” Julian the practical soldier, not the Hellenic humanist!

Julian Augustus

14 April

L. Arin., Orm., Cav.; R. Nev. Tert., Pet., C.; C. inf. J… Dag., Vic.; Van. 1500 sc.; Pyrr.; Luc. fleet; Anatha island: Luc. 1000. Waiting. Cyb. Mith. Her.

Priscus: I think I can interpret this entry. Julian is noting for himself our military order during the march south. On the right, skirting the river bank, Nevitta commanded the Tertiaci, Petulantes and Celts. In the centre Julian commanded the main part of the infantry—the baggage and the philosophers

were also in the centre. On the left—or east—Arintheus and Ormisda commanded the cavalry. Though Ormisda was an infantry general, in the field there is a good deal of shifting back and forth of high-ranking officers. Dagalaif and Victor brought up the rear, while 1,500 mounted scouts ranged the countryside before us. Lucillianus commanded the fleet which accompanied us downriver.

“Anatha island: Luc 1000?” refers to the first Persian stronghold we came to, a heavily fortified island in the middle of the river, four days’ march from Dura. Julian sent Lucillianus with a thousand light-armed troops to make a night landing under the walls of the fortress. As there was also a heavy mist that evening, Julian hoped to take the island by surprise. But at dawn the mist suddenly lifted and a Persian soldier sent out to draw water, seeing Lucillianus’s men, shouted a warning and that was the end of Julian’s surprise attack.

A few hours later, Julian crossed over to the island. One look at those huge walls decided him against a siege. He would have to take the fort by other means. Incidentally, this was to be his policy during the whole campaign. Between the Roman border and Ctesiphon—a distance of more than three hundred miles—there were a dozen fortresses and walled cities. Julian had the power to take any one of them but at the cost of weeks’ or even months’ delay. He could not afford this. So he chose to isolate the fortresses, knowing that once the Great King fell all the cities would be his. Julian sent word to the governor of Anatha that he would spare the lives of the garrison if they surrendered. The governor asked for a parley with Ormisda. Julian describes this in the next entry.

“Waiting.” These notes were made late in the night of the fourteenth when Lucillianus was still hidden on the island.

“Cyb. Mith. Her.” A prayer: Cybele, Mithras, Hermes.

Julian Augustus

15 April

Anatha has surrendered! Our first victory on Persian soil. At noon the governor of the island, Pusaeus, asked me to send him Ormisda to work out the details of the surrender. I confess I was nervous while awaiting the outcome of the conference. Pusaeus could so easily murder Ormisda. But less than an hour after Ormisda entered the fortress, the gates swung open and a garlanded ox was led forth by a Persian priest as sign of peace. There was a great cheer from our legions. Then Ormisda and the governor appeared Pusaeus is a dark intense man, reputedly a good soldier (why else would he have been entrusted with this important fort?). He saluted me as he would have saluted the Great King, flat on his belly. Then, face full of dust, he asked me what I intended to do with the inhabitants of the town.

I motioned to Anatolius and his notaries to join us. Then I said,

“Governor, since you have shown yourself friendly to us and honourable in your dealings, we shall, at our own expense, move your people to Syria, to the city of Chalcis, where they will be able to live as they have lived here.”

He thanked me warmly, his head rolling about in the dirt until I told him to get up. Pusaeus then asked me if I would take him into the Roman army. I turned to Ormisda. “Should I?”

Ormisda’s face is a sea of delicate responses; by the slightest quiver of a brow or the flaring of a nostril he is able to communicate without words. The face said: beware! The voice said, “Yes, but perhaps not here, perhaps with a garrison in Spain or Egypt.”

So I made Pusaeus a tribune and posted him to Egypt.

All this took place in the main square of Anatha, a town of wood and thatch and mud brick, exactly like every other town, Persian or Roman, in this part of the world. While we talked, the people passed by us. The women balanced rolls of bedding and clothing on their heads while the men carfled weapons

and cooking utensils. Suddenly a frail old man, supported by two women, approached us. He gave me the Roman salute and said in soldierLatin: “Maximanus, foot soldier with the Ziannis, reporting for duty.” He stood shakily at attention. I looked at him with wonder.

“Where are you from? Who are you?”

“A Roman soldier, General. In the army of Galerius Augustus.”

Salutius said flatly, “That’s impossible. It’s a hundred years since Galerius died.”

“No, Prefect,” said the old man (he still knew a praetorian prefect when he saw one), “Galerius was here sixty-six years ago. And I was with him. I was eighteen years old. I’d enlisted at Philippopolis in Thrace. We won great victories here.”

“But why are you still here?” Easily the most fatuous question one could ask a man in his eighties.

But I was quite overwhelmed by this relic of another age.

“I fell ill with the fever. My tribune, Decius—never got on with him—thought I was going to die. So he left me here with a family who said they’d bury me properly when the time came. Then the army left.”

He laughed, an old rooster cackling. “Well, they haven’t buried me yet. You can see that, I guess! And they’re all gone: Galerius, Decius, Marius… he was a good friend, but got the pox… he’s gone, too. So the family here that was willing to bury me took me in and I married two of their daughters. Both good girls. Dead now. These are later wives.” He indicated the women who stood, ready to support him should he stumble.

“General, I beg one fayour.”

“Whatever I can grant,” I said.

“I have sworn that I would die on Roman soil and be buried in Roman earth. Send me back to Thrace.”

“So be it, soldier.” I motioned for Anatolius to arrange the matter. The old man then kissed my hand and I looked ‘down with wonder at the back of his shrivelled neck, lined as old parchment and burned dark by the fierce suns of nearly a century. What must it be like to have lived so long? With some difficulty, his wives got him to his feet. He was breathing hard from the exertion. He looked at me curiously.

“You are the Emperor of Rome, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “Do you doubt it?”

“No, no, Lord. They told me that the Roman general was also the Emperor and that’s when I advised the town council to surrender. ‘You haven’t a chance,’ I said, ’not when there’s an Emperor on the loose and the Great King out there, hidden in the desert, frightened out of his wits. Better surrender,’ I said.

Didn’t I, Pusaeus?”

“Yes, Augustus, he did say so.”

“This Pusaeus is married to a grandchild of mine, which makes him part-way to being Roman.

They’re a good people, you know, the Persians. I hate to see them hurt.”

“We shall be as merciful as we can.”

“I’ve had a good life here.” He looked about him vaguely. Then his eye caught on the standard of the Ziannis. “There’s my legion! I must talk to those boys. I knew their fathers, grandfathers anyway. Yes…”

He started to walk off but then, recalling me, he stopped. “Thank you, General.”

“Thank you, soldier, for remaining loyal to Rome all these years.”

“You know, General… Lord, I don’t follow too much what happens in the world outside of the province here because there’s so little news and what there is makes no sense because they’re capital liars, the Persians. They can’t help it, you know, they don’t mean any harm by it. It’s just their way. But I did hear word of a great emperor who they call Constantine. That’s not you, is it?”

“No, but there was such an emperor and he was my uncle.”

“Yes, yes.” The old man was not listening. He frowned, trying to recall something. “There was also this young officer who was with us in 297… well-connected, he was, his name was Constantine, too. I often wondered if it was the same fellow. Do you know if he was?”

Constantine had indeed served one year with Galerius in Persia. I nodded. “It could have been the same,” I said.

“He looked a bit like you, only he was clean-shaven. A nice enough young chap, though we none of us thought he’d ever make a soldier, liked the girls and the soft life too much, but who doesn’t?” He sighed contentedly. “So now I’ve seen three emperors, and I’ll die on Roman soil. And where’s the tribune Decius, I ask you? who used to give me such a hard time and left me here to die? Where is he?

who remembers him, after all these years? But I’m alive and I’ve been talking to the Emperor, to Julius himself! Now that’s a great thing, isn’t it? So if you’ll excuse me, General, I want to go chat with those Thracian lads; maybe one is a grandchild to Marius, though they say when they get the pox it makes the children stillborn or worse. He was a lovely friend, Marius.”

The old man saluted me and, helped by the two old wives, he slowly crossed the square to the place where the standard of the Ziannis had been set up. I was much moved by this encounter, even though I had been called Julius!

When all the inhabitants had left Anatha, we set fire to the town. Then I returned to our camp on the river bank to be greeted by the Saracens, who had just captured a number of Persian guerrilla fighters in the act of raiding our supplies. I gave the Saracens money to show my pleasure, and told them to continue to be on the alert. I also asked if the Saracen princes were safe. Yes. It is late at night. I am pleasantly drowsy. Our first encounter with the enemy has been all that I could have wished it. If it were not for the rain which is falling and turning the floor of my tent to mud, I would be perfectly content.

Priscus: The rain that night was accompanied by winds. The next day, 16 April, at about the third hour, we were struck by a hurricane from the north. Tents were tipped by the wind, while the river, already swollen from spring rains, overflowed and several grain barges were wrecked. The dikes which control the flow of river water into irrigation ditches broke and some suspected the Persians of deliberately shutting the sluice gates in order to flood our camp. We shall never know if they did or not.

Anyway, after two wet wretched days, we moved on.

Julian was in good spirits. We all were. The first Persian stronghold was ours and the Great King’s army had vanished. It was too good to be true.

Our army was stretched out over ten miles, much the same trick Julian used when he came from Gaul, to give the impression of a mighty host. Julian rode either at the head or at the rear of the army, the two places most apt to be harassed by guerrillas, But we did not come up against the Persians for some days. They kept to the opposite side of the river, watching us. Whenever we made as though to cross, they would disappear in the thickets of wormwood. Yet they were very much on the alert. When one of the Gauls—for reasons of his own—crossed over, he was butchered and his head placed on a long pole in full view of our army.

Incidentally, I lost my tent in the storm and for three nights I was forced to share quarters with Maximus. We were not happy with one another. Among other bad habits, he talked in his sleep. The first night we slept together, I found his mumbling so unbearable that I woke him up.

“I? Talking in my sleep?” He looked at me blearily, silver beard tangled like fleece wool before carding, face stupid with sleep. Then he remembered himself. “But of course I was talking. It is in sleep I converse with the gods.”

“Then could you perhaps whisper to them? You’re keeping me awake.”

“I shall do my best.” He later complained to Julian that my coughing had kept him awake! But I coughed hardly at all considering that I had caught a very bad cold as a result of being soaked in the storm. Julian was much amused at the thought of our sharing the same quarters.

Julian Augustus

22 April

17 April, Thilutha, Achaiachalca. 18 April, abandoned fort burned. 20 April, Baraxmalcha, cross river 7 miles to Diacira. Temple. grain. salt. bitumen springs. deserted. burned. to Ozogardana. deserted.

burned. monument to Trajan. two days in camp. 22 April, attempt to ambush Ormisda. Warning.

Persian army gathering tonight.

Priscus: Between 17 April and 20 April we passed three island fortresses. The first was Thilutha, a mountain peak jutting out of the water with a stronghold on the top of it. Julian sent a messenger demanding surrender. The commandant sent back a most courteous answer. He would not surrender, but he swore to abide by the outcome of the Emperor’s war with the Great King. Since we could not waste time in a siege, we accepted the commandant’s reply. In return, the garrison saluted our fleet as it passed beneath the walls of the island. The same thing happened at Achaiachalca, another island fortress.

On 20 April we came to a deserted village called Baraxmalcha. At Ormisda’s suggestion we then crossed the river and marched seven miles inland to Diacira, a rich market centre. The city was odeserted when we arrived. Fortunately, the warehouses were filled with grain and, most important, salt. Outside the town wall, Nevitta’s soldiers found several women and put them to death. This did not sit well with me. I don’t know if Julian knew about these murders or not. He was ruthless when it came to punishing disobedience and treachery, but he was not cruel, unlike Nevitta and the Gauls, who liked blood for its own sake.

Diacira was burned, as was the near-by town of Ozogardana where, incidentally, we found the remains of a tribunal of Trajan. Julian made this relic centre to the camp that was pitched. We remained there for two days while the grain and salt taken from Diacira was loaded on to barges. During this time, Julian was busy with his generals and I did not see him at all.

I contented myself with the company of Anatolius (who was quite amusing, particularly about his failures as marshal of the court), the admirable Phosphorius, and Ammianus Marcellinus, whom I had met earlier at your house in Antioch. I liked him very much. He told me that we had first met at Rheims where he’d been on duty with one of Ursicinus’s legions, though I’m afraid I don’t recall that meeting.

As you know, Ammianus is writing a history of Rome which he plans to bring up to date. Brave man!

Some years ago he sent me an inscribed copy of the first ten books of his history, in Latin! Why he has chosen to write in that language, I don’t know. After all, he comes from Antioch, doesn’t he? And I seem to have got the impression that he was of good Greek family. But looking back, I can see that he was always something of a Romanophile. He used to spend most of his time with the European officers, and he rather disliked the Asiatics. As a historian, he has deliberately put himself in the line of Livy and Tacitus .rather than that of Herodotus and Thucydides, showing that there is no accounting for taste. He wrote me recently to say that he is living at Rome where, though he finds the literary world incredibly arid and pretentious, he means to make his mark. I wish him well. I haven’t read much of his history but he seems to write Latin easily, so perhaps he has made the right choice. But what a curious old-fashioned thing to want to be, a Roman historian! He tells me that he is in regular correspondence with you. So I

dare say the two of you will join forces when the time comes to publish the memoir.

The night of 22 April Ormisda was about to go reconnoitring when he was nearly ambushed by a cohort of the Persian army. Nobody knows how the Persians knew the exact hour he was to leave the camp, but they did. Ormisda was saved by the unexpected deepness of the river at that point. The enemy could not ford it owing to the rains.

“Warning.” I don’t know what Julian means by this. Perhaps a counterspy warned Ormisda at the last moment. Or someone warned Julian of a plot against his life.

“Persian army gathering tonight.” The next morning (23 April) we finally saw the Persian army.

Several thousand horsemen and archers were assembled a mile from our encampment. In the morning’s light their glittering chain mail made our eyes water. They were under the command of the Grand Vizier, who is second only to the Great King himself, a position somewhere between that of a Caesar and a praetorian prefect. Associated with the Vizier’s army was a large band of Assanatic Saracens, a tribe renowned for cruelty.

At the second hour, Julian engaged the enemy. After much manceuvring, he got his infantry into position some yards from the Persian archers. Then before they could fire, he gave the order for an infantry charge at quick march. This manceuvre startled the Persians just long enough for our men to neutralize their archers. Infantry shields were thrust against archers in such a way that the Persians could not take aim to fire. They broke and ran. The field was ours.

Julian was delighted. “Now our soldiers know the Persians are men just like ourselves!” He looked the perfect war god: face flushed, purple cloak stained with the blood of others, eyes bright with excitement. “Come along,” he shouted to Maximus and the philosophers who were now coming up to what had been the front line. “Let’s see the walls of Macepracta!”

None of us knew what Julian meant until he led us to a deserted village near the battlefield. Here we saw the remains of an ancient wall. Julian consulted a book. “This,” he said, “is part of the original Assyrian wall. Xenophon saw it when he was here 764 years ago.” Happily, our victorious general clambered over the stones, reading at the top of his voice from Xenophon’s March Upcountry. We all looked dutifully on what had been a ruin even then, so long ago, but I’m afraid that after the stimulus (and terror) of battle, no one was in a mood for sightseeing. Finally, Julian led us back to the river.

On the outskirts of the encampment, a legion of household troops were gathered around a rock on which stood their tribune, haranguing them. He was tall, thickly muscled, with fair hair. “… you fear the Persians! You say they are not men like us but demons! Don’t deny it! I’ve heard you whispering at night, like children afraid of the dark.”

The tribune’s voice was strong. His face was ruddy and his eyes were -what else? blue. We dark-eyed people have lost the world to those with eyes like winter ice. He spoke with a slight German accent. “But now you’ve seen these demons close to. You beat them in battle. Were they so fierce? So huge? So terrible?”

There was a low murmur from the men about him: no, the Persians had not been superhuman. The tribune was a splendid demagogue. I looked at Julian, who had bundled his cloak about his face as momentary disguise. He was watching the man with the alert interest of an actor or rhetorician studying a rival’s performance.

“No. They are men like us. But inferior men. Look!” The tribune motioned for one of his officers to step forward. The man was holding what looked at first to be a bundle of rags. But it was a dead Persian.

The officer tossed the body to the tribune. He caught it easily. The men gasped, impressed at the strength of these two men who handled a corpse as though it were a doll.

The tribune with one hand held up the body by the neck. The dead Persian was slight, with a thin black moustache and a fierce display of teeth. His armour had been stripped away and the remains were

clad only in a bloody tunic. “There he is! The Persian devil! This is what you were afraid of?” With his free hand, the tribune tore the tunic away, revealing a slight, almost childlike body with a black crescent beneath the breast-bone where a lance had entered.

The tribune shook the body, as a hunting dog will shake a hare.

“Are you afraid of this?” There was a loud response of “No!”

Then great laughter at the sight of the hairless smooth body, so unlike us. The tribune tossed the remains contemptuously to the ground. “Never again do I want to hear anyone whisper in the night that the Persians are devils! We are the men who will rule this land!” To loud cheering, the tribune stepped down from his rock and walked straight into Julian. He saluted smartly, not at all taken aback. “A necessary speech, Augustus.”

“An excellent speech, Valentinian.” For as you have doubtless guessed, the tribune was our future emperor. “I want all my commanders to give their troops the same… demonstration. First-rate.”

The soldiers promptly vanished, as soldiers tend to the moment they realize the Emperor is among them.

Julian and his successor exchanged a few soldierly words. Then as we were about to move on, Valentinian motioned to a young cavalry officer who was standing near by, wide-eyed at the sight of the Emperor. “Augustus, may I present to your my brother Valens?”

I often wonder what Julian would have thought if he had known that in less than a year those brothers, sons of an Austrian ropeseller turned general, would be co-emperors of East and West. I suspect he would have approved of Valentinian, but Valens was a disaster. And the fact that both were Christian would hardly have pleased him. It certainly did not please us, did it? I nearly lost my life because of Valens. Maximus did lose his.

Then Julian left his successors, none aware of the future. If the gods exist, they are kind. Despite oracles and flashes of lightning, they tell us nothing. If they did, we could not bear it.

The next day we came to a place where the water of the Euphrates was drawn off into a network of irrigation canals. Some of these canals are a thousand years old and without them Persia would not be the rich country it is. There were those who wanted to divert the waters and cause the fields to dry up but Julian would not allow this, pointing out that we should soon be living off the produce of these same fields. At the beginning of the largest canal was a tall tower, marking the source of the Naharmalcha (Persian for “the king’s river”) which flows into the Tigris below Ctesiphon. This river or canal was unusually swift from the rains. With difficulty, pontoon bridges were constructed. The infantry got across safely, but a number of pack animals were drowned in the current. As I recall, there was some harassing of the cavalry by Persian scouts, but they were soon driven off by our Saracen outriders.

On 28 April, after an uneventful march, we came to Pirisabora, a large city with impressive high walls and towers burned by the sun to the buff colour of a lion’s skin. The river surrounds the city naturally on three sides. On the fourth, the inhabitants have dug a canal so that they are, in effect, an island and hard for an enemy to approach. At the centre of the city on a high hill was a formidable inner fortress. I must say my heart sank when I saw it. The siege of such a place could take months.

Julian sent his usual message to the city: if they surrendered, he would spare the lives of the inhabitants. But Pirisabora was one of the important cities of Persia, and the answer of its commandant, Mamersides, was arrogant indeed. The city would not surrender. But Mamersides would speak to Ormisda (apparently they had been in secret correspondence with one another).

I was present when Ormisda, tall and glittering and very much a Persian king, rode to the moat which separated city from mainland. He reined in his horse at the water’s edge. When the Persians on the wall recognized him, they began a loud jeering and hissing. They called him “traitor” and worse. I

was close enough to Ormisda to see his sallow face set in harsh lines, but he did not move or in any other way show that he had heard. For a full half-hour he endured their insults. Then, seeing that there was to be no dealing with these men, he motioned for his standard-bearer to join him. This caused an even louder tumult. Ormisda’s standard was that of the Great King of Persia. Majestically, Ormisda withdrew, and Julian ordered a siege.

Unfortunately, Julian did not describe the siege and I don’t remember much about it. Perhaps our friend Ammianus will record it. Military history is not really my forte. My chief memory of this siege was a series of quarrels with Maximus. I shall spare you the quarrels, since I’ve completely forgotten what they were about.

The city of Pirisabora fell on the second day, after much fighting. But the matter was not yet finished, for the army and the governor promptly took refuge on their mountain top and there, behind walls of bitumen and brick, strong as iron, they held fast. Julian himself led the first attack on the citadel, and was repulsed.

On the third day, Julian ordered a helepolis built. This is a tall wooden tower which is used to scale even the highest walls. There is no defence against it, not even fire, for it is covered with wet hides. The helepolis was not needed. No sooner was it half assembled than Mamersides asked for a truce. He was lowered from the citadel by a rope which broke a few yards above the ground; he fractured both legs.

Julian was merciful. All lives would be spared if the citadel was surrendered.

At sundown, some 2,500 Persians, men and women, issued forth, singing a hymn of thanksgiving to the Great Lord who had spared their lives and would now reign mercifully over them. Then Pirisabora was burned to the ground. By this time, I was no longer speaking to Maximus.

Julian Augustus

3 May

3 squ. cav. Trib. killed. Viz. command. Standard lost! 2 Trib. cash. dec. Stand. regained. speech. 100p.

silv.

Priscus: I recall “3 squ. car. Trib. killed, etc.,” vividly. The day after the burning of the city we all dined at midday with Julian. It was a pleasant meal and he was refighting the siege, as soldiers like to do, the

“what-might-have-happened-if” kind of thing, when Anatolius came into the tent with the news that the Grand Vizier had personally put to flight three of our cavalry squadrons, killing one of the tribunes and capturing the regimental standard. I thought Julian would have a stroke. He hurled his plate to the ground and rushed from the tent, shouting for a call-to-arms. Within the hour, the Vizier’s force had been located, and our standard regained. Within three hours, the two surviving tribunes were cashiered and, of those who had fled before the enemy, ten were executed, according to the old law of decimation.

I had never seen Julian so angry nor so much the classic general. He ordered the entire army to watch the execution. When it was done, he made a speech, warning against disobedience and cowardice, and reminding the army that should anyone surrender to the enemy, the Persians would hamstring him and leave him to die in the desert. Then he praised the troops for the victory at Pirisabora, and he gave each man a hundred pieces of silver.

Poor Julian! Having so little interest in money himself, he could never get sums right. He never knew the correct price of anything, including the common soldier’s loyalty. At the mention of such a small sum, the army roared its displeasure and I was afraid they would mutiny right then and there. But Julian was not intimidated. He told them sharply that he himself was a poor man and that the Roman nation

was in straitened circumstances because so many of his predecessors had used gold to buy a false peace rather than iron to fight necessary wars. But he promised them that soon they would be at Ctesiphon and the treasure of all Persia would be theirs. This put them in a good humour, and they cheered him and clattered their shields.

Julian Augustus

4 May

14 miles. Floods. Halt. Bridges.

Priscus: The Persians broke the river dikes to the south of us and we lost a day while boats and rafts were used to get across the many pools the river water made. The countryside had become a giant swamp. My chief memory is of giant blood-sucking leeches clinging to my legs as I waded through muddy waters.

Julian Augustus

7 May

Maiozamalcha. Camp. Prepare siege. Ambush. Treason?

Priscus: Three days later we came to Maiozamalcha, another important city with great walls. Here Julian set up camp.

“Ambush” refers to what happened that evening. Julian and several scouts made an inspection of the outer walls, to look for points of weakness. While they were passing under the walls, ten Persians slipped out of the city through a porter’s gate and, crawling on their hands and knees, took Julian and his scouts by surprise. Two of them set upon Julian. He killed one, protecting himself from the other with his shield. In a matter of minutes the Persians were dead and Julian returned to camp, happy as a boy with the dead Persian’s weapons for trophy.

“Treason?” How did the Persians know about this scouting party? Julian was aware that his army was full of spies, not to mention those who wished him harm. He suspected treason, and he was right., The inhabitants of Maiozamalcha refused to surrender. So Julian settled in for a siege. He was now fearful of the Persian army which was supposed to be gathering just south of Ctesiphon. For added protection, he erected a double palisade around our camp.

Julian Augustus

8 May

Cavalry under the Grand Vizier attacked pack animals in the palm groves. No casualties for us.

Several for them. Persians driven off. Countryside is heavily wooded and full of streams and pools. I always thought Persia was desert. How I should like to have the leisure to turn Herodotus and describe this part of the world! It is so beautiful. Date palms and fruit trees abound. Fields are yellowgreen with new grain. This year’s harvest will be a good one, and ours!

I find particularly interesting the pools of naphtha, an oily flammable substance which bubbles up from the ground. This morning I ordered one of the pools lit. A column of fire leapt to heaven. The

only way it can be put out is to smother the pool in sand; otherwise, it may burn for years. I left the pool afire as an offering to Helios.

Several prisoners from this morning’s raid were brought to me. They are curious-looking creatures and I examined them with some attention, recalling one of the tribunes who recently showed his troops a Persian corpse, saying: “See what you feared? This is the Persian devil, all of seven feet tall with arms of bronze and breathing fire!” Then he showed them the remains of a fragile creature more like a boy than a man.

Priscus: Traditionally the reporting of speeches in historical texts is not meant to be literal. But my version of Valentinian’s comments was accurate because I kept a few notes at the time, which I am using now in making this commentary. Yet here is Julian less than a week later already altering the text.

History is idle gossip about a happening whose truth is lost the instant it has taken place. I offer you this banality for what it is: the truth!

Julian Augustus

8 May

The Persians I examined were cavalrymen. They are small, wiry, leaden-complexioned. Ormisda acted as interpreter. Though they expected immediate death, they seemed without fear. One spoke for all of them, a flood of words. When he was finally out of breath, I asked Ormisda what he had said.

Ormisda shrugged, “Typically Persian.” Ormisda was in his Greek mood. “He hopes we choke in our pride and that the moon will fall on our army and crush it and that the tribes of the desert will rise up from as far away as India and China to butcher us. The Persian style of address is always a bit exaggerated, particularly the metaphors.”

I laughed. I have always been more amused than not by Persian rhetoric. It is characteristic of eastern peoples to talk always with a mad extravagance. Even their diplomatic letters are often unintelligible because of Pindar-like excesses.

Ormisda replied in kind. The Persians listened contemptuously. They are handsome men with pointed smooth beards and eyebrows which tend to grow together. Their eyes are particularly expressive, black and deep. They are quite slender because of their austere diet. They eat only when they are hungry, and then very little. They seldom drink wine. Their only excess (aside from their conversation!) is women. Each man has as many concubines as he can afford. They do not like boys.

They are most modest about their persons and it is considered shameful for a man to be seen by another relieving himself in a natural way. I rather wish our army would imitate their physical modesty. Yet for all their virtues, they are not a likeable people. They are arrogant and boastful and revel in cruelty. The nobles terrorize the lower classes as well as the slaves, torturing or killing them as they please, and there is no law to protect the helpless, nor any idea of charity. Their laws are savage. For instance, if a man is guilty of a capital crime, not only is he executed but all of his family as well.

“They are hopeless,” said Ormisda wearily when the captives were taken away. “The most foolish race on earth.”

“But you are their Great King,” I teased him. “And therefore the most foolish of all.”

“I’ve lived too long among you,” he said sadly.

“But as a ruler you should be all the better for that. You can change them.”

“No change.” He shook his head, “That is the point to Persia. As we were, we are; as we are, we shall be. When I am Great King (the Sun and Julian willing), I shall be Greek no longer. Plato will be

forgotten. I shall be like Darius and Cyrus, like Xerxes and… yes, like my brother Sapor.”

“An unreliable ally to Rome?” I asked this jokingly, but I was serious.

“What else? I am the heir to the Sassanides kings. We are cruel and extravagant.” Then he smiled, winningly. “You’d be well advised, Augustus, to kill all the Persians, including me.”

“Impracticable,” I said, and changed the subiect. But I was impressed by what Ormisda said, and uneasy. Should I keep a Roman army at Ctesiphon and govern through a proconsul? Or would we fail in this the way our ancestors failed with the Jews? I wish Sallust were here.

We spent the rest of the day with the staff, preparing for the siege of Maiozamalcha. The town is on high ground with a double wall. It is well garrisoned. I have ordered a mining of the walls. This is a good exercise we have not yet tried. Nevitta and Dagalaif are at this moment digging tunnels beneath the walls. At dawn, Victor and a number of cavalry scouts will reconnoitre as far as Ctesiphon. There is a rumour the Great King’s army is on its way to us from the east, but it is only rumour.

Everything goes too easily. Yet why should I be surprised? The gods are with me and the spirit of Alexander whispers: advance, to the farthest edge of the world!

Priscus: As usual the spirit of Alexander was over-ambitious. We had enough troubles taking Maiozamalcha, much less India and China. But at this time Julian was not mad, despite Maximus’s best efforts. There was no immediate plan to conquer farthest Asia. Julian anticipated a short campaign in Persia, winter at Tarsus, and then an expedition to India.

Julian does not describe the siege and fall of Maiozamalcha and neither shall I. As I recall, the city was on a high bluff overlooking the river. To get to it one had to climb steep cliffs, eminently suited for defence. The first day a frontal assault was attempted. It failed. Meanwhile, tunnels were being dug beneath the walls. The second day the siege engines were brought up. The air was filled with the roaring sound of rocks being catapulted against the walls. The sun burned fiercely. Defenders and attackers were soon exhausted. But Julian drove the men to the limit of their strength, for he had no time to waste in a siege so near Ctesiphon and the Great King’s army. Finally, word came from the tunnel builders that they were ready to break into the city. That night, Julian attacked the walls with his army while the troops below ground entered the city through the floor of the back room of an empty tavern. The city surrendered.