Julian had an interview with his brother Gallus while the latter was
on his way to Constantinople. He had found him surrounded by a troop
of traitors in the pay of Constantius: the quæstor Leontinus, a wily
courtier, famous for skill in eavesdropping and cross-examining
servants; the tribune Baïnobadois, a taciturn barbarian, who gave the
impression of an over-tragic actor playing the part of a headsman; the
Emperor's haughty Master of Ceremonies, _comes domesticorum_,
Lucilian; and finally Marcus Scuda, the former tribune of Cæsarea in
Cappadocia, who, thanks to the protection of certain old ladies, had
attained the post he longed for.
Gallus, now, as always, gay and giddy, had offered Julian an excellent
supper, of which the chief feature was a plump pheasant stuffed with
fresh Theban dates. He laughed like a child, and was calling up all
sorts of reminiscences of old days together at Macellum, when suddenly
Julian spoke to him about his wife Constantia.
The face of Gallus fell; his eyes filled with tears, and he laid down
on his plate the succulent piece of pheasant which he had been on the
point of putting into his mouth.
"Don't you know, Julian, that Constantia is dead? She died
unexpectedly after an attack of tertian ague, on the very journey to
the Emperor which she had undertaken to absolve me from blame in his
eyes. I wept for two whole nights when I heard that news."
He cast a timid glance at the door, put his hand on Julian's shoulder,
and whispered confidentially--
"Since then, I have let things go to the devil! She alone might have
saved me. Ah! she was an astonishing woman. Without her I am ruined. I
can do, and I can learn, nothing.... 'They' do with me just as they
please."
He tossed off a cup of wine at a gulp.
Julian remembered Constantia, the sister of Constantius, a widow of
ripe age, the evil genius of her brother, her who had incited him to
commit numberless crimes, crimes which were frequently mere fatuous
stupidities. Amazed, he asked, anxious to know by what quality this
woman had tamed his brother--
"She was beautiful?"
"It is clear you never saw her."
"No. Was she ugly?"
"Yes, very ugly. She was short, brown, thin, and had bad teeth, which
I can't bear in women. Nevertheless, being aware of this defect, she
never laughed. People used to say she deceived me, that in disguise
she used to go to the circus, as Messalina did, on visits to a young
and handsome groom. Well, what of it? Did not I on my side deceive
her? She never bothered me, and I used to take care in return never to
worry her about these trifles. Folk used to say she was cruel! By God,
Julian, she knew how to govern! Of course she didn't like the authors
of epigrams on her bad manners, comparing her to some kitchen-slave
dressed as Cæsar's wife! She loved revenge, admiration! And what a
mind, what a mind, Julian! Why, I was as much at ease sheltered behind
her, as behind a granite wall. Ah, the mad things we used to do
together! We certainly never lacked amusement."
He smiled at some agreeable recollection and passed the tip of his
tongue along his rosy upper lip between the sips of Chian wine.
"There's no denying we made the most of time," he repeated, not
without modest pride.
When Julian was on his way to this interview with his brother, he had
thought of waking in him some feeling of seriousness and remorse, had
even prepared a little speech, in the style of Libanius, against the
doings of irresponsible tyrants. He had expected to see a man bowed
under the yoke of Nemesis, and not the tranquil fat and rosy visage of
this comely athlete. Words died on Julian's lips. He looked without
blame or distaste upon this "docile animal"--for so he inwardly named
his brother. Of what avail were sermons to a young stallion? Julian
contented himself therefore with saying to Gallus in a grave tone--
"Why are you going to Milan? Do you suspect nothing?"
"Yes--hush--but it is too late!"