"I hope that you'll save your skin, brother. You can wear a mask and
keep your own counsel; I have always envied you that. May God succour
you!"
Julian sincerely pitied his brother; he knew that he would not escape
Constantius.
On the following morning Gallus left Constantinople with his former
escort. At Adrianople he was only permitted to retain ten small
chariots, and had to relinquish all his personal suite and baggage.
The autumn was far advanced, the roads in fearful condition, rain
falling continuously all day for a week. Peremptory messages reached
Gallus to hurry on. He was given no time to rest or sleep, and had
taken no bath for a fortnight.
One of his keenest discomforts was horror at close contact with dirt.
All his life he had taken peculiar care to keep his body healthy and
exquisitely groomed. It was with profound melancholy that he gazed at
his uncut nails, and the purple of his travelling chlamys, befouled by
dust and muddy roads. Scuda never quitted his side for an instant,
and Gallus, not without reason, dreaded his assiduous companion. The
tribune, years ago, had come as bearer of a despatch from the Emperor,
and was but newly arrived in Antioch, when by an impudent remark he
had offended Constantia, the wife of Gallus, who straightway in a fit
of fury had ordered the Roman tribune to be flogged and afterwards
thrown, like a slave, into a dungeon.
Foreseeing the probable consequence, Constantia had quickly ordered
the tribune to be set at liberty. He then presented himself at the
palace of Gallus, as if nothing had occurred, and, pocketing the
affront, had never even reported it to his master; perhaps through
fear that so degrading a punishment might besmirch the prospects of
his career as a courtier.
During the whole journey from Antioch to Milan Scuda retained his seat
in Cæsar's chariot, never quitting him, inviting his confidences, and
treating him like some wayward child, who, being out of sorts, was not
to be left to himself for a moment by a servant so devoted and
affectionate.
Where, as in Illyria, there were dangerous river crossings to be made
on frail wooden bridges, Scuda would put his arm around Gallus with
the tenderest solicitude, and if the latter strove to free himself,
swear that he preferred death to the risk of drowning his precious
charge.
The tribune wore an oddly thoughtful expression, especially when
contemplating the neck of Gallus, smooth and white as a young girl's.
The Cæsar, feeling this attentive look, would fidget uneasily in his
seat, and with difficulty restrain himself from striking the amiable
tribune in the face. But the poor prisoner's spirits quickly rose
again. He contented himself with imploring (for despite everything
his appetite remained healthy), that they might halt for a meal, were
it never so scanty. At Petovio, in Norica, they were met by two fresh
envoys from the Emperor, accompanied by a cohort of Court legionaries.
The mask was then dropped. Round the palace where Gallus slept armed
sentinels were placed as round a prison. In the evening the prefect
Barbatio, making his way in, without any pretence at ceremony, ordered
him to take off the chlamys of a Cæsar and don the simple tunic and
paludamentum, or ordinary cloak, of a common soldier.
On the following morning the prisoner was ordered to get into a
karpenta, a little two-wheeled cart without a hood employed by minor
officials on official journeys. A cold wind was blowing
intermittently. Scuda according to his custom put one arm round
Gallus, and with the disengaged hand gently fingered the new garment.
"Sound cloak, this--soft and warm! Better than the purple, which is a
chilly affair! Why, they've lined this tunic with double wool!" And
pushing his investigations further, Scuda slid a hand under the
paludamentum, then under the tunic, and suddenly, with a laugh, drew
forth the blade of a poniard, which Gallus had succeeded in
concealing.
"Now that's a mistake!" said Scuda. "Why, you might through
carelessness stab yourself! What a boy you are!"
And he threw the dagger out on the road. An infinite weariness seized
Gallus. He closed his eyes and felt the endearing grip of Scuda inside
his arm. Was it all a nightmare?
They halted at the fortress of Pola in Istria, on the shores of the
Adriatic. Some years formerly this town had been the scene of the
murder of Priscus, the heroic young son of Constantine the Great.
The gloomy town was thronged with soldiers. Interminable barracks in
the style of Diocletian had replaced the houses of civilians. Snow lay
thickly on the roofs, the wind was moaning in deserted streets, and
the sea lay rumbling below.
Gallus was led into one of these barracks and given a seat fronting
the window, so that the full daylight fell upon his face. One of the
Emperor's most skilful police officers--Eustaphius,--a little wrinkled
and amiable old man with the wheedling and penetrating voice of a
confessor, rubbed his blue and chilly hands and began the
cross-examination. Gallus, who was mortally fatigued, said everything
that Eustaphius suggested he should say, but at the words "treason to
the empire," paled, and started to his feet.
"It was no doing of mine--nothing to do with me!" he stammered in
dismay. "Constantia planned it all! It was she who exacted the death
of Theophilus, of Clement, Domitian, and the rest! Before God, it was
not I. She said nothing to me about it. I was utterly ignorant!"
Eustaphius looked at him smilingly.
"Very well," he said, "I will duly inform the Emperor that his own
sister Constantia, spouse of the late Cæsar of the East, alone is
culpable."