"Don't you think, Severus, that this steel sits as badly on a pupil of
philosophers as a war-saddle on an ox?"
Severus would only reply by a mischievous smile; he knew that these
sighings and complaints were not sincere, and that in reality Julian
was delighted with his military progress.
In a few months he had been so transformed and hardened into manhood
that it was not easy to recognise in him the "little Greek" of the
Court of Constantius. His eyes alone had not changed, still shining
with a strange and unforgettable keenness which had in it something of
fever. Julian felt himself growing stronger every day, not only
physically, but morally also. For the first time in his existence he
felt the happiness that comes from the love of simple and common folk.
From the first it had gratified the legionaries to see a real Cæsar,
cousin of the Augustus, learning soldiering in barracks, with no
repugnance for the coarse fare of soldiers. Austere faces of the
veterans would light up with grim tenderness as they watched young
Cæsar, and remembering their own youth wondered at his rapid progress.
Julian used to hail them, listen to their gossip over old campaigns,
and advice about fastening the breastplate so that the straps might
chafe less and the best way of holding the foot while marching to
avoid over-fatigue.
The rumour went round that the Emperor Constantius had sent the
inexperienced young man among the barbarians of Gaul to get killed,
that he himself might be rid of a rival. It was said that the
generals, following the hints of Imperial eunuchs, had abandoned and
betrayed the young Cæsar accordingly. All this increased the affection
of the legions for Julian.
Skilled in the arts of winning favour, acquired during his monkish
education, Julian cautiously used every means to strengthen the love
felt towards himself and to deepen the unpopularity of the Emperor.
Before the soldiers he would speak of his brother Constantius with
meaning humility, lowering his eyes and affecting the aspect of a
victim. It was the easier for him to captivate the warriors by
fearlessness, inasmuch as death in battle seemed to him a thing to be
desired. The kind of death to which Gallus had been subjected formed
no part of his designs.
Julian had organised his life after the austere example of ancient
conquerors. His stoic education by the tutor Mardonius helped him to
endure total absence of comfort. He allowed himself less sleep than
the meanest soldier, and lay not on a bed but upon a coarse rough
carpet, like that called in popular parlance _suburra_.
The first part of the night was devoted to sleep, the second to the
business of state and war, the third to the Muses. For Julian's
favourite books were never left behind when he was campaigning. He
inspired himself with Marcus Aurelius, Plutarch, Suetonius, and Cato
the elder; and by day he endeavoured to put in practice what he had
mused over with them by night.
On the memorable morning before the battle of Argentoratum, when he
heard the _reveillé_ at dawn, Julian quickly donned complete armour,
and ordered his charger to be brought round. While waiting he withdrew
into the inmost part of the tent. There was ensconced a lovely
statuette of the winged Mercury, bearing the caduceus--the god of
movement, gaiety, success. Julian bowed before the image and threw
some grains of incense on a little tripod. According to the direction
of the smoke the Cæsar, who flattered himself that he understood the
divining art, sought to ascertain the influence of the day. Overnight
he had heard a raven crying three times--a bad omen.
Julian was so convinced that his unexpected military success in Gaul
was due to some supernatural power that from day to day he became more
superstitious.
When issuing from the tent he stumbled over the wooden beam at the
threshold. The face of the Cæsar darkened. All the omens were
unfavourable; he inwardly resolved to postpone the battle till the
morrow.
The army began its march. The road through the forest was painful.
Masses of trees embarrassed every step. The day promised to be a very
hot one. The army had only done half its journey, and there remained
more than one and twenty Roman miles to cover to reach the camp of the
German barbarians (Alemanni) which lay on the left bank of the Rhine
in a great plain, near the town Argentoratum.
The soldiers were worn out. As soon as they had crossed the forest and
reached open ground Julian assembled them round himself in a great
circle, like spectators in an amphitheatre, so as himself to be the
centre of the centurions and cohorts, extending from him like the
spokes of a huge wheel. This was the custom of the Roman army, so that
the greatest possible number could hear the words of their general.
Julian explained to the legions in a few brief and simple sentences
that fatigue might prevent success, that it would be safer to camp for
that night in the field where they were, to rest, and attack the
barbarians the following morning, with vigour renewed.
Discontented murmurs ran through the army; the rank and file struck
their shields with lances--a sign of impatience--clamouring that
Julian should lead them without delay to the field of battle. The
Cæsar understood by the general expression on faces around him that in
resisting he would commit a grave mistake. He felt in the crowd that
thrill of ferocity with which he was so familiar, which was so
indispensable to victory, and by the least maladroitness so easily to
be changed into mutiny. He leapt on horseback and gave the signal to
continue the march. Peals of enthusiasm answered him and the army
moved off.
When the sun was beginning to sink they reached the plain of
Argentoratum. There the Rhine was shining between low hills. To the
south rose the sombre mass of the Vosges Mountains, and swallows were
sweeping over the surface of the majestic German river.
Suddenly, on the nearest hill, three riders appeared; they were the
Alemanni.
The Romans halted, and disposed themselves in battle-order. Julian,
surrounded by six hundred steel-clad horsemen, the Clibanarii,
commanded the horsemen of the right wing. On the left extended the
infantry, under the orders of Severus. Julian himself was also under
the command of this general.
The barbarians opposed their cavalry to that of Julian. At their head
rode the Alemannic king Chlodomir. Fronting Severus, Agenaric, the
young nephew of Chlodomir, led the German infantry.
War-horns, trumpets, and fifes resounded; ensigns and flags inscribed
with the names of cohorts, the purple dragons and Roman eagles,
assembled at the head of the legions. In the van strode axe-bearers,
chief centurions, and _primipilares_, men bred to victory. Their
regular and heavy tread shook the earth. Suddenly the foot soldiers of
Severus halted. The barbarians, who had been lurking in a trench,
sprang from their ambuscade and attacked the Romans. Julian from a
distance saw the confusion that ensued and galloped up to restore
order. He attempted to calm the soldiers, speaking hastily now to one
cohort, now to another, in something of the concise style of Julius
Cæsar. When he uttered the words, "_Exurgamus viri fortes_" or
"_Advenit, socii, justem pugnandi jam tempus,_" this young man of
twenty-two was thinking with pride: "At last I am like such and such a
famous soldier!" Even in the very fire of action he never forgot his
books, and rejoiced to enact over again familiar scenes of Livy,
Plutarch, and Sallust. The well-tried Severus restrained his ardour,
and, while giving a certain liberty to Julian, retained the general
direction of the action. Arrows whizzed and barbarian javelins,
dragging long cords; and war-engines flung huge stones hundreds of
yards.
The Romans now found themselves face to face at last with the terrible
and mysterious inhabitants of the North, about whom so many incredible
legends were afloat. Some wore bear-skins on their backs, and on their
shaggy heads the gaping jaws of wolves. Others had their helms adorned
with the horns of stag and bull. The Alemanni were so contemptuous of
death that, keeping only lance and sword, they frequently flung
themselves into battle stark naked.
Their reddish hair was knotted on the top of their heads and fell back
on the neck in a thick mass or plaited mane. They wore long sweeping
broad moustaches and their skins were deeply bronzed. A great number
were so savage that, unfamiliar with the use of steel, they fought
with bone-tipped lances dipped in violent poison. A scratch from this
primitive barb was sufficient to produce a slow death in terrible
agony. From head to foot, instead of armour they wore thin scales
pared from the hoofs of horses and sewn on linen, a kind of horny
mail. In this array the barbarians seemed strange monsters, clad in
birds' feathers and fish scales.
There were also Saxons with pale blue eyes, men for whom the sea had
no terrors, but who feared the land.
The foremost _primipilares_, locking their shields together, formed a
compact wall of steel, and advanced steadily, slowly, almost
invulnerable to blows. The Alemanni rushed upon this wall with
ferocious cries, like the hoarse growls of bears. The main fight
began, breast against breast, shield against shield. Dust was so thick
over the plain that the sun was darkened. At this moment on the right
wing the iron-clad horses of the Clibanarii began rearing and taking
fright. The stampede threatened to crush the legions of the rearguard.
Through the cloud of arrows and lances, the fire-coloured scarf of the
gigantic king Chlodomir was shining in bright sunlight.
Julian in the nick of time galloped up on his black charger,
bespattered with foam. He grasped the situation. The barbarian
foot-soldiers, placed for the purpose between their horsemen, were
slipping under the legs of the Roman horses, and disembowelling them;
the horses fell, dragging down in their fall the _cataphracti_, or
men in scale-armour, who, overwhelmed under its weight, were unable to
rise. Julian placed himself directly behind the flying horsemen; it
was a question of either stemming the flight or being crushed himself.
The tribune of the Clibanarii came into collision with him. Pale with
shame and terror, he recognised Julian. Julian's forehead flushed
purple, he forgot his classical books, leaned over, seized the flying
man by the throat, and shouted with a voice which appeared to himself
strangely savage--
"Coward!"
Then he faced the tribune round to the enemy. The _cataphracti_
halted, glanced at the purple dragon, the Imperial ensign, and
remained motionless. In a moment the mass of iron recoiled and swept
back anew against the barbarians. The fight became a wild confusion. A
lance struck Julian full in the breast; he owed his safety to his
breastplate. An arrow hissed by his ear, grazing his cheek with its
feathers. Severus now sent the legions of the Cornuti and Brakathi,
half-savage allies of the Romans, to succour the wavering cavalry.
They were wont to sing their war-hymn, the Barrith, only when their
blood was up in the joy of battle, intoning it in a low and plaintive
voice. The first notes were calm as the nocturnal sighing of woods;
but little by little the Barrith became louder, more solemn, and
terrible, until at last, raising a furious and deafening roar like a
stormy sea, all the singers were beside themselves.
Julian ceased to see or understand the surge of battle round him; he
was conscious only of intolerable thirst and a sharp aching in the
bones of his sword hand; he had lost all reckoning of time. But
Severus kept all his presence of mind, and directed the fight with
incomparable skill. Perplexed and heart-broken, Julian perceived the
orange scarf of Chlodomir in the midst of the legions; the barbarians
had penetrated obliquely into the centre of the Roman army. Julian
thought "All is lost!" He remembered the unfavourable presages of the
morning and addressed a last prayer to the gods of Olympus--
"Come, help me! For who is there but I to restore you to power upon
earth?"
In the centre of the army were stationed the old veterans of the
Petulant legion, so called on account of their rashness. Severus
counted on them, and his reliance was not in vain. One of them
shouted--
"_Viri fortissimi!_ Bravest of the brave, let us not betray Rome and
our Cæsar! Let us die for Julian! Glory and prosperity to Cæsar
Julian!"
"For Rome ... for Rome..." stern voices responded, and these tried
legions, grown grey under the flag, once again went to meet death,
steady and cheery. The inspiring breath of great Rome swept over the
whole army.
Julian, his eyes full of enthusiastic tears, rode towards the veterans
to die along with them. Again he felt the force of sheer affection,
the force of the people lifting him on its wings to carry him to
victory.
Then terror seized the barbaric masses; they trembled, broke, and
fled; and the eagles of the legions, their rapacious beaks and
outspread wings glittering in the sun, swooped down again amongst the
routed tribes, proclaiming the victory of the Eternal City.
The Alemanni and Franks perished fighting to the last gasp.
Kneeling in a pool of blood, the savage would wield his sword or
lance with a slackening hand, but in his troubled eyes were to be seen
neither fear nor despair, only thirst for vengeance and contempt for
his conquerors. Even those who were left for dead arose, half-crushed,
and fixed their teeth in the legs of their enemies. Six thousand
barbarians fell in that battle or were drowned in the Rhine.
The same evening, as Julian Cæsar stood on the hill, enveloped by the
rays of the setting sun, King Chlodomir, who had been made prisoner on
the bank of the river, was led before him. He was breathing with
difficulty, his face livid and sweating, his enormous hands bound
behind his back. He knelt down before his conqueror, and the young
Cæsar of twenty-two laid his slight hand upon the shaggy head.