More than two years had elapsed since the victory of Argentoratum.
Julian had delivered Gaul from the barbarians. At the beginning of
spring, when still at Lutetia for his winter quarters, he had received
an important letter from the Emperor Constantius brought by the
tribune Decensius.
Each new victory achieved in Gaul harried the soul of Constantius, and
stabbed his vanity to the quick. This "street-urchin," this "magpie,"
this "monkey in the purple," this "pocket conqueror," to the
indignation of Court scoffers had turned into a veritable victor.
Constantius writhed with jealousy. At the same time he sustained
defeat after defeat in his own campaign against the Persians in the
Asiatic provinces. He grew thin, sleepless, lost his appetite, and
twice suffered from terrible attacks of vomiting. The Court physicians
were in dismay.
Sometimes, during nights of insomnia, lying in bed under the sacred
standard of Constantine, the Emperor mused:
"Eusebia deceived me! But for her I should have followed the wise
counsel of Mercurius.... I should have had his throat cut in some dark
corner! I should have exterminated this serpent from the Flavian
nest!... Imbecile that I was!... It was I, myself, who let him escape!
And who knows?... Perhaps Eusebia herself was his mistress?"
A long-delayed jealousy made his envy bitterer still. He could not
revenge himself on the Empress Eusebia, who was dead. His second wife,
Faustine, was an empty-headed little woman for whom he felt nothing
but contempt.
Constantius tore the hair on which hairdressers still spent such
infinite pains, and shed tears of rage. Had he not protected the
Church? Had he not swept all heresies to destruction? Had he not built
and adorned monastery after monastery? Did he not regularly accomplish
all due rites and offices? And now what reward was granted him? For
the first time the master of the world felt his soul swelling in
indignation against the Master of the universe. A dark imprecation
rose to his lips.
To assuage his jealousy he had recourse to unusual means. He sent
letters to all great cities,--"letters of victory," adorned with
laurels, and announcing the triumphs granted by the grace of God to
the Emperor Constantius. These letters were to the effect that it was
Constantius and not Julian who had four times crossed the
Rhine,--Constantius (who was really frittering away his army at the
other end of the world). It was Constantius, and not Julian, who had
almost perished from arrows at Argentoratum! Constantius who had taken
Chlodomir prisoner; Constantius who had pierced marshes and
impracticable forests, hewn roads, stormed fortresses and endured
hunger, thirst, heat; who, more wearied than the soldiers, had
allotted to himself less sleep than they.
Julian's name was never mentioned in these despatches, as if that
Cæsar were no longer in existence. The people applauded Constantius as
conqueror of the Gauls, and in all the churches, bishops and
archbishops chanted prayers and thanksgivings for victory granted to
him over the barbaric Alemanni.
Julian on hearing of these follies contented himself with a smile. But
the Emperor's gnawing jealousy was not sated. He decided to rob Julian
of his best soldiers, and then by imperceptible steps and fleeting
pretences to disarm him, as Gallus had been disarmed; to draw him into
the toils and deal him the mortal blow.
With this intention he sent with a letter to Lutetia a certain skilful
official, the tribune Decensius. He was forthwith to select the most
trusted legions, namely, the Heruli, Batavians, Petulants, and Celts;
and to despatch them into Asia for the Emperor's own use. Moreover,
this dignitary was to deflower each remaining legion of its three
hundred bravest warriors; and Cintula, tribune of the Imperial
stables, was instructed to take the pick of the porters and
baggage-carriers, and, having thus crippled Julian's transport, to
bring these men to the East.
Julian warned Decensius, and proved to him that rebellion was
inevitable among the savage legions raised in Gaul, who would almost
certainly prefer to die rather than quit their native soil. But that
obstinate official, preserving an imperturbable haughtiness on his
wily yellow face, took no account of these observations.
At right angles to one of the wooden bridges which joined the island
of Lutetia to the river-banks, stretched long, low barrack buildings.
All the morning the soldiery had been excited and tumultuous. The
stern and wise discipline hitherto observed by Julian alone restrained
them.
The first cohorts of Petulants and the Heruli had departed on the
previous night. Their comrades the Celts and Batavians were preparing
to follow them. Cintula issued his orders in a peremptory tone. Savage
murmurs were running through the crowd. An insubordinate soldier had
just been beaten to death. Decensius strode hither and thither, pen
behind ear, documents in hand. In the great courtyards, under a dark
sky, thick-wheeled covered chariots were waiting for the soldiers'
wives and children. Women, parting from the country where they were
born, were stretching out their arms to the woods and fields. Others
were kissing the maternal soil, and weeping at the thought that their
dust should be buried in a strange land. Others, more resigned and
sullen in their pain, had wrapped handfuls of earth in little bundles,
to carry with them as tokens. A lean dog, with ribs to be counted
through his skin, was licking the grease of an axle-tree. Suddenly he
darted away and began to howl, muzzle in the dust. Everybody, thrilled
by the sound, turned round to watch him. A legionary angrily thrashed
the poor beast, who fled into a field with his tail between his legs,
and, halting there, renewed his howlings in a yet more plaintive key.
This dog's cry, wailing through the impressive silence of the
twilight, shook the nerves of all who heard it. The Sarmatian Aragaris
belonged to the number chosen to leave the north. He was bidding
farewell to the faithful Strombix--
"Oh, cousin, cousin! why are you leaving me?" whined Strombix, between
mouthfuls of soup, which Aragaris had given up to him. Grief had taken
away his own appetite.
"Be quiet, fool!" the consolatory Aragaris was remarking; "there are
too many women groaning already!... It would be more useful if you,
who belong to the country, would tell me what forests we shall have to
pass through?"
"What do you mean, cousin? There are no forests there; only sand and
rocks."
"And how does one get shelter from the sun?" asked the incredulous
Aragaris.
"It's a desert! It's as hot there as under a cook's oven, and there's
not a drop of water."
"What! No water? And how about beer?"
"They don't even know what beer means!"
"You're lying!"
"May I be struck blind, cousin, if in all Mesopotamia and Syria you
find a keg of beer or of honey."
"Then it's all over, brother! If it's hot there, and there's neither
water, beer, nor honey, they're simply hunting us to the end of the
world like oxen to the slaughter!"
"Hunting you on to the horns of the Devil, cousin!" and Strombix wept
yet more bitterly.
At that moment there came a distant rumble, and din of voices. The two
friends ran out of the barracks; a crowd of soldiers were rushing over
the wooden bridge towards Lutetia. The cries came nearer; wild
agitation seized the garrison; the soldiery poured out upon the road
in a dense shouting mass, in spite of the orders, threats, and even
blows of the centurions.
"What has happened?" asked a veteran.
"Twenty soldiers have been beaten to death!"
"What? Twenty! Why, it was a hundred!"
"They're going to cudgel every man in turn; it's the order!"
Suddenly a legionary with torn clothes and terrified demeanour rushed
into the crowd shouting--
"Comrades! quick, to the palace!... quick! Julian's just been
beheaded!"
These words fell like a spark on tinder. The long-smouldering flame
burst into destructiveness. The faces of the soldiers took on an
expression of animal ferocity. No one understood nor wished to hear,
but all shouted--
"Where are the rascals? Kill the hounds!"
"Who?"
"The envoys from the Emperor Constantius!"
"Down with the Emperor!"
"Ah, the idiots!--to think they've killed such a leader!"
Two innocent centurions who were passing were seized, thrown to earth,
trampled upon and almost rent in pieces. At the sight of the gushing
blood the mutineers became yet more ferocious. Another mob coming over
the bridge swept up to the barracks, and there rose a deafening cry--
"Glory to the Emperor Julian! Glory to Augustus Julian!"
"He is slain! He is slain!"
"Hold your peace, fools; Augustus is alive! We've just seen him!"
"The Cæsar's alive!"
"He's no longer Cæsar, but Emperor!"
"Who said he was killed?"
"Where is the blackguard?"
"They tried to kill him!"
"Who?"
"Constantius!"
"Down with Constantius! Down with all cursed eunuchs!"
Someone on horseback rode by so quickly as almost to escape
recognition--
"Decensius! Decensius! Catch the ruffian!"
Still with pen behind his ear and ink-flask dangling from his girdle,
accompanied by insults and laughter, he disappeared from sight. The
crowd grew thicker and thicker, and the mutinous army was like a
raging flood; but their anger was turned into glee when the Herulian
and Petulant legions, who had marched the evening before, and also
mutinied, were seen in the distance on their way back. They, their
wives, and their children were kissed with emotion, as after a long
separation. Some shed tears of joy, others struck their shields; and
great bonfires were kindled. The fountains of oratory were unloosed.
Strombix, who in his youth had been a buffoon at Antioch, felt himself
inspired, and, hoisted with wild gesticulations on the shoulders of
his comrades, began--
"_Nos quidem ad orbis terrarum extrema ut noxii pellimur et
damnati...._"
"They're sending us to the other end of the world like criminals; and
our families, whom we bought back from slavery with the price of our
blood, will fall back into the hands of the Alemanni----"
He was unable to finish; the barracks were ringing with piercing
cries, and the noise, familiar to soldiers, of scourges scoring the
back. The legionaries were lashing the detested centurion Cedo
Alteram, and the soldier who was administering the lashes to his
superior flung away the bloody rod, and to the general amusement,
imitating the cheery voice of the centurion, called out--
"_Cedo Alteram!_ Give me another!"
"To the palace! To the palace!" yelled the crowd. "Let us make Julian,
Augustus! Let us crown him with a diadem!"
The mob rushed off, leaving in the courtyard the half-dead centurion
weltering in blood. Through the dark clouds the stars sparkled here
and there, and a cold wind lifted the dust. The barred windows, doors,
and shutters of the palace were all hermetically sealed. The building
seemed tenantless.
Foreseeing the revolt, Julian had not left his quarters nor shown
himself to the soldiers, being occupied in divinations. For two days
and two nights he had waited for a miracle. Clothed in the long white
robe of the Pythagoreans, lamp in hand, he was ascending the steps
which led to the highest tower. There the assistant of Maximus of
Ephesus was awaiting him, and observing the stars. This assistant was
no other than Nogodarès, who once in the tavern owned by Syrax at the
foot of Mount Argæus had foretold the future to the tribune Scuda.
"Well?" Julian asked anxiously.
"There's nothing to be seen! It looks as if heaven and earth were
conspiring."
A bat swooped by.
"Look, look! Perhaps some prediction can be made from the manner of
its flight?"
The night-wandering creature almost brushed Julian's face with its
cold wings, and vanished.
"Someone's soul approaches," murmured Nogodarès. "Remember! this night
something great will be accomplished...."
The indistinct cries of the mutineers were borne faintly up the wind.
"If a sign appears, come to me," said Julian as he went down to his
library.
With irregular restless strides he walked up and down the room,
halting every now and then to listen. It seemed as if someone was
following him; that a curious cold air was blowing on the nape of his
neck. He wheeled round, but discovered nothing. He felt the blood
beating strongly in his temples. He resumed his walk, and again it
seemed that someone was murmuring into his ear words that he had not
time to understand.
A servant entered, and announced that an old man from Athens desired
to see the Cæsar on urgent business. Julian uttered a cry of elation
and ran to meet the new-comer. He thought he should see Maximus; but
he was mistaken. It was the high-priest of the mysteries of Eleusis,
whom also he had impatiently expected.
"Father!" exclaimed Julian, "save me! I must know the will of the
gods!... Let us come quickly, for all is prepared."
Round the palace resounded deafening cries from the revolted army,
shaking the old brickwork of the walls. But when a baggage-carrier,
livid with fear, ran in exclaiming, "Mutiny! The soldiers are breaking
in the iron gates!" Julian said with an imperious gesture, "Fear
nothing! We will arrange that matter presently. Let no one come into
my presence!" and taking the high-priest by the hand he hastily led
him into a dark underground vault, and closed the heavy iron door. All
was there ready. Torch-flames were glittering over the silver image of
the Sun-god, and tripods fuming; the holy vessels, full of water,
wine, and honey, stood prepared, with salt and flour to be sprinkled
on the bodies of the victims. Geese, doves, hens, an eagle, and a
white lamb which bleated plaintively, stood round in different cages.
"Quicker, quicker!" exclaimed Julian, giving a long dagger to the
priest.
The old man, who was panting heavily, began hurriedly to mutter
prayers; he killed the lamb, put a portion of the flesh and fat upon
the coals of the altar, and with mysterious exorcisms began the
inspection of its organs. With expert hands he drew forth the liver,
heart, and lungs, and scanned them from every side.
"The powerful shall be overthrown!" he said, pointing to the heart,
which was still warm; "a terrible death...."
"Whose?" Julian asked. "His or mine?"
"I know not."
"You know not?"
"Cæsar," said the old man, "be not hasty. Decide nothing to-night;
wait for the day; the presages are doubtful...."
He did not finish his sentence, but took another victim, a gander, and
then an eagle. Overhead the noise of the crowd at the gates swept like
the roar of a torrent. Blows of a battering-ram shook the iron doors,
but Julian heard nothing. He examined the bloody organs with eager
curiosity.
The old sacrificial priest repeated:
"Decide nothing to-night; the gods are silent."
"But now is the moment!" cried Julian in vexation.
Nogodarès came in, and solemnly spoke:
"Julian, rejoice! to-night your destiny is decided ... but make haste!
Afterwards it will be too late."
The soothsayer looked at the hierophant; the hierophant at the
soothsayer.
"Wait!" said the priest of Eleusis.
"Dare!" said Nogodarès.
Julian stood between the two, in perplexity scrutinising both.
The faces of the augurs remained impenetrable.
"What is to be done?" he murmured to himself. Then he remembered, and
exclaimed joyfully:
"One moment! I have an ancient book in my library, _Concerning
Contradiction in Auguries_; we shall see!"
He hurried to the library; but in a passage he encountered the bishop
Dorotheus, in sacerdotal dress, bearing the crucifix and the sacred
Viaticum.
"What is this?" asked Julian.
"The Viaticum for your wife, who is dying, O Cæsar!"
Dorotheus looked with severity at the robes of Julian, his pale face,
and his blood-stained hands.
"Your wife," continued the bishop, "desires to see you before her
death. Will you come?"
"Yes!... yes! later!... O gods!... another ill omen."
He entered the library and began to rummage among the parchments.
Suddenly he heard a voice murmuring distinctly in his ear:
"Dare! dare! dare!"
"Maximus, it is thou!" exclaimed Julian, wheeling round.
There was no one in the dark apartment.
Julian's heart beat so strongly that he pressed his hand against his
side; a cold sweat stood on his forehead.
"This--this is what I was waiting for!" murmured Julian. "The voice
was 'his'; now, all doubt is over!... I will go!"
The barred gates had given way with a crash. Legionaries were pouring
into the atrium, thrilling the old palace with their cries, while the
crimson glare of the torches shone through the chinks of shutters like
the light of a conflagration. Not a minute was to be lost. Casting
away his white robes, Julian donned his armour, paludamentum, war
cloak, and helmet, buckled on his sword, and ran down the principal
staircase leading to the entrance. He opened the door and presented
himself to the soldiers with a calm and unshaken demeanour. All doubts
had disappeared. While in action his will never vacillated; but never
up to that day had he been conscious of such a fulness of inward
force, such clearness and self-possession of mind. In a moment the
crowd felt that supremacy. The pale face of Julian was imperial and
awe-striking, and at a gesture from him the mob was silenced. Julian
spoke to the soldiers, asking them to restore order; he would neither
abandon them nor permit that they should be taken from Gaul; on that
head he would convince his well-beloved brother, the Emperor
Constantius.
"Down with Constantius!" interrupted the legionaries. "Down with him
who slew his brother! Thou art our Emperor! Glory to Augustus Julian,
the Invincible!"
Admirably did Julian affect surprise, and, as if startled, lowered his
eyes and turned aside his head with a deprecating gesture of his
lifted palms, as putting away from him so criminal a gift. The shouts
redoubled.
"What is this?" said Julian, feigning dismay. "You are ruining me and
you are ruining yourselves. Do you think that I can betray my
sovereign?"
"Yes! your brother's murderer!" shouted the men.
"Silence!" answered Julian, striding towards the crowd. "Do you not
know that we are sworn...?"
Every movement was a hypocritical ruse. When the soldiers surged round
him he drew his sword from its sheath and pointed it against his own
breast as if to fall on it.
"Bravest of the brave! better die for Cæsar than betray him!"
But the men, seizing his hands, disarmed him, and many, falling at his
feet, kissed them, weeping--
"Ah! we are willing to die for you!"