Three months had elapsed since the shameful treaty of peace signed by
Jovian with the Persians. At the beginning of October the Roman army,
exhausted by famine and forced marches through the deserts of
Mesopotamia, had at last reached Antioch. During this melancholy
retreat Anatolius, the centurion of Imperial cavalry, had formed a
close friendship with the historian, Ammianus Marcellinus. The two
friends had decided to betake themselves to Italy, to a secluded villa
at Baiæ, whither Arsinoë had invited them, to rest from the fatigues
of the campaign, and to heal their wounds at the sulphur-baths.
On this journey, they had made a halt of some days at Antioch, where
great festivals were in preparation, in honour of Jovian's accession
to the throne and of the return of the army.
The peace concluded with King Sapor was dishonourable for the Empire.
Five rich Roman provinces lying along the farther banks of the Tigris,
together with fifteen frontier fortresses, including Singara, Castra
Maurorum, and the invincible Nizibis, all these passed into the hands
of Sapor. Little did the Galileans care for the defeat of Rome. When
the news of Julian's death arrived at Antioch, the timorous citizens
believed at first that it was some new device of Satan, fresh toils in
which to capture the righteous. But when the news was confirmed their
joy became delirious.
In the early morning the noise of festival and the cries of the
people reached the sleeping-chamber of Anatolius. He had decided to
pass all day indoors, the rejoicing of the populace being repugnant to
him. He attempted to sleep again, and failed. A strange curiosity woke
in him. Without a word to Ammianus, he dressed quickly, and went out
into the street. It was a fresh and pleasant autumn morning.
Great round clouds, in sharp contrast with the deep blue of the sky,
sailed over the innumerable colonnades and marble porticoes of
Antioch. In the forum and the markets everywhere ran the murmur of
fountains and streams; and down the long dusty vistas of the bright
streets flowed wide currents, artificially-channelled waters, crossing
each other in a perfect network of rills. Here and there pigeons were
cooing and picking grains of barley. The scent of flowers and incense
issued from the open doors of churches. Near the fountain-basins young
girls were sprinkling their baskets of pale October roses with water,
or singing joyful psalms, and garlanding the columns of the Christian
basilicas. A noisy crowd was pouring through the streets. Chariots and
litters were forging slowly down the middle of the pavements. At every
moment rose cries of--
"Hail to Jovian Augustus, the great and happy!"
Some added: "The conqueror," but with a certain diffidence, as if the
word smacked of irony.
The same urchin who had once caricatured Julian on the walls of the
town was there now clapping his hands, beating his drum, whistling,
tumbling in the dust, and shouting (although he had no notion of the
meaning of the words)--
"The Wild Boar has perished, the Devastator of the Garden of Eden!"
An old woman, bent double in her rags, came out like a black-beetle
into the sun, rejoicing with the rest. She was brandishing a stick and
vociferating in a cracked voice--
"Julian has perished! The evil-doer has perished!"
An infinite sadness filled the heart of Anatolius; but urged by
curiosity he wandered on, and in following the Syngon, approached the
cathedral. There he saw an official connected with the quæstorship,
Marcus Avinius, coming out of the basilica, accompanied by two slaves,
who elbowed a passage for him through the crowd.
"What is this?" wondered Anatolius. "Why should this enemy of the
Galileans be here?"
Crosses embroidered in gold adorned the violet chlamys of Avinius, and
were even sewn on his crimson leather shoes.