by Gore Vidal
We spoke idly at first, as one does after supper. We touched on the military situation. It was not good. Despite my victory at Cologne, Florentius had left me with only two legions. The rest of my army had been recalled to Rheims and Vienne. I was in the same position I had been my first winter at Vienne, a prince with no principality. Only now I carried a larger burden. But as the old saying goes, "A pack-saddle is put on an ox; that is surely no burden for me." It was my task not only to hold Sens but to protect the neighbouring villages from the German tribes who were, even in the dead of winter, moving restlessly from town to town, burning and pillaging. In fact, Chnodomar himself had sworn that he would hang me before the spring thaw. To garrison the near-by towns, I was obliged to give up two-thirds of the soldiers under my command. Added to this, we were faced with an unusual number of desertions, especially among the Italian soldiers.
"Any man who deserts should be executed," said Sallust, "publicly, before the legions."
"It is remarkably difficult, General," said Priscus in his sly way, "to execute a deserter. First, you must catch him."
"The only solution," I said, "is victory. If we are successful, the men will be loyal. There are few deserters in a winning army."
"But we are neither winning nor an army," said Priscus with unpleasant accuracy.
"Which is exactly what the Emperor wants." Oribasius spoke too loudly. I silenced him with a gesture. Helena had heard this but she made no sign.
"I am sure the divine Emperor, my cousin and colleague, is eager for us to succeed in driving the Germans from Gaul."
Actually, I had received no word from Constantius since taking up residence at Sens. I assumed that he was angry with me for not returning to Vienne.
Then Priscus asked me to read from the panegyric I was writing on Eusebia. I sent for a notary, who brought me the manuscript. I read a few pages, not liking it at all. The work was rough. I said so.
"Probably," said the wicked Priscus, "because it is nearly sincere."
The others laughed. At Vienne I had written a lengthy panegyric of Constantius which-if I say so myself-was a masterpiece, carefully ordered and beautifull7 composed. The art of panegyric does not necessarily exclude honesty, though one's true feelings are perfectly irrelevant to the final composition, which is artifice, not truth. Even Constantius realized that I had created something marvellous and wrote me a letter in his own hand, filled with misspellings and errors of syntax. I then tried to write a panegyric on Eusebia, and found it difficult; no doubt, as Priscus suggested, because of my true regard for the subject. Also, I was honour bound not to reveal to what extent she had saved my life. This was limiting.
While we were talking amiably, I heard far off the uneasy neighing of horses, but thought nothing of it. Then Oribasius mentioned those Hebrew books which the Galileans refer to as the old testament. This was a favourite subject with me. So much so that I forgot Helena was in the room. "I admire the Jews because of their devotion to a single god. I also admire them because of their selfdiscipline. But I deplore the way they interpret their god. He is supposed to be universal, but he is interested only in them…"
"Christ," said my wife suddenly, "was sent by God to all of us."
There was an embarrassed silence.
"The issue," I said finally, with great gentleness, "is just that: would the One God intervene in such a way?"
"We believe that He did."
The room was now completely still save for the far-off sound of horses. My companions were on edge.
"Yet is it not written in the so-called gospel of John, that 'out of Galilee arises no prophet'?"
"God is God, not a prophet," said Helena.
"But the idea of the Nazarene's mission, in his own words, is taken from the old testament, which is Jewish, which says that a prophet—a messiah—will one day come to the Jews, but not God himself."
"That is a difficulty," she admitted.
"In fact," and I was stupidly blunt, "there is almost no connection between what the Galileans believe and what the Nazarene preached. More to the point, I see nothing in the Jewish text that would allow for such a monstrosity as the triple god. The Jews were monotheists. The Galileans are atheists."
I had gone too far. Helena rose, bowed, and withdrew, accompanied by her ladies.
My companions were alarmed. Priscus spoke first. "What a gift you have, Caesar, for making the difficult impossible!"
The others agreed. I asked their forgiveness. "Anyway," I said, not believing my own words, "we can trust Helena."
"I hope so." Sallust was gloomy.
"One must be true to what is true," I said, wishing as I so often do that I had held my tongue.
There was a sudden shouting in the streets. We all sprang to our feet. We had hardly got to the door when an officer arrived to report that Sens was being attacked. Elsewhere I describe what happened and I shall not repeat it here.
Priscus: We were besieged for a month. A number of our deserters had gone over to the Germans and reported on our weakness. Encouraged by this, and excited at the thought of capturing a Roman Caesar, King Chnodomar marched on Sens. It was a difficult time and we owed our lives, finally, to Julian's energy and intelligence. Though he could not make us cheerful or even confident, he at least kept us dutiful and modestly hopeful.
That night the call to arms was sounded. Men rushed to their posts on the battlements. The Germans could be seen less than half a mile away, illuminated by burning farmhouses. It had been the neighing of farm horses that had disturbed our after-dinner conversation. Had the Germans been quieter, they might have taken the city. Fortunately for us, every last one of them was drunk.
During the next few days, Julian's mood changed from almost boisterous excitement to grim rage. He was positive that he had been deliberately abandoned. This suspicion was confirmed when a messenger arrived from Rheims to say that Marcellus would not come to our aid; he pleaded weakness. He also insisted that Julian had sufficient men to repulse the Germans.
Our rations were nearly gone when the Germans departed as suddenly as they had arrived. Long sieges bored them. Julian immediately sent to Vienne for supplies. He then recalled all his troops to Sens and the remainder of the winter was passed, if not in comfort, at least without fear of sudden annihilation. Julian also wrote Constantius a full account of Marcellus's refusal to come to his aid. It was a splendid document. I know; Sallust and I helped to write it. So splendid was it, in fact, that unlike most state papers this one had an effect. Marcellus was recalled to Milan and after a short interval Julian finally got what he wanted, the command of the armies of Gaul.
The year 357 was the making of Julian as a world hero. In the spring, when the grain was ripe, he proceeded to Rheims, where he learned that Barbatio, the commander of the Roman infantry, was on his way to Augst with twenty-five thousand troops and seven river boats. He was to assist Julian in a final drive against the Germans. But before a plan could be devised, a tribe called the Laeti passed through our territory and laid siege to Lyon, burning all the countryside around. Julian quickly sent three squadrons of light cavalry to relieve that city. He also set a watch on the three roads radiating from Lyon, in order to ambush the savages when they fled. Unfortunately, Barbatio's troops allowed the Germans to get through because a tribune of targeteers, named Cella, acting under Barbatio's orders, prevented the cavalry commander from attacking. Why? Barbatio was eager for Julian to fail. He was also to some extent in league with the German tribes. Julian ordered Cella and his staff cashiered; only the cavalry commander was let off. He was, incidentally, Valentinian, our future emperor.
By now the Germans were alarmed. They tried to block our progress to the Rhine by felling great trees across the roads. They took refuge on the islands in the Rhine, where they used to bellow all sorts of insults at us, and at night sing the most melancholy songs. When Julian asked Barbatio for his seven ships, they were promptly and mysteriously burned. So Julian, always inventive, ordered the l
ight-armoured auxiliaries of the Cornuti Legion to swim out to one of the islands, using their wooden shields as rafts. This worked. They killed the German defenders and then, using German boats, attacked the other islands. The savages then abandoned the remaining islands and fled into the eastern forest.
Julian next restored the fortress at Savernes, an important installation because it stands directly in the path of anyone intent on the conquest of central Gaul. He then harvested the crops the Germans had planted. This gave him twenty days' rations. He was now ready to face King Chnodomar. His only obstacle was Barbatio. Happily for us, this extraordinary creature was attacked by the Germans just north of Augst. Though Barbatio had a large, well-disciplined army, he fled in a panic back to Augst and promptly announced that he had won a famous victory and, though it was only July, he went into winter quarters. That was the end of him for the year. We were much relieved.
With thirteen thousand men, Julian marched directly on Strasbourg. A few miles from the city, Chnodomar sent Julian an embassy commanding him to quit Gaul since this was now "German country, won by German arms and valour". Julian laughed at the king's envoys. But Chnodomar was not a man to be taken lightly. Ever since he defeated the Caesar Decentius, he had been free to come and go in Gaul as though it were indeed his own kingdom. Now, encouraged by the collapse of Barbatio, he was positive he would again be victorious.
The issue was resolved, as we all know, and I am sure you will insert at this point Julian's account of the Battle of Strasbourg. I think it is almost the best of his writings—and you know my prejudice against military commentaries! Only the garrulousness of age makes me go on as I have about these months in Gaul. I do it partly to inform you and partly—to be honest—to see how much memory I have left; more than I thought. One detail which came back to me just as I wrote the word "memory": while riding outside the walls of a Gallic town, I saw a cemetery where several of the graves were covered with fishnets. I asked one of the native soldiers what this meant. "It is to keep the ghosts of mothers who die in childbirth from stealing back their children." There is a lot of interesting folklore in that part of the world and I hope some latter-day Herodotus will record it before the people become so, completely Romanized that the old customs are forgotten.
Incidentally, it was at this time that Helena was recalled to Rome, where Constantius was celebrating not only his first triumph but his first visit to the capital. She was again pregnant, and again she lost her baby, this time through a miscarriage brought on by a potion Eusebia gave her.
As for the famous Battle of Strasbourg, I can add very little to what Julian himself wrote.
Libanius: Then why do you? Priscus keeps protesting he can add little and then adds too much. He has aged. He always used to be brief, to the point of being laconic, but now…!
Priscus: My own memories of that day in August are quite vivid and surprisingly full, considering the fact that I have no memory of what happened last year, or even this morning. Julian had submitted his plan of battle to Florentius at Vienne and to our surprise it was approved. No one will know what Florentius's motives were. I suspect the fact that Julian had thirteen thousand troops while the German army numbered some thirty-five thousand might have had something to do with it.
On the morning of 14 August we stopped some twenty miles from the Rhine, on whose banks Chnodomar had assembled his army. I recall that day as one of the hottest I have ever experienced. The heat was even worse than Persia, for it was damp. Also, the air swarmed with insects, and I sneezed continually as I always do at that time of year, the result of humours rising from the rank earth.
I was at Julian's side through most of the battle, more as ornament than as soldier, though I did lay about me from time to time simply to avoid being killed. Julian made a good speech to the army. His speeches, though never particularly brilliant, did have the gift of striking precisely the right note with the men. I have often wondered how such a bookish young man could have learned to talk with such ease to some of the most formidably ignorant and prejudiced men on earth. Yet he did. His cultured voice would become harsh, his manner royal; the content modest, the effect inspiring.
Julian sat his horse, with his standard-bearer beside him holding a spear on which the imperial dragon fluttered in the hot wind, purple and ominous. The infantry filled the narrow declivity at the foot of the hill where Julian and his staff were posted, all kneedeep in ripened grain, for we were in the midst of a large farm.
Trumpets blared in unison. Squadrons of cavalry, cuirassiers and archers moved in from left and right until Julian was surrounded. When at last they were all assembled and silent, he spoke to them. He was never more subtle though his manner was vigorous and forthright. He wanted to persuade them to fight immediately, but knowing that they were tired and hot from the sun, he realized that he would have to trick them into wanting what he wanted.
"The thing we most care for is the safety of our men, and though we are eager to engage the enemy, we also realize that rashness can be dangerous and caution a virtue. Though we are all young men and inclined to be impetuous, as Caesar I must be the one to move warily, though—as you know—I am far from being timid. Now here is our situation. It is almost noon. The heat is terrible. It will get worse. We are all of us tired from a long march. We are not certain of sufficient water this side of the Rhine. The enemy is fresh, and waiting. So I suggest that we erect pickets, that we eat and sleep and make ready for battle tomorrow, when, if it be God's will, we shall strike at first light and with our eagles in the advance, drive the Germans from Roman soil…"
But the legions interrupted him. They gnashed their teeth, a terrible sound, and struck their spears against their shields.
Then one of the standard-bearers shouted, "Forward, Caesar! Follow your star!" He turned dramatically to the legions. "We have a general who will win! So if it be God's will, we shall free Gaul this day! Hail, Caesar!"
This was all that was needed. As the legions cheered, Julian gave the order to prepare for battle. After this, I had him to myself for a moment. We were so close to one another that our stirrups clashed. "A fine speech," I said. "Suitable for history."
He grinned like a schoolboy. "How did you like the standardbearer's speech?"
"Exactly what was required."
"I coached him in it last night, with gestures." Then Julian deployed his troops. The Germans were already in battle formation. To left and right as far as the eye could see, their forces lined the river. In their first rank was King Chnodomar, a big man with a great belly who wore a scarlet plume in his helmet.
At noon, Julian ordered the attack. The Germans had dug a number of trenches in our path and there, hidden by green boughs, archers suddenly fired at the legions who halted in consternation. They did not retreat; but they did not advance.
Julian was now in his element. Voice cracking with tension, he darted from squadron to squadron, legion to legion. He drove the men to attack. Those who fell back, he threatened. I cannot remember exactly what he said, but the burden of it was: these are savages, these are the spoilers of Gaul, now is the chance to break them, this is the moment we have waited for! He also used a wily approach for those who seemed bent on retreat. "I beg you, don't follow the enemy too closely! Stop at the Rhine! Let them drown. But you be careful!"
For me, the day was confusion. In the course of that sweltering afternoon, the battle was several times in doubt. At one point our cavalry broke; they would have fled had they not come up against a solid wall of infantry reserves behind them. My most vivid memory is of the German faces. I have never seen anything like them, nor hope to again in this world. Should there be a hell, I am sure that I shall spend it entirely in the company of Germans in battle. Their dyed red hair is worn long, and hangs about the face like a lion's mane. They grind their teeth and shout words which are not words but sounds of rage. Their eyes are quite mad and staring, the veins thick in their necks. I suspect many of them were drunk but not drunk enough to
lose their ferocity. I killed several, and was myself nearly killed.
After the Germans had split our cavalry, they turned on the infantry, thinking to overwhelm them by sheer numbers. But they did not reckon with the two best legions of Rome: the Cornuti and the Bracchiati. These men in tortoise formation, heads masked by their shields, steadily advanced into the German horde. This was the crisis of the battle, just as Oribasius maintains that there is a crisis in a fever when all at once it is decided whether the sick man lives or dies. We lived. The Germans died. It was a great—a sickening—butchery. Wounded and dying men lay four and five deep on the river bank; some were suffocated by the bodies above them; some literally drowned in blood. I was never again to see a day quite like that one, for which I am thankful.
Suddenly, as though by some signal (but it was merely instinct; other witnesses of war have noticed this same phenomenon), the Germans broke for the river. Our men followed. It was a lurid sight. The savages desperately tried to swim to the other side. At one point, and this is no chronicler's exaggeration, the Rhine was indeed red with blood.
It was now late afternoon. Aching in every muscle and trembling from what I had seen and done, I found Julian and his staff already encamped on a high bluff beside the river. Julian's tent had been pitched in a grove of ash trees, and though his face was black with sweat and dust, he seemed as fresh as when he began the day. He embraced me warmly.
"Now we're all here!" he exclaimed. "And still alive." We drank wine as the shadows of the trees around us lengthened, and Sallust reported that we had lost four officers and two hundred and fortythree men. No one could reckon the German losses but the next day they were figured to be somewhere between five and six thousand. It was the greatest victory for Roman arms in Gaul since Julius Caesar. Difficult though it is for me to delight in military affairs, I could not help but be caught up by the general excitement, which increased when shortly before midnight King Chnodomar himself was brought to us, arms pinned behind him, great belly sagging, eyes white with terror. The Germans lack true pride, as others have so often remarked. In victory they are overbearing; in defeat cringing. The king threw himself at Julian's feet, moaning his submission. The next day Julian sent him to Constantius, who had him imprisoned in Rome's Castra Peregrina on the Caelian Hill, where he died of old age. All in all, a better fate than was to befall his conqueror.
