by Gore Vidal
Tonight I sent away everyone except Maximus. I showed him what Sallust had written, remarking that since Sallust was seldom wrong when it came to politics, we ought at least to consider his advice. Maximus agreed. He praised Sallust at extraordinary length and I wonder how I had ever got the impression they were not friends. For almost an hour Maximus and I discussed the pros and cons of the Persian campaign. We agreed it must continue; although Maximus pointed out that there were any number. of precedents for assembling an army and then not using it. Constantius used to do this every year, maintaining that the assembling of an army is in itself a deterrent; perhaps it is.
"But then of course Sallust does not know what we know," I said at last, referring to Maximus's vision of Cybele.
"There is something else he does not know." Maximus fixed me with those luminous eyes which have looked upon so many secret and forbidden things. "Something I have not told even you."
There was a long silence. I knew Maximus well enough not to hurry him. I waited, heart's blood pounding in my ears. Maximus got to his feet. The robe of yellow silk fell about him in hieratic folds. In the wavering lamplight he cast a huge shadow on the wall. I felt the imminence of some extraordinary force, that premonitory chill which signals the approach of deity. To ward off demons, Maximus drew a circle around us with his staff. Then he spoke.
"Last night, at the darkest hour, I summoned from the depths of Tartarus, Persephone herself, the Queen of all the Dead that are and ever shall be."
The lamps flickered; his shadow danced upon the wall; though the night was warm, I shivered with cold.
"I asked her the one question that must not be asked, but since the question concerned not me but you, not you but Rome, not Rome but the worship of the gods, I believed that I could ask this awful question without incurring the wrath of the Furies, or tangling the web of Fate."
I knew the question. I waited. I could hardly breathe. Maximus drew precautionary symbols on the floor, murmuring spells as he did.
"I asked: 'Dread Queen of Tartarus, tell me the place where your loyal son Julian will meet his death.'"
Maximus suddenly stopped. His hand went to his throat. He choked; he stumbled; only by clutching at his staff was he able to keep from falling. Something invisible wrestled with him. I did not move to help him for fear of breaking the power of the circle he had drawn. At last he was free. "Demons," he whispered. "But we have the highest power. Helios is our shield…. Persephone said, 'While all men mourn and all gods rejoice at a new hero come to Olympus, our beloved son Julian will die in Phrygia.'"
Maximus's voice faded as though from great weariness. I sat very still, cold as my own Phrygian death. Then Maximus clapped his hands and said in a matter-of-fact voice, "We are quite a long way from Phrygia, my dear fellow."
I laughed weakly, from relief. "And if I have my way, I shall never set foot in that province again." I then told Maximus that I had been told the same thing by Sosipatra. He was most surprised. He had not known.
"In any case, you see now—why I am not concerned by Sallust's letter. Persephone has spoken to us. You know what few men have ever known, the place of your death."
"And the hour?"
"… impossible, for that would be an affront to Fate herself. But we do know that you will survive the Persian campaign. If you survive it, that means you will have conquered."
"Like Alexander!" In a rush my confidence was restored. Am I not Alexander come again to finish the great work of bringing to the barbarous East the truth of Hellas? We cannot fail now.
Priscus: That was Maximus at his very best, and further proof that Sosipatra and Maximus were in league together. Maximus should have been an actor. But then he was an actor, and Julian was his devoted audience.
I don't remember much else about Circesium except that a supply master was executed because the grain barges he had promised for 4 April did not arrive. An hour after the wretch was put to death, the barges were sighted. It was an unpleasant business and Salutius, who had ordered the execution, was most unhappy at what he had done.
At dawn the next day, unable to sleep, I walked to the river bank where Salutius sat in his praetorian prefect's chair, while the army laboriously crossed the pontoon bridge into Assyria, as that part of Persia is called. I remember that cool dawn as though it were today's. A pale pink light in the east, the Abora River muddy and swollen, the cavalry on the bridge, horses shying, men cursing, armour rattling. As far as the eye could see men waited, their armour gleaming like stars in the first light, their voices unnaturally subdued, even apprehensive, for it had been many years since a Roman army had pursued the Great King into his own land. I sat on a stool beside Salutius while aides came to him at regular intervals: could the Tertiaci Legion cross before the Victores, who weren't ready? in what order were the siege engines to be moved? were the Saracens to cross now with the cavalry or later with the infantry? Patiently, Salutius kept all things in order.
In between messengers, we chatted. I asked him bluntly what he thought of the campaign. He shrugged. "Militarily, we have nothing to fear from the Persians." He indicated the legions about us. "These are the best soldiers in the world, and the Emperor is the best general. We shall beat them in every battle."
"But they avoid battles. And this is their country. They know how to harass an enemy."
"Even so, we are the superior force. Only…"
"Only?" Salutius studied the list of legions which rested on his lap. "Only?" I repeated.
But at that moment a centurion rode up, cursing the Saracens, who insisted on crossing at the same time as the cavalry "with those damned wild horses of theirs!" Salutius soothed the man, effected a compromise, by which time a notary had come to tell me that the Emperor wished me to attend him. As I left, Salutius said, "Be on your guard, Priscus. We are not safe." An understatement, as it turned out.
Julian Augustus 6 April
I crossed the Abora River yesterday afternoon. As Highest Priest I made sacrifice to Zeus. All omens were good except one: my horse nearly rode over the body of a quartermaster who had been executed by order of the praetorian prefect. Luckily, one of my aides pulled the horse to one side, nearly unseating me in the process.
We then rode some fifteen miles to a village called Zaitha, which means "olive tree" in Persian. The day was cool, and our spirits were high. Miles before we got to Zaitha we could see its principal monument, the tall circular mausoleum built for the Emperor Gordian. In 242 Gordian conducted a successful campaign against the Persians. Two years later he was murdered by his own men, who had been incited to mutiny by an Arab named Philip who became—briefly—emperor. A sad story, and typical. How often have emperors won great victories and saved the state only to be struck down by an unsuspected rival! Gordian decisively defeated the Persian king at Resaina, only to be murdered by Philip. As a result, a lasting victory over Persia was promptly thrown away by that pusillanimous Arab who wanted only to loot an empire gained by murder.
We stopped for an hour at the tomb, which is in good repair since the Persians respect monuments to the dead, while the roving Saracens fear all buildings. I offered a sacrifice to Gordian's spirit and prayed that I be spared his fate. I must get a biography of him.
I know almost nothing of his life, except of course that he was a friend of Plotinus. Maximus says Gordian still haunts this part of the world, demanding vengeance. Unhappy spirit!
While we were still at the tomb, Nevitta got me to one side. He was troubled because, "The men believe this is the first time Romans have ever invaded Persia. They believe that…" he gestured to include all the south… "this country has a spell on it."
We were standing in the shadow of the tomb. I reached out my hand and touched the rough-hewn tufa. "Here is the proof that we have been in Persia before."
"Exactly, Emperor. They say that this old emperor was killed by Persian demons because he dared to cross the Abora River. They say lightning struck him dead. They say Persia is forbidden
to us."
I was astonished. Nevitta, who fears no man, is frightened of demons. I spoke to him as teacher to child. "Nevitta, Gordian defeated the Great King in a battle one hundred and twenty years ago. Then he was killed by his own men. The Persians had nothing to do with his death. They are not demons. They are men. Men can be defeated, especially Persians. We have defeated Persians many times before."
Nevitta almost asked "when?" but then he thought better of it. After all, as a Roman consul he is expected to know something of Roman history. Yet as far as I know, he has never read a book of any kind, though in preparation for this campaign he told me, quite seriously, that he was studying Alexander. When I asked which biography he was reading, he said, Alexander and the Wicked Magician, a popular novel!
I reassured Nevitta. I told him about the victories of Lucullus, Pompey and Ventidius, Trajan, Verus and Severus. Apparently, these names had a somewhat familiar ring and he looked relieved, I did not of course mention our defeats. "50 tell the soldiers that their fear of the Persians is the result of Constantius's fear of war."
"You tell them, Emperor." Nevitta is the only man who addresses me by that military title. "They don't know these things. And there's a lot of talk about how bad things are going to be."
"The Galileans?"
Nevitta shrugged. "I don't know who starts it. But there's talk. You'd better give them one of your history lectures." That is the closest Nevitta ever comes to humour. I laughed to show that I appreciated his attempt.
"I'11 speak to them when we get to Dura." Nevitta saluted and started to go. I stopped him.
"It might be useful…" I began. But then—I don't know why—I chose not to finish. "Tomorrow, Nevitta."
He left me alone in the shadow of the tomb. I had meant to ask him to find out who was spreading rumours. But I thought better of it. Nothing destroys the spirit of an army more quickly than the use of secret agents and midnight interrogations. Even so, I have been warned. I must be on guard.
We set out for Dura. We were only a few miles south of Zaitha when two horsemen appeared from the east, carrying something in a sling between them. At first I thought it was a man, but when they came close I saw that it was a dead lion of great size. Maximus whispered excitedly in my ear, "A king will die in Persia!" But I had already got the point to the omen quite on my own. I also refrained from making the obvious retort: "Which king?" But as this Persian lion was killed by Roman spears it seems likely that the Persian King Sapor will be killed by Roman arms.
This lion, incidentally, was the first I'd ever seen close to; even in death, he was terrifying, with teeth long as my thumb and yellow eyes still glaring with life's hot rage. I ordered the lion skinned. I shall use its pelt for my bed.
As we continued towards Dura, the sun vanished, the sky turned grey, lightning flashed. A violent thunderstorm broke. We were all soaked and chilled by the rain, but we continued our march. Shortly before evening, Victor rode up to me. "Augustus, a soldier has been killed by lightning." Though Victor is a Galilean he has the usual military man's interest in omens. "The soldier was watering two horses at the river when the storm broke. He was just about to lead them back to his cohort when he was struck by lightning. He was killed instantly."
"What was his name?"
"Jovian, Augustus." I pretended to take this merely as an added detail. "Bury him," I said, and rode on. Maximus was the first to speak. "The sign is ambiguous. The fact he is named after the king of the gods, the thunderer Jove himself, does not necessarily mean that a king is involved." But I did not listen. This was a matter for the Etruscans.
We made camp on the outskirts of Dura, a long-deserted town whose houses of brick are slowly returning to the dust from which they were shaped by dead hands. The streets were empty except for herds of deer. I allowed the men to kill as many as they could for food. It was an amusing sight to see our best archers and cavalrymen careering through muddy streets in pursuit of the deer, who promptly fled to the river and, like seasoned troops obeying an agreed-upon plan, swam to the other side. In midstream the bargemen killed many of them with their oars.
That night Maximus, Priscus and I dined on fresh venison in my tent. Afterward we were joined by the Etruscan priests. Their chief is an elderly man named Mastara. He is held in high regard at Rome, where he used to be consultant to the senate. I record here, privately, that Mastara has been against this campaign from the beginning. He even interpreted the killing of the lion as unfavourable to me.
In general, the Etruscan religion is well known; in particular, it is obscure. From the beginning of time, the genius of the Etruscan religion has been its peculiar harmony with the natural forces of creation. The first revelation is known to all. Tages, a divine child, appeared in the field of a peasant named Tarchon, and dictated to him a holy book which is the basis of their religion. Later Vegoia, a young goddess, appeared during a ceremony to the thunder god and gave the priests a second book which contained instructions on how to interpret heavenly signs, particularly lightning. According to this book, the sky is divided into sixteen parts, each sacred to a particular god (though the same god may at times influence a section not his own). One can discover which god has manifested himself by the direction from which the lightning comes, the angle at which it strikes, and of course the place where it strikes. Mastara wasted no time. He had already analysed the death of the soldier Jovian. "Highest Priest, the lightning came from the ninth house." I knew what this meant even before he interpreted it.
"The house of Ares. The house of war. At the eleventh hour Ares struck down the soldier Jovian beside the river to our west. That means a soldier from the west, a king, will be killed late in a war. We are now making projections as to the exact day and hour of this king's death. By tomorrow we should be able to tell you when this… warning shall become fact."
There it was. We were all quite still for several moments. Maximus sat opposite me, hand wound in his beard, eyes shut as though listening to some voice within. Priscus shifted his long frame uneasily on a hard bench. The Etruscans were motionless, their eyes downcast.
"The king," I said at last, "could be Sapor."
"Highest Priest, Sapor does not come from the west."
"Nor do I, to be exact." I was ready to quibble as people always do when a prophecy has gone against them. "I come from the north. The only kings hereabout who are from the west are the Saracen princes. My own interpretation is that one of them will die in battle."
"Then shall we continue with our projection, Highest Priest?"
Mastara did not show emotion. He was a priest speaking to his superior, correct, demure, obedient.
"No," I said firmly. "I see no need. But to the extent that the army is apt to hear of your first interpretation, I must ask you to allow the second—and correct—interpretation to be generally known."
Mastara bowed. He and his priests departed. Priscus gave that dry chuckle of his. "I see now why the early emperors always insisted on being Highest Priest, too."
"I don't think I misinterpreted the sign." But realizing this sounded weak, I turned to Maximus for help. He opened his eyes. Then he leapt to his feet and turned first west then east then north then south. "Not even a Saracen!" he said abruptly. "Africa. Mauretania. There is the doomed king."
At first I wondered if perhaps Maximus was not trying deliberately to raise my spirits, but as he was in such an exuberant mood for the rest of the evening I now believe him. I have just written a letter to Sallust, asking him to send me news of the Mauretanian kings.
It is daybreak. I have not slept in twenty-four hours, nor will I sleep for another twelve. We must be on the march within the hour. I hear my servant Callistus outside the tent, giving the guam the password. I must now make notes for the speech I give to the troops today. My head is empty. My eyes burn. How to begin?
Priscus: The speech was a success. If Julian was tired, he did not show it. Incidentally, in his description of that seance with the Etruscans he omit
s my remark to him, "What is the point of listening to soothsayers, if you won't believe what they tell you?" But Julian was very like the Christians who are able to make their hol7 book endorse anything they want it to.
Julian's speech had a good effect. In the briefest but most convincing way, he explained to the men how often Roman armies had won victories in this country and he warned them against listening to defeatists, particularly those who had been set among us by the Persians, whose cunning and treachery he emphasized. When he finished, there was a great racket of approval. The Gauls were vociferous, but the eastern legions were unenthusiastic, par. ticularly Victor's cavalry. I mentioned this later to Julian. Yes, he had noticed it, too. "But they don't know me. The Gauls do. When they've won a few battles and looted a few cities they will love their leader." Julian the practical soldier, not the Hellenic humanist!
Julian Augustus 14 April
L. Arin., Orm., Cav.; R. Nev. Tert., Pet., C.; C. inf. J… Dag., Vic.; Van. 1500 sc.; Pyrr.; Luc. fleet; Anatha island: Luc. 1000. Waiting. Cyb. Mith. Her.
Priscus: I think I can interpret this entry. Julian is noting for himself our military order during the march south. On the right, skirting the river bank, Nevitta commanded the Tertiaci, Petulantes and Celts. In the centre Julian commanded the main part of the infantry—the baggage and the philosophers were also in the centre. On the left—or east—Arintheus and Ormisda commanded the cavalry. Though Ormisda was an infantry general, in the field there is a good deal of shifting back and forth of high-ranking officers. Dagalaif and Victor brought up the rear, while 1,500 mounted scouts ranged the countryside before us. Lucillianus commanded the fleet which accompanied us downriver.
