by Paul Waters
At the bottom of the stairwell a terrified slave pushed past us, like a rabbit fleeing a burning field. Marcellus seized his arm, jerking him to a halt. ‘Calm yourself!’ he said sharply.
The slave stared at him wide-eyed, trying to pull away. ‘Run!’ he cried, ‘the legions are coming. They are storming the palace!’ He snatched his arm free and was gone.
I said, ‘Then it has started. We had better find Julian.’
He was not in his rooms. The doors stood open. No guards were present. We found the steward craning out of the window; he told us Julian had gone to his wife’s apartments; already he had sent a slave to fetch him, though by now he must surely have heard the din for himself. So we hurried on, emerging into the high-walled outer court. It was a mistake, for at that moment the first legionaries came streaming in at the gateway.
Marcellus grabbed my arm and pulled me into the corner, just as a great mass of yelling wild-faced men, their swords drawn, came surging into the square, filling the space between the high walls like a river in spate. Those at the front wore the dyed furs and insignia of the Petulantes; in their train followed Kelts and auxiliaries. The courtyard filled with far more than it could hold, and we were pressed hard against the wall, unable to move from where we stood.
Then the chanting began, led by the men at the front – ‘Julian! Julian! Julian! Julian!’ – louder and louder, each man picking up the cry from the other, spreading like fire in dry undergrowth, back through the crowd and out beyond the gates into the darkness: Julian’s name, endlessly repeated like a challenge, echoing from the sheer stone walls and shuttered windows, shaking the ground and ringing in my ears. And still the men were pressing in, ever more of them, a whole army. The air reeked of wine and beer and soldiers’ sweat. Then, from somewhere in the midst of them, a new rhythm started and was taken up by those about, mingled with cheers and wild battle-cries. At first I could not make it out; but then my hands went cold as I realized what they were saying: ‘Julian Augustus, Julian Augustus, Julian Augustus …’ on and on and on.
I looked at Marcellus. There was no need for words. Around us men were laughing and punching the air, crying out at the top of their voices the terrible formula that could never be retracted, proclaiming Julian as emperor, calling for him to show himself.
A trooper beside me yelled at his neighbour, ‘Where is he? Why does he not come?’ His comrade, a gap-toothed, battle-scarred Gaul, said laughing, ‘Well he’s not asleep, not now.’ And on the chanting went. It was like the games, or the chariot races; noise and fervour that reach into a man’s heart, like a madness, and make him one with the crowd, forming out of many souls one mighty beast with one single purpose.
It seemed the din went on for hours, rising and falling like a tempest; and we were trapped in its midst. Then, as the torches above the gateway dimmed, and the first glimmer of dawn streaked red across the sky, a great yell of victory broke out from the front. The postern in the great, studded doors had opened, and onto the balcony, above the high steps, appeared Julian.
The Petulantes being of German stock are tall men, and I struggled to see between their broad backs. But every so often, as the dense crowd surged and parted, I caught glimpses of him, raising his hands in an appeal for calm, trying to make himself heard over the roar. But the acclamations only mounted louder. I saw him shake his head and gesture for the men to listen; but after a while, seeing the futility of this, he dropped his arms to his sides and waited, until eventually the ones at the front started hushing the others behind. Then, at last, he could address them. His voice was hesitant, even shaken. It was hard to tell if it was from anger, or emotion, or fear.
They were good men, he said, who had served Rome well. They had shared victories and hardships together; they had fought the Franks, and Alamans, and other German tribes, and had driven them back beyond the frontiers. Now, when Gaul was once again secure, was not the time to spoil what they had gained. Their demands could be met, he was sure of it; but if they did not desist, they would only bring ruin upon them all.
He paused, his breath showing in the crisp air of the early dawn. The men looked at him sullenly. ‘I give my word,’ he said, ‘that you will not be forced to leave your homes against your will. I shall intercede with the emperor; he will surely listen. But now you must return to your quarters.’
For a moment there was disappointed silence. Then they roared. It was not a cheer. It was a great defiant cry of ‘No!’
A lone voice in the midst of the crowd resumed the chant, ‘Julian Augustus! Julian Augustus!’ Swiftly it was taken up by the rest. The cries rose, loud and furious and full of menace, like some wild and terrible music.
Up to now Julian had affected not to hear; hoping, I suppose, that if the men returned to their quarters it could somehow be forgotten. Everything else – their protests, their near-mutiny, their indiscipline and drunkenness – could be explained away and forgiven. But the acclamation, once report of it reached the ears of the emperor, would be fatal.
As the roar of voices rose once more, he abandoned his efforts to quieten them, and merely stood with his head bowed. The men around me were grinning and laughing to one another, showing their teeth and the reds of their mouths. But there was no joy in their laughter; it was a shared delight in their doomful power. It seemed that there could be no end. But then, as the last stars were fading in the sky, from the front there arose a cry, and suddenly the crowd surged forward, carrying us with them like leaves in the flood. I strained to see; and then I understood. For up on the step, Julian had extended his arms, palms open, in the timeless sign of acknowledgement, accepting at last the acclamation.
And then, everywhere, there was wild cheering.
Already men were scrambling up the steps to the small stone balcony where he stood, pushing one another as they vied to be first. They were all around him, mobbing him. He disappeared from view, among a seething tide of moving bodies. Then I saw him rise above their shoulders as they lifted him and bore him down. Somebody brought an infantry shield, blue on yellow, the colours of the Petulantes; they placed him upon it, and raised him high, all the time shouting at the top of their voices, ‘Julian Augustus! Julian Augustus! Julian Augustus!’
‘A diadem!’ someone cried; and the call was taken up, ‘A diadem! Where’s a diadem? Bring a diadem!’ Julian gestured that he did not have such a thing – and indeed how could he, for only the emperor wore the diadem.
‘What about your wife?’ someone shouted.
It would be an inauspicious start, he cried in answer, for him to wear a woman’s trinket.
The men laughed. They would have laughed at anything. Then a standard-bearer, a man named Maurus, was pushed to the front. He took off his decorated collar of rank, and it was passed from hand to hand over the heads of the crowd, until someone planted it upon Julian’s head. It was hardly befitting, but no one cared, and all around us the men cheered and whistled and roared approval.
After this there was something of a lull. Everyone looked at one another, unsure what came next. Julian, sensing his moment, spoke out. He thanked them for their love and loyalty, and promised each man a donative of five pieces of gold and a pound of silver. Then he told them to return to quarters.
This time they obeyed, withdrawing from the palace courtyard like a receding sea, leaving Marcellus and me alone in silence, under a blood-red angry dawn.
We found Julian in the audience chamber with its rows of squat stone pillars and ancient hangings. Decentius the notary was there, and Pentadius, and the quaestor Nebridius, all of them shouting at once. Further back, gathered beneath the flickering light of the cresset, a group of Florentius’s liveried officials stood staring in silent terror, their carefully ordered world suddenly turned awry.
Decentius was shouting incoherently, pointing and waving his arms.
‘Go to the camp yourself and tell them!’ Julian shouted back at him.
‘But you must retract! It is treason!’
&
nbsp; ‘Do you think I do not know? I warned you what would happen.’
Suddenly, realizing that the absurd diadem was still on his head, he cast it angrily down. It landed at Decentius’s feet. The notary backed away, and stared at it as if it were a serpent ready to strike him. ‘Well?’ said Julian. ‘Now, at last, you have your rebellion. What are you going to do about it?’
But Decentius just opened his mouth, and then closed it again and shook his head. Julian, with a gesture of impatience, turned and strode off towards his quarters.
‘Wait!’ cried the notary, beginning to follow. But Marcellus stepped forward, blocking his path.
‘No, Decentius,’ he said. ‘You have already done enough. Leave him to rest.’
‘You too!’ he spluttered.
‘Don’t be a fool. The men are gone. Let them sleep off their wine.’ And then, looking at Pentadius and Nebridius, who were standing behind, gaping at him, ‘We were there; Julian had no choice. They would have sacked the palace.’
The two men exchanged appalled looks. I think it was only then that they realized how close to death they had come.
Of them all, Nebridius was the only one who had some honour about him. He had assisted Decentius and Pentadius because they had demanded it; but he did so from duty, without pleasure or an air of triumph.
‘Do you think,’ he asked Marcellus, ‘that they will come to their senses when they are sober?’
Marcellus shrugged. ‘Perhaps they will. But they are angry and dangerous – and now they know the power they possess. It is hard to tell, after this night, whether we are their masters or their prisoners.’
We left them with their clutch of officials, looking at one another in horror, and returned to our rooms.
Marcellus sat on the bed and looked at me. ‘There is no going back now, Drusus, not for any of us. Whatever that fool Decentius says, such words cannot be retracted, and Julian knows it better than anyone.’
‘Yes, Marcellus,’ I said. And then, after a pause, ‘But we chose our sides long ago, if it has come to that.’
I yawned and rubbed my eyes.
‘Get some rest,’ he said, pressing my shoulder.
‘What, after all that has happened?’
But somehow I must have dozed off, for one minute my mind was racing, going over the events of the night; the next, it seemed, Marcellus was shaking me, saying, ‘Up quickly, Drusus! They are back.’
I took up my sword-belt. Marcellus had pushed open the shutters and was leaning out. From somewhere beyond the gate I could hear the low grumble of men’s voices. At least, I thought, as I buckled on my belt, it is not a riot this time.
Julian was back in the audience chamber; but this time he was ready for them. He was seated on the dais, in a high chair draped with white linen, wearing a cloak of imperial purple, with Oribasius and Eutherius at his side. Daylight flooded in through the rose-window behind him, casting brilliant dust-flecked shafts across the stone-flagged floor.
Before him stood a delegation from the men, a group of twenty or thirty troops. Julian was saying to them that they had nothing to fear, assuring them that he was well and unthreatened. They listened gravely, and nodded, and stared, awed by the trappings of imperium. I found out later what had happened.
While Julian had been resting, Decentius, instead of leaving them to sober up and reflect on the night, had begun secretly to offer money to the lower-ranking officers of the Petulantes, trying to bribe them to return to the unguarded citadel and arrest Julian as a traitor. As usual he had miscalculated, not realizing that it was not gold that had first impelled them, but honour and fear and injured pride. They had not been bought by Julian; and gold would not now turn them.
Word of Decentius’s plotting had soon got round; the rumour had spread through the camp that Julian was in danger, or had been arrested and was about to be put to death. At once the men had come rushing. They would not leave, they said, until they had seen Julian for themselves, and heard from his own mouth that he was safe.
After this, Decentius was summoned and could not be found; realizing he had been caught out he had gone into hiding. But Paris is too small a city, and Decentius – as one of the emperor’s spies – was too much hated for him to hide for long. Within hours he was brought back to the palace.
‘What will you do with him?’ asked Nebridius.
‘Do with him? Nothing. I imagine the men who found him gave him fright enough. He is fortunate they did not cut his throat and cast him into the river.’
‘And now?’
‘Let him leave, if that is what he wants. We do not need him here.’
Soon afterwards, the troops of the palace guard returned – the ones who had marched east with Sintula and their womenfolk. They had not travelled far, being miserable and reluctant; and as soon as they heard the news from Paris they hurried back. Sintula, to his credit, returned too, though he could easily have fled.
Then, when a measure of calm had returned, Julian called all the men to assembly.
He rode out to the open ground beyond the city, where the various units had made camp, and under a sky of towering clouds and fleeting springtime sunlight he addressed the men, reminding them of all they had been through together. Now, in the time of his need, he hoped they would stand by him.
They cheered him long and loud, raising their arms in salute and beating their spears against their shining shields. The sound rolled through the assembled ranks like thunder. They were Julian’s to command.
Later he held a private dinner for his friends, and to us he confided his private fears. His position in Gaul was secure, he explained, but only while the emperor was occupied with the Persians on the eastern frontiers. ‘Constantius must be made to understand: I did not choose this acclamation; I do not challenge him. The men were unwilling to leave Gaul and their homes, that is all. It is not rebellion against him.’
‘That is not how Constantius will see it,’ said Eutherius. ‘Already he believes he sees traitors everywhere; and Decentius, when he arrives at court, will protect himself at your expense. So will Florentius. We already have the measure of those men.’
Julian considered for a while. A messenger had arrived the day before, bringing news that Florentius had fled from Vienne, abandoning his wife and children in his haste. Julian had sent orders that they and all their possessions were to be conveyed in safety to the East. Constantius would have seized them, and put the family to death.
‘I have no wish for civil war,’ he said, turning to Eutherius. ‘I shall write to Constantius myself, and tell him how the men were driven to this. I shall offer troops, as he wished… not the Petulantes, who will not go; nor the Herulians, who are not here. But we can send—’ And he named units he would dispatch east in their place. ‘I shall invite Constantius to appoint a new prefect whomever he wishes. But otherwise I must choose my own staff. We should have spared ourselves much trouble if he had allowed me to do that at the start. Let him make enquiries; he will see that all I tell him is true.’
‘And from whom,’ asked Eutherius, ‘will he enquire? Decentius and Florentius? No, that will not do. Someone must go and speak for you.’
I said, ‘I will go. I was there; I saw what happened.’
‘Thank you, Drusus,’ said Julian with a smile, ‘but I would not send you into that vipers’ nest. I have something else to ask of you. No, there is only one man here Constantius will listen to.’
He looked over the tables and couches, to where Eutherius was toying with a bowl of honeyed figs. Eutherius set down the bowl and sighed.
‘Ah! Another winter journey. In that case, dear Julian, I suggest I take Pentadius with me.’
‘Pentadius? – But why? Everyone knows he is one of Florentius’s lackeys.’
‘Which is why Constantius might listen to him.’
Pentadius, though he could have fled with Decentius, had chosen to stay. It seemed now he regretted his support for the notary, who had abandoned him, concerned only t
o save his own skin. Pentadius now saw he had been used, and then discarded.
Oribasius, who had been sitting silently, said, ‘Whatever happens, you cannot surrender now. You know that.’
Julian nodded. His wine – in a cup of simple Gallic earthenware, embossed with grapes and vines – sat untouched before him.
‘Constantius must let me keep what I hold,’ he said eventually. ‘Nothing else is possible.’
‘Yes; but will he accept?’
‘He has the Persians at his back,’ said Eutherius. ‘He may concede… if he sees no other way. But he will struggle like a netted cat first.’
‘And still,’ said Julian, turning to me, ‘there is the problem of Lupicinus.’
Two of his best legions were still in Britain, under the command of Lupicinus. ‘Constantius will order him to move against us. We must make sure that he does not.’
He would write, he said, recalling Lupicinus to Paris. This was the task he needed me for. Marcellus and I must go to Britain, bearing Julian’s letter to the Master of Cavalry; Marcellus, being on Lupicinus’s staff, would not arouse undue suspicion. ‘You must do all you can to make sure Constantius does not succeed in getting word to him. I shall send trusted men to all the ports of Gaul and Spain – wherever a messenger might put out. But that may not be enough; you must do what you can from the other side.’
He said he was promoting me to the rank of count, which would ensure I possessed sufficient authority not to be hindered. ‘And speak to Alypius in London. He is a friend. He can be trusted.’
For a while then we discussed details. But before we parted he turned to me and said, ‘And now, Drusus, there is an injustice I have long wanted to rectify.’
He stood, and from the side-table picked up a letter sealed with wax. The light from the standard caught his face, and I saw that he was blushing.
‘This,’ he said, turning, ‘declares your father free of any crime, and restores all your lands and properties.’
