Gods and Legions

by Michael Curtis Ford

  'No, Caesar, I fear he was absent from the battle.'

  What Sallustius failed to mention was that his conclusion had already been drawn long before the accountants had calculated the numbers of enemy dead. For Chonodomarius' absence in a battle was simply assumed by default, by dint of the fact that the barbarians had retreated. The enormous king had seemingly vanished without a trace, like an ephemeral spirit, into the vast, black forests beyond the Rhine. Though the Alemanni were losing battles, Chonodomarius was holding back — feeding our confidence, lulling us, perhaps, waiting for the time when he could organize his hordes into the crushing blow he was surely planning in his dark, wooded fortresses.

  Fall approached, the time for returning to winter quarters, and the cornered barbarians, we knew, would soon be breathing sighs of relief; still, Julian did not abate in his fighting. Upon reaching the left bank of the Rhine, the current speckled with barbarians fleeing in their makeshift craft, he paused no more than a day, just long enough to let his troops relish their triumph. He then struck north, aiming at the great Roman cities that had been lost over the past decade, and which he had resolved to regain for Rome. He met no resistance at shattered Coblenz, the city which since earliest antiquity had been known as the Confluence because of its location at the juncture of the Moselle and Rhine rivers. Tens of thousands of displaced barbarian farmers and soldiers retreated in terror and surrendered the entire city to a dozen of Julian's advance scouts before the main forces of his army had approached within twenty miles of the city walls.

  Arriving effortlessly at Cologne, the city which only a year before had been a source of nightmares and terror upon his first learning of its fall to the barbarians, he gathered together at the single tower still left standing with the representatives of the united barbarian tribes. There, he dictated to them conditions that would maintain their peace and subjection through the winter, after which, he made it clear, his campaign would begin anew until all of Rome's former territory in Gaul had been returned to the Emperor's domains.

  Leaving garrisons to man the cities and towns he had reconquered, he marched back to Reims with a skeleton force consisting largely of his Acolytes, as a personal guard. He gave an account of his actions to Ursicinus and the surly Marcellus, and then coolly retired to his winter quarters at Sens, which he had chosen in large part for the reputed vastness of its governor's library, and for the healing qualities of the sulfur baths to be found in the vicinity, which he felt would be comforting to Helena when recovering from the birth of her child. The library did not disappoint, though Julian's information on the baths was apparently out of date, having been gleaned from an ancient commentary on Julius Caesar's account of the Gallic Wars. The springs, it seems, had been dry for three centuries.

  BOOK THREE

  LIFE AND DEATH

  Nescia mens hominum fati sortisque futurae et servare modum rebus sublata secundis!

  How ignorant are men's minds, of fate

  And of their destinies; how loathe to keep

  Due measure when uplifted by success.

  — Virgil

  I

  God, Brother, is not to be found in the bronze statues of Zeus and Apollo in the temples of Athens, which you, of course, will be the first to assert; nor residing on the heights of Olympus or in a palace in the depths of the wine-dark sea, or skulking in a cave surrounded by voiceless wraiths deep beneath the earth, all of which you again will laughingly dismiss as unworthy even of your briefest consideration. Nor, however, is He to be found in the tear-stained icon adorning the wall of the anchorite's cell, nor even in any of the myriad splinters and shards of the True Cross reverently traded by wealthy pilgrims and Desert Fathers alike, in such quantities that they would be capable of rebuilding the entire Ark of Noah. And it is only among those of the deepest faith in the Mystery of Mysteries that God may be found in the morsel of bread and drop of wine in the Eucharist. Among the vast majority of lesser mortals, belief in His presence therein ebbs and flows, rising and falling like the tides, with the swelling and shrinking of our faith, dependent as it is on the circumstances of our own lives and fortunes. I say this not to denigrate those favored ones, like yourself, who have been graced with the gift of unquestioning belief, but rather to acknowledge the reality facing the rest of humankind, who struggle daily in the quest for God and meaning in their lives.

  For at the risk of descending into the bathos that the Greek tragedians so wished to avoid, God is to be found not in so many exotic and obscure locations as remote mountaintops, or in the preserved finger joints of centuries-dead martyrs. Rather, He is here before us, every day, in the birth and miraculous presence of a baby, in man's constant capacity for redeeming the errors of his existence and creating himself anew, in a perfect, unstained, and sinless regeneration of himself, without lust or ambition or evil intent, a confirmation of the image in which he was created, and of his ultimate rightness with God. Chastise me if you will for my heresy, Brother, but I knew, as I saw Julian that evening by the flickering firelight, holding and gazing in rapture at the son that was the guarantor of his immortality, that God had descended into our midst as surely as He had in Bethlehem three and a half centuries before, as surely as He does so briefly and mysteriously into the Sacred Host that is the very lifeblood of our faith.

  'What age so happy brought thee to birth? How worthy thy parents to have begotten such a creature!'

  Still softly murmuring the lines from Virgil, Julian handed his son, only minutes old, back to Helena's midwife Flaminia, a well-known Gallic birther who had tended her and accompanied her on the journey north from Vienne. The midwife took the baby to a corner, carefully rewrapped him in his swaddles, and carried him into Helena's bedchamber. Oribasius, who as a rule disliked births, had scuttled back to his quarters as soon as the procedure was complete, leaving Flaminia to perform the cleanup and postpartum care, along with her daughter, who was assisting her. I waited where I sat, in the candlelit anteroom outside the chamber, hearing Julian's low voice as he talked softly to his sleepy and satisfied wife, and to the cooing of the midwife as she deposited the young prince onto Helena's soft breast. Matilda, the daughter, remained in the anteroom with me, waiting for her mother to emerge so they could return home. She was a frail, jittery lass, scarcely out of girlhood, yet unlike her thoroughly professional mother she seemed unable to sit still, constantly fidgeting with her hands and face, picking at her chewed cuticles. I observed her calmly, noting that with a disposition like hers, it seemed doubtful she would ever make a skilled midwife, as her mother was training her to be. My attempts at conversation were fruitless — it was difficult for her to remain on a topic, her Latin was halting, and even her Gallic, though fluent, was tinged with an odd accent. Her father, apparently, was a Germanic immigrant and the girl spoke his dialect at home.

  I soon gave up trying to put the girl at ease, and peeked carefully into the room where Flaminia was settling the baby and mother. Moments later, Flaminia tiptoed out, bidding me good night with a tired smile as she and Matilda gathered their things and slipped out the door to their temporary lodgings down the corridor, and then Julian too finally left the chamber, closing the door softly behind him with a click. He settled himself down across from me, and though his eyes were red-rimmed from fatigue, he nevertheless began rummaging in the small map case he had ordered brought in from his staff office, and I saw without surprise that he was beginning the next phase of his workday.

  I asked him if he would mind some company, as my nerves were too worked up to even contemplate sleeping at that time, and he smiled happily.

  'Of course not, old friend,' he said. 'It would be a welcome change from the shifts of dreary scribes who usually accompany me at night. I'm afraid I'm not up to conversation, but if you can endure my silence, please stay.'

  I wanted nothing more, and having neglected to bring any reading materials of my own, I contented myself with merely gazing into the coals of the fire.

  It must have b
een about two hours after midnight when I was awakened from a light sleep I did not even realize I had fallen into. I jerked my head up with a start and glanced over at Julian. I assumed it had been the cry of the baby that had awakened me, and marveled at how long the infant had slept between feedings. Julian looked at me expectantly, however, and I then realized that the sound in question was a soft rapping at the door, and that the Caesar, surrounded as he was by maps and parchments and with his quill dripping ink, was hoping that I would be better disposed to get up and answer it. Shaking my head groggily I stood and stretched, then walked the three steps across the small room to open the door.

  Two sentries stood before me, a spitting, struggling woman standing between them with her hands bound in front of her and a heavy woolen cloak over her head and shoulders. In the flickering torchlight behind them I was unable to make out her identity.

  'Beg pardon, sir,' said the sentry on the left. 'We seek the Caesar.'

  I heard Julian quickly rise behind me from his stool and stride to the open door, where he stood looking quizzically at the strange trio. 'Yes?' he inquired amiably.

  The men shuffled awkwardly. 'We disturb you only because we know you keep late hours, sir,' the first one said tensely. 'We just came off our shift at the outpost, sir, five miles beyond the city walls on the south road, when we came across this woman, ridin' hell-for-leather on a horse from your stables, sir, and with no baggage to speak of but her little kit, and a pouch of new coins. We found it passing strange, to say the least, at this hour of the night, and thought it best to bring her back and confirm she has leave to borrow the horse. Another woman was with her, sir, but slipped past us in the dark.'

  Julian stood perplexed for a moment, blinking in the dim light, and then stepped away from the door.

  'By all means,' he responded. 'Bring her in, but quietly, if you please.'

  The two sentries, looking uncomfortable, stepped into the room, pushing the woman in front of them, who stumbled slightly as she stepped over the threshold and cursed under her breath. Julian led her over to the light of the candles he kept burning brightly around his desk, and ordered her to remove her cloak so he could see her face.

  The woman threw back her head defiantly, letting the hood of the cloak slip off, and as she did we froze. It was Flaminia the midwife, her kindly, patient expression now replaced by one of ill temper and exasperation.

  'Caesar, these men have unjustly accused me and disturbed your rest,' she began loudly, knowing as well as anyone present the reason to keep our voices down. 'I received word that I was urgently needed for a birth in an outlying village, and had simply borrowed the fast horse to make greater speed.'

  At ill-mannered Flaminia's loud words, I sighed and stepped over to Helena's door, intending to enter quietly and put her mind at rest, for assuredly all the commotion in the anteroom had awakened her and the baby. Ignoring the midwife's hoarsely whispered protests that I would be disturbing the mother's sleep, I stepped inside. As the light from the anteroom flooded across the bed, Helena's eyes fluttered open sleepily and she lifted her head in befuddlement and with a slight grimace of pain.

  I saw with relief that the baby was lying quietly at her breast in the crook of her arm, precisely where the midwife had placed him earlier that evening, and I stepped forward to apologize to Helena for disturbing her at such an hour. She smiled contentedly, and I reached down absentmindedly to stroke the baby's tiny head, and to gently feel the pulse through the soft spot at the top where the skull was not yet fused.

  The pulse was not there. The baby's head was stone cold.

  I hesitate to describe the horrible scene that ensued, Brother, for whatever you can imagine, it was ten times worse. Thinking I had made some mistake, had somehow lost my touch, I placed both hands on the infant's head and palpated frantically, then pried him from Helena's arms and lifted him to the light to examine him more closely. The skin was deathly white, the eyes rolled back into the head, the joints stiff and hard; such symptoms are terrifying enough when seen in a man who has fallen in battle, perhaps unconscious and facedown in a pool of his own blood. But in an infant, in a tiny vessel of Almighty God Himself, the effects of it are perverse, the very image of evil. I let out a cry, and Helena struggled to a sitting position, reaching for her baby at the same time as Julian rushed in and saw me clutching the infant in horror. He snatched the tiny creature from me and brought him into the light of the anteroom, where he collapsed to his knees, holding the baby to his chest.

  'H-how can this be?' he stammered questioningly at Flaminia, his eyes filled with confusion. Helena struggled out of bed and stood leaning against the door frame as I supported her on the other side. 'Help my son,' he pleaded to the midwife, 'he's not breathing.'

  Flaminia looked sorrowfully down at him. 'Your wife must have rolled over and suffocated him in his sleep, Caesar,' she said. 'It happens often enough to first-time mothers. I should never have placed him in her arms this night and then left. My God, I intended to return later and check on them, but I received this urgent message. Lord knows what has become of the other baby I was called upon to deliver this evening.'

  Julian stared at her uncomprehendingly, and then turned to look at Helena, who had straightened up in wild-eyed astonishment, clutching her belly in pain and rocking back and forth on the balls of her bare feet. Tears coursed down her cheeks as she contemplated the implications of what the midwife had just said.

  'Please, my lord, it will be daylight soon,' the midwife pleaded. 'I first left the palace over two hours ago — I have an urgent assignment that I must attend.'

  'Urgent assignment…' he muttered, then he looked up fiercely. 'Begone with you, then! I'll not be the cause of another…'

  Flaminia smiled triumphantly at the two sentries, who quickly stepped forward to cut her bonds. My mind raced at the thought of what had happened, as the midwife's ropes dropped free. She stepped quickly to the door, massaging the feeling back into her numb hands that were white where the tight knots had bound them, knots that had slowly cut off the flow of blood… the flow of blood…

  'Wait!' I shouted, and everyone in the room jumped. Flaminia stepped quickly out the door and I could hear her steps as she began racing down the corridor. I leaped away from Helena, who was only barely able to brace herself in the door frame on her own, and ran out the door. I skidded around the corner into the polished-marble corridor and saw Flaminia running pell-mell toward the staircase and the exit. The two sentries, after recovering from their initial startlement, themselves raced out the doorway to follow my strangled cry.

  'Hold that woman! Hold the midwife!' I shouted, and there was no contest, for although I was tired, I was still a young man, and it cost me little effort to catch up with a woman twenty years my senior. I was not gentle, however, and seizing her about the waist I tackled her as do boys playing a game of chase in the dust. We fell heavily onto the marble floor, where she hit her jaw hard, and narrowly avoided being trampled by the sentries following close on our heels.

  'What in God's name?' shouted Julian, himself emerging from the anteroom and running to where we had all gathered around the moaning midwife. 'What are you doing, Caesarius? Are you mad? Will you cause the death of another infant tonight?'

  'My lord,' I gasped, 'this woman must be held until I can examine the baby. I assure you,' and I gulped hard, thinking of the white skin and already stiffened joints, 'I assure you that Helena did not kill your son.'

  Julian stared at me, wild-eyed, then whirled on Flaminia in a fury. By now half the palace had been awakened and was in an uproar. Servants were running into the corridor in their nightclothes, hair bedraggled, and a trio of household dogs had set up a mad yammering, running through people's legs and leaping at the soldiers as they struggled to lift the writhing midwife, blood pouring from her broken teeth and split chin, and place her again in fetters.

  'Throw her in the cellar, and may God damn her,' Julian shouted at the guards as Flaminia spit and cla
wed at him frantically. 'I want a full confession!' His voice was choked and his breathing labored now, and he glared at the woman with an expression as crazed as I had ever seen on the apoplectic Constantius during one of his own fits of rage.

  'Julian,' I began, trying to remain calm. 'Julian, I must examine the baby first. We can't know what happened until-'

  'A full confession, damn her!' he screamed at the guards as they dragged their prisoner away. He whirled on me. 'Caesarius!' he barked. Despite the wild commotion around us and Flaminia's frantic screaming echoing down the corridor, I jumped. For a moment I was afraid he would order me to extract the confession, for a physician's knowledge of pain centers and joints was sometimes used for just such a purpose. My fear on this score, however, was quickly allayed, as he paused for a moment, still staring at me, trembling in rage. Then his face softened slightly as, struggling, he gained control over his emotions, and turned away, slowly but still shaking. 'I have an assignment for Paul the Chain,' he muttered, to himself more than anyone, before sweeping past the pandemonium of hysterical maidservants to return to his sobbing wife.

  Minutes later, the reluctant Oribasius and I examined the body of the baby, much to my colleague's distaste, as he had little use for autopsies, particularly on infants.

  'The midwife was probably correct,' he said laconically before we began. 'Helena simply rolled over on him in her sleep. She's a big girl, Caesarius. It happens all the time.'

  I was not convinced. 'I saw her myself, Oribasius,' I countered. 'Helena sleeps soundly, without moving the entire night. As her physician, I have witnessed this many times in the past. When I found her and the baby, they were in precisely the same position as when the midwife had left them. Besides, the baby was white, not blue as he would have been had he suffocated.'