I was not impressed. 'Julian,' I said, 'for four years you have been walking a very fine line as far as Constantius is concerned. You are perceived in the court as a threat to his sole rule. He has killed many rivals for much less worthy reasons.'
Julian snorted and, climbing out, began toweling himself off. 'Of all the things I should fear, that is the last,' he said.
'Oh?'
'Think, Caesarius. His eunuchs may perceive me as a threat — but clever Constantius knows better. For the first time in decades the province's treasury is full and tribute is pouring into the Emperor's coffers. The Alemanni are on the run, freeing up his legions for the Persians. And his troublesome young cousin is apparently quietly satisfied in his provincial little cities in Gaul, safely out of the Emperor's hair in Rome. Constantius could do much, much worse than to keep me alive and content in my position, don't you think?'
Thus in answer to the Emperor's missive, Julian's first order was to the city's bakers: since the season was still long before the snows would melt in the passes and his spring campaigning rations arrive from Aquitania, he ordered all the army's reserve stocks of grain to be mobilized from the surrounding depots, and the ovens to be operated day and night until a sufficient quantity of buccellatum, hardtack, had been baked to be distributed to each soldier to last twenty days. Their rucksacks filled with these crusts, he marched the army out of winter quarters two months before the traditional spring campaigning season was to begin. As planned, he encountered the barbarians still lolling in their beds. Within a matter of weeks, he had carried out such a number of lightning raids as to leave every barbarian king who had not submitted after Strasbourg, including King Hortarius, King Suomarius the Beardless, the brother kings Macrianus and Hariobaudes, the legendary King Vadomarius, King Urius the Harelip, and even the far-off kings Ursicinus and Vestralpus, begging him on their knees to accept hostages and allow their people to retreat back to the far side of the Rhine.
Even this Julian did not accept, however, for to him it was not sufficient that the Rhine serve as a mere boundary between Rome's empire and the barbarian lands: the river must henceforth be subject to free passage for all of Rome's ships and supplies, and so he demanded not only that the barbarians transfer across the river, but that they move far beyond, leaving a wide buffer zone between their own lands and the thither bank. When Urius the Harelip complained at what he viewed as excessively harsh treatment in forbidding his people from their ancestral lands, and refused to vacate his villages and farms, Julian deigned not even to respond to his envoys, but merely sent his legions across one of the new pontoon bridges he had built and put Urius' homes and harvests to flame, with all plunder and prisoners packed up and sent immediately to Rome. After that, there were no further challenges to Roman authority from the Alemanni.
During his years of campaigning against the Germans, Julian crossed the Rhine with his armies three times while under attack; he rescued and restored to their lands twenty thousand Roman citizens and their dependents being held captive on the far side of the river; and in two battles and one siege he captured ten thousand Alemanni prisoners, not merely ones of unserviceable age, but men in the prime of military life — the numbers of old men, women, and children he captured numbered probably thrice again as many. To Constantius he sent four large levies of excellent Gallic and Germanic infantry, an additional three more that were not so excellent, and two complete and remarkably fit squadrons of cavalry, a very attractive rate of return on the Emperor's original investment in Julian, which, as you will recall, Brother, consisted merely of a handful of singing ascetics; and most important, he recovered all the towns and cities the Alemanni were holding in Gaul upon his arrival four years earlier, strengthened their fortifications against any future attacks, and repopulated their deserted streets and farms.
Julian was right: Gaul was now at peace, and the Emperor could do much worse than to keep him alive and content.
II
As Julian had said, his goal was not merely to foster peaceful existence, but to restore Gaul to the prosperity it had enjoyed as the jewel of Rome's Western Empire. I mentioned to you that upon his arrival, he had found a state bureaucracy in shambles, bloated by nepotism and incompetence, yet fragmented by the attacks of the barbarian invaders. As a new Caesar, of course, he had as little experience in civil matters as he did in military ones, but once he had consolidated his army's victories and had given himself some breathing room, he was bound to become just as capable an administrator as he had been a general. In fact, merely 'capable' is not the best description of his performance. Under the initial tutelage of Sallustius, and then with his own innate ingenuity and determination, he soon became the most brilliant governor Gaul had seen in generations.
Just as four years earlier he had spent the winter interviewing and strategizing with each of the garrison commanders under his control throughout Gaul, so now did Julian call in all the city prefects and tax supervisors, reorganizing the collection and expenditure system from top to bottom, stemming the sources of fiscal evaporation along all the numerous conduits by which revenues were conveyed to state coffers. Many longtime tax collectors quit their positions in protest at his heavy-handed approach, and he promptly replaced them with new ones, appointed not on the basis of blood relations or bribes, but rather on administrative competence and loyalty to himself and Rome. With Sallustius and other trusted officials, he undertook a personal audit of the province's finances, a task to which he dedicated two entire winters to poring over accounts and assessment minutiae for nights on end. The fairness and ability he demonstrated in tax matters, Brother, has been noted by authorities far and wide, both secular and religious, as you yourself have pointed out and as even the sainted Ambrose of Milan, despite his abiding hatred for the Caesar, has grudgingly admitted. For it was to the benefit of both the Roman state as well as to the common people that such fiscal matters be regularized. He diligently ensured that no one should be overburdened by more than their share of taxes; that the wealthy not seize the property of the poor; that no one should be in a position of authority by which he could profit by public disasters; and that no public official could break the law with impunity.
Most important of all was his elimination of two exceedingly harmful practices by which the prefect, Florentius, had negligently succeeded in bringing the province of Gaul almost to its knees. The first was the arbitrary awarding of 'indulgences,' which is to say, the cancellation of taxes in arrears, which in the sight of all fair men might be considered beneficial. This was not the case under Florentius, however, for such a practice was to the advantage only of the rich, who by various methods involving gifts, bribes, and threats were best able to convince the tax collectors to waive the amounts due on their estates and income, at least until such time as a new indulgence was granted. As for the poor, as is generally the case, they were constrained to pay all the taxes they owed, without exception or deferral, immediately upon the tax collectors' arrival. Needless to say, such a practice resulted in tremendous losses to the treasury, and great harm to the people's well-being.
Florentius' other technique, which was quite the obverse of the indulgence, consisted of the augmentum, the supplementary tax, which a decree by Constantius several years earlier had allowed to be applied at the discretion of the prefect. This highly irregular tax provided that any amount owed by those unable or unwilling to make payment would fall upon those who had already paid their own taxes, as an additional payment. When Julian heard of such effrontery his eyes flashed and he muttered 'Tyranny!' before declaring that so long as he ruled Gaul, no such tax would be permitted in his province. He had only to point to the regions where augmenta had been imposed in the past — Illyria, for example — to show how the population had been reduced to misery and poverty because of it. Only the rich, of course, were sufficiently influential as to be able to declare themselves 'insolvent'; consequently, the burden again fell upon the poor.
Furious at the challenges t
hrown at him by Julian, whom he considered a rank amateur in matters of civil administration, Florentius stormed back and forth between Julian's palace and his own opulent headquarters for the entire winter, bearing figures, log books, and tax registries in hand. Julian deigned not even to read them, and on one occasion when I was present he even threw the books to the ground and ordered Florentius out of his sight. The prefect fired off a series of angry missives to Constantius, complaining of the impertinence and ignorance of his young ward, but the Emperor, unwilling to pick this issue as a battle, merely attempted to amicably reconcile the two, privately entreating Julian to be more trustful and yielding with his prefect.
In the end, Julian's obstinacy held, and Florentius was forced to give in, much to the benefit of the province. For by eliminating exemptions and strictly enforcing assessments on all amounts owed, Julian was able to swell the state coffers to a degree unprecedented during Constantius' entire reign. Indeed, during the course of Julian's administration, he even succeeded in reducing the capitatio, the assessment per head, from twenty-five aurei to only seven, an amount which nevertheless, after the efficiency measures he implemented, still allowed ample budget for the functioning of the state. The key was that the funds were not only assessed on taxpayers, but actually paid, for the first time in perhaps centuries. Such measures as these were almost unheard of, not only in Gaul but throughout the entire Empire, and due notice of his methods was beginning to be taken in the capital.
Just as significant, perhaps, were his legal reforms, which were in sharp contrast to accepted practice. Exasperated in his attempts to find a sufficient quantity of judges and local governors whose abilities conformed to his standards of education and fairness of mind, he finally resorted to trying cases himself. This began to be a burden, however, for his time during the winter months began to be increasingly taken up with the settlement of minor property disputes and dowry claims. Toward springtime, when it was known that he would be departing on a certain date for a season of campaigning against the barbarians, individuals seeking redress would throng to the palace, imploring him to hear their case before he left, lining up in the corridors and down the steps into the street. They left him no peace even by night, when particularly brash or desperate claimants would sometimes station themselves close to his windows, and shout or sing their pleas and defense in carefully crafted verse, in an effort to attract his attention to their cause.
Since he clearly had no time to make personal investigations of each matter, he would often refer cases to the provincial prefects and governors, and then upon his return follow up on the outcome of the various suits. It did not help his privacy when it became known that he would often mitigate the penalties that had been handed down by his appointees through sheer kindliness.
Finally, out of pure desperation to regain a bit of his former privacy and time, he limited himself to hearing only cases that were of extreme importance or prominence, and since these cases were naturally the most widely followed, his reputation for personalized sentences became even more widespread. I recall specifically the case of Numerius who had recently been the appointed governor of Gallia Narbonensis, on the southern littoral. He had been accused by his enemies of embezzlement, and Julian determined to hear the case himself, which he allowed to be open to all. In an effort to set an example, he conducted the hearings and testimony with unusual severity, often grilling the witnesses himself. Numerius put up an airtight defense, however, and was ultimately acquitted, to much rejoicing among his supporters. The sharp-tongued prosecutor Delphidius, who had traveled all the way from Rome for the chance to participate in such a famous case, became exasperated at the lack of evidence in his favor, and at one point of the trial addressed the bench with a bitter question. 'Mighty Caesar,' he said, 'how can anyone be found guilty if it is sufficient for him merely to deny the charges?' A hush fell over the crowded courtroom as Julian flushed red in anger at the man's impertinence. He stood up and stared imperiously at Delphidius, who for a moment stood his ground and then began to shrink back against the wall behind him. 'And how,' Julian thundered, 'can anyone be acquitted if a mere accusation is all that is required to convict him?'
It was about this time, when his involvement in the functioning of the courts was at its height, that old Eutherius the eunuch made a remark that, as much as any, may have contributed to the subsequent unfolding of events. He had returned from Italy after spending much time quietly absorbing all the palace gossip and intrigue surrounding Constantius' court, and had resumed his position as Julian's chief steward.
'My lord,' he noted casually, as if it had just occurred to him, and indeed it very well may have, 'forgive me for raising an unpleasant subject, but one unfinished affair remains to be completed.'
Julian looked up, startled at first, but with a hint of amusement in his eyes. 'Eutherius, you old dog, what are you talking about?'
Eutherius maintained his customary grave demeanor. 'Again, forgive my presumptuousness, sir. But the woman Flaminia, the… er… midwife, had a daughter who still lives. She has languished in a solitary cell these past four years without trial. You have had other governors and judges demoted for treating their prisoners so harshly. She is said to be half mad, but perhaps you should put the matter to rest. Hostile tongues have been raising the subject of her imprisonment — Florentius in particular has been talking about it rather liberally — and such gossip could cast doubt on the impartiality of your judicial reforms.'
Julian stared at the old man in confusion for a moment, hardly remembering even the existence of the girl, and then looked inquiringly over at Sallustius, who avoided his gaze as he absentmindedly shuffled papers at the worktable.
'Several times I have tried to assign the case to an appropriate judge,' Sallustius said quietly. 'All of them recuse, however. They fear your wrath were they to find her innocent, and they fear your accusations of cowardice and sycophancy if they were to find her guilty. Most of all, they fear having to call Lady Helena and yourself to testify. It is an extremely awkward situation, and I would urge you to settle the case privately and quietly, perhaps simply by sending a trusted centurion to her cell with a sharp blade.'
Julian exploded. 'A trusted centurion! And what's to stop that centurion from discussing the matter with another trusted centurion, and another? Have I studied philosophy all these years to so flee my own responsibilities? Is it so difficult, then, both to afford the girl a fair trial and to seek the truth in the matter? By no means. I shall conduct the trial myself, as the greatest test of my objectivity and self-control. Let it be done.'
Dear God, what a nasty affair that was. I still shudder at the recollection. He had the foresight to first send me quietly to Sens, accompanied only by a single guard, with instructions to visit Matilda in her prison and determine whether she was fit to travel to Paris for the trial, and if so, to make arrangements for her transport forthwith. In the meantime, Eutherius, in hurried counsel taken with Sallustius and myself, pointed out the scandal that would ensue from a public trial of the girl, presided over by Julian himself as chief judge. The harm that would be caused to the Caesar's reputation for fairness, by trying a defendant while serving as both judge and plaintiff, would be incalculable. Not to mention the fact that the appearance of the dreaded midwife's daughter in Helena's presence would most likely only further unbalance the Princess's fragile state of mind. We resolved that I should delay as long as I reasonably could in fetching Matilda up to Paris, to allow them sufficient time to convince Julian that the notion of a public trial was folly, and that it was a matter to be settled privately.
Their efforts were in vain, though not for the reasons one might at first think. In accordance with the eunuch's and Sallustius' instructions, I tarried five days in arriving at Sens, on what would normally be an energetic two-day trip, first by feigning illness, then by slipping my horse a pinch of arsenic with his grain to render him colicky, and finally by pausing in one of the villages through which we were pass
ing to surreptitiously inquire as to whether anyone in the vicinity might need medical assistance. I then arranged to treat a needy family on an urgent basis, which, as events would have it, involved nothing more than a case of childhood scabies and pinkeye. This treatment I was unable to stretch out for more than two hours, but by that time it was too late to take to the road again that evening. My guard and I were therefore forced to sojourn the night in the house of the sick child, where my own guard, rather fortuitously, as it turned out, managed to contract pinkeye, delaying our arrival yet another day. So much for these things.
Upon finally arriving in Sens, I repaired straight to the remote prison on the outskirts where the girl was being held, reluctant to delay in the city itself because of the number of people who knew me there and who might ask inconvenient questions. Upon arriving at the entrance to the cell, a windowless stone hut, really, hard by the city walls near the municipal rubbish heap, I was surprised to see that although it was locked, it was completely unguarded.
Peering inside past the two iron bars that almost completely obscured the high, narrow air slit in the side of the wall, I was unable to see anything, though when I called inside I thought I heard some faint rustling, perhaps of rats. Furious not only at this dereliction of duty on the part of the guards, but also at this ill-treatment of a prisoner, I sent my own guard galloping back to the city garrison to make inquiries, while I settled myself down by the cell door to wait.
It was not long, less than a half hour, perhaps, when a decidedly ill-looking soldier, an ancient Gallic auxiliary, shambled out from the vicinity of the rubbish heap, pale, unshaven, and tottering slightly on his feet like a sailor just landed after a three-week voyage. He stared at me with slightly unfocused eyes, and asked me in broken Latin what I wanted.
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