Gods and Legions

'Yes, Caesar. My father's estate was outside Marseilles.'

'You are different from the other men my cousin has assigned me. What horrible crime have you committed to be given the pleasure of this feeble company?'

The man smiled sardonically. 'I volunteered.'

Julian almost choked. 'Volunteered? Good God, why?' The man looked carefully at him for a long moment.

Finally, his gaze turned to its habitual position on the far horizon and he shrugged.

'Because I believe, I suppose,' he said, switching effortlessly to Greek, much to Julian's surprise, 'I believe that new blood is needed among Rome's command in Gaul. I believe that a man who comes from outside the standing school of plunder and abuse is needed to tame the province. If that means the Emperor's inexperienced young Greek-speaking cousin — then perhaps all the better.'

Julian stared at him. 'You know that is not my mandate from the Emperor.'

Sallustius did not miss a beat. 'I also believe that the Fates do not intend you to be a mere figurehead. And moreover, that you do not intend to be one either.'

'So you feel there may be a purpose in this madness.'

Sallustius shrugged again. 'I don't claim to divine a purpose. I just don't see the situation as hopeless — yet. Beyond that I can express no opinion.'

'Sallustius, assume you were in my shoes. What would you do now?'

The man spoke as if he had been waiting for precisely that question.

'You are the Caesar. You have been legitimately appointed, duly invested. Regardless of your experience, or lack of it, you have been given command of a province. You must identify your opportunities, seize the authority due you, and fill your role — the role of a Caesar.'

Julian stared at him, wide-eyed, in silence. 'That's the first time anyone has honestly said, in so many words, what I myself have felt ever since I was appointed to this wretched post.'

'Because it's the truth. Your very survival depends upon it. And what is more — so does Rome's.'

Julian took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. Already, I could see, he was beginning to like and, more important, to trust this stranger. A hint of a smile appeared at his lips.

'Since you seem to have no qualms about speaking frankly, Sallustius, I will ask you again, and perhaps this time you will be more specific: If you were in my place, what would you do?'

Sallustius met his gaze and spoke quietly and evenly.

'First, make this mob march like a Roman cohort, or we will be meat for the barbarian wolves when we descend through the Alps.'

'Can you do that?'

He thought for a moment. 'I am not a professional military man, but yes, I have served my tours of duty. We will need to take some time off from the march to train. I'll need three weeks.'

Julian scoffed. 'It will soon be December. The passes will be closed by snow in a matter of days. I'll give you one week.'

'Fair enough.'

'And what would you have me do — be a soldier as well?'

'That, Caesar, is up to you. If you order me to, I will.'

'I order you to. A good, solid Roman soldier. What should I do?'

'You may not wish to hear it.'

'I am a philosopher. I take what life gives me.'

The man paused and took a deep breath. Then he turned directly to Julian.

'Very well. First, get your ass out of that chair.'

Julian stared in astonishment, and then the wry smile crept back to the corners of his mouth. Reverting to Latin, he called out to his bearers to stop and set him down.

With a collective sigh of relief, the entire procession stopped immediately, and the ascetics collapsed to the ground in exhaustion, praising God all the while. Julian stepped out of his sedan chair. I noticed the curtains on Helena's chair part, and her gauzily veiled face peer out curiously.

Sallustius dismounted and stood before him, towering over him by a full head.

'Next, remove the toga.'

At this, Julian himself breathed an audible sigh of relief and stripped off the fussy ceremonial garment, with which he was forever fidgeting and tugging to keep properly aligned on his shoulders. He called to one of the sedan-bearers, who rummaged around in the duffel bag inside the compartment until he located an old, threadbare school tunic and a wool cloak, which Julian donned as protection from the air's coolness.

Sallustius stood appraising the Caesar's body critically, noting the thin chest and legs, the beginnings of a paunch.

'Are you fit?' he asked, somewhat doubtfully.

'I travel with my physician,' Julian answered confidently, nodding at me. Sallustius looked briefly at me and snorted.

'That's not what I asked,' he said. 'I need to know how strong you are. A weak body burdens the mind. The art of medicine has caused more harm in the world than all the sicknesses it claims to heal. I don't know what illnesses physicians are capable of healing, beyond binding up battle wounds, which I can do myself. But I do know the diseases they cause: laziness, credulity, fear of death. I don't care if they can make cadavers walk; what your crew needs is men, and your physician can't give us that.'

Julian stood thunderstruck at this diatribe. He glanced at me with uncertainty, though under Sallustius' fierce glare he seemed unable to pronounce a challenge. Finally he found his voice.

'Homer said that one physician is worth many men.'

'Then let Homer lead your troops.'

Julian sighed in resignation. 'What next?' he grumbled.

'No court sandals.'

He looked down in surprise at his feet. He had worn the thin-soled, loosely strapped footwear his entire life, and it had never occurred to him that any other might be necessary.

'I can't go barefoot.'

Sallustius looked back down the train and spied one of the supply wagons stopped a short distance away. Trotting over to it, he conferred briefly with the slave driving its mules, who flipped back a tarpaulin and began rummaging in some crates in the back, finally locating what Sallustius was seeking. He then trotted back to the Emperor, who was standing rather sheepishly before the staring crowd of ascetics and his wife, and handed him a pair of Roman army sandals.

Julian whistled audibly as he hefted them: a full half-inch of tanned ox hide, stiff as a board, with dozens of hobnails protruding from the sole for a better grip. Brass fittings protected the toe tips, and thick, pliable leather straps wrapped the ankle and calf almost to the knee. He tied the straps, then stood and stomped a few steps, stiff-legged.

'They feel like boats on my feet. Heavy boats.' Then he slowly smiled. 'Roman boats.'

'You asked me what you should do.'

'So I did. Now what?'

'Now march.'

III

Thus began peaceful, scholarly Julian's ascent as a soldier, and it is doubtful that there had ever been a more inauspicious beginning to a warrior's career since Telemachus, who was denied the firm guidance of his kingly father Odysseus until the day he was suddenly thrust into battle against Penelope's hundred thirty-six suitors.

His training under Sallustius commenced, and the difficulty of the master's regime was exceeded only by the student's stubbornness. The Caesar had never in his life experienced the slightest physical hardship. Until this time, all his training had been of the mind: courses of philosophy, rhetoric and composition, Greek literary works of good authorship. You may have heard it sometimes argued that children of lesser parentage should not be educated, on the grounds that their best hopes for advancement are in the military. As the old saying goes, 'A scholar made is a soldier betrayed.' Such people point to the most fearsome of the barbarian nations, the Franks and the Huns, whose leaders are all soldiers by training and custom, and who denigrate book learning as unworthy of their skills. To my knowledge, however, in almost all cases truly successful military leaders are educated to at least some degree, or if they are not, they are ashamed of their ignorance and seek to remedy it.