His mood broke when a short, slightly built legionary trotted up to him late in the afternoon, his hair not merely matted but encrusted with sweat and grime, flakes of drying dirt covering his torso like a skin disease, his eyes red and squinting in the bright sunlight. The watchful guard of suspicious Gauls at first refused to let him pass to address the Emperor, until Julian glanced over and spied the commotion the small man was beginning to make as he raised his voice indignantly. The Emperor smiled as he called the guards back.
'Suffer the little ones to come unto me,' he said calmly, with a sly look my way, which I ignored. 'Even the filthy little ones. In fact — especially the filthy ones, if the news this man bears is what I hope.'
The trooper approached, his face still flushed in anger at the guards, and there was no indication of obeisance in his posture or voice as he stood before the Emperor. 'It is ready,' he said simply.
'Good man,' replied Julian, clapping him on his dirt-laden shoulder without hesitation. 'What is your name, soldier?'
'Exsuperius, my lord.'
'Exsuperius. "The overpowering one." Your name is a good omen, soldier, for this very night the Persians will receive their comeuppance from one who is indeed overpowering. "Exsuperius" will be our password this night, and you, soldier, will personally open the gates of this foul city to the Roman army.'
Exsuperius nodded, slowly and with a great dignity utterly at odds with his ditchdigger's appearance. Without another word he turned and walked sedately past Julian's fidgety guards and disappeared into the bowels of the vast Roman camp.
It was once believed that the Romans were aided in their struggle against the Lucanians in the Pyrrhic War by Ares himself, though far be it from me to understand why such a god, even if he did exist, would compromise his majesty by consorting with mortals in such a way. The story was that in the very heat of battle an armed soldier of tremendous stature was seen carrying a huge scaling ladder and leading an impossible charge up the city walls to ultimate victory. The next day, during review, no such soldier could be found, though rewards and honor would have been his to receive — hence the belief that he must have been a god.
No such problem confronted Julian, however, for Exsuperius lived up to all the Emperor's expectations of him, and happily received a laurel crown for his efforts. Long into the night, after the enemy's still-enthusiastic catcalls and jeering had finally subsided, the little miner led fifteen hundred picked troops slithering on their bellies through a tight, sandy tunnel a hundred yards long that had been hastily braced with bridging timbers carried by the river fleet. Shortly before they were expected to arrive at the end of the tunnel, trumpets sounded the attack and the entire army rushed to arms, throwing up simultaneous assaults on three sides of the city and raising a terrifying clamor to distract the wary inhabitants from the clinking of metal tools beneath their feet.
The ruse was successful. As the Persian garrison leaped to the walls to repel the night attack, the mine was opened, and Exsuperius and his band sprang out to find themselves in the bedroom of an elderly woman so fragile, or so weary, that she failed even to wake up at the sound of her floor bursting open and three cohorts of armed Romans storming through. They made their way into the streets, which were empty, as every able-bodied inhabitant of the city was fighting at the walls or cowering in their houses. After finding their bearings, the invaders raced to the main gate, slew the sentries from behind without difficulty, and threw open the doors.
The Persians stood shocked on their battlements, forgetting even to fling their missiles, as the Romans rushed into the city in a frenzy. Julian himself was in the front ranks, shouting his demands for the enemy to surrender, but his words were drowned by the screaming of women and children and the clamor raised by his troops as they destroyed everything and killed everyone in their path without regard to age or sex. He sat his horse in the middle of the tumult the remainder of the night, coldly surveying the destruction, watching expressionless as Persian soldiers on the high battlements drew their daggers and slew themselves, stabbing their own throats or hurling themselves to the ground.
Nabdates, the governor of the city, was brought in the morning with eighty of the King's soldiers, all of them badly mauled and beaten by their captors, some with eyes already put out or ears lopped off. They had been found cowering in a hidden cellar, hoping to survive the carnage above them until the Romans departed, when they would be able to emerge in safety. Julian put his face up close to Nabdates, who averted his swollen and blackened eyes, and then he turned back to Sallustius, his lip curled in a disdainful sneer.
'Turn them loose,' he said.
Sallustius stared. 'My lord?'
'You heard me. Turn them loose. Give them horses and a day's rations and let them go. They will bring to Ctesiphon news of the Emperor's strength and the fury of the Roman gods. And their very survival will be a permanent testimony to their cowardice.'
At this Nabdates himself spoke up.
'No, mighty Augustus,' he pleaded in courtly Greek. 'Kill me now.'
'Nonsense. Do it yourself. You are free to use the cliffs or ropes as you wish.'
'Augustus, I cannot face the Great King, or my people…'
But Julian had already turned away dismissively, making his way slowly down the street through the throngs of guffawing, drunken soldiers who slapped his back and reached for his hand. He picked his way carefully through the rubble of what had once been an elegant main thoroughfare, now completely demolished, roofs thrown down into the street, pots and furniture broken and hurled through the crumbled window frames. Everywhere were the dead — bodies cut and smashed, men's faces destroyed by bricks and stones, women lying naked, their pale bodies bloody and askew, violated and then fatally discarded through fourthstory windows. The Emperor kept his gaze straight as he shouldered through the mob of cheering and rampaging soldiers, showing no emotion at either the dreadful carnage or the evidence of his astounding victory, until he finally arrived at a small forum where a Persian-speaking Roman tribune was directing the collection of captives and plunder from all quarters of the city.
Even a town preparing for war, ostensibly hiding its valuables and sending its nobles to safe havens, contains booty sufficient as to make most soldiers' eyes glaze over, and doomed Maozamalcha was no exception. The pile was already large, and growing every moment as legionaries entered from every side street. Their arms were laden with gold and silver plate from the palaces and houses of the rich, rings and bracelets dripping with blood from the dead limbs from which they had been hacked, golden and marble statuary from the temples, and all manner of costly fabrics, silks, and linens, some unused and wrapped on their original bolts, others in the form of beautiful gowns and vestments still warm from the bodies of their final wearers. Girls and women huddled wretchedly around the heap of riches, keening and wailing in their misery, many swollen and bleeding if they had presented any resistance to their attackers, most of them still undamaged. The value of their beauty had been recognized by even the most brutal of their captors, whose craving for slave gold exceeded even the ache in their loins. A few young children had also been included in the group, having followed their female relatives and been spared by their own resourcefulness or the soldiers' mercy.
When Julian was recognized, the tribune and soldiers backed tactfully away from the plunder, and even the desolate females quieted their wailing to a slightly more respectful sob. It is known by all, of course, that the Emperor has first pick of the spoils, half of which belong to him, and after his lot has been separated the remainder is to be split among the rest of the army in accordance with rank and deed.