anyone descending from Moesia, as Julian and his army would do upon their approach, it offered considerable obstacles to negotiate on a retreat north out of Thrace, even if there were no enemy troops defending it. And if a sizable garrison of the enemy were posted there, retreat would be virtually impossible. Recall, Brother, that eels are a delicacy to be flayed and fried while still alive, twitching and quivering in the pan.
After scouting the pass for himself, Julian concluded that with his meager forces it would be foolhardy to march further without first attempting diplomatic entreaties with the fortified cities below. He occupied the pass with a sizable garrison under Nevitta's command, and withdrew to the nearby city of Naissus, a well-stocked town in which he and his troops could comfortably pass some time.
That fall, things turned black. Though well entrenched and supplied at Naissus, his efforts to dissuade the surrounding fortified towns from supporting his cousin failed. The city elders hardly needed to consult with one another long to determine on whose side their destiny rested — Constantius' legions, fresh from victory in the East and supported by the treasure and resources of three-quarters of the Roman Empire, or Julian's tired, ragged band of men tenuously clinging to a remote mountain pass in upper Thrace. And even with this meager territory captured, our army was stretched untenably thin — military and political problems both locally and in Gaul were a constant source of vexation, and lines of communication with Paris were irregular. He made efforts to shore up his support in the region by lavishing attention on the general public welfare, restoring aqueducts and towers, reviving the city leadership, and lowering the taxes in some areas, as he had successfully done in Gaul the year before; and he spent countless hours attempting to rouse the people to his side through personal meetings and writings to influential officials. Still, the limp handshakes and slack-jawed smiles of a dozen city officials, though welcome, are nothing compared with the hard biceps and armor of a Roman legion, and in this Julian was sorely lacking.
The days became crisp in early November, and snow had already begun to fall during the cold nights. Julian grudgingly resorted to the leather Gallic leggings he wore to sustain him on his endless rounds of the encampment. The men had settled into their long winter routine, hunkering down to await the spring thaw that would allow them to resume their campaign, their critical march on Constantinople. For the time being, their fate would be in the hands of the diplomats.
Julian and I stood surveying the camp as it awoke one morning, the men emerging from the rows of crude log huts they had built as sturdier shelter against the cold than the campaign tents. For once, even Julian looked red- eyed and ill rested, and I marveled that he still had the energy to rise before his men, well before sunrise. The night before had been one of terror for the army.
Nevitta and the generals had been in council in the Caesar's own unprepossessing hut, which I attended as well. The generals had departed about midnight, rubbing their eyes and stretching. I dawdled for a moment in the hut, gathering papers and other items I had left lying about, and then made my way slowly to the entrance, some moments after the others had departed. Julian stood outside the door, gazing at the sky, and I began to slip by him, but he seized my arm as I made my way past. I stopped and looked at him, but he did not release his grip, and I saw that his gaze was still directed elsewhere, out toward the camp, but beyond it. I followed his line of sight, up into the inky blackness, studded with a million stars flashing brilliantly in the cosmos like sparks from a roaring fire. Far in the distance, above the northwest horizon toward which we were looking, shone the slow, searing blaze of a falling star, cleaving the heavens in a broad arc with its fiery trail. I watched, transfixed, for a long moment, before it disappeared as suddenly as a torch thrown into the sea. Julian stood motionless, gripping my upper arm tightly as scattered shouts rose from the sentries around the camp who had also witnessed the phenomenon, and the silhouettes of men roused by the commotion appeared in front of the smoldering campfires. Finally, he relaxed his grip and turned to me slowly, almost reluctantly, managing an apologetic smile.
'Pardon me, Caesarius,' he said, patting me gently on the arm where he had gripped it hard. 'A comet — well, the omen is not a good one.'
I brushed off his remark. 'You mean that old saw about portending the death of a ruler? We're educated men. Place your trust in God, not the stars. All will be well.'
Julian nodded. The camp, however, was in an uproar, the men demanding that he appear before them personally so they could witness the fact that he was still alive and breathing. For hours they milled about in the cold, calling to one another, doubling and tripling the watch to warn against any unseen enemy, posting enormous detachments of guards around his hut out of fear for his safety, despite his protests. Their superstition disgusted me, their fear aroused pity, their loyalty to their Caesar was humbling.
I remained at the hut with Julian for some time as he reassured his nervous men, and I did not leave until he finally lay down on his bare camp cot for some much-needed sleep. As I slipped out the door, Julian scarcely noticed me depart — he was again mumbling and talking to himself as he drifted off, which he did increasingly during times of stress. I had much to think about as I finally made my way back to my own quarters.
It was several days afterwards, while he was again preparing for his morning rounds of the camp, that I fell flat on my face.
Normally, of course, this would scarcely be cause for comment, particularly to you, Brother, knowing as you do how bereft I can sometimes be in the way of physical grace. As it was, I had just finished conferring with Julian about something insignificant, some pulled muscle or other from which he had been suffering, and was walking him to his horse before he left to make the rounds of the camp. While giving him my hand to help him mount, however, my foot slipped in the frozen mud, and although he recovered and was able to rise easily to his horse, I, on the other hand, lost my balance completely and fell prostrate on the ground before him. Standing up ruefully and beginning to wipe the sticky filth off my face and tunic, I was surprised to hear no sound from Julian — no apology, no hoot of laughter, no reprimand for my clumsiness, all of which I would have been unsurprised to hear from his lips.
Rather, after clearing the mud from my eyes I looked at him and found him sitting stock-still on his restless horse, staring at me with wide eyes. 'It's a sign,' he said finally, unable to tear his eyes off me. 'The man who raised me to my high position has fallen.'
It took me a moment to understand what he had said, and that he was referring to my tumble as a prophecy of the fate of Constantius himself. I glared at him.
'First of all, a word of sympathy would be in order,' I retorted, forgetting my custom of speaking deferentially to him when in public. 'Secondly, I resent your inference. I am not an auspice, like a piece of entrail drawn from a dead goat, and Christians do not even believe in such superstitious foolishness.'
He stared at me in silence a moment longer before finally shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts.
'Caesarius,' he said, 'let us talk. Take another horse from the stable and come with me.'
The seriousness of his expression puzzled me, and the groom who had been holding his horse immediately left us for a moment to fetch another animal. This I mounted myself without difficulty, and we took a circuitous path along the inside of the city walls, which would eventually bring us to the open field in which the bulk of the garrison troops were camped.
As we trotted side by side he assumed a thoughtful demeanor.
'Caesarius, I meant to give you fair warning earlier, but was unable to, for lack of time as well as will. Your comment just now, however, leaves me no choice but to bring up a difficult subject.'
'For almost six years I have been counsel to you,' I said. 'There is little you could say that would surprise me.'
'This, I believe, may shock you. The men have not recovered from their fear at seeing the comet the other night. They have asked me to lead them in performing a hecatomb.'
A burnt offering. Chanting to the god of war, reading entrails, an orgiastic devouring of bloody meat. Shocked is not the word. I was appalled.
'And you refused, of course, as a good Christian…'
He looked at me steadily as we trotted. 'I did not. Caesarius, I have barely thirteen thousand men. Jovinus is facing an outright rebellion at my back, and I see a hundred thousand Roman veterans approaching me from the front. This is no time to embroil my men in a religious squabble.'
''Squabble!'' I sputtered. 'You're speaking about burnt offerings to pagan idols!'
He gently interrupted my outrage. 'This is a Roman army, not a Christian one. First we do battle. Then we determine the army's religious direction, if any.'
'I would think that as a Christian general you should do the latter in order to do the former.'
He sighed. 'Caesarius, this army is a microcosm of the Empire. As the army is divided by religion, so is the world, all the more so since Constantine legalized a new religion. Half the East is Arian Christian. I myself was
