'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.
He walked solemnly around the gleaming pile, picking up a trinket here and there and, tossing it back onto the heap, reaching down to touch the chin of a weeping young girl and force her face up so he could inspect her more closely. An unusual vase caught his eye, and after holding it to the sunlight for a moment for a better view, he carefully set it upright in a more sheltered location. One ragged young boy and his older sister sat slightly apart from the others. The boy alone seemed to be untroubled, his large, limpid eyes fixed not on the Emperor, as were those of every other prisoner and bystander, but on the lips of the girl as she rocked back and forth, crooning softly in Greek an ancient Christian children's hymn.
The Mother of Christ,
Al-le-lu-ia
Her most precious child,
Al-le-lu-ia
The Father in Heaven,
Alleluia, Al-le-lu-ia.
The girl became silent as Julian stopped directly in front of them, yet the boy remained staring expectantly at his sister's lips, ignoring the presence of the Roman Emperor, the man whose troops had destroyed his city and killed his family. The boy did not move, even as the girl shrank back in fear at Julian's approach. Julian stared, wondering at the boy's audacity, or whether he was simply an imbecile. He called the Persian-speaking tribune over to him.
'Ask the boy who he is, why he alone is not afraid.'
The tribune looked down at the lad skeptically, and barked out a harsh command. The boy peered at him quizzically.
'That's not how you talk to a child,' Julian reprimanded him. 'Soften your voice, tribune, and question him. I am curious.'
The tribune stood stiffly for a moment, collecting his wits, and then in a voice only slightly less jarring continued his guttural interrogation. Julian sighed.
'My lord,' the girl mumbled fearfully, and as she looked up I could see why her voice had been so small, so tuneless, for her face was frightfully battered, her upper lip split to her nose from a blow. I reflected that with her beauty gone, she had little chance of surviving the distribution of spoils, and perhaps that was all for the better. 'My lord,' she said again in Persian that the tribune could barely hear, 'the boy is deaf and mute.'
'Ah,' said Julian as he looked more closely at the lad.
Suddenly, however, the child seemed to perk up, for looking straight at the tribune, whose lips he had read, he carefully and silently pantomimed his life — his father was a presbyter in the small Christian church — I reflected that he had most likely traveled abroad in his studies, hence the Greek rhyme — his mother was a weaver, he had a small sister, or perhaps a brother…
Julian watched, fascinated, as the boy's hands slowly and eloquently spun the story, many of the motions and concepts unrecognizable though all of them extraordinarily structured and deliberate. His eyes were still large and expressionless, but his lips silently formed the precise Persian words of his tale, imitating the mouthings of those around him who in the past had sought to communicate with him through his veil of silence.
'How old is he, tribune? Ask him. He looks about the same age my own son would have been.'
The officer barked out the question in a loud voice such as is used by ignorant folk who believe that speaking in such a way will allow them to be better understood by old people and foreigners. The boy carefully studied his lips, and before the tribune had even finished, the child held up six fingers, turning solemnly to Julian. He then began rapidly making other counting motions with his hands, which I took to mean his indication of the precise number of months and days since he had turned that age. The lad was clever.
The tribune glared, as if at a street mime in Rome mocking passersby at the taverns. Finally, weary and uncomprehending of the boy's gestures, the officer turned.
'Perhaps, Augustus, if you would care to point out which articles are of particular interest to you, I could set them aside. Some jewelry, or a fine virgin?'
Julian snorted with disdain. 'I have no need of virgins. Nor did Alexander or Scipio Africanus. It is enough to be victorious in war without staining some poor girl with my lust. My wants are few.'
Bending down to a small cedar box he opened it to find it laden with coins, gold darics, and silver sigloi, a veritable fortune, along with several precious stones and a number of loose pearls — the entire inventory of a jewelry merchant, perhaps, or the carelessly hidden life savings of a wealthy nobleman. He squatted down and absentmindedly picked through the hoard with his forefinger, occasionally lifting an item to his eyes for closer inspection and then placing it back in the box. He finally stood up, holding in his hand three coins, the smallest, oldest, and most worn of the lot. He turned to the tribune.
'I shall take these,' he said, 'for they come from the time of Alexander and the fact that they have not been melted down for new coinage is a sign from the gods that they have been preserved for me.'
The tribune stared at the tiny coins, and then glanced helplessly at the growing pile of plunder. 'And what else, my lord?'
Julian smiled. 'Just this,' he said, placing his hand on the young deaf-mute's head, and leading him away, 'for he speaks most eloquently in a language known only to the gods.'
As we marched out the next day, the army was shadowed and harassed by a ragged and half-crazed band of Persians. They were unarmed, and so had passed through our outlying scouts and sentries without challenge, playing the part of desert traders or merchants, but as soon as they approached within earshot of the Roman column they began setting up the familiar hooting and catcalls that had so annoyed us outside Maozamalcha.
'What in the gods' name is that?' wondered Julian aloud, and a Gallic guard rode over to the unlikely mob of tormenters to gain a better look at them.
He galloped back with a wry smile.
'Nabdates and his men, my lord. They say they aim to accompany us to Ctesiphon.'
'Tell them they are forbidden to follow us. Tell them to go away.'
The sentry rode back to the Persians. A moment later the jeering rose up even louder, and the Gaul returned,
