Late one evening in a marshy wood not far from the Rhine, between the fortified post,Tres Tabernæand the Roman town of Argentoratum,1conquered a short time previously by theAlemanni, two soldiers who had lost their way were slouching along. One named Aragaris, an awkward and red-headed giant, a Sarmatian in the Roman service; the other Strombix, a lean and frowning little Syrian.
The spaces between the trunks of trees were densely dark. A fine rain was falling through warm air. The birches diffused an odour of damp leaves, and far off a cuckoo was calling.
At every crack of the branches the startled Strombix began to quake and seized the fist of his companion.
"Oh, cousin! cousin!"
He used to call Aragaris cousin, not through blood relationship, but for friendship's sake. They had been taken into the Roman army from opposite ends of the world. The northern barbarian, a huge guzzler but a chaste liver, despised the voluptuous and timid Syrian who was so frugal in his eating and drinking. But while mocking him he pitied him as a child.
"Cousin!" wailed Strombix.
"Well, what is it? Can't you be quiet?"
"Are there bears in this wood?"
"Yes!" answered Aragaris sullenly.
"And suppose we met one, eh?"
"We should knock him on the head, sell his skin, and go and drink."
"And suppose the bear, instead of being killed..."
"Poltroon! it isn't difficult to see that you're a Christian!"
"Why must a Christian be a coward?" said Strombix with a vexed air.
"You've told me yourself that in your Book it is writtenwhosoever smiteth thee on thy right cheek turn to him the other also."
"True."
"Well, I'm right; and if so, to my thinking you mustn't go to wars; the enemy will strike you on one cheek and you turn him round the other. You're a set of cowards, I say."
"The Cæsar Julian's a Christian, andheisn't a coward!" retorted Strombix.
"I know, my boy," continued Aragaris, "that you can pardon enemies when you have to fight them, poor chicken! Your belly is no bigger than my fist. With a clove in it you're fed up for the whole day; and so your blood is no better than marsh-water!"
"Ah, cousin! cousin!" observed Strombix reproachfully, "why did you talk about food? Now I've got another gnawing ache in my stomach. Give me a little garlic! There's some left in your bag."
"If I give you what there's left we shall both starve to-morrow in this forest!"
"Ah, but if you don't give me some now, I shall fall from weakness and you will be obliged to carry me."
"Well, stuff and swill, dog!"
"And a little bread too," begged Strombix.
Aragaris gave him, with an oath, his last ration of biscuit. He himself had eaten overnight enough for two days, of fat pork and bean pottage.
"Attention! Hark!" he said halting. "There's a trumpet! We're not far from the camp. We must steer round to the north.... I don't mind bears," added Aragaris thoughtfully, "but that centurion..."
The soldiers had nicknamed this hated centurion "Cedo Alteram," because he used to cry out gleefully every time he broke the rod with which he was striking a delinquent,Cedo alteram!that is to say, "Give us another!"
"I'm certain," said the barbarian—"I'll wager that Cedo Alteram will tan my back as a tanner whacks a bullock's hide. It's abominable, my friend, abominable."
The worthy pair were now stragglers behind the army, because Aragaris according to his custom had got dead drunk in a plundered village and Strombix had been thrashed. The little Syrian had made a fruitless attempt to obtain the favours of a handsome Frankish girl. This sixteen-year-old-beauty, daughter of a barbarian killed in the fight, had administered to him two such blows that he had fallen on his back and had then fairly stamped upon him.
"She wasn't a girl but a devil," declared Strombix. "I hardly took hold of her and she nearly broke every rib in my body."
The note of the trumpet became more and more distinct. Aragaris, sniffing the wind like a blood-hound, noticed the smell of smoke; the bivouacs must be but a short way off.
The night became pitch dark. They could hardly make out the road; the path was lost in marshes inwhich they leapt from tussock to tussock. Fog began to rise. Suddenly from a great yew, with branches from which moss hung like long grey beards, something fled away with a harsh cry. Strombix crouched down with fear. It was a black cock.
They finally lost their bearings. Strombix climbed a tree.
"The bivouacs lie northwards—not far off. There's a wide river below."
"The Rhine, the Rhine!" exclaimed Aragaris. "Now go ahead!"
They slid down through the birches and aspen trees a hundred years old.
"Cousin, I'm drowning!" yelled Strombix. "Somebody's hauling me by the feet!"
"Where are you?"
With great difficulty Aragaris extricated him, and, swearing, took him on his shoulders. Under his feet the Sarmatian felt the stems of faggots laid down by the Romans. This causeway of faggot work led to the great road hewn not long before through the forest by the army of Severus, Julian's general. The barbarians, according to their custom, had blocked and encumbered the track with enormous trunks of trees. These trunks had to be clambered over. Sometimes rotten, moss-covered, and crumbling under foot, and sometimes hard and slippery with rain, they made the march most difficult; and it was by roads like these, always in fear of an attack, that the army of about thirteen thousand men had to move. That army every Imperial general except Severus had traitorously abandoned.
Strombix was cursing his comrade—
"I won't go a step farther, heathen! I'd ratherlie down on the dead leaves and die; at least I should not see your damned visage—huh! Unbeliever! It's easy to see that you don't wear the cross! Is it a Christian's business to drag along a road like this, and what are we pushing on to? The rods of the centurion. I won't go a step farther."
Aragaris hauled him on by main force, and, when the road became more practicable, carried shoulder-high the whimsical companion who kept abusing and pummelling him all the time and shortly fell soundly asleep on those mighty pagan shoulders.
At midnight they reached the gates of the Roman camp. Everything was still. The drawbridge had long been raised. The friends had to sleep in the wood near the hinder gate, usually called the Decumanal.
At dawn the trumpet sounded. The nightingale had been singing in the misty wood; he ceased, frightened by the warlike notes. Aragaris snuffed the smell of soup and woke Strombix. They made their way into the camp and sat down near the cauldrons. In the principal tent near the Pretorian gate the Cæsar Julian was keeping watch.
From the day on which he had been nominated Cæsar at Milan thanks to the protection of the Empress Eusebia, Julian had applied himself with zeal to soldierly exercises. He not only used to study the art of war under the direction of Severus, but desired moreover to master every detail of the work of the rank and file. Within sound of the trumpet, in barracks, on the Campus Martius in company with new recruits, during whole days he would learn to march, to use the bow and sling, to leap ditches, and to run under the heavy weight of full marching order. He became also an adept in swordsmanship.
The blood of the race of Constantine, a race of austere and obstinate warriors, woke in the young man and overcame his monkish hypocrisy.
"Alack! divine Iamblicus and Plato! if you could only see what your pupil is becoming!" he would sometimes exclaim, wiping the sweat from his brow.
And pointing to his armour he would add—
"Don't you think, Severus, that this steel sits as badly on a pupil of philosophers as a war-saddle on an ox?"
Severus would only reply by a mischievous smile; he knew that these sighings and complaints were not sincere, and that in reality Julian was delighted with his military progress.
In a few months he had been so transformed and hardened into manhood that it was not easy to recognise in him the "little Greek" of the Court of Constantius. His eyes alone had not changed, still shining with a strange and unforgettable keenness which had in it something of fever. Julian felt himself growing stronger every day, not only physically, but morally also. For the first time in his existence he felt the happiness that comes from the love of simple and common folk.
From the first it had gratified the legionaries to see a real Cæsar, cousin of the Augustus, learning soldiering in barracks, with no repugnance for the coarse fare of soldiers. Austere faces of the veterans would light up with grim tenderness as they watched young Cæsar, and remembering their own youth wondered at his rapid progress. Julian used to hail them, listen to their gossip over old campaigns, and advice about fastening the breastplate so that the straps might chafe less and the best way of holding the foot while marching to avoid over-fatigue.
The rumour went round that the Emperor Constantius had sent the inexperienced young man among the barbarians of Gaul to get killed, that he himself might be rid of a rival. It was said that the generals, following the hints of Imperial eunuchs, had abandoned and betrayed the young Cæsar accordingly. All this increased the affection of the legions for Julian.
Skilled in the arts of winning favour, acquired during his monkish education, Julian cautiously used every means to strengthen the love felt towards himself and to deepen the unpopularity of the Emperor. Before the soldiers he would speak of his brother Constantius with meaning humility, lowering his eyes and affecting the aspect of a victim. It was the easier for him to captivate the warriors by fearlessness, inasmuch as death in battle seemed to him a thing to be desired. The kind of death to which Gallus had been subjected formed no part of his designs.
Julian had organised his life after the austere example of ancient conquerors. His stoic education by the tutor Mardonius helped him to endure total absence of comfort. He allowed himself less sleep than the meanest soldier, and lay not on a bed but upon a coarse rough carpet, like that called in popular parlancesuburra.
The first part of the night was devoted to sleep, the second to the business of state and war, the third to the Muses. For Julian's favourite books were never left behind when he was campaigning. He inspired himself with Marcus Aurelius, Plutarch, Suetonius, and Cato the elder; and by day he endeavoured to put in practice what he had mused over with them by night.
On the memorable morning before the battle of Argentoratum, when he heard thereveilléat dawn,Julian quickly donned complete armour, and ordered his charger to be brought round. While waiting he withdrew into the inmost part of the tent. There was ensconced a lovely statuette of the winged Mercury, bearing the caduceus—the god of movement, gaiety, success. Julian bowed before the image and threw some grains of incense on a little tripod. According to the direction of the smoke the Cæsar, who flattered himself that he understood the divining art, sought to ascertain the influence of the day. Overnight he had heard a raven crying three times—a bad omen.
Julian was so convinced that his unexpected military success in Gaul was due to some supernatural power that from day to day he became more superstitious.
When issuing from the tent he stumbled over the wooden beam at the threshold. The face of the Cæsar darkened. All the omens were unfavourable; he inwardly resolved to postpone the battle till the morrow.
The army began its march. The road through the forest was painful. Masses of trees embarrassed every step. The day promised to be a very hot one. The army had only done half its journey, and there remained more than one and twenty Roman miles to cover to reach the camp of the German barbarians (Alemanni) which lay on the left bank of the Rhine in a great plain, near the town Argentoratum.
The soldiers were worn out. As soon as they had crossed the forest and reached open ground Julian assembled them round himself in a great circle, like spectators in an amphitheatre, so as himself to be the centre of the centurions and cohorts, extending from him like the spokes of a huge wheel. This was the custom of the Roman army, so that the greatest possible number could hear the words of their general.
Julian explained to the legions in a few brief and simple sentences that fatigue might prevent success, that it would be safer to camp for that night in the field where they were, to rest, and attack the barbarians the following morning, with vigour renewed.
Discontented murmurs ran through the army; the rank and file struck their shields with lances—a sign of impatience—clamouring that Julian should lead them without delay to the field of battle. The Cæsar understood by the general expression on faces around him that in resisting he would commit a grave mistake. He felt in the crowd that thrill of ferocity with which he was so familiar, which was so indispensable to victory, and by the least maladroitness so easily to be changed into mutiny. He leapt on horseback and gave the signal to continue the march. Peals of enthusiasm answered him and the army moved off.
When the sun was beginning to sink they reached the plain of Argentoratum. There the Rhine was shining between low hills. To the south rose the sombre mass of the Vosges Mountains, and swallows were sweeping over the surface of the majestic German river.
Suddenly, on the nearest hill, three riders appeared; they were the Alemanni.
The Romans halted, and disposed themselves in battle-order. Julian, surrounded by six hundred steel-clad horsemen, the Clibanarii, commanded the horsemen of the right wing. On the left extended the infantry, under the orders of Severus. Julian himself was also under the command of this general.
The barbarians opposed their cavalry to that of Julian. At their head rode the Alemannic king Chlodomir. Fronting Severus, Agenaric, the young nephew of Chlodomir, led the German infantry.
War-horns, trumpets, and fifes resounded; ensigns and flags inscribed with the names of cohorts, the purple dragons and Roman eagles, assembled at the head of the legions. In the van strode axe-bearers, chief centurions, andprimipilares, men bred to victory. Their regular and heavy tread shook the earth. Suddenly the foot soldiers of Severus halted. The barbarians, who had been lurking in a trench, sprang from their ambuscade and attacked the Romans. Julian from a distance saw the confusion that ensued and galloped up to restore order. He attempted to calm the soldiers, speaking hastily now to one cohort, now to another, in something of the concise style of Julius Cæsar. When he uttered the words, "Exurgamus viri fortes" or "Advenit, socii, justem pugnandi jam tempus," this young man of twenty-two was thinking with pride: "At last I am like such and such a famous soldier!" Even in the very fire of action he never forgot his books, and rejoiced to enact over again familiar scenes of Livy, Plutarch, and Sallust. The well-tried Severus restrained his ardour, and, while giving a certain liberty to Julian, retained the general direction of the action. Arrows whizzed and barbarian javelins, dragging long cords; and war-engines flung huge stones hundreds of yards.
The Romans now found themselves face to face at last with the terrible and mysterious inhabitants of the North, about whom so many incredible legends were afloat. Some wore bear-skins on their backs, and on their shaggy heads the gaping jaws of wolves. Others had their helms adorned with the horns of stag and bull. The Alemanni were so contemptuous of death that, keeping only lance and sword, they frequently flung themselves into battle stark naked.
Their reddish hair was knotted on the top of their heads and fell back on the neck in a thick mass or plaited mane. They wore long sweeping broad moustaches and their skins were deeply bronzed. A great number were so savage that, unfamiliar with the use of steel, they fought with bone-tipped lances dipped in violent poison. A scratch from this primitive barb was sufficient to produce a slow death in terrible agony. From head to foot, instead of armour they wore thin scales pared from the hoofs of horses and sewn on linen, a kind of horny mail. In this array the barbarians seemed strange monsters, clad in birds' feathers and fish scales.
There were also Saxons with pale blue eyes, men for whom the sea had no terrors, but who feared the land.
The foremostprimipilares, locking their shields together, formed a compact wall of steel, and advanced steadily, slowly, almost invulnerable to blows. The Alemanni rushed upon this wall with ferocious cries, like the hoarse growls of bears. The main fight began, breast against breast, shield against shield. Dust was so thick over the plain that the sun was darkened. At this moment on the right wing the iron-clad horses of the Clibanarii began rearing and taking fright. The stampede threatened to crush the legions of the rearguard. Through the cloud of arrows and lances, the fire-coloured scarf of the gigantic king Chlodomir was shining in bright sunlight.
Julian in the nick of time galloped up on his black charger, bespattered with foam. He grasped the situation. The barbarian foot-soldiers, placed for the purpose between their horsemen, were slipping under the legs of the Roman horses, and disembowelling them; the horses fell, dragging down in their fall thecataphracti,or men in scale-armour, who, overwhelmed under its weight, were unable to rise. Julian placed himself directly behind the flying horsemen; it was a question of either stemming the flight or being crushed himself. The tribune of the Clibanarii came into collision with him. Pale with shame and terror, he recognised Julian. Julian's forehead flushed purple, he forgot his classical books, leaned over, seized the flying man by the throat, and shouted with a voice which appeared to himself strangely savage—
"Coward!"
Then he faced the tribune round to the enemy. Thecataphractihalted, glanced at the purple dragon, the Imperial ensign, and remained motionless. In a moment the mass of iron recoiled and swept back anew against the barbarians. The fight became a wild confusion. A lance struck Julian full in the breast; he owed his safety to his breastplate. An arrow hissed by his ear, grazing his cheek with its feathers. Severus now sent the legions of the Cornuti and Brakathi, half-savage allies of the Romans, to succour the wavering cavalry. They were wont to sing their war-hymn, the Barrith, only when their blood was up in the joy of battle, intoning it in a low and plaintive voice. The first notes were calm as the nocturnal sighing of woods; but little by little the Barrith became louder, more solemn, and terrible, until at last, raising a furious and deafening roar like a stormy sea, all the singers were beside themselves.
Julian ceased to see or understand the surge of battle round him; he was conscious only of intolerable thirst and a sharp aching in the bones of his sword hand; he had lost all reckoning of time. But Severus kept all his presence of mind, and directed the fight withincomparable skill. Perplexed and heart-broken, Julian perceived the orange scarf of Chlodomir in the midst of the legions; the barbarians had penetrated obliquely into the centre of the Roman army. Julian thought "All is lost!" He remembered the unfavourable presages of the morning and addressed a last prayer to the gods of Olympus—
"Come, help me! For who is there but I to restore you to power upon earth?"
In the centre of the army were stationed the old veterans of the Petulant legion, so called on account of their rashness. Severus counted on them, and his reliance was not in vain. One of them shouted—
"Viri fortissimi!Bravest of the brave, let us not betray Rome and our Cæsar! Let us die for Julian! Glory and prosperity to Cæsar Julian!"
"For Rome ... for Rome..." stern voices responded, and these tried legions, grown grey under the flag, once again went to meet death, steady and cheery. The inspiring breath of great Rome swept over the whole army.
Julian, his eyes full of enthusiastic tears, rode towards the veterans to die along with them. Again he felt the force of sheer affection, the force of the people lifting him on its wings to carry him to victory.
Then terror seized the barbaric masses; they trembled, broke, and fled; and the eagles of the legions, their rapacious beaks and outspread wings glittering in the sun, swooped down again amongst the routed tribes, proclaiming the victory of the Eternal City.
The Alemanni and Franks perished fighting to the last gasp.
Kneeling in a pool of blood, the savage would wieldhis sword or lance with a slackening hand, but in his troubled eyes were to be seen neither fear nor despair, only thirst for vengeance and contempt for his conquerors. Even those who were left for dead arose, half-crushed, and fixed their teeth in the legs of their enemies. Six thousand barbarians fell in that battle or were drowned in the Rhine.
The same evening, as Julian Cæsar stood on the hill, enveloped by the rays of the setting sun, King Chlodomir, who had been made prisoner on the bank of the river, was led before him. He was breathing with difficulty, his face livid and sweating, his enormous hands bound behind his back. He knelt down before his conqueror, and the young Cæsar of twenty-two laid his slight hand upon the shaggy head.