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 parlance suburra.
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 the reveillé at 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.