Constantius tore the hair on which hairdressers still spent such infinite pains, and shed tears of rage. Had he not protected the Church? Had he not swept all heresies to destruction? Had he not built and adorned monastery after monastery? Did he not regularly accomplish all due rites and offices? And now what reward was granted him? For the first time the master of the world felt his soul swelling in indignation against the Master of the universe. A dark imprecation rose to his lips.
To assuage his jealousy he had recourse to unusual means. He sent letters to all great cities,—"letters of victory," adorned with laurels, and announcing the triumphs granted by the grace of God to the Emperor Constantius. These letters were to the effect that it was Constantius and not Julian who had four times crossed the Rhine,—Constantius (who was really frittering away his army at the other end of the world). It was Constantius, and not Julian, who had almost perished from arrows at Argentoratum! Constantius who had taken Chlodomir prisoner; Constantius who had pierced marshes and impracticable forests, hewn roads, stormed fortresses and endured hunger, thirst, heat; who, more wearied than the soldiers, had allotted to himself less sleep than they.
Julian's name was never mentioned in these despatches, as if that Cæsar were no longer in existence. The people applauded Constantius as conqueror of the Gauls, and in all the churches, bishops and archbishops chanted prayers and thanksgivings for victory granted to him over the barbaric Alemanni.
Julian on hearing of these follies contented himself with a smile. But the Emperor's gnawing jealousy was not sated. He decided to rob Julian of his best soldiers, and then by imperceptible steps and fleeting pretences to disarm him, as Gallus had been disarmed; to draw him into the toils and deal him the mortal blow.
With this intention he sent with a letter to Lutetia a certain skilful official, the tribune Decensius. He was forthwith to select the most trusted legions, namely, the Heruli, Batavians, Petulants, and Celts; and to despatch them into Asia for the Emperor's own use. Moreover, this dignitary was to deflower each remaining legion of its three hundred bravest warriors; and Cintula, tribune of the Imperial stables, was instructed to take the pick of the porters and baggage-carriers, and, having thus crippled Julian's transport, to bring these men to the East.
Julian warned Decensius, and proved to him that rebellion was inevitable among the savage legions raised in Gaul, who would almost certainly prefer to die rather than quit their native soil. But that obstinate official, preserving an imperturbable haughtiness on his wily yellow face, took no account of these observations.
At right angles to one of the wooden bridges which joined the island of Lutetia to the river-banks, stretched long, low barrack buildings. All the morning the soldiery had been excited and tumultuous. The stern and wise discipline hitherto observed by Julian alone restrained them.
The first cohorts of Petulants and the Heruli had departed on the previous night. Their comrades the Celts and Batavians were preparing to follow them. Cintula issued his orders in a peremptory tone. Savage murmurs were running through the crowd. An insubordinate soldier had just been beaten to death. Decensius strode hither and thither, pen behind ear, documents in hand. In the great courtyards, under a dark sky, thick-wheeled covered chariots were waiting for the soldiers' wives and children. Women, parting from the country where they were born, were stretching out their arms to the woods and fields. Others were kissing the maternal soil, and weeping at the thought that their dust should be buried in a strange land. Others, more resigned and sullen in their pain, had wrapped handfuls of earth in little bundles, to carry with them as tokens. A lean dog, with ribs to be counted through his skin, was licking the grease of an axle-tree. Suddenly he darted away and began to howl, muzzle in the dust. Everybody, thrilled by the sound, turned round to watch him. A legionary angrily thrashed the poor beast, who fled into a field with his tail between his legs, and, halting there, renewed his howlings in a yet more plaintive key. This dog's cry, wailing through the impressive silence of the twilight, shook the nerves of all who heard it. The Sarmatian Aragaris belonged to the number chosen to leave the north. He was bidding farewell to the faithful Strombix—
"Oh, cousin, cousin! why are you leaving me?" whined Strombix, between mouthfuls of soup, which Aragaris had given up to him. Grief had taken away his own appetite.
"Be quiet, fool!" the consolatory Aragaris was remarking; "there are too many women groaning already!... It would be more useful if you, who belong to the country, would tell me what forests we shall have to pass through?"