Panegyricus Iuliani Augusti

The peerless poets of the gods have passed into Elysium, and so, O Emperor, the task of singing your accomplishments has fallen to me. Numerous and great, your deeds have swept over this long-troubled land as the purifying sea rushes over a parched sandy shore, its waters smoothing the rough grains that grate and vex. Though my voice be but a dry whisper before the perfumed gale of Homer’s thundering verse, a rude stutter beside Vergil’s spiced and honeyed words, it must suffice.

My tongue is not so silvered, nor so blessed by Calliope’s melodious favor, but my esteem for you, Julian –hero of Olympus –my endless admiration is undiminished by the poorness of my art and the weakness of my speech. With my whole, aching heart I wish another could have received the privilege of recounting your victorious exploits, one with the skill to relay your valiant days with the proper poetic grace. Unworthy am I, your most ardently devoted servant, to praise the feats of your illustrious life. Naught but a foreigner, I –a feeble guest in the Latin language’s regal embrace– tremble at the thought of tarnishing the bright luster of your triumphs with my inferior abilities.

The terror of misspeaking weighs upon me with most solemn gravity, yet I cannot restrain myself. I cannot remain silent when I have the fortune, the extraordinary delight, of honoring you. Even as my fear of failing to describe your eminence constricts my heart in irons –unforgiving, that fear pales and flees before the force of my compulsion, my jubilant desire, to make known the marvels of your achievements throughout the wide, wide world. If you would allow me, bravest and most pious of men, I shall breathe the truth of your magnanimity into the hearts and minds of every creature under the glittering dome of the sky.

Marcus Aurelius himself, the philosopher king, could not have matched you in the mastery of learned things. For all the learning of his letters, his letters could well have learned from you. Good Hadrian, cautious far-seer that he was, would have admired your long gaze and the luminous vision your matchless mind holds for the future of our glorious empire. Raised in the veneration of Christ, so far removed from the wisdom of the ancients –by yawning distance, by multitudes of centuries, by the traitorous teachings of the Galilean usurpers– you clung to the way of knowing amidst the treachery that surrounded you on all sides. Their simple maxims, vulgar approximations of the highest heights of divine ethics, swayed you not, and you remained steadfastly loyal, defending so faithfully the knowledge that has endured the impassive trials of time.

Your zealous, Christ-loving cousin destroyed all those you treasured, except for that cruel half-brother, and kept you so lonesomely confined in your youth; and yet, you did not shrink from the heavy burden of ruling once called to support the very man who hacked away the branches your own family tree. Such is the strength of your character, so sharp is your awareness of the duty you bear the empire and its people, that you put aside the pains of the past and took command, with dignity and distinction, under the betrayer who profaned the sanctity of ancestry and lineage alike. To prevent damage to the land at the hands of such an emperor ruling unchecked, you reluctantly took the up the purple mantle of power, chained to you by your noble blood. To deliver the wronged from the brutal memory of Gallus and restore trust among the common people, you pulled yourself away from your beloved books, departed from the centers of learning which you have held so very dear, to serve the empire with all the valor of your heart.

Still clothed in a student’s dress, you were summoned forth from your cherished Greece, to the side of your most traitorous relation. Your passionate desire to strengthen and improve your mind has transcended your quiet studies, washing over the people in the form of your judicious rule. The picture of a dutiful subject and a model of an obedient young cousin, you appeared on the appointed day and, with your right hand clasped in the paw of the rabid Constantius, had imperial power thrust forcefully upon you, like so much unwanted baggage. But the moment the word “Caesar” had left the emperor’s handsome lips, the assembled troops erupted into a joyful exclamation that would echo your future, hailed by your men as the courageous and capable leader you would so soon become.

Like the viper he was, Constantius sung your praises as if he were the godlike cause of all your attributes, clothing you in the majestic purple of your distinguished predecessors. And though the men at arms cried out with happiness, your face remained sober and somber as ever before, accepting your responsibility not with avaricious glee, but with the pensive dejection of a man who knows he must lead, but wishes it not. Gracious and tactful, you made no speeches boasting of your own glory, choosing instead to direct admiration toward your sly cousin, calling him “brother” and thanking him for bestowing such an honor (however unwelcome) upon you. Humbly, you accepted your newfound power, pledging to improve the fortunes of the empire by fighting alongside the emperor, promising to wage war together with the might of heaven behind you, and never to fail him in your service to our land.

Such excited fervor did your artful words inspire, that the troops could remain silent no longer, incited in a frenzy to hail your ascension with the deafening crash of shields upon armored knees, roaring with prodigious approval. We admired your fine features, “gazing long and earnestly at eyes at once delightful and awe-inspiring, and a face to which animation added charm,” as we attempted to discern what kind of man, what sort of commander, what type of leader you might show yourself to be. We knew not, in that moment, how resoundingly our enthusiasm would soon prove to be deserved.

Still, in the high, hot moments following your rise, you did not swell with arrogance, nor did you indulge in the self-importance that would have been such a natural and blameless progression to follow. Never forgetting your learning, never far out of touch with the divine wisdom of the ancients, you remembered the words of blessed Homer. In the hour of the greatest glory you had yet known in your young life, you whispered a private reminder to the shade of the man you strove never to become, “wrapped in death’s purple by all-powerful fate.”

Though your treacherous cousin sought to pack you off to wild Gaul, to the fierce frontier where he would not have to look upon the admiring gazes of your new subordinates, your radiance managed to glow from the far reaches of that savage place all the way to the very heart of Rome in the East. Still shining with youth and untested in battle, you burned to emulate the brave example of your general, Sillvanus. In your unrestrained love for your people, you wished to cause no further delay in beginning to make secure our tedious boarders, and so neglected to take sufficient forces for your own protection, choosing instead only some cuirassiers and artillerymen to journey with you through the dark woods of those feral lands.

Wary of ambushes, you became cautious and deliberate, a quality in generals that both rescues and preserves the armies under their command. When some rough Alamanni tried to route your forces, you surrounded them in a crescent moon formation like Luna’s own silvery embrace, bringing death instead of sleep and rent the Germans apart like so much wheat before a scythe, as the rest fled in shame and defeat. Having flattened the Franks’ resistance with the weight of your reputed prowess, you recovered the region of Cologne without a fight, the Frankish kings cowed and bowing to your imperial might.

Beleaguered by the Alamanni in Sens after the small number of your forces had been betrayed, you shut the gates and strengthened walls where they were weak. Both day and night you reassured us with your presence. Refusing to cower in some luxurious tent or abandon us to pursue your own pleasures, you endured the hardships of war alongside us, suffering willingly with your men. The treason of your mastery of cavalry, the blasted Marcellus, left us alone to languish within the town. Though he raised no quick hand to help, you remained resolute, so determined to never surrender that the Germans withdrew after a month of failure, lamenting their foolishness in testing your fortitude. Once the siege had been lifted you wisely allowed your men to rest and recover, our well-being at the forefront of your mind in a time where pride could have driven a lesser man to press on in vanity. Our strength taxed by the duration of the ordeal, you lifted our spirits to new heights, promising successes and we marched forward from our time of rest with renewed confidence in your shrewd plans, eager for the glory you swore to bring.

Having taken a whole island by crossing the shallows of the Rhine, you won your troops much loot and we returned weighed down with the spoils of war. You rebuilt and fortified Saverne so well that the unruly Germans lost their foothold in the heart of Gaul. Under your perspicacious power the fort was finished with such speed that your men were able to gather and store an entire year’s worth of provisions, rejoicing in the use of what our own sweat and blood had won from the enemy’s vicious grasp. Even as the Alamanni king mocked your mere thirteen thousand men and commanded you to vacate your well-won fortress, you laughed in scorn at his demands with no knowledge of fear and refused to let either anger or distress unsettle your flawless composure.

In your excessive love for your men, you sought to keep us safe from the Alamanni’s superior numbers and begged your troops to ignore the temptation of battle. Bursting with lust for war that was inflamed by the Germans’ close proximity, we bellowed for your leadership against the enemy, hailing you as a favorite of Fortune, the darling of Mars, and confident from the success of your well-tried abilities; we would not be dissuaded.

Thirty-five thousand Alamanni faced your gallant thirteen thousand Romans at Strausbourg, brave Emperor. Like a young Alexander you rode out in front of your men. Never did you tremble meekly behind your army, protected by a barrier of bodies another man might have thought more expendable than himself. With utmost courage, you galloped in range of enemy fire, bereft of concern for your own regal safety, instead choosing to cast your fate with your devoted troops. Heartening us with words of great valor, your eloquence drove us into a mad fever, igniting a ravenous hunger for the slaughter of the barbarians and a burning compulsion to erase the shameful stain of their dominance in Gaul with the courage and ferocity of Roman might. Even as you swept us into delirium with desire for battle your farsighted vigilance remained ever-present, cautioning those you saw deep in bloodlust to restrain themselves for the sake of preserving the discipline and order that sets Roman soldiers so far apart from the disjointed hysteria of barbarian warriors.

As the Alamanni began to overtake us with their vast number of men, some of your own disgracefully began to flee. Caught by your ever-watchful eye, you put yourself in their path. A lesser man might have admonished this shameful conduct with harsh words and driven his panicked men away with no chance of return. In your ceaseless wisdom you spoke gently, with words of empathetic and mild reproach, encouraging the inglorious deserters with the strength of your charm and turning every one back to his sworn duty. By your genius we were able to turn the tide of their savage onslaught and rain down blows of devastation as only Romans can. In their terror of our avenging swords the Alamanni began to flee like discipline-less cowards and desperately fled into the rushing Rhine. Even in the height of your success you did not let the heady ambrosia of victory cloud your judgement. Foreseeing what was about to occur, you ordered the troops to refrain from following the gutless Germans into the river, saving from death –in those swirling waters– the men you hold so dear.

Intoxicated with love for you from the triumph you had lead us in, we hailed you as Augustus, wanting nothing more than to elevate you to a position that suited your countless merits. But you, wanting nothing of greater power, rebuked us for our foolish behavior, earning even more admiration from the men who serve you with pride and pleasure. You continued to demonstrate the nobility of heart and mind that comes not from bloodlines or marriage, but that wells up from the soul in such a way even gods can admire. Gracious in all things, you did not leave the bodies of the enemy as a feast for bird and beast, instead ordering them to be buried.

So true to your pure and courageous character, you were not settled and smug even in victory. After dealing the barbarians a thunderous blow, you insisted on pursuing them into their own territory, determined to strike at them even in their homes after such a defeat. Though we longed to revel in the joy of our conquest and tried to dissuade you with our protests, your infectious charisma drove us to forsake our wish for celebration and leisure. By your leave we plunged into enemy lands to grind them even further into the dust beneath our feet. Held spellbound by the knowledge that you willingly share in all our tribulations and impose more hardships on yourself than any man under your command, we followed you with greatest affection across the river and shattered the Alammani spirit with fire and sword. Utterly vanquished, the three most savage kings beaten at Strausbourg swore oaths of peace and allegiance to you. Merciful and kind, you granted them clemency, requiring only their food and supplies when you could well have put every one of them to the sword for their obstinate defiance of Rome. This war, comparable to the venerable Scipio Africanus’s struggle against the Carthaginians and that accursed Hannibal, was brought resoundingly to an end, with minimal losses on the Roman side, by your most clever and singular mind.

You outwitted the Salii Franks, following them as they departed with your gifts after meeting face to face. Falling upon the whole body of their army, you smote them like one of Jupiter’s own requiting thunderbolts. They surrendered, begging for your mercy and you diplomatically accepted. The same fate befall the Chamavi, who also prostrated themselves at your royal feet and you again displayed your uncommon clementia. King after king fell to your worthier power, overcome with fear at the sight of your conquering majesty. Never has there been a man more astute in weighing out leniency and punishment; for this, we, your loyal men, adore you all the more. We do not fear your unhinged wrath, knowing you will always interject reason where others are blindly bridled by the seething passions of their undisciplined minds.

When the deceitful Augustus demanded that the men who had left their homes across the Rhine come to serve him, you protested not out of reluctance to weaken your own military strength, but out of consideration for their love of their homeland and the compassion you bore for the daunting prospect of leaving the familiar and beloved country of one’s birth. Unwilling to part with both you and their native lands, the troops deafened the aether with their ardent cries for your ascension to Augustus. Ever humble and reluctant to accept power, you tried to discourage our rampant demands for your elevation. You tried to promise that you, the subordinate of of the “rightful” emperor, would persuade him to allow the troops to refrain from crossing from Gaul into the Rhine; your vow, however, fell upon deaf ears and we would not be denied. You were forcibly raised on an infantry shield and in your generosity, awarded each man with five gold pieces and a pound of silver. Even lifted to the highest of heights, you refused to wear a diadem and were reluctant to receive any kind of distinction, so truly modest is your noble soul.

Your series of successes in Gaul remained unbroken by misfortune or the scheming plans of men. When six hundred marauding Franks tried to make an easy target of our strongholds, you starved them into surrender without the loss of a Roman life. Taxes in Gaul could not be collected even under torture from the poorest inhabitants. Against the efforts of many, you prevailed in kindness where others had failed with fear. In your beneficence you prevented payment from being seized by force from the barbarians, who were so grateful that they paid what was owed before the appointed day, without even a reminder being required.

Your heroic triumphs in Gaul, buoyed up on the twin wings of good fortune and valor, eclipsed many victories of past times. Like a young Gaius Julius Caesar, with whom you share more than just a strategic mind and a name, you swept across Gaul like a punishing plague against the enemies of Rome, bringing crushing defeat down upon them like the hammer blows of Vulcan himself. Jupiter, king of the cosmos on his high Olympian throne, could not have been prouder of your natural imperial dignity or your affinity for command. Although you, the powerful Caesar of the West, towered above your men in station, you treated us as fairly and as well as any equal. When duplicitous Constantius offered you liberal provisions for the cost of your food, you forbade such delicacies from your table and ate the cheap and common fare served to all your soldiers.

Like Minerva’s own son, you were raised in isolation. Into the clamor of battle you emerged not from a hardened soldier’s tent, but from the serene shade of the Academy, commanding your troops with the foresight of Prometheus and attacking Rome’s enemies with the blessing of Mars. Your life has been guided, from cradle to present, by the favoring hands of the gods, granting you wisdom and strength that raise you far above ordinary men. Called Titus reborn for the sagacity that won you renown both at home and abroad, you are as fit to command as Trajan, filled with clementia like Antoninus, striving for truth and perfection as only Marcus Aurelius did before you. You made the blood of the ferocious barbarians wash across the land like the Rhine dyed red, casting down their savage kings and bringing peace and prosperity to their freezing valley. Once under your magnanimous control, you reduced the barbarians’ tribute of twenty-five gold pieces per head to a mere seven; this act of merciful compassion was so great that these brutal peoples alit with dances of relief and joy.

The citizens of Rome, the poor, the defeated, the army, the Senate, and even the gods themselves are in debt, O Julian, to your brilliant mind. Your intelligence, your mercy, the courage you display on the fields of battle, these things come together to form a man –so uncommon– that the universe would be indisputably darker without. You have defended the sacred knowledge of our “pagan” ways against the Galilean usurpers who seek power and fame behind their thin veil of piety. The divine wisdom of the ancients gained protection under your rule, shielded from the hungry, plagiarizing maws of Christ-loving supplanters who dared to use our texts to teach while spitting upon our gods, crushing their luminous statues and graceful temples into formless marble dust.

In deeds and character, you are unsurpassed, learned Emperor. Though I have toiled long and hard, my words could never hope to capture even the shade of your greatness. This expression of admiration is imperfect and pale before the true strength of the people’s love for your illustrious self. We have been unmistakably, inescapably blessed by the gods to have lived, and so flourished, during the time of your most discerning and virtuous rule.

This piece was written in the style of historical Roman panegyrics, as the creative assignment for the 2017/2018 academic year of the undergraduate course “Late Antiquity to Early Mid-Ages” taught by Professor M. Shane Bjornlie of Claremont McKenna College.

Works Cited:

Marcellinus, Ammianus. The Later Roman Empire: (a.D. 354-378): AD 354-378 (Classics). Penguin Books Ltd.