The Death of the Gods

by Dmitry Merezhkovsky

  THE DEATH OF THE GODS

  Dmitry Merezhkovsky

  OZYMANDIAS PRESS

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  Copyright © 2016 by Dmitry Merezhkovsky

  Published by Ozymandias Press

  Interior design by Pronoun

  Distribution by Pronoun

  ISBN: 9781531281342

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PART I

  PART II

  PART I

  ~

  * * *

  I

  ABOUT TWO AND A HALF miles from Cæsarea in Cappadocia, upon the woody spurs of Mount Argæus, and close to the great Roman road, bubbled a certain warm spring, famous for its healing virtues. A granite slab, adorned with rough sculpture and bearing a Greek inscription, proved that this spring had of old time been consecrated to the twin sons of Zeus, Castor and Pollux; but this by no means prevented the unbroken images of these Pagan demigods from being locally worshipped as St. Cosmas and St. Damian respectively.

  On the other side of the road, opposite the sacred fountain, rose a little thatched tavern, flanked by a dirty stable, and by a shed where fowls and geese were dabbling in the mud. In this tavern, owned by one Syrax, a wily Armenian, could be bought goats’-milk cheese, black bread, honey, olive oil, and a thin sour wine, grown in neighbouring vineyards.

  A screen divided the tavern into two compartments; one for the use of common folk, the other for guests of more importance. From the smoked ceiling hung hams curing, and odorous bunches of mountain herbs, proving that Fortunata, the wife of Syrax, was a careful housewife; a fact that did not save the dubious reputation of the establishment.

  At night honest travellers dared not halt here, remembering sundry rumours about dark plots hatched in the cottage; but Syrax, ever scheming, and knowing whose hand to cross with silver, had never troubled his head about rumour. The partition was formed by two slender columns, between which was stretched, in the manner of a door-curtain, an old chlamys (or outer garment) of faded wool, belonging to the mistress of the house. The little columns, wrought in a barefaced attempt at the Doric style, were the pride of the heart of Syrax and the single ornament of the tavern. Once gilded, they had long stood creviced and chipped and hopelessly cracked.

  The stuff of the chlamys, when new, had been a bright violet; now it was a dirty blue, eked out by many patches, and stained with innumerable stains, due to the breakfasts, dinners, and suppers of ten years of the conjugal life of the hard-working Fortunata.

  In the clean half of the tavern, on a single narrow couch, which was torn in many places, Marcus Scuda, Roman tribune of the ninth cohort of the sixteenth legion, was lolling before a tankard-strewn table. A dandy provincial, he had one of those faces at the sight of which prosperous slaves and second-rate courtesans would inevitably exclaim with heartfelt admiration: “What a handsome man!”

  At his feet, in an uncomfortable but respectful attitude, a red-faced man sat, panting. His bald head was fringed with grey hair, brushed towards the temples. He was the centurion of the eighthcenturia, Publius Aquila.

  Farther off, twelve soldiers, stretched on the floor, were playing at knuckle-bones.

  “By Hercules!” cried Scuda, “I’d rather be the meanest beggar in Constantinople than the first man in a mouse-trap like this. Can you call this an existence, Publius? Answer me honestly. Is this living? To think that outside barracks and camps the future has nothing in store for one; that one must rot in this sickening marsh without ever catching a glimpse of the world again!”

  “Yes,” assented Publius; “it’s a fact that life here isn’t precisely gay; but on the other hand, it’s peaceful!”

  The knuckle-bones pre-occupied the attention of the old captain. Pretending to listen to the gossipings of his superior officer, and fully to agree with the drift of his remarks, he followed with an interested eye the game of the legionaries. He said to himself, “If the red aims well, he’ll certainly win.”

  However, by way of politeness, Publius asked Scuda, with a show of attention—

  “Why, by the way, have you brought down on yourself the indignation of the Prefect Helvidius?”

  “A woman, a friend of mine, was at the bottom of it, a girl....”

  And Marcus Scuda, in a fit of garrulous intimacy, confided to the ear of the old centurion that the Prefect, “that old goat of a Helvidius,” had grown jealous on account of the special favours conferred on him, Marcus, by a certain frail lady, a Lydian.

  Now Scuda wanted, by rendering some important service, to win back the good-will of the Prefect; and he had resolved upon a plan.

  Not far from Cæsarea, in the fortress of Macellum, dwelt Julian and Gallus, the cousins of the reigning Emperor Constantius, and the nephews of Constantine the Great. These two were the last representatives of the luckless house of the Flavii. On his accession to the throne, fearing rivals, Constantius had assassinated his uncle, the father of Julian and Gallus, Julian Constantius, the brother of Constantine. But Julian and Gallus themselves had been spared, and imprisoned in the solitary castle of Macellum, where they lived oppressed by perpetual fear of death. In great perplexity, knowing that the new Emperor loathed the two orphans who reminded him of his crime, Helvidius, Prefect of Cæsarea, desired, but dreaded, to divine the will of his master.

  Scuda, the adroit tribune, possessed by visions of a career at Court, grasped, from chance words of his superior officer, that the latter dared not take upon himself the heavy responsibility, and trembled lest the current rumour about an escape of the heirs of Constantine should be realised in fact. At this point Scuda made up his mind to go to Macellum, seize the prisoners, and bring them to Cæsarea under the safeguard of his legionaries, well assured that he had nothing to fear from these orphaned minors, abandoned by the world and hated by the Emperor. By this valiant proceeding, Scuda counted on regaining the favours of the Prefect Helvidius, so unhappily lost on account of the auburn-haired lady of Lydia. Nevertheless, being of a suspicious nature, he only communicated to Publius part of his plan.

  “And what do you propose now, Scuda? Have you received instructions from Constantinople?”

  “I have received nothing; nobody knows anything; but there is an everlasting hawking about of rumours, don’t you see? There are endless veiled hopes and hints, unfinished phrases, threats and warnings, allusions.... Any idiot can do what he has been told to do. But this is a matter of guessing the mute will of our master. That’s a job that brings reward. Come, let us make the venture, take the risk. The great thing is to be speedy and stout-hearted, and to trust in the Holy Cross!... I confide myself to you, Publius. Perhaps we shall be drinking at Court, you and I, before many days are over; and, by God, a better wine than this!”

  Through the little barred window filtered the troubled light of a melancholy dusk. It was raining monotonously. A single clay wall, full of crevices, separated the room from the stable. The acrid odour of dung came though, and the clucking of hens, the shrill chirping of chickens, and the grunting of pigs was audible. There came also the steady noise of a liquid falling into a sonorous can, as if the good wife were milking her cow. The soldiers, discussing their winnings, were quarrelling among themselves in undertones. Close against the floor, through the frail lath and plaster, a hog had thrust his fat, pink snout. Caught in too narrow a slit, he could not draw out his muzzle and was groaning piteously. Publius muse
d—

  “By Jupiter! we’re nearer the courtyard of the cattle than the court of the Emperor!”

  His interest in the game had melted away. The tribune after his excess of confidence himself felt sad. Through the window he looked at the grey sky, dissolving itself into water, at the muzzle of the pig, the thick lees of wine in the tankards, the dirty soldiers. Anger mounted to his brain.

  He struck the table, which swayed on its uneven legs, with his fist.

  “Hi, rascality! betrayer of Christ, Syrax, come here! What wine do you call that, you scoundrel?”

  The innkeeper ran up. He wore hair and beard frizzled into fine ringlets, black as ebony, with bluish shadows. Fortunata used to say, in her hours of conjugal tenderness, that the beard of Syrax was like a bunch of the grapes of Samos. His eyes were also black and extraordinarily brilliant, and a honeyed smile never left his purple lips. He resembled a caricature of Bacchus, and was black and sugary from every point of view. To appease the wrath of Scuda, the innkeeper took to witness Moses and Deidamia, Christ and Hercules, that his wine was superexcellent. But the tribune was obstinate, declaring that he knew in whose house Glabrio, a rich merchant of Lyrnas, had recently been assassinated; and that he, Scuda, would denounce Syrax in the proper quarters. Terrified, the Armenian rushed to the cellars, and brought back thence in triumph a strange bulky bottle, flat at its base, narrow-necked, covered with mildew, and grey with age. Through the mouldiness in places the glass was visible, no longer transparent, but irised, and upon the label of cypress-wood attached to the neck of the bottle could be deciphered the initial letters of “Anthosmium“ and below “Annorum Centum.”

  But Syrax assured the couple that even in the reign of the Emperor Diocletian the wine had been more than a hundred years old.

  “Black wine?” asked Publius, with respect.

  “Black as tar, and sweet smelling as nectar. Ho! Fortunata! for this wine bring summer glasses, cups of crystal, and bring too the whitest snow from the ice-tub.”

  Fortunata brought in two glasses. Her healthy face was of a dull pallor like thick cream, and with her came in the smell of country freshness, milk, and manure.

  The landlord gazed at the bottle amorously, and kissed its neck; then with caution he raised the waxen seal. The wine flowed black and odorous in a thick jet, dissolving the snow, while the crystal of the cups became dull and cloudy under the action of cold.

  Thereupon Scuda, who had pretensions to learning (he was capable of confusing Hecuba with Hecate), declaimed proudly the only line of Martial he could remember—

  Candida nigrescant vetulo crystalla Falerno!

  “Wait a moment. Here is something still better,” and Syrax plunged his hand into his pocket, drew thence a minute flask carved out of onyx, and with a sensual smile poured into the wine a drop of precious Arabian cinnamon. The drop fell, and, like a creaming pearl, melted into the black liquor. A strangely heavy perfume filled the room.

  While the tribune was slowly drinking, Syrax made a clacking noise with his tongue, murmuring, “The wines of Biblos, of Lesbos, of Lathea in Chios, of Icaria ... are less than nothing to this wine!”

  Night was falling. Scuda gave the order to get ready to march. The legionaries began putting on their armour, fastened the greave protecting the right leg, and took up bucklers and lances. When they entered the outer hall, the Icarian shepherds, who were brigands rather than shepherds, seated near the fire, rose respectfully before the Roman tribune. Scuda, full of a sense of his own rank and valour, felt the blood burning in his veins and his head buzzing with the effect of the marvellous liquor.

  On the threshold a man approached him. He wore a strange oriental costume—a white tunic, striped with broad red bands, and on his head a high head-dress of woven camel’s hair, and a towering Persian tiara. Scuda halted. The visage of the Mede was finely cut, lengthy and meagre, and yellow of hue rather than olive. The narrow and piercing eyes sparkled maliciously, but all his movements were calm and majestic. He was one of those wandering magicians who haughtily declared themselves Chaldeans, seers, and mathematicians. He announced to the tribune that his name was Nogodarès. Sojourning by chance with Syrax, he was travelling from the distant Hyrcania towards the coasts of the Ionian sea, to meet the celebrated warlock philosopher, Maximus of Ephesus. The magician begged for authority to prove his art and to divine the happy fortune of the tribune.

  The shutters were closed. The Mede was preparing something on the ground; suddenly a slight crackling was heard; everybody was silent and a flame rose in a long red tongue amidst wafted flakes of white smoke, which filled the room. Nogodarès put his pale lips to a double flute, and played a languid, plaintive air, like the funeral songs of the Lydians. The flame grew yellow—grew fainter, then sparkled anew in pale flashes. The sorcerer threw into the fire a handful of dried herbs. They evaporated in a penetrating aroma which brought on the senses an indefinable melancholy, like the perfume of half-withered grasses, on some misty evening, in the arid plains of Arachosia and Drangiana. Obeying the plaintive call of the flute, a huge serpent slid out of a black box placed at the feet of the magician, and slowly, with a sound as of parchments rubbed together, unwound its glittering and metallic coils. The wizard chanted in a broken voice, which seemed to come from afar, and several times repeated the same syllables, “Mara, mara, mara!“ The serpent coiled itself round his thin body and caressingly, with a tender hissing, brought its flat green head and brilliant carbuncled eyes close to the ear of the enchanter. A whistling, and the forked sting flashed, as if the reptile had murmured its secret to its master, who now threw the flute upon the ground. The flame filled anew the room with thick smoke, this time diffusing an odour choking as if exhaled from the tomb. The flame went out. Darkness and fear possessed all present; everybody felt it difficult to breathe. But when the open shutters allowed the leaden light of the dusk to enter, there remained no trace of the snake or of the black box. Notwithstanding this, everybody’s face was livid.

  Nogodarès approached the tribune—

  “Rejoice! Favour—great and speedy favour—awaits thee from thy great master Augustus Constantius!”

  During several moments he scrutinised the hand of Scuda narrowly. Then, stooping to the level of his ear, muttered, so as to be heard by none but the tribune—

  “This hand is dyed with blood—the blood of a great prince!”

  Scuda grew afraid.

  “What dost thou dare to say, cursed hound of a Chaldean? I am a loyal servant.”

  But the other probed him with his searching eyes and half ironically responded—

  “What dost thou fear? Given a few years.... And is glory won without the spilling of blood?”

  Pride and joy filled the heart of Scuda when at the head of his soldiery he quitted the tavern. He drew near the sacred fountain, crossed himself, and quaffed that virtuous water, invoking in a fervent prayer St. Cosmas and St. Damian, that the prediction of Nogodarès should not fall fruitless. Then he vaulted upon his haughty Cappadocian charger and gave the legionaries the order “March.” The standard-bearer raised the ensign above his bared head. It was the image of a large dragon, fixed upon a lance, with gaping jaws of silver and the rest of its body formed of coloured silk. Unable to withstand the wish to parade before the crowd assembled at the door of the inn, and although conscious of peril, intoxicated with wine and pride, the tribune stretched his sword up the misty road, and in a loud voice commanded—

  “To Macellum!”

  A hum of astonishment ran through the crowd. The names of Julian and of Gallus were uttered. The legionary who led the column raised his skyward-twisted horn, sounded it, and the echoing note of the Roman trumpet vibrated away amongst the mountains.

  * * *

  II

  A profound obscurity reigned in the great sleeping-chamber of Macellum, an ancient palace of Cappadocian princes.

  The bed of the young Julian was very hard,—a wooden pallet, laid with a panther-skin. So the youn
g Julian himself willed it, being bred in the austere principles of the Stoics by Mardonius, his tutor, a passionate disciple of ancient philosophy.

  Julian was not asleep. The wind, blowing in fierce gusts, howled like an imprisoned beast between the chinks of the walls. Then all fell back again into silence, and in the intent pause large drops of rain could be heard splashing from the height of the roof upon the ringing flagstones. The keen ear of Julian detected at moments the rustling of the rapid flight of a bat. He distinguished, too, the regular breathing of his brother, a delicate and girlish lad, who slept upon a soft bed under mouldy hangings, the last trace of luxury in this deserted castle. In the next room could be heard the heavy snore of Mardonius.

  Suddenly, the door of the secret staircase in the wall turned softly upon its hinges. A bright light dazzled Julian.

  Labda, an old slave, entered, carrying in her hand a metallic lamp.

  “Nurse, I’m afraid! Don’t take the lamp away....”

  The old woman placed the lamp in a stone niche above the head of Julian.

  “Can you not sleep? You are not in pain? Are you hungry? That old sinner Mardonius always keeps you fasting. I’ve brought you cakes of honey. They’re good.... Taste!”

  Making Julian eat was the favourite occupation of Labda; but she dared not indulge in it by day—dreading the severe Mardonius—and so brought her delicacies mysteriously under cover of night. Labda, who was purblind and could scarcely drag her limbs along, always wore the black religious habit. Although a devout Christian, she was regarded as being in reality a Thessalian sorceress. The grimmest superstitions, old and new, fused in her brain into a strange religion not far removed from madness. She mingled prayers with spells, Olympian gods with demons, Christian rites with the black arts. Her body was behung with crosses, and amulets carved out of the bones of the dead; and scapularies, containing the ashes of martyrs, swung from her shoulders. The old woman felt for Julian a pious affection, regarding him as the sole and legitimate successor of Constantine the Great, and holding Constantius, the reigning Emperor, a murderer and a usurper.