The Death of the Gods

by Dmitry Merezhkovsky

  Huc, huc, convenite nunc...

  Spatolocinædi!

  Pedem tendite

  Cursum addite...

  This starveling mountebank was old, impudent, and repulsively cheery. Drops of sweat, mixed with paint, were trickling from his shaven face. His wrinkles, plastered with white lead, looked like the cracks in a wall when rain has washed off the lime. When he withdrew, the flutes and the organ ceased, and on the platform a fifteen-year-old girl appeared. She was to perform the Cordax, a celebrated licentious dance adored by the mob. Fathers of the Church might anathematise, and Roman laws interdict this dance, but both did so in vain. Everywhere the Cordax was danced as before by rich and poor, by street-dancers as well as by wives of senators.

  Agamemnon murmured with enthusiasm:

  “What a divinely pretty girl!”

  Thanks to jostling by his companions he had reached a place in the front rank of spectators. The slender bronze body of the Nubian was only veiled round the hips by a light and transparent rose-coloured scarf. Her hair was wound on the top of her head in close fine curls, like those of Ethiopian women. Her face was of the severest Egyptian type, recalling that of the Sphinx.

  She began to dance in careless fashion, as if already out-wearied. Above her head she swung heavy steel bells, castanets or “crotals,"—swung them lazily and loosely. But the movements became more emphatic, and suddenly under long lashes yellow eyes shone out, clear and bright as the eyes of a leopardess. She straightened her body. The steel crotals shook with such a challenge in their piercing sound that the crowd shivered and became still. The damsel whirled rapidly, vivid, slender, supple as a serpent; her nostrils dilated, a strange cry came crooning from her throat, and at each sharp movement her brown bosom shook and trembled within its almost invisible meshes of fine green silk.

  The crowd howled with enthusiasm. Agamemnon struggled with rage because his companions held him back. Suddenly the girl stopped. A slight shudder ran through her body. Deep silence prevailed. The head of the Nubian was thrown back as if in a rigid swoon, but above it the crotals still shivered with an extraordinary languor, a dying vibration, quick and tender as the wing-flutterings of a captive butterfly. The flashing of the yellow eyes died away, although the eyeball kept its sparkling lights, and the face remained severe; but upon the dark and sensuous lips of that sphinx-like mouth a smile trembled, faint as the dying sound of the crotals.

  The public shouted and applauded so loudly that the blue tent with its stars and spangles swayed like a sail in a hurricane. The showman became apprehensive lest his booth should collapse. The companions of Agamemnon at last failed to hold him back; raising the curtain, he rushed through the scenes into the part reserved for the dancers and actors. In vain his friends counselled—

  “Wait; to-morrow you shall have everything as you wish! now something might....”

  Agamemnon interrupted them—

  “Not to-morrow; now, at once!”

  He approached the owner of the show, the cunning and grey-bearded Greek, Mirmes, and without explanation flung into the skirt of his robe a handful of gold pieces.

  “Is that dancing-girl your slave?”

  “Yes. What does your excellency desire?”

  Mirmes, evidently astonished, was staring now at Agamemnon and now at the gold.

  “What’s your name, girl?”

  “Phyllis.”

  He bestowed money on her also, without stopping to reckon it.

  The Greek murmured some words in the ear of the smiling Phyllis, who tossed up the pieces and threw sparkling glances at Agamemnon. He said—

  “Come with me!”

  Phyllis threw over her shoulders a dark cloak and glided with him into the street, asking submissively—

  “Whither?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “To your house?”

  “Impossible. I live at Antioch.”

  “And as for me, I only arrived in this city this morning. What, then, are we to do?”

  “Wait a moment; I saw just now in a lane near this the temple of Priapus open. Let us go there!”

  Phyllis led him on hastily, laughing. The companions of Agamemnon desired to follow him, but he said to them—

  “It is unnecessary—remain here.”

  “Be careful! At any rate take a weapon, the quarter is dangerous...” and drawing from under his dress a dagger with a jewelled hilt, one of the friends of Agamemnon respectfully tendered it to him.

  Groping at every step into thick darkness, Agamemnon and Phyllis made their way up a narrow passage out of the market-place.

  “Here! here it is! Fear nothing—go in!”

  They found themselves in the vestibule of a little vacant temple, its ancient and massive columns ill-lighted by the flicker of a lamp.

  “Push-to the door!” and Phyllis, softly laughing, threw her warm cloak upon the ground. When Agamemnon took her into his arms, it seemed to him that round his body had coiled some warm lithe snake, with wide and terrifying eyes. At that moment from the interior of the temple came harsh cacklings, and such a gust of beating wings went past that the lamp nearly went out. Agamemnon disengaged his arms from Phyllis’ waist and stammered—

  “What in the world was that?”

  In the dense darkness white forms were slipping by them like so many ghosts. Thoroughly frightened, Agamemnon crossed himself.

  “What is it? May the Holy Cross protect us!”

  Something stoutly nipped his leg. He yelled with pain and fear, but seizing one of his unknown enemies by the throat, he poignarded another. Deafening cries arose, followed by squeals and repeated battlings of wings. The lamp flickered for the last time, and Phyllis cried, laughing—

  “They are the ganders! the holy ganders of Priapus! What a crime you have committed!”

  Pale and trembling, the conqueror stood holding in one hand the bloody dagger and in the other two slain ganders. A crowd carrying torches burst with shouts into the temple, led by Scabra, the old priestess of Priapus. This dame had been peacefully supping in a neighbouring tavern when the trumpeting of the ganders had raised the alarm. Gathering a train of nocturnal prowlers she had rushed to the rescue. Hook-nosed, with unkempt grey hair, and eyes blazing like two steel points, the old priestess looked nothing less than a fury. She shouted—

  “Help! help! The temples are desecrated, and the holy ganders of Priapus slain! And see here, here are the foul Christians!”

  Phyllis fled, enveloping her face in the cloak, while the crowd dragged off Agamemnon, so cleanly taken aback that he never thought of relaxing his grip upon the ganders.

  Scabra sent for the clerks of the market, the agoranomes. But with every moment the crowd grew larger, and Agamemnon’s companions ran to support him. It was too late. From dens, wine-shops, alley stalls, a world of loiterers rushed up, attracted by the noise. All faces wore the expression of gleeful curiosity peculiar to idlers. The blacksmith appeared with hammer over his shoulder; the two old women had forgotten their quarrel; the floury baker jostled the lame cobbler, and behind them came the genial red-headed boy, shouting, and beating on his pan, as if calling to arms.

  Meantime Scabra continued screaming, her nails fixed in the clothes of Agamemnon—

  “Ah, just wait! wait a minute! let me get at that cursed beard of yours! I wont leave a hair in it! Out, carrion! food for crows! And you aren’t worth the rope you will cost, thief!”

  Finally the sleepy guardians of the market appeared; persons of curious demeanour, themselves liker common rogues than keepers of the peace.

  Such a deafening din of laughs, oaths, and screams now ensued that nobody was audible. One shouted, “He’s an assassin!” another, “A thief!” a third, “Let’s burn him!”

  Suddenly above the hubbub rang out the masterful voice of a tawny half-naked giant, the attendant in a public bath, an individual with a demagogue’s gift for oratory:

  “Citizens, listen to me, and mark what I say! I’ve long been watc
hing this rascal and his companions! They are writing down our names! They are Cæsar’s spies!”

  Scabra, at last putting her threat into execution, seized Agamemnon’s beard in one hand and his tresses in the other. He strove to repulse her, but she pulled with might and main, and to the general surprise black hair and beard both remained in the hands of the old woman, who stumbled and fell. Instead of Agamemnon, an athletic young man with fair curling hair and short beard stood before the people.

  In its astonishment, the crowd was momentarily silenced; but the voice of the bath-slave was soon heard clamouring anew:

  “See, citizens, they are disguised informers!”

  Somebody cried out—

  “Strike him! Knock him down!”

  The crowd became tumultuous. Stones were thrown; the sham beggars of Agamemnon’s company encircled him with drawn swords. At the first stroke the luckless leather-dresser was killed, and fell in a pool of blood. The red-headed boy was trampled under foot, and all faces were becoming ferocious, when at this juncture ten enormous Paphlagonian slaves bearing on their shoulders a purple litter impatiently thrust their way through the crowd.

  “Saved!” cried the fair-haired young man, and vaulted into the litter with one of his fellows.

  The Paphlagonians hoisted the pair on their shoulders and set off at sharp run. The infuriated crowd were making as if to dash in pursuit, with intent to stone them, when somebody called out—

  “Citizens, don’t you see that it is Cæsar himself—Gallus Cæsar!”

  The mob halted, paralysed by fear, and the purple litter, swaying on the shoulders of the slaves like a skiff in a heavy sea, vanished into the darkness up the street.

  * * *

  Six years had elapsed since the incarceration of Julian and of Gallus in the Cappadocian fortress of Macellum. Constantius had restored them to favour. Julian, then twenty years old, was sent to Constantinople, and given leave to travel in Asia Minor. Gallus, the Emperor had named to be his co-regent, with the title of Cæsar. Nevertheless this unlooked-for favour was no valid earnest of good-will. Constantius loved to destroy his enemies after having lulled away mistrust by a display of exuberant affection.

  “Well, Glycon, Constantia may beg me as much as she likes, in future, to go out in false hair! But it’s all over for me! I’ve done with it!”

  “We warned your Majesty that it was dangerous.”

  But Cæsar, stretched on the soft cushions of the litter, had already forgotten his alarm, and cried, laughing—

  “Glycon! Glycon! did you see the old woman rolling on the ground with my beard?”

  When they arrived at the palace Cæsar ordered—

  “Quick! Let me have a perfumed bath and supper. The walk has famished me.”

  A courier came near holding a letter.

  “What is it, Norban? No, no, we will have business to-morrow morning.”

  “Let the magnanimity of Cæsar pardon me! It is an important message sent direct from the camp of the Emperor Constantius.”

  “From Constantius? Give it me.”

  Gallus broke the seal of the missive, read, and grew pale. His knees gave way—he would have almost fallen without the support of his courtiers.

  Constantius, in exquisite and flattering terms, invited his tenderly-loved cousin to come to Milan. At the same time the Emperor summoned the two legions lodged at Antioch, the only bodyguard left to Gallus. Constantius designed thus to leave him defenceless and draw his rival into the snare. When Gallus had recovered presence of mind he murmured weakly—

  “Call my wife!”

  “Your Majesty’s Imperial consort has just set out for Antioch.”

  “What! She knows nothing of this?”

  “No.”

  “My God, my God! What is to be done? What can be done without her? Tell the envoy of the Emperor—No, say nothing to him—I scarcely know—How is it possible to arrive at a decision alone? Send a swift post to Constantia.... Say that Cæsar begs her to return! My God, what is to be done?”

  He paced up and down distractedly, now hiding his face in his hands, now nervously twisting his fair beard and repeating, “No, no, nothing in the world will induce me to go. I would rather die! Ah! I know Constantius!”

  Another messenger came up, a scroll in his hand.

  “From the spouse of Cæsar! Her Highness in leaving begged you to sign this as soon as possible.”

  “What! Another sentence of death?... Clement of Alexandria ... this is really too much. Three a day....”

  “Cæsar, it was your consort’s desire.”

  “Well, well, what matters it? Nothing! Where’s the pen? Nothing matters now! But why has she gone away? How can I get out of this pretty pass single-handed?”

  And having signed the death-warrant he fixed those charming and listless blue eyes upon the servants.

  “The bath is ready, sire, and the supper will be served after it.”

  “The supper? I’m hungry no longer. But what dish is there?”

  “Truffles from Africa.”

  “Fresh gathered?”

  “They arrived this morning.”

  “Would n’t it be better to raise an army, eh? What do you say, my friends? I feel so overwhelmed.... Truffles, you say? I was thinking about truffles only this afternoon.”

  The agitation of his countenance gave way to the airiest of smiles. Before plunging into the water, which was made milky and iridescent by the infusion of perfumes, Gallus waved his hand lightly:

  “Pooh! the great thing is not to think! God have mercy on us all!... Perhaps after all Constantia will smooth over the matter....”

  And his chubby face suddenly lighted while he plunged with glee into the scented water. He called out gaily—

  “Tell the head cook to add a dressing of red pepper to the truffles!”

  * * *

  VII

  At Nicomedia, at Pergamos, and at Smyrna Julian, now nineteen years old and an enthusiast for Hellenic wisdom, had heard much of the famous mage and sophist, Iamblicus of Chaldea, a pupil of the Neo-Platonist, Porphyrius. Men used commonly to call him “the Divine” Iamblicus. In order to see this master, Julian made a journey to Ephesus.

  Iamblicus was a little thin and wrinkled old man. He liked complaining of his ailments—gout, rheumatism, nervous headache; he abused physicians, but was zealous in carrying out their advice, and used to speak with deep interest of drugs and infusions of herbs. He always wore, even in summer, a double tunic; never seemed warm enough, and would sit basking in the sun like a lizard.

  From his youth up Iamblicus had broken himself of the habit of meat-eating, and spoke of it with disgust as a practice beyond his comprehension. His servant used to prepare for him a special broth, made of barley-water, warm wine, and honey, he being toothless and unable to masticate bread.

  He was always surrounded by numberless admiring students who had travelled from Rome, Antioch, Carthagena; from Egypt, Mesopotamia, and Persia, to become his pupils.

  All stoutly believed Iamblicus could work miracles. Iamblicus treated them like a father irritated at seeing round him so many weaklings. When they began to discuss and to wrangle, the master would make a sweeping gesture, followed by a grimace expressive of physical pain. He spoke gently, and in a low-toned, agreeable voice; the louder other folk shouted the more subdued his own tone became. He hated all noise, and quarrelsome voices as much as creaking sandals.

  Julian gazed in disappointed perplexity at this chilly, sickly, and whimsical old man. What power drew towards him the world of philosophy? He remembered the story of pupils—that one night the divine master during prayer was upraised by some invisible force to a height of twelve cubits from earth, wrapped in a golden glory. Another tale was about a miracle, by which the master had smitten from a rock two warm springs, Eros and Anteros, the two Dæmons of love—the one dull-souled, the other joyous. Iamblicus, it was said, had caressed both, like children, and at a word caused them to disappear.

&nb
sp; But in listening to the master Julian never succeeded in discovering the potency of his words. The meta-physic of the school of Porphyrius seemed to him dull, dead, and painfully complicated. Iamblicus would, it is true, emerge a playful victor from the most difficult dialectical discussions. His teaching about God, about the World, about the Ideas, was full of profound learning; but in it lay no vital stimulus. Julian had hoped otherwise, and nevertheless he hung about, and did not set off again homewards. The eyes of Iamblicus were strange, green, and deeply-sunk in his bronzed face. Julian was persuaded that these weird and by no means holy eyes betokened some hidden wisdom, the occult wisdom of the serpent, concerning which Iamblicus never spoke to his pupils. But when “the Divine,” in his cracked voice, used to ask why his barley broth was not ready, or complained of gout, the spell was broken.

  On one occasion Iamblicus was sauntering with Julian on the seashore, outside the town. It was a soft and melancholy evening. Behind the castle of Panormos in the distance glittered, with their array of statues, the terraces of the celebrated temple of the Ephesian Artemis.

  The dark reeds along the sandy shore made no rustle. It was the spot where Latona gave birth to Artemis and Apollo. Smoke of numberless altars in the sacred Orthegian wood was rising in columns into the sky. To the south the Samian mountains shone blue on the horizon. Wavelets fell calmly as the breathings of a child, and pellucid waves swelled over the rocks. The setting sun, hidden behind vapour, gilded the edge of enormous cloud-masses.

  Iamblicus seated himself upon a boulder, and Julian threw himself on the ground at his feet. The master caressed the thick black locks of the pupil.

  “Are you sad?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know you are sad. You seek and you do not find. You have not the strength to say ‘He is,’ and you are afraid to say ‘He is not.’”