The Death of the Gods

by Dmitry Merezhkovsky

  Constantius writhed with jealousy. At the same time he sustained defeat after defeat in his own campaign against the Persians in the Asiatic provinces. He grew thin, sleepless, lost his appetite, and twice suffered from terrible attacks of vomiting. The Court physicians were in dismay.

  Sometimes, during nights of insomnia, lying in bed under the sacred standard of Constantine, the Emperor mused:

  “Eusebia deceived me! But for her I should have followed the wise counsel of Mercurius.... I should have had his throat cut in some dark corner! I should have exterminated this serpent from the Flavian nest!... Imbecile that I was!... It was I, myself, who let him escape! And who knows?... Perhaps Eusebia herself was his mistress?”

  A long-delayed jealousy made his envy bitterer still. He could not revenge himself on the Empress Eusebia, who was dead. His second wife, Faustine, was an empty-headed little woman for whom he felt nothing but contempt.

  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?”

  “What do you mean, cousin? There are no forests there; only sand and rocks.”

  “And how does one get shelter from the sun?” asked the incredulous Aragaris.

  “It’s a desert! It’s as hot there as under a cook’s oven, and there’s not a drop of water.”

  “What! No water? And how about beer?”

  “They don’t even know what beer means!”

  “You’re lying!”

  “May I be struck blind, cousin, if in all Mesopotamia and Syria you find a keg of beer or of honey.”

  “Then it’s all over, brother! If it’s hot there, and there’s neither water, beer, nor honey, they’re simply hunting us to the end of the world like oxen to the slaughter!”

  “Hunting you on to the horns of the Devil, cousin!” and Strombix wept yet more bitterly.

  At that moment there came a distant rumble, and din of voices. The two friends ran out of the barracks; a crowd of soldiers were rushing over the wooden bridge towards Lutetia. The cries came nearer; wild agitation seized the garrison; the soldiery poured out upon the road in a dense shouting mass, in spite of the orders, threats, and even blows of the centurions.

  “What has happened?” asked a veteran.

  “Twenty soldiers have been beaten to death!”

  “What? Twenty! Why, it was a hundred!”

  “They’re going to cudgel every man in turn; it’s the order!”

  Suddenly a legionary with torn clothes and terrified demeanour rushed into the crowd shouting—

  “Comrades! quick, to the palace!... quick! Julian’s just been beheaded!”

  These words fell like a spark on tinder. The long-smouldering flame burst into destructiveness. The faces of the soldiers took on an expression of animal ferocity. No one understood nor wished to hear, but all shouted—

  “Where are the rascals? Kill the hounds!”

  “Who?”

  “The envoys from the Emperor Constantius!”

  “Down with the Emperor!”

  “Ah, the idiots!—to think they’ve killed such a leader!”

  Two innocent centurions who were passing were seized, thrown to earth, trampled upon and almost rent in pieces. At the sight of the gushing blood the mutineers became yet more ferocious. Another mob coming over the bridge swept up to the barracks, and there rose a deafening cry—

  “Glory to the Emperor Julian! Glory to Augustus Julian!”

  “He is slain! He is slain!”

  “Hold your peace, fools; Augustus is alive!
We’ve just seen him!”

  “The Cæsar’s alive!”

  “He’s no longer Cæsar, but Emperor!”

  “Who said he was killed?”

  “Where is the blackguard?”

  “They tried to kill him!”

  “Who?”

  “Constantius!”

  “Down with Constantius! Down with all cursed eunuchs!”

  Someone on horseback rode by so quickly as almost to escape recognition—

  “Decensius! Decensius! Catch the ruffian!”

  Still with pen behind his ear and ink-flask dangling from his girdle, accompanied by insults and laughter, he disappeared from sight. The crowd grew thicker and thicker, and the mutinous army was like a raging flood; but their anger was turned into glee when the Herulian and Petulant legions, who had marched the evening before, and also mutinied, were seen in the distance on their way back. They, their wives, and their children were kissed with emotion, as after a long separation. Some shed tears of joy, others struck their shields; and great bonfires were kindled. The fountains of oratory were unloosed. Strombix, who in his youth had been a buffoon at Antioch, felt himself inspired, and, hoisted with wild gesticulations on the shoulders of his comrades, began—

  “Nos quidem ad orbis terrarum extrema ut noxii pellimur et damnati....“

  “They’re sending us to the other end of the world like criminals; and our families, whom we bought back from slavery with the price of our blood, will fall back into the hands of the Alemanni——”

  He was unable to finish; the barracks were ringing with piercing cries, and the noise, familiar to soldiers, of scourges scoring the back. The legionaries were lashing the detested centurion Cedo Alteram, and the soldier who was administering the lashes to his superior flung away the bloody rod, and to the general amusement, imitating the cheery voice of the centurion, called out—

  “Cedo Alteram! Give me another!”

  “To the palace! To the palace!” yelled the crowd. “Let us make Julian, Augustus! Let us crown him with a diadem!”

  The mob rushed off, leaving in the courtyard the half-dead centurion weltering in blood. Through the dark clouds the stars sparkled here and there, and a cold wind lifted the dust. The barred windows, doors, and shutters of the palace were all hermetically sealed. The building seemed tenantless.

  Foreseeing the revolt, Julian had not left his quarters nor shown himself to the soldiers, being occupied in divinations. For two days and two nights he had waited for a miracle. Clothed in the long white robe of the Pythagoreans, lamp in hand, he was ascending the steps which led to the highest tower. There the assistant of Maximus of Ephesus was awaiting him, and observing the stars. This assistant was no other than Nogodarès, who once in the tavern owned by Syrax at the foot of Mount Argæus had foretold the future to the tribune Scuda.

  “Well?” Julian asked anxiously.

  “There’s nothing to be seen! It looks as if heaven and earth were conspiring.”

  A bat swooped by.

  “Look, look! Perhaps some prediction can be made from the manner of its flight?”

  The night-wandering creature almost brushed Julian’s face with its cold wings, and vanished.

  “Someone’s soul approaches,” murmured Nogodarès. “Remember! this night something great will be accomplished....”

  The indistinct cries of the mutineers were borne faintly up the wind.

  “If a sign appears, come to me,” said Julian as he went down to his library.

  With irregular restless strides he walked up and down the room, halting every now and then to listen. It seemed as if someone was following him; that a curious cold air was blowing on the nape of his neck. He wheeled round, but discovered nothing. He felt the blood beating strongly in his temples. He resumed his walk, and again it seemed that someone was murmuring into his ear words that he had not time to understand.

  A servant entered, and announced that an old man from Athens desired to see the Cæsar on urgent business. Julian uttered a cry of elation and ran to meet the new-comer. He thought he should see Maximus; but he was mistaken. It was the high-priest of the mysteries of Eleusis, whom also he had impatiently expected.

  “Father!” exclaimed Julian, “save me! I must know the will of the gods!... Let us come quickly, for all is prepared.”

  Round the palace resounded deafening cries from the revolted army, shaking the old brickwork of the walls. But when a baggage-carrier, livid with fear, ran in exclaiming, “Mutiny! The soldiers are breaking in the iron gates!” Julian said with an imperious gesture, “Fear nothing! We will arrange that matter presently. Let no one come into my presence!” and taking the high-priest by the hand he hastily led him into a dark underground vault, and closed the heavy iron door. All was there ready. Torch-flames were glittering over the silver image of the Sun-god, and tripods fuming; the holy vessels, full of water, wine, and honey, stood prepared, with salt and flour to be sprinkled on the bodies of the victims. Geese, doves, hens, an eagle, and a white lamb which bleated plaintively, stood round in different cages.

  “Quicker, quicker!” exclaimed Julian, giving a long dagger to the priest.

  The old man, who was panting heavily, began hurriedly to mutter prayers; he killed the lamb, put a portion of the flesh and fat upon the coals of the altar, and with mysterious exorcisms began the inspection of its organs. With expert hands he drew forth the liver, heart, and lungs, and scanned them from every side.

  “The powerful shall be overthrown!” he said, pointing to the heart, which was still warm; “a terrible death....”

  “Whose?” Julian asked. “His or mine?”

  “I know not.”

  “You know not?”

  “Cæsar,” said the old man, “be not hasty. Decide nothing to-night; wait for the day; the presages are doubtful....”

  He did not finish his sentence, but took another victim, a gander, and then an eagle. Overhead the noise of the crowd at the gates swept like the roar of a torrent. Blows of a battering-ram shook the iron doors, but Julian heard nothing. He examined the bloody organs with eager curiosity.

  The old sacrificial priest repeated:

  “Decide nothing to-night; the gods are silent.”

  “But now is the moment!” cried Julian in vexation.

  Nogodarès came in, and solemnly spoke:

  “Julian, rejoice! to-night your destiny is decided ... but make haste! Afterwards it will be too late.”

  The soothsayer looked at the hierophant; the hierophant at the soothsayer.

  “Wait!” said the priest of Eleusis.

  “Dare!” said Nogodarès.

  Julian stood between the two, in perplexity scrutinising both.

  The faces of the augurs remained impenetrable.

  “What is to be done?” he murmured to himself. Then he remembered, and exclaimed joyfully:

  “One moment! I have an ancient book in my library, Concerning Contradiction in Auguries; we shall see!”

  He hurried to the library; but in a passage he encountered the bishop Dorotheus, in sacerdotal dress, bearing the crucifix and the sacred Viaticum.

  “What is this?” asked Julian.

  “The Viaticum for your wife, who is dying, O Cæsar!”

  Dorotheus looked with severity at the robes of Julian, his pale face, and his blood-stained hands.

  “Your wife,” continued the bishop, “desires to see you before her death. Will you come?”

  “Yes!... yes! later!... O gods!... another ill omen.”

  He entered the library and began to rummage among the parchments. Suddenly he heard a voice murmuring distinctly in his ear:

  “Dare! dare! dare!”

  “Maximus, it is thou!” exclaimed Julian, wheeling round.

  There was no one in the dark apartment.

  Julian’s heart beat so strongly that he pressed his hand against his side; a cold sweat stood on his forehead.

  “This—this is what I was waiting for!” murmured Julian. “The v
oice was ‘his’; now, all doubt is over!... I will go!”

  The barred gates had given way with a crash. Legionaries were pouring into the atrium, thrilling the old palace with their cries, while the crimson glare of the torches shone through the chinks of shutters like the light of a conflagration. Not a minute was to be lost. Casting away his white robes, Julian donned his armour, paludamentum, war cloak, and helmet, buckled on his sword, and ran down the principal staircase leading to the entrance. He opened the door and presented himself to the soldiers with a calm and unshaken demeanour. All doubts had disappeared. While in action his will never vacillated; but never up to that day had he been conscious of such a fulness of inward force, such clearness and self-possession of mind. In a moment the crowd felt that supremacy. The pale face of Julian was imperial and awe-striking, and at a gesture from him the mob was silenced. Julian spoke to the soldiers, asking them to restore order; he would neither abandon them nor permit that they should be taken from Gaul; on that head he would convince his well-beloved brother, the Emperor Constantius.

  “Down with Constantius!” interrupted the legionaries. “Down with him who slew his brother! Thou art our Emperor! Glory to Augustus Julian, the Invincible!”

  Admirably did Julian affect surprise, and, as if startled, lowered his eyes and turned aside his head with a deprecating gesture of his lifted palms, as putting away from him so criminal a gift. The shouts redoubled.

  “What is this?” said Julian, feigning dismay. “You are ruining me and you are ruining yourselves. Do you think that I can betray my sovereign?”

  “Yes! your brother’s murderer!” shouted the men.

  “Silence!” answered Julian, striding towards the crowd. “Do you not know that we are sworn...?”

  Every movement was a hypocritical ruse. When the soldiers surged round him he drew his sword from its sheath and pointed it against his own breast as if to fall on it.

  “Bravest of the brave! better die for Cæsar than betray him!”

  But the men, seizing his hands, disarmed him, and many, falling at his feet, kissed them, weeping—