The Death of the Gods

by Dmitry Merezhkovsky

  “Masters!”

  All were silenced like so many frightened magpies.

  “Masters!” repeated Julian, with bitter irony, “I have heard you long enough. Permit me to relate you a fable: ‘An Egyptian king had a set of tame apes, trained to perform a war-dance of Epirus. They were costumed in helmets and masks; their tails were hidden under the Imperial purple, and while they were dancing it was difficult to believe they were not human. This spectacle gave general delight for years. But on one occasion one of the spectators happened to throw on the stage a handful of nuts! And what happened? The warriors tore off their purple and masks, readjusted their tails, dropped on all fours, and began to bite each other.’ How do you like my fable, masters?”

  Everybody was silent. Suddenly Sallustius took the Emperor by the hand and pointed to the open window. Under the sombre masses of clouds a reddish light, tossed by a violent wind, seemed slowly spreading.

  “Fire! fire!” all present cried.

  “On the other side of the river,” some suggested.

  “No, at Garandâma,” others cried.

  “No, it must be at Gezireh, in the Jew quarter!”

  “It’s neither at Gezireh nor at Garandâma,” exclaimed a voice, with the exultant tone of one in a crowd at sight of a conflagration. “It is in the wood of Daphne!”

  “Apollo’s temple!” murmured the Emperor, whose heart was beating wildly. “The Galileans!” he shouted with a mad voice, rushing to the door, then to the staircase.

  “Slaves, ... quick! My charger and fifty legionaries!”

  In a few moments all was ready. A black colt, trembling all over and with a dangerous look in his bloodshot eyes, was led into the courtyard.

  Julian rode at a breakneck speed through the streets of Antioch, followed by his legionaries. The crowd scattered in terror before them. One man was knocked down and another trampled to death, but their cries were drowned by the thunder of hoofs and the clatter of arms.

  The open country was reached. Julian knew not how long the mad gallop lasted; three legionaries fell with their foundered horses. The glow became brighter and brighter and the smell of smoke perceptible. The fields with their dusty vegetation assumed a yellowish hue. A curious crowd rushed up from every side, like moths to a flame. Julian noticed the joyousness of their faces, as if they were hurrying to a festival.

  Tongues of flame glittered, in thick smoke-clouds, above the wood of Daphne. The Emperor penetrated into the sacred enclosure. There the crowd was bellowing, and exchanging pleasantries and laughter.

  The calm alleys, abandoned by all for so many years, were swarming. Rioters profaned the wood, broke down branches of ancient laurels, befouled the springs, and trampled on the sleeping flowers. The cool odour of narcissus and lily strove with the stifling heat of the fire and the breath of the people.

  “A miracle from God,” murmured the crowd gleefully. “I myself saw lightning fall from heaven and kindle the roof!”

  “No, thou liest! The earth split in the midst of the temple and vomited flames underneath the idol!”

  “‘S death!... It was after the abominable order to shift the relics. They thought they could do it without let or hindrance.... Pooh!... So much for your Temple of Apollo and prophecy from the sacred spring! It is a blessing!”

  Julian saw in the crowd a woman half-dressed, as if newly risen from bed. With a stupid smile she was wondering at the fire, while cradling on her arm an infant at the breast. Tears still trembled on the eyelashes of the little one; but he quieted himself sucking vigorously at the breast, against which he had propped himself with one hand, while stretching the other towards the flames as if for a new plaything.

  The Emperor reined up his horse. Further advance was impossible, by reason of the heat. The legionaries stood awaiting orders. But Julian saw that the temple was doomed. From base to roof it was enveloped in flames, like an immense brazier. Walls, joists, and carven cross-beams were falling in, with crash after crash, and whirlwinds of sparks mounted to a sky which came down lower and lower, lurid and menacing. The flames seemed to lick the clouds, struggling against the embraces of the wind and, roaring, flapped like great sails. The laurel leaves writhed in the heat, and doubled themselves as in torture. The peaks of the cypresses, kindled like huge torches, gave up the smoke of sacrifice. Drops of resin fell thickly from the centenarian trees, old as the temple.

  Julian gazed haggardly at the fire. He wished to give an order to the legionaries; but drawing his sword from the scabbard and curbing his restive horse, he could only ejaculate impotently between clenched teeth—"Oh, wretched, wretched people!”

  Shouts of the crowd sounded in the distance. Julian recollected that the entrance to the treasury was at the back; and the idea occurred to him that the Galileans were pillaging the wealth of the god.... He made a sign, and dashed in that direction, followed by the legionaries. A melancholy procession brought him to a halt. A few Roman guards, who had run up in haste from the village of Daphne, were carrying a rude litter.

  “What is it?” asked Julian.

  “The Galileans have stoned the priest Gorgius to death.”

  “And the treasury?”

  “It is untouched. Standing on the threshold of the door, the priest defended the entrance. He never left his post until a stone stretched him on the ground. Then they killed the child. The Galilean horde, after trampling them under foot, would have got into the treasury if we hadn’t arrived in time.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “Hardly breathing.”

  The Emperor leapt from his horse. The litter was laid gently down; and Julian stooping, cautiously lifted a corner of the old chlamys of the priest, which covered both bodies. The old man was stretched with closed eyes and scarcely heaving breast on a bed of fresh laurel-branches. Julian’s heart shook with pity when he saw the red-nosed old drinker, whom he had thought so scandalous a few days before. He remembered the poor goose in the wicker basket, the last offering to Apollo. On the snowy hair drops of blood stood like berries, and laurel leaves enlaced lay in a wreath on the priest’s head.

  By his side lay the little body of Hepherion, his cheek resting on his hand. He seemed asleep. Julian thought—

  “Such must Eros be, son of the Love-goddess, killed by the stones of Galileans.”

  And the Roman Emperor knelt in veneration before the martyrs to Olympus. In spite of the loss of the temple, in spite of the stupid triumph of the mob, Julian felt in this death the presence of the god. His heart softened; even his hate disappeared, and with humble tears he kissed the old man’s hand. The dying man opened his eyes.

  “Where is the child?” he asked under his breath.

  “Here, near you.”

  Julian gently placed the hand of Gorgius on the locks of Hepherion.

  “Is he alive?” asked Gorgius, stroking the child’s curls for the last time. He was so weak that he could not turn his head, and Julian had not the courage to reveal the truth.

  The priest fixed a suppliant look on the Emperor—

  “Cæsar! I entrust him to you.... Do not abandon him....”

  “Be assured; I will do all that I can for the little one.”

  So Julian took under his protection one to whom not even a Roman Cæsar could now do good or harm.

  Gorgius let his hand remain on the head of Hepherion. Suddenly his face lighted; he tried to say something, and stammered incoherently—

  “Rejoice! Rejoice!”

  He gazed before him with eyes wide open, sighed, paused in the midst of the sigh, and his look faded. Julian closed the eyes of the dead.

  Suddenly exultant songs were heard. The Emperor wheeled round, and saw a long procession marching down the cypress-alley. A great crowd of priests, in dalmatics of cloth of gold covered with precious gems, deacons swinging censers, black monks bearing lighted tapers, virgins and youths clothed in white, children waving palm-branches, and above the crowd on a lofty car the relics of Babylas, in a glittering s
ilver shrine. They were the relics expelled, by Cæsar’s orders, from Daphne to Antioch. The expulsion had become a victorious march. The people were singing the ancient Psalm of David glorifying the God of Israel—

  “He is clothed in clouds and darkness!“

  Above the moanings of the wind, and the roarings of the fire, soared the triumphant chant of the Galileans to the lurid vault of the sky—

  “Clouds and darkness surround Him, fire tramples out His enemies before Him, and the mountains melt like wax before the face of the Lord, the Lord of all the earth!“

  Julian grew pale at the audacity of joy resounding in the last line—

  “Let all those who serve and boast themselves of their idols tremble, And let all gods bow down before Him!“

  The Emperor leapt upon his horse, drew his sword, and shouted—

  “Soldiers, follow me!”

  He was about to rush in, disperse the triumphant mob, overset the shrine, and scatter the bones of the saint, but a firm hand seized the bridle of his horse—

  “Out of the way!” cried Julian furiously, lifting his sword.

  Next moment his arm fell. Before him stood the stern, calm face of Sallustius Secundus, who had just arrived from Antioch.

  “Cæsar, do not strike the unarmed! Be yourself!”

  Julian put back his sword in the scabbard.

  His helmet scorched his head; he tore it off and flung it to earth, wiping away great drops of sweat. Alone and bareheaded he advanced towards the crowd, signing them to halt.

  “Inhabitants of Antioch,” he said almost calmly, restraining himself by a supreme effort, “know that the rioters, and setters on fire of the Temple of Apollo, will be punished without mercy. You scorn my pity? We shall see how you will scorn my anger. The Roman Augustus could blot your town from the earth, so that men should forget that Antioch the great ever existed. But I go forth to war against the Persians. If the gods grant that I return in triumph, woe be to you, rioters! Woe to thee, Nazarene, the carpenter’s son!”

  And he stretched out his sword above the heads of the crowd.

  Suddenly he fancied he heard a voice saying—

  “The Nazarene, son of the carpenter, makes ready thy shroud!”

  Julian thrilled, turned round, but saw no one. He passed his hand over his eyes. Was it an hallucination? At that moment from the interior of the temple came a deafening noise. Part of the roof had fallen on the statue of Apollo, which reeled from its pedestal. The procession went on its way, taking up again the Psalm—

  “Let those tremble who serve and boast themselves of their idols, And let all gods of the earth bow down before Him!“

  * * *

  XIV

  Julian passed the winter in preparations for his Persian campaign. At the beginning of spring, on the fifth of March, he quitted Antioch with an army of sixty-five thousand men. The snow was melting from the mountains. In fruit-gardens the leafless young apricot trees were trimmed with pink blossoms. The soldiery marched gaily to the war as to a festival.

  The dockyards of Samos had built a fleet of twelve hundred ships, wrought of enormous cedars, pine, and oak from Taurus gorges, and the fleet had ascended the Euphrates as far as the city of Leontopolis.

  By forced marches Julian passed by Hieropolis to Carrhæ, and thence along the Euphrates as far as the southern Persian frontier. In the north, another army of thirty thousand men had been sent out under the generals Procopius and Sebastian. Joined to the forces of the Armenian Arsaces, these were to lay waste Adiabene, Apolloniatis, and traversing Corduene rejoin the principal army on the banks of the Tigris at Ctesiphon.

  All had been provided for, combined and planned with ardour by the Emperor himself. Those who understood the plan of campaign were amazed, and not without reason, at its wisdom, simplicity, and greatness of conception.

  At the beginning of April, the army reached Circesium, a post remarkably fortified by Diocletian on the frontier of Mesopotamia, at the junction of the Araxes and the Euphrates. There a bridge of boats was constructed, Julian having given the order to cross the frontier on the following morning. Late that evening, when all was ready, he returned to his tent, fatigued but satisfied. He lit his lamp in order to resume his favourite work, for which part of his night was reserved. It was a study in pure philosophy: Against the Christians. He used to write it in snatches, within sound of the trumpets and camp-songs and challenging sentries. He rejoiced in the idea that he was fighting the Galilean with every weapon lying to his hand; by battlefield and book, by Roman sword and Hellenic learning. Never did the Emperor part with the works of the Fathers, ecclesiastical canons and creeds of the councils. On the margin of the New Testament, which he studied with no less care than Plato and Homer, he would make caustic annotations with his own hand.

  Julian took off his dusty armour, sat down before his table, and dipping his reed-pen in ink, began to write. His leisure was immediately invaded. Two couriers had just arrived in camp, one from Italy, the other from Jerusalem. Their news was by no means agreeable. An earthquake had destroyed the city of Nicomedia in Asia Minor, and subterranean rumblings had raised to the highest pitch the terror of the inhabitants of Constantinople. The books of the sibyls, moreover, forebade the crossing of the frontiers before the year had elapsed. The courier from Jerusalem brought a letter from the dignitary Alipius of Antioch. By a strange contradiction Julian, the worshipper of the manifold Olympus, had decided to rebuild the temple, destroyed by the Romans, of the one God of Israel, in order to refute, in the face of time and the world, the prophecy of the Gospel, “There shall not be left here one stone upon another that shall not be thrown down“ (Matt. xxiv. 2). The Jews responded with enthusiasm to the Emperor’s appeal. Gifts flowed in from all sides. The plan of rebuilding was a superb one. The work was promptly taken in hand, and Julian confided the general supervision to his friend, the learned and noble Alipius of Antioch, formerly proconsul of Britain.

  “What has happened?” asked Julian, before unsealing the missive, perturbed at the sombre face of the courier.

  “A great misfortune, well-beloved Cæsar!”

  “Speak, fear nothing.”

  “So long as the workmen were working at the ruins and demolishing the old walls, all went well. But hardly had they proceeded to lay the first stone of the new edifice, when flames, in the shape of balls of fire, escaped from the vaults, overturned the blocks, and scorched the workmen. On the following day, on the order of the most noble Alipius, the works were resumed. The miracle was repeated, and so also a third time. The Christians are triumphant; the Hellenes in despair; and not a single workman will consent to go down into the vaults. Nothing remains of the edifice, not one stone!”

  “Hush, fool! You must be a Galilean yourself!” exclaimed the Emperor. “These are old wives’ tales!”

  He broke the seal, unfolded, and read the letter. The courier spoke the truth. Alipius confirmed his words. Julian could not believe his eyes. He re-read the message carefully, bringing it nearer to the lamp. His face flushed with anger and shame. He bit his lips and threw the crumpled papyrus to the physician Oribazius, who stood hard by.

  “Read!... Either Alipius has gone mad, or indeed.... No! that’s impossible!”

  The young Alexandrian doctor picked up and read the letter with the calmness which never deserted him. Lifting his clear and intelligent eyes to Julian’s, he answered—

  “I see in this no miracle. Scientific men described the phenomenon long ago. In the vaults of old buildings which have been sealed from the air for centuries, there collects a dense inflammable gas. To go with a lighted torch into these vaults is enough to explain the explosion and kill the rash workman. To the ignorant and superstitious this of course appears a miracle, but it is perfectly natural and explicable.”

  He laid the letter on the table with a slightly pedantic smile on his thin lips.

  “Ah, yes! to be sure,” said Julian, not without bitterness. “The earthquakes at Nicomedia and C
onstantinople, the prophecies of the sibylline books, drought at Antioch, conflagrations at Rome, inundations in Egypt, all are perfectly natural! Only it is odd that everything is in league against me, earth and water, fire and sky, and even the gods, I believe!”

  Sallustius Secundus came into the tent.

  “Sublime Augustus! Tuscan wizards, charged by you to ascertain the will of the gods, beg you to wait; not to cross the frontier to-morrow. The birds of the oracles, despite all prayers, refuse food, and will not even pick at the grains of barley!”

  At first Julian frowned angrily, but his face immediately brightened, and he burst into a surprising fit of laughter.

  “Really, Sallustius? They won’t peck at anything, eh? Then what must we do with these obstinate beasts? Suppose we retrace our steps to Antioch, amid the laughter of the Galileans?... My dear friend, go back immediately to these Tuscan wizards and tell them my will. Let the fowls be thrown into the river. Do you understand? These pampered birds are not pleased to eat. Let’s see if they will drink.... Carry my orders.”

  “Is this some jest, Cæsar? Do I understand you rightly? In spite of everything, we are to cross the frontier to-morrow?”

  “Yes! And I swear by my next victory, and the greatness of Rome, that no prophetic bird shall daunt me, neither water, earth, nor fire, not even the gods! It is too late! The die is cast. My friends, is there anything in all nature superior to the will of man? In all the sibylline books is there anything stronger than the words ‘I will’? More than ever I feel the mystery of my life. No auguries shall enmesh me. To-day I believe in, and yet I laugh at them. Is it sacrilege? So much the worse. I have nothing to lose! If the gods abandon me I will deny them!”

  When everybody had gone out, Julian approached the little statue of Mercury, with the intention of praying, as he usually did, and casting some grains of incense on the tripod; but suddenly he turned away with a smile, lay down on the lion-skin which served him as bed, and extinguishing the lamp fell into a deep and careless slumber, as folk often do on the brink of misfortune.