The Death of the Gods

by Dmitry Merezhkovsky

  Dawn had hardly risen when he awoke in higher spirits than on the evening before. The trumpet sounded. Julian leapt on horseback and rode to the banks of the Araxes. It was a cool April morning. A gentle wind bore the nocturnal desert warmth from the banks of the great Asiatic river. All along the Euphrates, from Circesium as far as the Roman camp, stretched the fleet, over a space of nearly two miles. Since the reign of Xerxes no such display of forces had ever been seen here. The sun’s first rays glittered behind the mausoleum raised to Gordian, the conqueror of the Persians, killed in that place by the Arab Philip. The edge of the purple disk rose from the desert like a burning coal, and all the tops of the masts and sails grew red in the morning fog. The Emperor raised his hand, and the earth-shaking mass of sixty-five thousand men began the march. The Roman army began to cross the bridge that separated it from the Persian frontier. Julian’s horse carried him over the bridge and up a high sandy hill on the enemy’s soil. The centurion of the Imperial Guard, Anatolius, the admirer of Arsinoë, marched at the head of the palatine cohort.

  Anatolius looked at the Emperor. A great change had come over Julian during the month passed in the open air, amidst the healthy toils of campaigning. It was difficult to recognise in this masculine warrior, so hale of visage, whose young glance was brilliant with gaiety, the thin and yellow-faced philosopher, dull-eyed, ragged-bearded, nervous in movement, with ink-stained fingers and toga, Julian the rhetorician, who had served as butt for the street-boys of Antioch.

  “Hark! hark! Cæsar is going to speak!”

  All was silent. The clink of arms, the noise of waves lapping sides of ships, and the silky rustle of the standards were the only sounds audible.

  “Warriors, my bravest of the brave,” said Julian in his strong voice, “I read such gaiety, such boldness on your faces, that I cannot help addressing you some words of welcome. Remember, comrades, the destiny of the world is in our hands! We are going to restore the old greatness of Rome! Steel your hearts; be ready for any fate. There is to be no turning back.

  “I shall be at your head, on horseback or on foot, taking all dangers and toils with the humblest among you; because, henceforth, you are no longer my servants, but my children and my friends! If fate kills me, happy shall I be to die for our great Rome, like Scævola and the Curiatii and the noblest of the Decii. Courage, then, my comrades! and remember that the strong are always conquerors!”

  He stretched his sword, with a smile, toward the distant horizon. The soldiers in unison held up their bucklers, shouting in rapture—

  “Glory, glory to conquering Cæsar!”

  The galleys glided down the reaches of the river. The Roman eagles hovered above their cohorts, and the Emperor rode on his white horse, to meet the rising sun, across the cold blue shadow, on the desert sand, cast from the pyramid of Gordian. Soon, soon was Julian to quit the light of day for the long shadow of the solitary grave.

  * * *

  XV

  The army was marching along the left bank of the Euphrates; on the broad plain, level as the sea, and covered with silvery wormwood, not a tree was in sight. On all sides lay grass and sweet-smelling bushes. From time to time, troops of wild asses appeared on the horizon, raising clouds of dust. Ostriches were seen running; and the soldiers used to roast the delicate flesh of the bustard at their camp-fires. Jests and songs lasted till night-fall. The desert received these soldiers, hungry for glory, booty, and blood, with mute caresses, starry nights, gentle dawns and sunsets, night-coolnesses breathing the bitter smell of wormwood. Deeper and deeper they plunged into the solitudes, without meeting the enemy. Hardly had they passed when calm descended on the plain, as on the sea over a sunken ship; and the grass, trampled by the legionaries, lifted up anew its soft spears.

  Suddenly the desert became menacing. Clouds hid the sky; rains began; and a soldier watering his horses was killed by lightning. At the end of April came the heats. Soldiers envied their comrades who marched in the shadow of a dromedary or of a wagon. The men of the north, Gauls and Sicambri, began to die of sunstroke. The plains became sad, bare, tufted here and there with scorched grass, and every step sank into the sand. Fierce gusts of wind assailed the army, tearing the standards from their poles, and blowing away tents. Then again a calm was restored which in its strangeness and profundity, seemed to the frightened soldiers more terrible than tempest. Raillery and marching-songs ceased; but the march went on, day after day; and yet they never caught a glimpse of the enemy.

  At the beginning of May the palm-groves of Assyria were reached.

  At Mazeprakt, where lay ruins of the enormous wall constructed by ancient Syrian kings, the enemy was seen for the first time. The Persians hastily retreated, and under a rain of poisoned arrows the Romans crossed the wide canal joining the Euphrates to the Tigris. This magnificent piece of engineering, made of Babylonian brick, cutting Mesopotamia in two, was called Nazar Malka, the River of Kings. Suddenly the Persians disappeared. The waters of the Nazar Malka rose, overflowed the banks, and flooded the vast surrounding plains. The Persians had organised the inundation by opening the sluices and dykes which lay on all sides, threatening the friable wastes. The foot-soldiers marched on, up to the knees in water, and their legs sank deep into mud. Entire companies disappeared into invisible ditches. Even horsemen and dromedaries with their burdens vanished suddenly. The track had to be sounded for with poles. The whole desert was transformed into a lake, and the palm-groves appeared like islands.

  “Whither are we going?” the cowardly began to murmur. “Why not retire at once to the river, and get on shipboard? We are soldiers; not frogs made for dabbling through mud!”

  Julian marched on foot with the infantry, even in the most difficult places. He helped to haul the labouring chariots out of mud-holes by their wheels; and laughed at his own soaked and clay-stained purple. Fascines and floating bridges were formed of palm stems; and at night-fall the army succeeded in reaching a dry place. The soldiers fell asleep, utterly exhausted.

  In the morning they saw the fortress of Perizaborh.

  From the tops of walls and inaccessible towers, spread with thick carpets and goat-skins, to defend them from the shock of siege-weapons, the Persians poured down scorn upon their enemies.

  The whole day passed in the exchange of insults and projectiles. Then, profiting by the darkness of a moonless night, the Romans, in absolute silence, carried the catapults and battering-ram from their ships (which had all this way accompanied the march) and propped these weapons against the walls of Perizaborh. The fosses were filled with earth, and by means of a malleolus, or enormous spindle-shaped arrow, full of an inflammable matter, made of pitch, sulphur, oil, and bitumen, the Romans succeeded in setting the goatskin carpets on fire.

  The Persians rushed to extinguish the conflagration, and profiting by the momentary confusion the Emperor ordered an attack by the great battering-ram. This was a huge pine-stem, swung by chains from a pyramidal tower of beams, and pointed by a ram’s head in metal. A hundred strong legionaries, hauling in rhythm on thick ropes made of ox-sinew, slowly heaved and balanced the enormous shaft. The first blow sounded like the rumbling of thunder. Earth shook and the walls resounded. The furious ram butted his metal head in a swift and tremendous succession of blows against the walls. There was a great crash; an entire corner of the wall had given way. The Persians, with despairing cries, fled in all directions; and Julian, the star of whose helmet glittered through clouds of dust, bright and terrible as the star of Mars, galloped into the conquered town.

  For two days the army rested under the fresh and shadowy groves on the other side of the city; the men regaling themselves with a kind of wine made of palm-juice, and amber-clear dates from Babylon.

  Then they resumed their march and entered a rocky plain.

  The heat was painful. Men and horses died in great numbers. At noon the air danced above the rocks in burning rays, and through the ashen-grey desert wound the silvery waves of Tigris, like a lazy serpent bask
ing his coils in the sun.

  The Romans saw at length, beyond the Tigris, a lofty rock rising, rose-coloured, bare and jagged. This was the second fortress defending Ctesiphon, the southern capital of Persia. It was a place far more difficult to take than Perizaborh, and soared to the clouds like an eagle’s nest.

  The sixteen towers and double enclosing walls of Maogamalki were built with the famous bricks of Babylon, sun-dried and mortared with bitumen, like all the ancient monuments of Assyria, which fear not the centuries.

  The attack commenced. Again the ungainly slings groaned, and the pulleys of scorpions and onagers, or frames for flinging stones. Again huge flaming beams hissed like arrows from their engines. At the hour when even lizards go to sleep in fissures of the rock, the sun-rays fell vertically on the backs and heads of soldiers, stifling them like a crushing weight. The desperate legionaries, in defiance of their officers and of increased danger, snatched off their helmets and bloodied armour, preferring the chance of wounds to enduring that fearful heat. Above the brown towers and loopholes of Maogamalki, vomiting poisoned arrows, lances, stones, leaden bullets, and Persian fire-darts of choking sulphur, stretched the dazzling blue-grey of a dusty sky, blind and implacable as death.

  The heavens beat down the hatred of men. Besiegers and besieged, utterly exhausted, ceased fighting. And a silence of noon-day, more sullen than the blackest night, fell on both hosts.

  The Romans lost no whit of their courage. After the taking of Perizaborh they believed in the invincibility of the Emperor, compared him to Alexander the Great, and expected miracles from him.

  For several days, on the east side of Maogamalki where the rocky steep was less abrupt, soldiers were set to hollow a tunnel. This mine, passing under the walls of the fortress, led up to the centre of the town. The width of the passage—three cubits—allowed two soldiers to proceed abreast. Huge beams at intervals supported the ceiling. The diggers worked gaily. The damp and obscurity seemed delicious to them after the excess of sunlight.

  “A day or two ago we were frogs and now we’re moles,” said the soldiers to each other, laughing.

  Three cohorts, the Mattiarians, Lactiniarians, and Victorians, fifteen hundred picked men, keeping the sternest silence, crawled into the subterranean passage, impatiently waiting orders to burst into the town. At daybreak the attack was expressly directed on two opposite sides, in order to divert the attention of the Persians, and Julian himself led up the soldiers by a single narrow path under a hail of stones and arrows.

  “We shall see,” he said to himself with glee at the danger; “we shall see if the gods preserve me, or if, by a miracle, I shall escape death even now.”

  Some irresistible curiosity, or thirst for the supernatural, urged him to expose himself, and with a defiant smile to challenge Fate to do her worst. It was not death he feared, but only defeat in his purposeless and intoxicating game against the higher powers.

  The soldiers followed him on, fascinated by and catching the contagion of his mad mood.

  Meantime the Persians, laughing at the efforts of the besiegers, were singing on the battlements songs in glory of King Sapor, “Son of the Sun.” And from the precipitous terraces they shouted to the Romans:

  “Julian will scale the heavenly palace of Ormuzd before he gets into our fortress!”

  When the fire of action had risen to its hottest, the Emperor, in a low voice, sent word to his officers on the far side of the city.

  The legionaries hidden in the tunnel burst out into the interior of the city, and found themselves in the cellar of a house where an old Persian woman was kneading bread. She uttered a piercing cry at the sight of the Roman legionaries, and was promptly killed. Then, gliding unperceived, they threw themselves on the rear of the besieged. The Persians flung down their arms, and scattered into the streets. The Romans then rushed to the city gates, and by the double assault the town was taken. From that moment not a legionary doubted that the Emperor, like Alexander of Macedon, would conquer the whole of the Persian Empire as far as the Indies.

  Leaving its larger ships behind on the Euphrates, the army now drew near to Ctesiphon, on the river Tigris. But Julian, whose almost unnaturally feverish imagination gave his enemies no time to recover, made practicable the old Roman canal, hollowed by Trajan and Septimius Severus between the Tigris and the Euphrates; the same channel that had been filled in and flooded by the Persians. By this means the whole fleet left the Euphrates and reached the Tigris a little above Ctesiphon. The conqueror found himself thus at the centre of the Asiatic Empire.

  On the following day Julian summoned a council of war and declared that the troops should be transported that night to the other bank, under the walls of the capital. Dagalaïf, Hormizdas, Secundinus, Victor, Sallustius, all seasoned warriors, were terrified at this idea. For hours they strove to persuade the Emperor to relinquish so rash a project, urging the fatigue of the soldiers, the width and rapid currents of the river, the steepness of the banks, the proximity of Ctesiphon, and the innumerable army of Sapor; the Persians being certain to make a sortie at the moment of disembarkation. Julian would listen to nothing.

  “Wait as long as we will,” he exclaimed impatiently, “the river will not grow narrower nor the banks less steep; and the Persian army will get bigger every day we delay. If I had listened to your advice, we should still be at Antioch.”

  The chiefs left his tent in consternation.

  “He cannot last long in this mood,” murmured the well-tried and wily Dagalaïf, a Goth grown old in the service of Rome. “Remember what I tell you. He seems gay, and even laughs, but there is something ill in his expression. I’ve seen it in people who are close to despair or death. That gaiety augurs evil.”

  The warm misty twilight descended rapidly on the immense river-reaches. At a given signal five galleys bearing four hundred warriors, were unlashed from their moorings, and for long nothing was heard but the regular dip of their muffled oars. Then, silence. The obscurity became impenetrable. Julian gazed fixedly in the direction in which the boats had disappeared, concealing his emotion under affected cheerfulness. The generals muttered among themselves. Suddenly a blaze lit up the night. Everyone drew his breath, and all looks were turned on the Emperor. He understood what that blaze meant. The Persians had succeeded in setting light to the Roman ships, by means of fire-balls hurled from engines on the other bank.

  Julian grew pale, but immediately collecting himself and giving his soldiers no time to think, he rushed into the first ship lying along shore and shouted to the army—

  “Victory, victory! Do you see that fire? They have landed and are masters of the bank. I myself ordered the cohorts to light the bonfire as a signal of success. Follow me, comrades!”

  “What is this?” muttered the prudent Sallustius in his ear. “All is lost; that fire is on board our galleys....”

  “Cæsar has gone mad!” groaned the terrified Hormizdas to Dagalaïf. That wily barbarian shrugged his shoulders in perplexity.

  With an irresistible impulse the legions dashed down to the river, all ranks elbowing each other and shouting “Victory! victory!” Jostling, falling into the water, dragging each other out, the men swarmed on board.

  A few small boats nearly sank; and there was no room on the galleys to take over all. Many cavalry swam across, hanging to the manes and tails of their horses. The Celts and Batavians flung themselves into the water, pushing over, afloat, their great hollowed leather shields. Through fog they swam, many being caught and whirled round in eddies, but regardless of danger they too shouted “Victory, victory!” from the water. So great was the number of ships that the current was slightly broken, thus aiding the swimmers. The conflagration of the first five galleys was extinguished without difficulty. Then only did all ranks understand the Emperor’s audacious ruse. But the spirit of the soldiers rose still higher after the avoidance of such a danger. Now everything seemed possible.

  A little before dawn they made themselves masters of the he
ights of the far bank, but hardly had the Romans time for a brief rest on their arms when they saw at daybreak a vast army sally from the walls of Ctesiphon into the plain round the city.

  The battle lasted twelve hours. The Persians fought with the fierceness of despair. Julian’s army here saw for the first time the great war-elephants which could crush a cohort like a tuft of grass. Never had the Romans won such a victory since the great days of the Emperors Trajan, Vespasian, and Titus.

  On the following morning at daybreak Julian brought a grateful offering to Ares, the god of war. It consisted of ten white bulls, beautiful beasts like those on the old Greek bas-reliefs. The whole army was given up to merrymaking. Only the Tuscan wizards, who at every victory of Julian’s had become more sombre, mute, and enigmatic, remained obstinately sullen.

  The first bull, arrayed with laurels, was led to the smoking altar. He walked slowly and passively. Suddenly he stumbled to his knees, lowing pitifully, almost humanly, so that a thrill ran through the spectators; and then, burying his muzzle in the dust, shuddered. Before the axe of the slayer had touched his forehead he had reeled over and died. A second bull similarly fell dead, then a third and a fourth. All paced weakly to the altar, seeming hardly able to stand upright, as if attacked by some mortal malady.

  The army was in dismay at the presage. Some said that the Etruscan wizards had poisoned the bulls, to revenge themselves for the Emperor’s contempt for their art. Nine bulls thus fell, and the tenth, snapping his bonds, escaped, and rushed bellowing through the camp beyond hope of recapture.

  The ceremonial became disorganised, and the augurs smiled among themselves a satisfied smile. When the entrails of the dead bulls were opened Julian, being skilled in magic, saw at a glance terrifying omens in the organs. He turned aside, his brow dark with wrath, attempting but failing to assume carelessness.

  Turning again he approached the altar and spurned it violently with his foot. The altar reeled, but did not fall. The crowd uttered deep sighs and the prefect Sallustius rushed towards the Emperor, whispering—