The Death of the Gods

by Dmitry Merezhkovsky

Julian disposed his army in a peculiar form, like a crescent. The enormous half-circle was to bury its two points in the Persian mass and squeeze it inwards from two sides. The right wing was commanded by Dagalaïf, the left by Hormizdas, Julian and Victor leading the centre. The trumpets sounded. The earth trembled under the soft and heavy tread of the Persian elephants, wearing huge plumes of ostrich-feathers on their foreheads. Turrets of hide were lashed on the back of the beasts by thick thongs; and each turret held four archers, who shot flaming arrows of tow and pitch.

  The Roman horse did not stand the first shock. With deafening roars and raised trunks the elephants opened their huge moist gullets. The legionaries felt in their faces the hot wind of the monsters, maddened before battle by a special drink made of wine, pepper, and spices. With foot spikes painted in vermilion and tipped with steel, the elephants disembowelled horses, and their trunks whirled horsemen from the saddle and dashed them against the ground. The torrid heat of the afternoon raised from the trumpeting beasts a rank odour of sweat which made the horses wince, rear, and tremble violently.

  One cohort had already taken flight. It happened to be a body of Christians. Julian pursued them, and striking the chief decurion full in the face, cried furiously—

  “Cowards! I suppose praying is the only thing you are good for?”

  The light Thracian archery and Paphlagonian skirmishers now advanced against the elephants. Behind them marched Illyrians, skilful throwers of the leaded javelins, the “Martiobarbuli.” Julian gave the order to aim arrows, stones, and javelins at the legs of the elephants. An arrow struck an enormous Indian beast in the eye. He trumpeted and reared, the girths snapped, saddle and leather turret slid and upset, shedding the Persian archers like birds from a nest. Confusion followed among the huge pachyderms. Wounded in the legs they staggered and fell, and their squadron became little more than a mountain of grey masses. Their feet in air, their trunks bleeding, their armour smashed, they lay amid ruins of the turrets, half crushed horses, and piles of Roman and Persian dead.

  At last the elephants took flight, and rushed headlong against the Persians, trampling them underfoot. This particular danger had been foreseen by the barbarian tacticians. The previous instance of the battle under Nizibis had shown that an army may be defeated by its own allies. Now the mahouts began to slash the monsters with curved cutlasses between the two joints of the spine lying nearest the skull; a single blow in this exact spot sufficing to kill outright the largest and strongest of the great beasts. The cohorts of Martiobarbuli charged, clambering over the wounded and pursuing those in flight.

  At this instant Julian galloped to support the left wing. On that side rode the Persian Clibanarii, a famous body of cavalry, bound man to man by a strong chain, and clad in invulnerable scale-armour. They received the waves of battle like a row of bronze equestrian statues. They could only be wounded through narrow slits left for mouth and eyes.

  Against the Clibaniars Julian sent his old faithful friends, the Batavians and the Celts. They would die for a smile from Cæsar, gazing at him with eyes of childlike adoration. The right wing of the Romans was assailed by Persian chariots, drawn by galloping zebras. Scythes were affixed to their axles, which, sweeping along with incredible swiftness, mowed legs from horses and heads from soldiers, and lopped bodies in half, easily as the reaper’s sickle takes the corn.

  Towards the end of the day, weighed down in their overheated armour, the Clibaniars wavered. Julian massed all his forces against them. They broke, and re-formed, but their ranks at last became confused and fled. A cry of triumph broke from the Emperor’s lips. He galloped ahead, pursuing the fugitives, not perceiving that he was far in advance of his main body. A few body-guards surrounded the Cæsar, amongst them old General Victor. This old man, though wounded in the hand, was unconscious of his hurt, not quitting the Emperor’s side for a moment, and shielding him time after time from mortal blows. He knew that it was as dangerous to approach a fleeing army as to enter a falling building.

  “Take heed, Cæsar!” he shouted. “Put on this mail of mine!” but Julian heard him not, and still rode on, on—his breast lying bared to drink in the wind—as if he, unsupported, unarmed, and terrible, was hunting his countless enemies by glance and gesture only from the field. Laughter was on his lips; through the cloud of dust, raised by the furious gallop of the horse, shone the Bœotian helmet, and the outspread folds of his chlamys streamed into two great wings of purple, that seemed to bear him farther and yet farther.

  In front, a small detachment of Saracens was in flight. One of these horsemen, turning in his saddle, recognised Julian by his raiment, and pointing him out to his comrades, uttered a guttural cry like that of an eagle—

  “Malek, malek! ... The king, the king!”

  All wheeled round, and at full gallop sprang upright, standing on their saddles, their long white vestments streaming, and lances poised above their heads. The Emperor saw the bronzed face of a young robber, one little more than a lad. Riding rapidly towards him on a Bactrian dromedary, from whose shaggy hair lumps of dry mud swung and dangled, Victor parried two lances aimed at the Emperor by Bedouins. Then the lad on the camel aimed, his fierce look glittering and white teeth showing while he cried gleefully—

  “Malek, malek!“

  “That boy is happy,” was the thought that flashed through Julian’s mind, “and I too....”

  He had no time to finish; the lance hissed, and grazing the skin of his right hand, glanced over the ribs and buried itself below the liver. Julian thought the wound a slight one, and seizing the double-edged barb to withdraw it, cut his fingers. Blood gushed out. Julian uttered a cry, flung his head back, fixed his staring eyes on the pale sky, and slid from his horse into the arms of the guard.

  Victor supported him with tender veneration, gazing with trembling lips at the closed eyes of his sovereign. The tardy cohorts in the rear came up.

  * * *

  XIX

  The Emperor was carried into his tent, and laid on his camp-bed. Still in a swoon, he groaned from time to time. Oribazius, the physician, drew out the iron lance-head, and washed and bound up the deep wound. By a look Victor asked if any hope remained, and Oribazius sadly shook his head. After the dressing of the wound Julian sighed and opened his eyes.

  “Where am I?” he asked in surprise with a glance round. Then hearing the distant noise of battle he remembered all, and with an effort rose upon his bed.

  “Why have they brought me here? Where is my horse? Quick, Victor!”

  Suddenly his face writhed with pain, friends hastened to support him, but he thrust back Victor and Oribazius.

  “Permit me! I must be with them to the end.”

  His soul was struggling against death. Slowly, with infinite difficulty, he tottered to his feet, a faint smile playing on his lips, and the old fire in his eyes.

  “You see, I am able-bodied still ... quick! give me my sword, buckler, horse!”

  Victor gave him the shield and sword. Julian took them and made a few unsteady steps, like a child learning to walk. The wound re-opened; he let fall his arms, sank into the arms of Oribazius and Victor and looking up cried contemptuously—

  “All is over! Thou hast conquered, Galilean!”

  And making no further resistance, he gave himself up to his friends, and was laid on the bed.

  “Yes, yes,” he repeated softly, “I am dying.”

  Oribazius leaned towards him, consoling him, assuring him that the wound would heal.

  “Why deceive me?” answered Julian; “I am not afraid....” Then he added gravely, “I hope I shall die the death of the righteous.”

  In the evening he lost consciousness. Hour after hour went by. The sun went down. Fighting ceased. A lamp was lighted in the tent, and night slowly descended.

  Julian did not recover consciousness. His breathing grew weaker; he was thought to be breathing his last. But later his eyes opened, little by little; his look was fixed steadily on a corner of the te
nt. A rapid whisper broke from his lips: he was in delirium.

  “Thou, here, why?... what matters it? All is over. Canst Thou not see that?... Go. Thou hatedst laughter.... And so we can never forgive Thee....”

  Then, regaining his faculties, he asked of Oribazius—

  “What hour is it? Shall I see the sun?”

  And he added dreamily—

  “Oribazius, can it be possible that reason should be really so powerless? I believe it is a weakness of the body ... blood fills the brain, creating phantoms.... One must conquer ... reason must....”

  His ideas anew became confused, and his gaze resumed its fixity—

  “I will not! Do you hear?... Go, Tempter! I do not believe! Socrates died like a god. Reason ... Victor, ah, Victor!... what do you want from me? Thou, the unappeasable, the implacable? Thy love is more terrible than death.... Thy burden is the heaviest of all.... Why dost thou look at me so? How much I have loved thee, Good Shepherd! ... Only Thou? No, no! The pierced feet, blood? ... The death of Hellas ... darkness?... I want sunlight, the golden sun ... on the Parthenon marble!... Wouldst thou veil the sun?...”

  It was one o’clock in the morning. The legions had returned to camp, with no exultation over their victory. In spite of fatigue, scarcely any slept, all waiting for news from the Imperial tent. Many stood sleeping, leaning on their lances round the half-extinguished camp-fires; and the breathing of picketed horses could be heard, munching captured forage of corn.

  Between the dark rows of tents, faint white lines showed on the horizon. Stars became yet more chilly and pale. The mists kept spreading, and the steel of lances and shields was clouded with dew. Here and there crew a cock, belonging to the Tuscan soothsayers. A calm sadness hovered over heaven and earth. The scene was illusive as a mirror; the near seemed far off and the distant came near.

  At the entrance to Julian’s tent stood a throng of generals, friends, and familiar companions, all looking like phantoms in the misty twilight. Still deeper silence reigned within the tent. Oribazius, the physician, was pounding simples in a mortar to make a refreshing drink. The sick man lay calm, and the delirium had left him. At dawn, collecting himself, he asked impatiently—

  “When will the sun rise?”

  “In an hour,” answered Oribazius glancing at the clepsydra.

  “Call the generals,” ordered Julian. “I must speak....”

  “Well-beloved Cæsar, it may be hurtful....”

  “What matter! I shall not die before the sun rises. Victor, raise my head.”

  He was told about the victory over the Persians, the flight of the enemy’s cavalry, and of the two sons of Sapor the king; of the death of fifty satraps. Julian showed neither astonishment nor gladness. He remained indifferent.

  Dagalaïf, Hormizdas, Ariphas, Lucilian, and Sallustius came in, headed by the general Jovian. Many, with an eye to the future, had wished to see on the throne this weak and timid man, who could be dangerous to none. It was their hope under his rule to recover from the anxieties of the tumultuous reign of Julian. Jovian possessed the art of pleasing all. Tall and handsome in person, he in no way differed from the crowd, aiming at all-round benevolence. Among the intimate friends stood also a young centurion of the Imperial horse, the future famous historian, Ammianus Marcellinus. Everyone was aware that he was writing an account of the campaign, and amassing documents for a great historical work. Stooping under the tent-door Ammianus drew out tablets and stylus. A keen and impartial curiosity animated his stern face; and with the coolness of an artist or a man of science he prepared to take notes of the speech of the dying Emperor.

  “Lift the curtain!” Julian ordered.

  It was raised, and everyone stood aside so that the fresh air of the morning might blow on the face of the dying. The door faced east, and the view to the horizon was unbroken.

  “Now put the lamp out.”

  The order was executed, and the tent filled with twilight. Everybody stood waiting in silence.

  “Listen, friends,” Julian began; his voice was low but clear, his whole presence breathed a triumph of mind over body, and invincible will still gleamed from those eyes. The hand of Ammianus trembled, but he wrote down the words uttered. He knew that he was writing on the tables of history, and transmitting to men unborn the last words of a great man.

  “Listen, friends; my hour is come, perhaps too soon. But you see, like an honest debtor, I am not sorry to give back my life to Nature, and in my soul is neither pain nor fear; nothing but cheerfulness, and a fore-feeling of the long repose. I have simply done my duty, and have nothing to repent of. From the days when I daily expected death, like a hunted beast, in the palace of Macellum, in Cappadocia, up to the day of greatness when I took on the purple of the Roman Cæsar, I have tried to keep my soul stainless, I have aspired to ends not ignoble. If I have failed—and I have failed—to do all that I desired, you will not forget that most of our earthly affairs are in the hands of Destiny. And now I thank the Eternal for having allowed me to die neither after long sickness nor at the hands of the executioner, but on the battlefield—in mid-youth—in mid-endeavour, half-way to achievement.... And dear, dear friends....”

  His voice ceased; everyone present knelt down; many were weeping.

  “No, no, my dear friends,” said Julian smiling; “why weep for those who are going back to their own country? Take heart, Victor!”

  The old man tried to answer, but in vain; then hiding his face in his hands, he sobbed aloud.

  “Soft! Soft!” cried Julian; and then turning toward the sky: “Ah, there He is!”

  The morning clouds were growing rosy, and the twilight in the tent had become warm and mellow; the first beam of the sun washed over the rim of the horizon. The dying man held his face towards the light, with closed eyes.

  Then Sallustius Secundus went up to Julian and kissing his hand said—

  “Well-beloved Augustus! whom do you name as your successor?”

  “What matters it? Let Destiny decide! We must not resist her. Let the Galileans triumph. We shall conquer later on. And then shall begin on earth the reign of the equals of the gods, souls laughing for ever like the sun.... Look, behold him!”

  A faint shiver ran through his body, and with a last effort Julian stretched out his arms, as if he would have rushed to meet the rising orb. Blood gushed from his wound, and the veins swelled on neck and temples.

  “Water! water!” he whispered, choking.

  Victor lifted a golden cup of spring-water to his mouth. Julian, looking forth from the tent drank thirstily of the ice-cold draught. Then his head fell back, and the last murmur came from his half-open lips—

  “Helios! receive me into thyself....”

  The eyes went out. Victor closed their lids. The face of the Emperor, lying in the sun-rays, took on a look of one of the Olympians sleeping.

  * * *

  XX

  Three months had elapsed since the shameful treaty of peace signed by Jovian with the Persians. At the beginning of October the Roman army, exhausted by famine and forced marches through the deserts of Mesopotamia, had at last reached Antioch. During this melancholy retreat Anatolius, the centurion of Imperial cavalry, had formed a close friendship with the historian, Ammianus Marcellinus. The two friends had decided to betake themselves to Italy, to a secluded villa at Baiæ, whither Arsinoë had invited them, to rest from the fatigues of the campaign, and to heal their wounds at the sulphur-baths.

  On this journey, they had made a halt of some days at Antioch, where great festivals were in preparation, in honour of Jovian’s accession to the throne and of the return of the army.

  The peace concluded with King Sapor was dishonourable for the Empire. Five rich Roman provinces lying along the farther banks of the Tigris, together with fifteen frontier fortresses, including Singara, Castra Maurorum, and the invincible Nizibis, all these passed into the hands of Sapor. Little did the Galileans care for the defeat of Rome. When the news of Julian’s death arrived at A
ntioch, the timorous citizens believed at first that it was some new device of Satan, fresh toils in which to capture the righteous. But when the news was confirmed their joy became delirious.

  In the early morning the noise of festival and the cries of the people reached the sleeping-chamber of Anatolius. He had decided to pass all day indoors, the rejoicing of the populace being repugnant to him. He attempted to sleep again, and failed. A strange curiosity woke in him. Without a word to Ammianus, he dressed quickly, and went out into the street. It was a fresh and pleasant autumn morning.

  Great round clouds, in sharp contrast with the deep blue of the sky, sailed over the innumerable colonnades and marble porticoes of Antioch. In the forum and the markets everywhere ran the murmur of fountains and streams; and down the long dusty vistas of the bright streets flowed wide currents, artificially-channelled waters, crossing each other in a perfect network of rills. Here and there pigeons were cooing and picking grains of barley. The scent of flowers and incense issued from the open doors of churches. Near the fountain-basins young girls were sprinkling their baskets of pale October roses with water, or singing joyful psalms, and garlanding the columns of the Christian basilicas. A noisy crowd was pouring through the streets. Chariots and litters were forging slowly down the middle of the pavements. At every moment rose cries of—

  “Hail to Jovian Augustus, the great and happy!”

  Some added: “The conqueror,” but with a certain diffidence, as if the word smacked of irony.

  The same urchin who had once caricatured Julian on the walls of the town was there now clapping his hands, beating his drum, whistling, tumbling in the dust, and shouting (although he had no notion of the meaning of the words)—

  “The Wild Boar has perished, the Devastator of the Garden of Eden!”

  An old woman, bent double in her rags, came out like a black-beetle into the sun, rejoicing with the rest. She was brandishing a stick and vociferating in a cracked voice—

  “Julian has perished! The evil-doer has perished!”