An infinite sadness filled the heart of Anatolius; but urged by curiosity he wandered on, and in following the Syngon, approached the cathedral. There he saw an official connected with the quæstorship, Marcus Avinius, coming out of the basilica, accompanied by two slaves, who elbowed a passage for him through the crowd.
“What is this?” wondered Anatolius. “Why should this enemy of the Galileans be here?”
Crosses embroidered in gold adorned the violet chlamys of Avinius, and were even sewn on his crimson leather shoes.
Julius Mauricus, another friend of Anatolius, accosted Avinius—
“How do you do, my reverend friend?” he asked, after a surprised and mocking scrutiny of the dignitary’s new costume.
Julius was a free man, having an independent fortune; and for him the change of religion was a matter of indifference. He was by no means surprised at the transformation of his official friends, but took pleasure in putting teasing questions whenever he met them, assuming the air of a moralist who concealed indignation under the mask of irony.
The people were hurrying to the entrance of the church, and upon the deserted steps outside the friends were soon able to talk freely. Anatolius, ensconced behind a column, listened to the dialogue—
“Why didn’t you stay to the end of the service?” asked Mauricus.
“Palpitations. I was half-stifled. I’m not accustomed...” and Avinius added thoughtfully—
“The new preacher has an extraordinary style. His exaggerations act too violently on my nerves. A style ... like the scratching of iron on glass!”
“Really, how touching!” laughed Mauricus. “Here’s a man who has abjured conscience!... But style....”
“No, no; perhaps I didn’t understand him well!” interrupted Avinius. “Don’t disbelieve it! Mauricus, I am sincere.”
From a downy litter the head of the chancery himself, Garguillus, got out, groaning—
“I think I’m late.... But that’s of no great importance; I’ll remain on the space outside ... God and the Holy Ghost....”
“Here’s another miracle!” laughed Mauricus. “Texts from the Bible, in the mouth of Garguillus!”
“May Christ forgive you, my son!” quoth that imperturbable quæstor; “what are you always racking your soul about?”
“Oh, but up to now I haven’t been able quite to get over it! There are so many conversions, so many transformations! I had always imagined that your opinions....”
“Pure stupidity, my dear son! I have only one opinion, which is, that the Galilean cooks are no worse than the Hellenist cooks. The Hellenists put me on a lenten diet ... which would make anybody ill.... Come and dine, O philosopher, and I’ll bring you over to my belief. You will lick your fingers after it! And, after all, isn’t it the same thing to eat a good dinner in honour of the god Hermes, and to eat it in honour of St. Mercurius? All these things are prejudices. I don’t see anything irritating in trifles like this.” And he pointed to the little amber cross, which dangled amidst the perfumed folds of an amethystine-purple robe, upon his enormous belly.
“Look, there’s Hekobolis, the arch-priest of the goddess Astarte-Dindymene! The hierophant has repented, and is now in black Galilean vestments again!... Oh, Ovid, singer of Metamorphoses, why art thou not here?” chanted Mauricus, pointing to an old man with a red face seated in a covered litter—
“What’s he reading?”
“It surely can’t be the laws of the goddess of Pessinus!”
“What divine humility!... Fasting has thinned him!... Look how he’s sighing and throwing up his eyes!”
“Do you know the story of his conversion?” asked Garguillus with a cheerful laugh.
“He went to find Jovian, the Emperor, and I suppose, as formerly with Julian, fell at his feet....”
“Oh, no! he invented something entirely new. There was a sudden public repentance. He prostrated himself at the door of a church, just as Jovian was coming out, and in the middle of the crowd, Hekobolis shouted ‘Trample on me! trample on me! I am Dead-Sea fruit!’ and, with tears, kissed the feet of the passers-by.”
“Ah ... that’s new! And was it successful?”
“By Jove! he had a private interview with the Emperor. Oh, people like him have got nine lives! Everything turns to gold in their fingers. When they slough the old skin, they get young again. Learn, my children....”
“And what did he manage to say to the Emperor?”
“How can I tell?” sighed Garguillus, not without a certain secret jealousy. “He may have said perhaps, ‘Cling to Christianity till not a Pagan be left upon earth! The religion of the just is the basis of your throne!’ Now his fortune is made; and far more securely than in the time of Julian. What exquisite sagacity!”
“Oh, my benefactors, protect me! Snatch Cicumbrix, the humblest of your slaves, from the claws of the lions!”
“What’s happened?” asked Garguillus of the consumptive shoemaker, who was being dragged off by two of the town police.
“They’re going to throw me into prison!”
“Why?”
“For pillaging a church...”
“What? You have...”
“No, no! I was in the crowd, and I just cried out once or twice ‘Beat them!’ That was under Augustus Julian. Then they said, ‘Cæsar desires that the Christian churches shall be destroyed.’ But I didn’t go into the church; I stayed outside. My shop is a wretched little place; but it’s on a crowded square, and if anything happens I’m always lugged up as a witness. O defend me! Have pity on me!”
“Are you a Christian or a Pagan?” asked Julius.
“I don’t know myself. Before Constantine’s time I sacrificed to the gods. Then I was baptised. Then, under Constantius, I became an Arian. Afterwards I had to become a Hellenist. Now I want to be an Arian again; but it’s all mixed up in my head! I obey orders, and I never can happen to profess the true religion at the right time. I have fought for Christ, and also for the gods.... But it’s always either too soon or too late! One gets no rest.... I have children.... Protect me, benefactors!”
“Fear nothing, my friend; we will get you off. I remember you once made me a handsome pair of shoes.”
Anatolius, unperceived by his friends, now went into the church, desiring to hear Theodorite, the young and celebrated preacher. The sun was shining through clouds of incense, and one of the slanting rays fell on the red beard of the speaker in the pulpit. His frail hands were transparent as wax; his exultant eyes feverishly bright, and his thrilling voice thundered in an avenging cry.
“I desire to write, as on a sign-post of infamy for future generations, the history of Julian, the foul renegade. May all ages and peoples read my inscription, and tremble before the justice of the Lord!... Come hither, torturer, serpent of wisdom, to-day we will scoff at thee! Together, my brothers, let us rejoice; let us sound our timbrels, and chant the chant of Miriam over the destruction of the Egyptians in the Red Sea. O Emperor! where are thy ceremonies, thy mysteries? Where now are thy invocations and thy divinations? Where are thy Persian and Babylonish glories? Where are the gods that accompanied thee—thy defenders, Julian? All have deceived thee, all have vanished!”
“Ah, my dear! What a beard he has!” said an ancient rouged patrician lady, standing near Anatolius, to her neighbour. “It’s a sort of gold, of brown-gold colour!”
“Yes, but how about his teeth?” answered the other.
“What—teeth? With a beard like that, teeth are nothing!”
“No! ah no, Veronica, don’t say that! Can one compare him with brother Tiphanius...”
Theodorite continued—
“Julian bred evil in his soul as wild beasts secrete venom. God waited till all his cruelty was manifest, to strike him....”
“Don’t miss the circus to-day,” murmured another neighbour of Anatolius into the ear of his companion. “There are going to be she-bears from Britain.”
“You don’t say so! Real ones?”
“Yes. One’s called Mica Aurea (grain of gold), and the other Innocentia! They’re fed on human flesh. And then, there’ll be the gladiators!”
“Lord Jesus!... we mustn’t miss that! Let’s not wait for the end! Let’s run, in order to get a seat in time!”
Meantime Theodorite was praising Julian’s predecessor for his Christian benevolence, pure life, and love for all his family.
Anatolius felt choked by the crowd. He went out of the church, and once quit of the smell of incense and oil, drew a deep breath of fresh air under the blue sky.
Outside the church portico a loud conversation was going on undisturbed. A grave rumour was circulating in the crowd; the two she-bears were being led through the streets to the amphitheatre. Those who heard the news precipitately left the church before the end of the sermon, asking each other anxiously—
“Are we still in time? Is Mica Aurea ill?”
“No, it’s Innocentia who had a fit of indigestion to-day. But now she’s going on quite well.”
“Thank God ... thank God!”
The church quickly emptied. Anatolius saw panting multitudes running in the direction of the circus from every street, from every alley, from every basilica. They crushed each other, trampled on women and children, hurled abuse, lost their sandals, but halted for nothing in the race. Every face wore a careworn expression denoting that life depended on getting a seat in the amphitheatre. Two names full of sanguinary promise passed from lip to lip—
“Mica Aurea! Innocentia!”
Anatolius followed the crowd into the amphitheatre.
According to the Roman custom a vast awning, the velarium, sprinkled with perfume, protected the people against the rays of the sun, and spread a pleasant coolness. Thousands of heads already swarmed round the circus.
Before the opening of the games, the highest dignitaries in Antioch carried the bronze statue of Jovian into the Imperial box, so that the people could enjoy a sight of the new sovereign. In his right hand Augustus was holding a globe surmounted by a cross. The sun lighted up the placid bronze countenance of the Emperor. The officials kissed the feet of the statue, and the populace yelled with joy—
“Hail to the saviour of the country, Augustus Jovian!”
Multitudes of hands waved coloured girdles and linen kerchiefs. The crowd acclaimed in Jovian its symbol, its soul, its image regnant over the world. In its scorn of the dead Emperor the mob next addressed itself to Julian, as if he were there, still alive in the amphitheatre, and could hear them—
“Well, philosopher, the wisdom of Plato and Crisipus wasn’t much good to you! Jupiter and Phœbus didn’t protect you! Now you are in the claws of the devils! Ah, you godless idolater, Christ has conquered! We, the humble of the world, have conquered!”
All were convinced that Julian had been slain by a Christian, and returned thanks to God for the blow. But the furious enthusiasm of the crowd reached its highest pitch when they saw the gladiator prostrate in the claws of Mica Aurea. Their eyes started out of their heads to glut themselves with the sight of blood; and to the roaring of the wild beast the people responded by a roar wilder still—
“Glory to the most pious Emperor Jovian! Christ has conquered!”
Anatolius felt overcome with disgust at the sweltering breath and odour of the human horde. Closing his eyes, attempting not to draw breath, he ran out into the street, returned to his lodging, closed door and shutters, and flung himself on his bed until night-fall. But it was impossible to escape the populace.
Hardly had twilight descended, when the whole of Antioch was illumined by thousands of lights. At the angles of basilicas and Imperial edifices huge torches were aflare, and cressets flaming in every street. Through the cracks in the shutters of the sleeping-room of Anatolius came in the glow of bonfires and the stink of pitch and tallow. Songs of drunken legionaries were bellowed from neighbouring taverns, amidst the shrill laughter of prostitutes. Dominating all, rose the praises of Jovian, and curses on Julian the renegade.
Anatolius, with a bitter smile, raised his arms skyward, crying—
“In truth, thou hast conquered, Galilean!”
* * *
XXI
It was on board a great merchant galley with three banks of oars, laden with soft Asian carpets and amphoræ of olive-oil, on the voyage between Seleucia, the port of Antioch, and Italy.
Sailing and rowing amongst the islands of the Archipelago, the vessel was now making for Crete, where she was to take on board a cargo of wool, and disembark some ecclesiastics, bound for a Cretan monastery. Old men, seated on the fore-deck, were passing the days in pious gossip, prayer, or in their monkish avocation of weaving baskets from slips of palm-leaf. In the stern, under a light violet awning, other passengers were installed, with whom the monks, considering them Pagans, were anxious to have nothing to do. These were Anatolius, Ammianus Marcellinus, and Arsinoë.
The evening was calm. The rowers—slaves from Alexandria—heaved and lowered their long oars to the beat of an ancient chant. The sun was sinking amid ruddy clouds. Anatolius was gazing at the waves, thinking over the poet’s phrase, the many-laughtered sea.
After the hustling, the heat and dust of the streets of Antioch, after the smoke of torches, and the fiery breath of the rabble, he was lulling his mind with the thought: “Thou of the many laughters, take me and cleanse my soul!”
Isles of Calypso, Amorgos, Astypalæa, Thera, arose like visions, now lifting themselves from the sea, now melting away, as if, all round the vessel, the Oceanides were still leading their eternal dance. In those waters Anatolius felt himself far back in the days of the Odyssey.
His companions did not disturb his meditations, for each was absorbed in work. Ammianus Marcellinus was putting in order his memoirs of the Persian campaign and the life of the Emperor Julian; and in the evenings he used to read the remarkable work of the Christian master, Clement of Alexandria, entitled, Stromata: The Patchwork Quilt.
Arsinoë was making models in wax for a large marble statue. It was the figure of some Olympian deity, the face of which wore an expression of super human sadness. Anatolius wished, but hesitated, to ask her whether it represented Dionysus or Christ.
The artist had long ago abandoned the robes of a nun. Pious folk had turned from her with horror, and called her the recreant; but her name, and the recollection of generous gifts formerly made to Christian monasteries, safeguarded her from persecution. Of her great fortune but a small portion remained, just enough to secure independence; and on the shores of the Gulf of Naples, not far from Baiæ, she still owned a small estate, and the same villa in which Myrrha had passed her last days. Thither Arsinoë, Anatolius, and Marcellinus had agreed to retire after the stormy troubles of recent years, to pass their lives in peace as servants of the Muses.
The former nun now wore the same robes as before her consecration. The noble and simple lines of the peplum restored her resemblance to some ancient Athenian vestal. But the stuff was sober in colour, and her splendid hair thickly veiled. A wisdom almost austere lay in those deep unsmiling eyes. Only the white arms of the artist, bare to the shoulder, relieved the sombre hues of her robe. She toiled impatiently, almost feverishly, moulding the soft wax; and her pale hands impressed Anatolius with a sense of extraordinary power.
That evening the galley was coasting an islet of which none knew the name. Far off, it looked like an arid rock. In order to avoid dangerous reefs the trireme had to pass close in to shore. Under the steep cliff the sea-water lay so clear that sand and weed at the bottom could be clearly distinguished. Beyond the grim rocks could be seen green pastures, and sheep feeding round a plane-tree.
Anatolius saw, seated at the foot of the tree, a lad and a young girl, probably children of poor shepherds. Behind them, among cypresses, was a small rough figure of Pan playing the flute. Anatolius turned towards Arsinoë to point out this remote and peaceful nook of a lost Hellas; but the words died on his lips. Wholly rapt, and with a look of strange gaiety, the artis
t was intent on her creation, the waxen statuette, with its face of haunting sadness, and proud Olympian attitude.
Anatolius felt her mood like a rebuff. He asked Arsinoë in a harsh unsteady voice, pointing at the model—
“Why are you making that? What does the thing stand for?”
Slowly and with effort, she raised her eyes to his; and he mused—
“The sibyls must have eyes like those!” and then aloud: “Arsinoë, do you think that this work of yours will be understood?”
“What matters it, friend?” she answered, smiling gravely. Then she added in a lower tone, as if communing with herself: “He will stretch out His hands toward the world. He must be inexorable and terrible as Mithra-Dionysus in all his strength and beauty; yet merciful and humble....”
“What do you mean? is not that an impossible contradiction?”
“Who knows? For us, yes; but for the future....”
The sun was descending lower. Above him, on the horizon westward, a storm-cloud was impending, and the last rays illumined the island with a soft, almost melancholy, glow.
The shepherd lad and his companion approached Pan’s altar to make their evening sacrifice.
“Is it your belief, Arsinoë,” continued Anatolius, “is it your faith that unknown brothers of ours shall pick up the threads of our existence, and, following the clue, go immeasurably farther than we? Do you believe that all shall not perish in the barbaric gloom which is sinking on Rome and Hellas? Ah, if that were so? If one could trust the future....”
“Yes!” exclaimed Arsinoë, a prophetic gleam in her sombre eyes, “the future is in us, in our madness and our anguish! Julian was right. Content without glory, in silence, strangers to all, and solitary among men, we must work out our work to the end. We must hide and cherish the last, the utmost spark amongst the ashes of the altar, that tribes and nations of the future may kindle from it new torches! Where we finish they shall begin. Let Hellas die! Men shall dig up her relics—unearth her divine fragments of marble, yea, over them shall weep and pray! From our tombs shall the yellowed leaves of the books we love be unsealed, and the ancient stories of Homer, the wisdom of Plato, shall be spelt out slowly anew, as by little children. And with Hellas, you and I shall live again!”
The Death of the Gods Page 33
