The Death of the Gods

by Dmitry Sergeyevich Merezhkovsky

  I

  About two and a half miles from Caesarea in Cappadocia, upon the woodyspurs of Mount Argaeus, and close to the great Roman road, bubbled acertain warm spring, famous for its healing virtues. A granite slab,adorned with rough sculpture and bearing a Greek inscription, provedthat this spring had of old time been consecrated to the twin sons ofZeus, Castor and Pollux; but this by no means prevented the unbrokenimages of these Pagan demigods from being locally worshipped as St.Cosmas and St. Damian respectively.

  On the other side of the road, opposite the sacred fountain, rose alittle thatched tavern, flanked by a dirty stable, and by a shed wherefowls and geese were dabbling in the mud. In this tavern, owned by oneSyrax, a wily Armenian, could be bought goats'-milk cheese, blackbread, honey, olive oil, and a thin sour wine, grown in neighbouringvineyards.

  A screen divided the tavern into two compartments; one for the use ofcommon folk, the other for guests of more importance. From the smokedceiling hung hams curing, and odorous bunches of mountain herbs,proving that Fortunata, the wife of Syrax, was a careful housewife; afact that did not save the dubious reputation of the establishment.

  At night honest travellers dared not halt here, remembering sundryrumours about dark plots hatched in the cottage; but Syrax, everscheming, and knowing whose hand to cross with silver, had nevertroubled his head about rumour. The partition was formed by twoslender columns, between which was stretched, in the manner of adoor-curtain, an old chlamys (or outer garment) of faded wool,belonging to the mistress of the house. The little columns, wrought ina barefaced attempt at the Doric style, were the pride of the heart ofSyrax and the single ornament of the tavern. Once gilded, they hadlong stood creviced and chipped and hopelessly cracked.

  The stuff of the chlamys, when new, had been a bright violet; now itwas a dirty blue, eked out by many patches, and stained withinnumerable stains, due to the breakfasts, dinners, and suppers of tenyears of the conjugal life of the hard-working Fortunata.

  In the clean half of the tavern, on a single narrow couch, which wastorn in many places, Marcus Scuda, Roman tribune of the ninth cohortof the sixteenth legion, was lolling before a tankard-strewn table. Adandy provincial, he had one of those faces at the sight of whichprosperous slaves and second-rate courtesans would inevitably exclaimwith heartfelt admiration: "_What_ a handsome man!"

  At his feet, in an uncomfortable but respectful attitude, a red-facedman sat, panting. His bald head was fringed with grey hair, brushedtowards the temples. He was the centurion of the eighth _centuria_,Publius Aquila.

  Farther off, twelve soldiers, stretched on the floor, were playing atknuckle-bones.

  "By Hercules!" cried Scuda, "I'd rather be the meanest beggar inConstantinople than the first man in a mouse-trap like this. Can youcall this an existence, Publius? Answer me honestly. Is this living?To think that outside barracks and camps the future has nothing instore for one; that one must rot in this sickening marsh without evercatching a glimpse of the world again!"

  "Yes," assented Publius; "it's a fact that life here isn't preciselygay; but on the other hand, it's peaceful!"

  The knuckle-bones pre-occupied the attention of the old captain.Pretending to listen to the gossipings of his superior officer, andfully to agree with the drift of his remarks, he followed with aninterested eye the game of the legionaries. He said to himself, "Ifthe red aims well, he'll certainly win."

  However, by way of politeness, Publius asked Scuda, with a show ofattention--

  "Why, by the way, have you brought down on yourself the indignation ofthe Prefect Helvidius?"

  "A woman, a friend of mine, was at the bottom of it, a girl...."

  And Marcus Scuda, in a fit of garrulous intimacy, confided to the earof the old centurion that the Prefect, "that old goat of a Helvidius,"had grown jealous on account of the special favours conferred on him,Marcus, by a certain frail lady, a Lydian.

  Now Scuda wanted, by rendering some important service, to win back thegood-will of the Prefect; and he had resolved upon a plan.

  Not far from Caesarea, in the fortress of Macellum, dwelt Julian andGallus, the cousins of the reigning Emperor Constantius, and thenephews of Constantine the Great. These two were the lastrepresentatives of the luckless house of the Flavii. On his accessionto the throne, fearing rivals, Constantius had assassinated his uncle,the father of Julian and Gallus, Julian Constantius, the brother ofConstantine. But Julian and Gallus themselves had been spared, andimprisoned in the solitary castle of Macellum, where they livedoppressed by perpetual fear of death. In great perplexity, knowingthat the new Emperor loathed the two orphans who reminded him of hiscrime, Helvidius, Prefect of Caesarea, desired, but dreaded, to divinethe will of his master.

  Scuda, the adroit tribune, possessed by visions of a career at Court,grasped, from chance words of his superior officer, that the latterdared not take upon himself the heavy responsibility, and trembledlest the current rumour about an escape of the heirs of Constantineshould be realised in fact. At this point Scuda made up his mind to goto Macellum, seize the prisoners, and bring them to Caesarea under thesafeguard of his legionaries, well assured that he had nothing to fearfrom these orphaned minors, abandoned by the world and hated by theEmperor. By this valiant proceeding, Scuda counted on regaining thefavours of the Prefect Helvidius, so unhappily lost on account of theauburn-haired lady of Lydia. Nevertheless, being of a suspiciousnature, he only communicated to Publius part of his plan.

  "And what do you propose now, Scuda? Have you received instructionsfrom Constantinople?"

  "I have received nothing; nobody knows anything; but there is aneverlasting hawking about of rumours, don't you see? There are endlessveiled hopes and hints, unfinished phrases, threats and warnings,allusions.... Any idiot can do what he has been told to do. But thisis a matter of guessing the mute will of our master. That's a job thatbrings reward. Come, let us make the venture, take the risk. The greatthing is to be speedy and stout-hearted, and to trust in the HolyCross!... I confide myself to you, Publius. Perhaps we shall bedrinking at Court, you and I, before many days are over; and, by God,a better wine than this!"

  Through the little barred window filtered the troubled light of amelancholy dusk. It was raining monotonously. A single clay wall, fullof crevices, separated the room from the stable. The acrid odour ofdung came though, and the clucking of hens, the shrill chirping ofchickens, and the grunting of pigs was audible. There came also thesteady noise of a liquid falling into a sonorous can, as if the goodwife were milking her cow. The soldiers, discussing their winnings,were quarrelling among themselves in undertones. Close against thefloor, through the frail lath and plaster, a hog had thrust his fat,pink snout. Caught in too narrow a slit, he could not draw out hismuzzle and was groaning piteously. Publius mused--

  "By Jupiter! we're nearer the courtyard of the cattle than the courtof the Emperor!"

  His interest in the game had melted away. The tribune after his excessof confidence himself felt sad. Through the window he looked at thegrey sky, dissolving itself into water, at the muzzle of the pig, thethick lees of wine in the tankards, the dirty soldiers. Anger mountedto his brain.

  He struck the table, which swayed on its uneven legs, with his fist.

  "Hi, rascality! betrayer of Christ, Syrax, come here! What wine do youcall that, you scoundrel?"

  The innkeeper ran up. He wore hair and beard frizzled into fineringlets, black as ebony, with bluish shadows. Fortunata used to say,in her hours of conjugal tenderness, that the beard of Syrax was likea bunch of the grapes of Samos. His eyes were also black andextraordinarily brilliant, and a honeyed smile never left his purplelips. He resembled a caricature of Bacchus, and was black and sugaryfrom every point of view. To appease the wrath of Scuda, the innkeepertook to witness Moses and Deidamia, Christ and Hercules, that his winewas superexcellent. But the tribune was obstinate, declaring that heknew in whose house Glabrio, a rich merchant of Lyrnas, had recentlybeen assassinated; and that he, Scuda, would denounce Syrax in thepr
oper quarters. Terrified, the Armenian rushed to the cellars, andbrought back thence in triumph a strange bulky bottle, flat at itsbase, narrow-necked, covered with mildew, and grey with age. Throughthe mouldiness in places the glass was visible, no longer transparent,but irised, and upon the label of cypress-wood attached to the neck ofthe bottle could be deciphered the initial letters of "_Anthosmium_"and below "_Annorum Centum_."

  But Syrax assured the couple that even in the reign of the EmperorDiocletian the wine had been more than a hundred years old.

  "Black wine?" asked Publius, with respect.

  "Black as tar, and sweet smelling as nectar. Ho! Fortunata! for thiswine bring summer glasses, cups of crystal, and bring too the whitestsnow from the ice-tub."

  Fortunata brought in two glasses. Her healthy face was of a dullpallor like thick cream, and with her came in the smell of countryfreshness, milk, and manure.

  The landlord gazed at the bottle amorously, and kissed its neck; thenwith caution he raised the waxen seal. The wine flowed black andodorous in a thick jet, dissolving the snow, while the crystal of thecups became dull and cloudy under the action of cold.

  Thereupon Scuda, who had pretensions to learning (he was capable ofconfusing Hecuba with Hecate), declaimed proudly the only line ofMartial he could remember--

  _Candida nigrescant vetulo crystalla Falerno!_

  "Wait a moment. Here is something still better," and Syrax plunged hishand into his pocket, drew thence a minute flask carved out of onyx,and with a sensual smile poured into the wine a drop of preciousArabian cinnamon. The drop fell, and, like a creaming pearl, meltedinto the black liquor. A strangely heavy perfume filled the room.

  While the tribune was slowly drinking, Syrax made a clacking noisewith his tongue, murmuring, "The wines of Biblos, of Lesbos, of Latheain Chios, of Icaria ... are less than nothing to this wine!"

  Night was falling. Scuda gave the order to get ready to march. Thelegionaries began putting on their armour, fastened the greaveprotecting the right leg, and took up bucklers and lances. When theyentered the outer hall, the Icarian shepherds, who were brigandsrather than shepherds, seated near the fire, rose respectfully beforethe Roman tribune. Scuda, full of a sense of his own rank and valour,felt the blood burning in his veins and his head buzzing with theeffect of the marvellous liquor.

  On the threshold a man approached him. He wore a strange orientalcostume--a white tunic, striped with broad red bands, and on his heada high headdress of woven camel's hair, and a towering Persian tiara.Scuda halted. The visage of the Mede was finely cut, lengthy andmeagre, and yellow of hue rather than olive. The narrow and piercingeyes sparkled maliciously, but all his movements were calm andmajestic. He was one of those wandering magicians who haughtilydeclared themselves Chaldeans, seers, and mathematicians. He announcedto the tribune that his name was Nogodares. Sojourning by chance withSyrax, he was travelling from the distant Hyrcania towards the coastsof the Ionian sea, to meet the celebrated warlock philosopher, Maximusof Ephesus. The magician begged for authority to prove his art and todivine the happy fortune of the tribune.

  The shutters were closed. The Mede was preparing something on theground; suddenly a slight crackling was heard; everybody was silentand a flame rose in a long red tongue amidst wafted flakes of whitesmoke, which filled the room. Nogodares put his pale lips to a doubleflute, and played a languid, plaintive air, like the funeral songs ofthe Lydians. The flame grew yellow--grew fainter, then sparkled anewin pale flashes. The sorcerer threw into the fire a handful of driedherbs. They evaporated in a penetrating aroma which brought on thesenses an indefinable melancholy, like the perfume of half-witheredgrasses, on some misty evening, in the arid plains of Arachosia andDrangiana. Obeying the plaintive call of the flute, a huge serpentslid out of a black box placed at the feet of the magician, andslowly, with a sound as of parchments rubbed together, unwound itsglittering and metallic coils. The wizard chanted in a broken voice,which seemed to come from afar, and several times repeated the samesyllables, "_Mara, mara, mara!_" The serpent coiled itself round histhin body and caressingly, with a tender hissing, brought its flatgreen head and brilliant carbuncled eyes close to the ear of theenchanter. A whistling, and the forked sting flashed, as if thereptile had murmured its secret to its master, who now threw the fluteupon the ground. The flame filled anew the room with thick smoke, thistime diffusing an odour choking as if exhaled from the tomb. The flamewent out. Darkness and fear possessed all present; everybody felt itdifficult to breathe. But when the open shutters allowed the leadenlight of the dusk to enter, there remained no trace of the snake or ofthe black box. Notwithstanding this, everybody's face was livid.

  Nogodares approached the tribune--

  "Rejoice! Favour--great and speedy favour--awaits thee from thy greatmaster Augustus Constantius!"

  During several moments he scrutinised the hand of Scuda narrowly.Then, stooping to the level of his ear, muttered, so as to be heard bynone but the tribune--

  "This hand is dyed with blood--the blood of a great prince!"

  Scuda grew afraid.

  "What dost thou dare to say, cursed hound of a Chaldean? I am a loyalservant."

  But the other probed him with his searching eyes and half ironicallyresponded--

  "What dost thou fear? Given a few years.... And is glory won withoutthe spilling of blood?"

  Pride and joy filled the heart of Scuda when at the head of hissoldiery he quitted the tavern. He drew near the sacred fountain,crossed himself, and quaffed that virtuous water, invoking in afervent prayer St. Cosmas and St. Damian, that the prediction ofNogodares should not fall fruitless. Then he vaulted upon his haughtyCappadocian charger and gave the legionaries the order "March." Thestandard-bearer raised the ensign above his bared head. It was theimage of a large dragon, fixed upon a lance, with gaping jaws ofsilver and the rest of its body formed of coloured silk. Unable towithstand the wish to parade before the crowd assembled at the door ofthe inn, and although conscious of peril, intoxicated with wine andpride, the tribune stretched his sword up the misty road, and in aloud voice commanded--

  "To Macellum!"

  A hum of astonishment ran through the crowd. The names of Julian andof Gallus were uttered. The legionary who led the column raised hisskyward-twisted horn, sounded it, and the echoing note of the Romantrumpet vibrated away amongst the mountains.