Chapter XII: Part II: I (4)

But Julian, unheeding, gazed at the celebrated orator with disgust. Could this really be the same Libanius whose speeches he had admired so much in youth? What baseness! what vanity!

Then all the philosophers began speaking at once. Their voices rose, they mutually accused each other of impiety, debauchery, peculation, repeating the most fatuous scandals. The scene was a petty civil war, not of the wise, but between parasites waxed fat through prosperity, ready to fly at each other's throats through pride, anger, and idleness.

At last the Emperor uttered a word which brought them back to their senses--

"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 silver 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 Constantinople, 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.

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 basking 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 heights 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--

"The men are looking! It would be better to cut short the sacrifice...."

Julian waved him away, and overturned the altar with his foot. The embers were scattered and the fire extinguished, but the fragrant smoke still thickly ascended.

"Woe, woe upon us! The altar is profaned!" groaned a voice.

"I tell you he is mad," growled Hormizdas, grasping Dagalaïf's arm. "Look at him.... How is it that the rest don't see it?"

The Etruscan augurs watched the proceedings, motionless, with imperturbable faces.

Julian's eyes kindled and he raised his arms to the sky. He cried--

"I swear by the eternal joy, locked here, in my heart, I renounce You, as you have renounced me! I abandon you as you have abandoned me, impotent Deities! Single-handed against you, phantom Olympians, I am like unto you, but not your equal, because I am a man and you are only gods!... Long, long has my heart aspired to this deliverance; and now I break our alliance, laugh at my superstitious terrors, at your childish oracles. I was living like a slave, and I might have died a slave! I understand that I am stronger than the gods, because, vowed to death, I have conquered death! No melancholy, no fear, no victims, no prayer! All that is past. Henceforth in my life there shall not be a single shade, nor trembling. Nothing! except that everlasting Olympian smile which I have learnt from you, the Dead! Nothing, but the sacred fire of which I rob you, O Immortals! Mine be the cloudless sky in which you have dwelt till now, and from which you have died, to give place to man-gods! Maximus! Maximus! you were right; over my soul your mind hovers still...."

An augur of ninety years old put his hand on the shoulder of the Emperor.

"Speak lower, my son, speak lower. If thou hast understood the mystery, rejoice in silence! Tempt not the crowd. Those who hear thee cannot understand."

The general murmurs of indignation became louder.

"He's raving," said Hormizdas to Dagalaïf. "Take him to his tent, or all will go ill!"

Oribazius, like the devoted physician that he was, took Julian's hand and began to persuade him soothingly.

"Well-beloved Augustus, you must take rest. There are dangerous fevers in this country. Come into the tent. The sun is hurtful.... Your illness may get worse!"

The Emperor looked at him with a pre-occupied air.

"Stay, Oribazius, I have forgotten something.... Ah, yes, yes!... It is the chiefest thing of all! Listen. Say not, 'The gods are no more,' but rather 'The gods as yet are not.' They are not, but they shall exist; not in fables, but on earth. We shall all be gods, all; only to become so we must create in ourselves such daring as no man has yet felt, not even Alexander!"

The agitation of the army became more pronounced. Murmurs and exclamations joined into a general hum of indignation. No one clearly understood; but everyone had a suspicion that something abnormal was going on.

Some cried:

"Sacrilege! Set up the altar again!"

Others answered:

"The sacrificial priests have poisoned Cæsar because he would not listen to them! Let us kill them! They are bringing ruin on us!"

The Galileans took advantage of the occasion, and slipped about from group to group, whispering and inventing pieces of scandal.

"Were you watching the Emperor? It is the chastisement of God on him. Devils have seized him and troubled his mind. That's why he revolts against his own gods. He has renounced the One God!"

As if awaking from a deep sleep, the Emperor looked slowly over the crowd, and at last asked Oribazius, indifferently:

"What is the matter--these shouts? What has happened? Ah, yes!... the altar upset!"

And contemplating the extinct embers with a sad smile he said:

"Do you know, my learned friends, one cannot offend people more than by telling them the truth!... Poor simple children!... Well, let them cry, let them weep, they will get over it! Come, Oribazius, we will go into the shade. You are right, the sun is dangerous. I am tired, and my eyes hurt me...."

Julian went slowly away leaning on the arm of the doctor. At the door of his tent he made a languid sign that all should leave him. The door-curtain was lowered, and the tent plunged in darkness.

The Emperor went up to the camp-bed, a lion's skin, and sank on it exhausted. He remained stretched thus a long time, holding his head tightly in his hands, as in childhood, after some fit of anger or disappointment.

"Quiet! quiet! Cæsar is ill!" the generals said, to calm the soldiers.

And the men were immediately dumb.

Throughout the Roman camp, as in the chamber of the dying, reigned the silence of painful expectation. The Galileans alone took time by the forelock, gliding furtively hither and thither, penetrating everywhere, hawking about sinister rumours, and, like reptiles waked by the sun's warmth after their winter's sleep, ceaselessly whispered:

"Do you not understand? This is the punishment of God on him!"

XVI

More than once did Oribazius prudently lift the door-curtain, bringing refreshing drink to the sick man. Julian refused it, and kept asking to be left alone. He feared human faces, noise, and light. Keeping his hands pressed against his head, and closing his eyes, he endeavoured to keep his mind a blank; to forget where he was, to forget every emotion. The protracted effort of will sustained during the last three months had changed him, and left him weak and broken, as after a long illness. He knew not whether he was asleep or awake. Visionary scenes, trains of pictures glided before his eyes one after another with amazing swiftness and intolerable precision. Sometimes he fancied he was in bed, in the great hall at Macellum. Old Labda had given him her blessing for the night. The snortings of the horses picketed near the tent became the dull snoring of Mardonius, which the boys used to laugh at.

He felt happy and again a young boy, unknown by anyone, far from the world, hidden amongst the Cappadocian mountains.

He smelt the fresh and subtle smell of hyacinths, in the first warmth of the March sun, within the little courtyard of the priest Olympiodorus. He heard the silver laughter of Amaryllis and the murmur of the fountain, the metallic clink of the cottabos, and the voice of Diaphane: "Children, the gingerbread cakes are ready!"

Then all vanished.

Then the only sound he heard was of the first flies, humming in a nook out of the wind, on the white warm-sunned wall, by the seashore. And he was blissfully watching sails bathed in the infinite softness of the blue Propontic Sea, and he believed himself alone in a delicious solitude, undisturbed by a single face, and, like the little dancing gnats of the white wall, luxuriated in sheer happiness of living, in the sunlight, in the calm.

Suddenly, half-waking, Julian remembers that he is in the heart of Persia; that he is the Roman Emperor; that he alone is responsible for the lives of sixty thousand legionaries; that the gods are no more, that he has thrown down the altar of sacrifice. He shivers, and an icy chillness invades his body. He is falling, falling through the void, with nothing, nothing in the universe to arrest his fall.

Perhaps an hour, perhaps twenty-four hours, may have elapsed in this kind of half-slumber.

Then no longer dreaming, but in reality, he hears his faithful slave saying, as he thrusts his head under the door-curtain:

"Cæsar, I am afraid of disturbing you, but I dare not disobey. It was your order that you should be immediately informed.... The chief Ariphas has just arrived in the camp...."

"Ariphas!" exclaimed Julian, rising, "Ariphas!... Bring him, bring him here quickly!"

This was one of his bravest commanders, sent with a detachment to ascertain whether the auxiliary army of thirty thousand men, under the command of Procopius and Sebastian, was not coming, with the troops of his ally Arsaces, to join the Emperor under the walls of Ctesiphon. Julian had long been awaiting this help, on which the fate of the principal army depended.

"Bring him!" exclaimed the Emperor ... "or no, I myself will...."

But his weakness was not yet dissipated, despite this momentary over-excitement. His head swam, he closed his eyes and had to support himself against the canvas wall of the tent.

"Give me wine ... strong wine ... mixed with cold water."

The old slave rapidly executed the order, and gave the cup to the Emperor, who drank slowly and issued from the tent. It was late in the evening. A storm had passed far into the distance across the Euphrates, and the wind was still fresh with the smell of rain. Rare stars, trembling like watchlights in the breeze, shone in the gapped cloud. From the desert came up the barkings of jackals. Julian laid bare his breast, held his forehead in the wind, surrendering himself to the soft breath of the sinking gale.

He smiled at the thought of his own cowardice. His weakness had disappeared, strength returned to him. He was sensible of the tension of his own nerves, and felt eager to command, to act, to pass the night without sleep, to battle and play with life and death, and again to conquer peril. Only from time to time was he conscious of shivering.

Ariphas came.

The news was lamentable. All hope in the help of Procopius and Sebastian was lost. The Emperor was abandoned by his allies in the middle of Asia. There was even reason to suspect treason on the part of the wily Arsaces.

At this moment it was announced that a deserter from the camp of Sapor desired to speak with the Emperor.

This Persian prostrated himself before Julian and kissed the earth.

His body was monstrous. His hideous head had been disfigured by Asiatic torture. The ears cut off, and the nostrils torn from the face, made his visage like that of a human skull. But the eyes were bright, intelligent, and resolute.

He was robed in rich fire-coloured silk, spoke Greek villainously, and was accompanied by two slaves.

The Persian called himself Artaban, a satrap calumniated to Sapor, who had therefore tortured him. He had come to the Romans, he said, for revenge on his own king.

"O Lord of the Universe!" said Artaban, with fallacious emphasis, "I will deliver Sapor up to thee, bound hand and foot, like a sacrificial lamb. I will lead thee by night to the camp and softly shalt thy hand take the king, as children take young birds in their snares. Only hearken to Artaban: Artaban has plenitude of power, and knows the king's secrets."

"What reward do you expect from me?" asked Julian.

"Vengeance! Come with me!"

"Whither?"

"To the north; through the desert--three hundred and twenty-five parasangs--then through the mountains eastward, straight on Susa and Ecbatana...."

The Persian pointed to the horizon.

"Over there, over there," he repeated, fixing his eyes on Julian.

"Cæsar," said Hormizdas to the Emperor, "take care!... I don't like this man's face! He's a sorcerer--a brigand, or perhaps much worse?... Sometimes queer things happen in these latitudes. Get rid of him!... Don't listen to him...."

Julian paid no heed to the words of Hormizdas.

He felt the strange fascination of the Persian's supplicating eyes.

"Do you know every step of the road which leads to Ecbatana?"

"Oh yes! yes!" exclaimed the Persian with a contented laugh. "How should I not know it? Every grain of sand in that desert ... every roadside well.... Artaban knows the meaning of the birds' song, hears the grass growing, and the waters flowing under the earth. He will run before thine army, nosing the scent, tracing the road. Believe me, in twenty days all Persia, as far as the Indies and the ocean, shall be thine!"

The heart of the Emperor began beating violently.

"Can this be the miracle I was waiting for?" he mused. "In twenty days, Persia shall be mine!"

He could scarcely breathe at the thought.

The monster, kneeling before him, murmured.

"Hound me not away from thee! Like a hound shall I remain lying crouched at thy feet! From the moment I saw thee, I loved thee, Lord of the Universe, because thou art the proudest of men! Oh, that thou wouldst walk over my body, that thou wouldst trample on me, and I would lick the dust from thy feet, chanting: 'Glory, glory to the son of the Sun, to the king of the East and of the West, Julian!"

He kissed the Emperor's feet; and the two slaves prostrating themselves also, repeated after him, "Glory, glory, glory!"

"But what to do with the ships?" thought Julian aloud to himself. "Leave them unarmed in the hands of the enemy or keep them?"

"Burn them," breathed Artaban.

The words thrilled Julian, who looked strangely at the Persian.

"Burn them? What sayest thou?"

Artaban raised his head and looked steadfastly into the Emperor's eyes.

"Hast thou _fear_? Thou!... No, no. Men alone are fearful, but not the gods! Burn the ships, and thou shalt be free as the wind. Thy ships shall not fall into the power of the enemy and thine army be swelled by the soldiers that work the fleet. Be great and bold to the very end! Burn them, and in ten days thou shalt be under the walls of Ecbatana. In twenty days all Persia shall be thine! Thou shall be greater than the son of Philip, who conquered Darius. Only ... burn thy ships and follow me!..."

"And if these are but lies--if I can read in your heart that you are lying!" exclaimed the Emperor seizing the Persian with one hand by the throat and with the other menacing him with a dagger.

Hormizdas uttered a sigh of relief.

For some instants Artaban sustained the gaze of the Roman without speaking, and Julian again felt the fascination of those eyes, so intelligent, audacious, and servile.

"If thou dost not believe me, let me die by thy hand," repeated the Persian.

Julian relaxed his hold, and returned the poignard to its sheath.

"It is terrible and pleasant to look thee in the eyes," continued Artaban. "Thy visage is that of a god! That, as yet no one knows; I alone know that thou art.... Do not repulse thy slave, sire."

"We shall see," murmured Julian thoughtfully. "Long have I desired to fight your king, in the desert.... But the ships...."

"Oh, yes, the ships!" murmured Artaban. "Thou must set out at once ... this night ... so that the inhabitants of Ctesiphon cannot see us.... Thou must burn them...."

Julian did not answer.