Chapter XIII: Part II: I (5)

"Take them away," he said, pointing out the deserters to his legionaries. "Keep them under close watch!"

And returning to his tent, he halted and raised his eyes--

"Is this true? So quickly and so simply! I feel that my will is the will of the gods. I have but to think, and it is accomplished."

The joyfulness in his heart became intenser. Smiling, he pressed his hand on his breast to suppress its tumultuous beating. He still was conscious of shiverings, and his head felt leaden, as if he had passed the day in too fierce a sun.

Ordering Victor, an old general blindly devoted to him, to come to his tent, he confided to him the golden ring bearing the Imperial seal.

"To the commanders of the fleet, Constantius and Lucilian," Julian ordered laconically. "Before daybreak they must burn the ships, except the five largest freighted with bread, and the twelve smaller ones which serve as pontoon bridges. Burn all the rest. Anybody opposing this order will answer for it with his head. Keep the most absolute secrecy.... Go!"

He gave him a piece of papyrus on which was written a curt order to the commander of the fleet. Victor, as usual, astonished at nothing, kissed the hem of the Imperial purple, and went out. Julian then, in spite of the late hour, convoked a council of war. The generals met in his tent, moody, suspicious, and secretly irritated. In a few words Julian explained his plan of going northwards to the centre of Persia, and then eastwards towards Ecbatana, to seize the king unawares. All revolted against the idea, raising their voices simultaneously, and not hiding the fact that Julian's plan seemed to them sheer madness. Fatigue, lack of confidence, and spite were expressed on the faces of the oldest and wisest soldiers. Several spoke curtly--all in opposition.

Sallustius Secundus said, "Whither are we going? What more do we want? Think, Cæsar: we have conquered half Persia. Sapor offers better conditions of peace than ever Asian monarch before has offered to any Roman conqueror, even to the great Pompeius, Septimius Severus, or Trajan. Let us, then, conclude peace before it is too late, and win back to our own country!"

"The soldiers are grumbling," observed Dagalaïf. "Don't push them to despair; they're worn out; the number of wounded and sick is great. If you lead them farther into an unknown desert, we can answer for nothing. Have mercy on them!... And are not you yourself in need of rest? You must be more tired than any of us."

"Let us turn back!" cried all the generals. "To go on would be madness."

At that moment a dull, menacing sound broke out behind the tent, a sound like the rumbling of a furious sea. Julian leant ear, and immediately understood. It meant mutiny.

"You know my will," he said coldly to the chiefs, motioning them to the door. "It is unshakable. In two hours we must be upon the march. See that all is ready."

"Well-beloved Augustus," answered Sallustius, with respectful self-possession, "I will not leave this tent without telling you what I ought to tell you. You have spoken with us, your equals not in power but in valour, in a manner unworthy of a Roman pupil of Socrates and Plato. We can only pardon your words by setting them down to a momentary weakness of the nerves, which clouds your Imperial understanding."

"Is that so?" exclaimed Julian, sarcastically, growing pale with stifled anger. "Then, my friends, it is the worse for you, for you are now in the hands of a madman! I have just given the order to burn the ships, and my orders are at this moment being carried out! I foresaw your sage counsel, and have cut off your means of retreat. Now your lives are in my hands, and I shall oblige you to believe in miracles!"

All stood overwhelmed; Sallustius alone pushed towards Cæsar, and taking his hands cried--

"It is impossible, Cæsar ... surely ... you have not ... actually...."

He broke off the sentence, and dropped the hands of the Emperor.

All the company stood up, listening.

The cries of the legionaries became louder and louder--the noise of mutiny came nearer, like the sound of tempest over immense forests.

"Let them shout," said Julian calmly. "Poor children! Whither will they go without me? You understand? That is why I burn the ships, the last hope of the cowardly and the idle. There is now no possible return, except by miracle. Now are you bound to me for life and death. In twenty days Asia will be ours. I have girt you with terror, that you may conquer all and become like me. Rejoice! Like Dionysus, I will lead you through the world, and you shall be the masters of men and gods!..."

Hardly had he pronounced these words when a cry of infinite despair resounded through the host--

"They are on fire!... they are burning!"

The generals rushed out of the tent, followed by Julian.

They saw the glow of conflagration. Victor had transmitted the Emperor's orders literally, and Julian himself watched the flaming spectacle with a smile.

"Cæsar!... May the gods protect us!... He has escaped!"

With these words, a centurion fell at Julian's feet, pale and trembling.

"Who has escaped? What mean you?"

"Artaban!... Artaban!... Woe be on us! Cæsar, he has deceived thee!"

"Impossible!... And the slaves?" stammered the Emperor, overwhelmed.

"Have just confessed under torture that Artaban was not a satrap, but a tax-collector of Ctesiphon. He invented this device to save the city, and lead you into the desert to deliver you to the Persians. He knew that you would burn the ships. They also said that Sapor was advancing at the head of a great army."

The Emperor rushed to the river-bank to find Victor--

"Put out the fires!--quench them quickly as possible!"

But his voice failed. Staring at the huge blaze Julian perceived that no human force could conquer the flames, which were augmented by a violent wind.

He held his head in his hands, and although with no faith nor prayer in his heart, raised his eyes to heaven, as if there seeking succour. The stars were shining above, faint, almost invisible.

The mutiny rolled on, becoming more and more menacing.

"The Persians have burned the ships!" groaned some, stretching their arms toward the river.

"No, no, it was the generals, to drag us still farther into the desert and leave us there," others cried incoherently.

"Kill the priests!" yelled some. "The Etruscans have poisoned Cæsar, and sent him mad!"

"Glory to Augustus Julian, the conqueror!" shouted the faithful Gauls and Celts. "Silence, traitors! so long as Cæsar breathes we have nothing to fear!"

The cowardly were weeping--

"Our country! Our country! We won't go a step farther. We would sooner die. Ah, we shall sooner see our own ears, than see our own land again! We are lost, comrades! The Persians have us in a trap!"

"Do you see clearly now?" said the exultant Galileans. "He is possessed of demons. Julian has sold his soul, and they're dragging him to the abyss. Are we going to let a demoniac lead us?"

And nevertheless Julian, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, murmured as in a dream--

"What matters it? The miracle will be accomplished!"

XVII

It was the sixteenth of June, and the first bivouac on the night of the retreat. The army had refused to go farther. Neither prayers, commands, nor threats of the Emperor had brought them to reason. Celts, Romans, Pagans, Christians, brave men and cowards, all had answered in the same words--

"Let us go back to our own country!"

The chiefs rejoiced in secret; the Tuscan augurs openly triumphed. After the burning of the ships there had been a general insurrection. And now not only the Galileans but the Olympians and Hellenists were persuaded that a curse was on the Emperor's head, and that the Furies were pursuing him. When he walked through the camp talk would cease and people edge away from him in fear. Sibylline books and the Book of Revelation, Tuscan wizards, Christian prophecies, gods, and angels, joined forces to crush the common foe. The Emperor then announced that he would lead his men homewards northward through the fertile provinces of Apolloniatis and Adiabene. According to this plan of retreat, while retaining a hope of forming a junction with the troops of Procopius and Sebastian, Julian consoled himself with the thought that he was keeping within the borders of Persia, and that he might still encounter Sapor's army, deliver battle, and win a decisive victory.

The Persians were no longer visible. Desiring to weaken the Romans before a crushing attack, they set on fire their own rich champaigns of barley and wheat, and destroyed every store and granary in the country.

Julian's soldiers marched through a black desert, still smoking with traces of fire.

Famine soon set in.

In order to augment the invaders' distress the Persians had broken the canal-dykes and flooded the fields, being aided in this endeavour by brooks and torrents which had overflowed their courses owing to the melting of the snow on the Armenian mountains. The flood dried up quickly under the burning rays of the June sun, but left the warm soil coated with slimy mud. Asphyxiating vapours and the bitter odour of ashes and of rotting vegetation loaded the air every night, and befouled the drinking water, the food, and even the rags of the soldiers. Myriads of insects rose from corrupted marshes. Mosquitoes, venomous horse-flies, rose in clouds round the beasts of burden and fastened themselves on the men. Their subtle hum went on night and day. Maddened by stings, the horses died or stampeded, the oxen broke their traces and overturned the wagons. After exhausting marches through defiles and fords the soldiers obtained no rest; tents were no refuge against the insects, and to get any sleep the men had to wrap their heads in stifling cloaks, while the bites of a certain small transparent dung-coloured fly produced swellings and boils which gradually became a horrible purulent plague. During the last days of the march the sun was invisible. The low, dense, stifling sky was a white cloth of cloud; and its motionless glare still more painful to the eyes than the naked sun.

And so they kept marching, wasted, weak, with hung head and feeble step, day after day, between the implacable sky and the black, burnt earth.

"Surely," they thought, "Anti-Christ, the man apostate from God, must have intentionally led them into this accursed place, to leave them to their doom." Some murmured, "Curse the generals!" but incoherently, as in a dream. Others kept praying and whining like sick children, begging a crust of bread or a mouthful of wine from their companions. Many from weakness dropped and died on the road.

The Emperor ordered the last rations kept for himself and for his staff to be distributed among the famished rank and file. He contented himself with a thin soup of flour and suet, a fare from which the meanest soldier would have revolted. Thanks to extreme temperance, he felt continually full of nervous excitement, and at the same time a lightness of body, as if he had wings. This lightness sustained him and increased his strength tenfold. He attempted not to think of the future. But to return to Antioch or Tarsus, defeated, and to submit to Galilean ridicule, that he certainly would never endure.

One night the soldiers were resting, the north wind having driven off the flies. Oil, flour, and wine, from the last Imperial supply, had assuaged their hunger. The hope of return gradually revived. The camp became silent. Julian withdrew to his tent. Now he was wont almost to dispense with sleep, or if he slept at all, it was towards daybreak. If by chance profound slumber overtook him, he would wake terrified, with drops of cold sweat on his forehead. He had need of full possession of consciousness to stifle the dull pain gnawing at his soul.

Entering his tent, he trimmed the lamp with a pair of snuffers. Rolls of parchment and the Gospels lay around him on the ground in disorder. He began to write his favourite work, _Against the Christians_, begun two months previously at the opening of the campaign. Reclining, with his back turned to the tent door, Julian was re-reading the manuscript, when suddenly he heard a slight noise.

He turned round, uttered a cry, and sprang to his feet. He thought he saw a ghost. On the threshold stood a youth, clothed in a ragged brown garment of camel's hair; a dusty sheepskin, the "melotes" of the Egyptian anchorites, flung over his shoulders. His bare feet were shod in sandals of palmwood.

The Emperor scanned him, waiting, unable to pronounce a word.

"Do you remember," said a well-known voice. "Do you remember, Julian, how you came to me in the convent? Then I repulsed you. But I have not been able to forget you, because we are singularly like each other, singularly near each other...."

The lad threw back his black hood, Julian saw the bright brown hair, and recognised Arsinoë.

"Whence--why have you come? Why are you clad thus?"

He still feared lest this might be some spirit, which would vanish as unexpectedly as it had appeared.

In a few words Arsinoë narrated to him her fortunes since their last parting.

After leaving her guardian Hortensius and giving the greater part of her wealth to the poor, she had long lodged with the anchorites to the south of Lake Mareotis, west of the Nile, among the sterile mountains of Libya, in the terrible Nitrian and Sciathian deserts. She had been accompanied by the young Juventinus, the disciple of old Didimus. They had been taught daily by the ascetics.

"And then," asked Julian, not without a certain apprehension, "and then, girl, did you find among them what you were seeking for?"

She shook her head, and said sadly--

"No. Flashes of light, allusions, hints, as always, elsewhere."

"Speak on! Tell me all," implored the Emperor, his eyes brilliant with hope and gratitude.

"How can I?" she answered slowly. "For, my friend, I was seeking the freedom of the soul; but it has no existence here!"

"Yes, yes! is not that true?" cried Julian, exultant. "That was what I told you, Arsinoë."

She seated herself on a stool covered with a leopardskin, and continued her tale calmly, with the same sad smile, Julian listening in an avidity of joy....

* * * * *

"Tell me, how did you leave those unhappy desert-folk?" demanded Julian.

"I was tempted once," replied Arsinoë; "once in the desert among the rocks I found a fragment of white marble. I picked it up and long wondered at it, sparkling in the sun, and suddenly I remembered Athens, my youth, my art, and you! I awoke, and I decided to return to the world, to live and die as God had created me; as an artist. At that moment the old Didimus had a vision in which I was the means of reconciling you with the Galilean...."

"With the Galilean!" ejaculated the Emperor.

His face darkened, his eyes lost their fire, the triumphant laugh died on his lips.

"Curiosity, too, drew me again towards you," continued Arsinoë. "I wished to know if you had attained truth in the way you pursued, and what summit you had reached. I resumed the habit of a monk. Brother Juventinus and I descended the Nile as far as Alexandria; then a ship took us to Antioch; and we have journeyed with a great Syrian caravan through Apamea, Epiphania, and Edessa to the frontier. After a thousand dangers, we crossed the Mesopotamian desert, abandoned by the Persians, and not far from the village of Abuzat, after the victory at Ctesiphon, we saw your camp. And so I am here!... And you, Julian?"

He sighed, and hung his head without answering. Then scanning her, he demanded--

"And now you too detest Him, Arsinoë?"

"No; why?" she answered simply. "Why detest Him? Did not the sages of Hellas come near, in their teaching, to the message of the Galilean? Those who in the desert martyrise soul and body are far from the humble Son of Mary. He used to love children, freedom, cheerfulness, and the fair white lilies of the field. He loved beauty, Julian!... We have wandered from Him and become entangled and embittered. All call you the Apostate, ... but it is they who are the apostates...."

The Emperor knelt down before Arsinoë and raised upon her eyes full of prayer; tears coursed slowly down his lean cheeks.

"It must not be," he murmured. "Do not speak. Why? Why? Let be what has been!... Do not again become mine enemy!"

"No, no! I must say it all to you," exclaimed Arsinoë. "Listen! I know that you love Him! It is so, and that is the fatality upon you. Against whom have you revolted? What kind of enemy are you for Him? When your lips are cursing the Crucified, your heart is aspiring after Him. When you are struggling against His name, you are closer to Him, closer to His spirit, than those who repeat with dead lips, 'Lord, Lord'!... And it is they who are your enemies, and not He. Ah! why do you torture yourself more than the Galilean monks?"

The Emperor tore himself from the clasp of Arsinoë, and stood up, pale as one dead. His face again grew restless, and in his eyes shone the old hatred. He muttered with sorrowful irony--

"Away with you! Go from me! I know the devices of the Galileans!"

Arsinoë gazed at him in fear and despair, as at one insane--

"Julian!... Julian, what is the matter? Is it possible that a mere name...."

But he had regained cold self-possession. His eyes were lustreless, his air indifferent, almost contemptuous; the Roman Emperor was speaking to a Galilean.

"Depart, Arsinoë. Forget all that I have said. It was a moment of weakness which is over. I am tranquil. You see, we must remain strangers. The shadow of the Crucified is always between us. You have not renounced Him, and he who is not His enemy cannot be my friend...."

She fell on her knees before him--

"Why? why? What are you doing? Have pity on me; have pity on yourself, before it is too late! For this is madness. Return, or you must...."

She paused, and he completed the sentence for her with a haughty smile--

"Or I must perish, you mean, Arsinoë? Be it so. I shall follow my road to the end, lead where it may! If, as you say, I have been unjust toward the wisdom of the Galileans, remember what I have borne at their hands. How numberless, how despicable were my enemies!... The other day some Roman soldiers found before my eyes, in a Mesopotamian marsh, a lion tortured by flies. They had buried themselves in his throat, in his ears, in his nostrils, choking his breath, sealing his eyes, and in their stinging myriads had mastered even his powers at last! Such shall my death be, and such the victory of the Galileans over Cæsar!"

The girl still held out towards him her pale hands; but without a word, without a hope, like a friend towards a friend who is dead. Between the two lay still that abyss which is not to be crossed by the living.

* * * * *

Towards the twentieth of July the Roman army, after a long journey across burnt plains, found a little grass which had escaped from the devastators in the deep valley of the river Durous.

A field of ripe wheat was found hard by. The soldiers reaped it and rested in the valley three days. Unspeakably happy, the legionaries threw themselves down on the verdure, breathing the delightful moisture of the earth, and brushing the cool blades of grass against their dusty faces.

On the morning of the fourth day the Roman sentinels perceived a cloud of smoke or dust. Some supposed it to be the wild asses, which usually roamed in herds for safety against the attack of lions. Others affirmed that it was Saracens, attracted by the news of the siege of Ctesiphon. A few expressed their fears lest it should prove to be the principal army of King Sapor.

The Emperor ordered the call to arms to be sounded on the bugles. The cohorts in strict defensive order, sheltered by their locked shields, as by walls of metal, formed a camp half-circlewise on the river bank. The cloud of smoke or dust remained on the horizon until evening, nor could any divine with certainty what lurked behind it. The night was dark and still, with not a star in the sky.

The Romans did not sleep. They stood round huge bivouac-fires in mute restlessness, awaiting the dawn.

XVIII

At sunrise they saw the Persians. The enemy was advancing slowly. Experienced soldiers estimated their number at nearly two hundred thousand. Hill after hill unmasked new bodies of men, and the glittering of the arms on these detachments, in spite of distance and dust, was almost dazzlingly bright. The Romans, with hardly a word in the ranks, left the valley of the previous night and ranged themselves in battle-order. Their faces were stern, but not sad. Danger now stifled their hatred, and all looks were fixed upon the Emperor, Christians as well as Pagans seeking to surmise from his expression whether they might still hope for success.

At that hour Julian was beaming with joy. Long, long, had he awaited this encounter with the Persians, awaited the miracle in which victory would give him such renown and power that the Galileans could no longer resist. He was haughty as one of the old heroes of Hellas. Danger seemed to spiritualise him; and a gay and terrible light was in his eyes.

The heavy and dusty morning of the twenty-second of July seemed the prelude to a day of burning heat, and the Emperor objected to wear a breastplate, and remained clad in a light silken tunic. Victor, the general, came up holding a coat-of-mail, and said--

"Cæsar, I have had a bad dream; tempt not fate; wear armour!"

Julian silently waved his hand in negation. The old man fell on his knees--

"Put it on! Have pity on your slave!... This battle will be perilous...."

Julian took a shield, flung the light purple of his chlamys over his shoulder, and vaulting on horseback said--

"Let me be, old friend! I need nothing."

He vanished, his golden-crested helm glittering for a while in the sun, while Victor anxiously followed him with his eyes.

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 Boeotian 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 tent. 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 Antioch, 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!"

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 Phoebus 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.