The Death of the Gods

by Dmitry Merezhkovsky

  “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 th
e 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.

  “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 day-break 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—