Julian the Apostate 
 
 By 
 
 D. S. Mereshovski 
 
 Translated by 
 Charles Johnston 
 
 Henry Altemus 
 Philadelphia
 
 COPYRIGHT 1899, BY HENRY ALTEMT
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The present trend toward romantic fiction is 
 the sign of a healthy reaction in literature. It 
 sounds the death of the pseudo-realism so ram- 
 pantly self-assertive during the last decade. 
 
 That realism divided itself into two camps. The 
 pornographists, like Zola, engaged in accurate but 
 purely pathological studies of the hog that lies 
 couchant in all humanity, and even after twenty 
 centuries of Christianity is still rampant in many 
 of us. They gave us a portion of the truth. Now 
 a portion can never be real. On the other side 
 were the photographers, like Henry James, and 
 W. D. Howells, who used their flashlights only 
 upon man and woman in full-dress, smiling pleas- 
 antly and with their company-manners assumed 
 for the occasion. Of the infinite capacities of the 
 human heart for good or for evil these writers 
 gave us but the vaguest intimations. Henc.e they, 
 also, saw but a portion of the truth. Hence they, 
 also, were essentially unreal. 
 
 But the advent of the new school of Stanley 
 Weyman, Anthony Hope, and, greatest of all, 
 Sienkiewicz and Mereshkovski, marks a return to 
 the ever-new and ever-old, the historical and 
 romantic fiction which pleased our forefathers and 
 mayhap will continue to please our descendants 
 to the end. These novelists dare to take large 
 canvases and paint upon them stirring and splen- 
 did scenes, lit up by human passion. They do not 
 3 
 
 2039640
 
 4 Introduction. 
 
 represent man as all dirt, nor as a deity, but render 
 him in his aspect as he lived and lives: 
 
 Half dirt, half deity, unt alike 
 To soar or sink. 
 
 They reproduce for us the actual heroes or vil- 
 lains, in high places and in low, who have stormed 
 across the past of the world, and they kin them 
 to the present by showing us more or less directly 
 how they were actuated by the same mixture of 
 noble and ignoble motives that rule the human 
 breast of to-day. 
 
 I have mentioned Mereshkovski in the same 
 breath with Sienkiewicz because he seems to me 
 equal in the power of reproducing the pagan or 
 semi-pagan past in its gorgeous decadence. His 
 portrait of Julian the Apostate is well worthy a 
 place besides the portrait of Nero in Quo Vadis, 
 and I am not sure that it was not the more diffi- 
 cult task. Julian, a much more complex char- 
 acter than Nero, required infinitely more delicacy 
 in the high-lights and in the shading, more chiar- 
 oscuro, a finer technique, in short, on the part of 
 the artist. Yet Julian in the one book stands out 
 as boldly and intelligibly as Nero in the other. 
 
 Julian the Apostate, in fact, is one of the most 
 interesting characters in history. Notwithstand- 
 ing his early death and the shortness of his reign 
 it is with a start we remind ourselves that he 
 M r as barely thirty when he died and had been 
 Emperor for only a year and a half he made a 
 mighty impress upon his time. Historians may 
 call him a reactionary engaged in a hopeless strug- 
 gle against destiny, sociologists an atavist, strug-
 
 Introduction. 5 
 
 gling for the restoration, of the extinct civilization 
 of which he was a laggard type, and humorists a 
 Mrs. Partington combating the roaring onslaught 
 of the advancing ocean with mop and broom. 
 They would all be right. Yet the more hopeless 
 the task he set himself, the more extraordinary 
 was the measure of Julian's achievement. During 
 the eighteen months when he held the mastery of 
 the world it almost seemed that he would turn 
 backward the wheels of progress, abolish the pres- 
 ent, and project the past into the future. But he 
 was struck down in battle in the very heyday of 
 his power. The dying cry which has been put 
 into his mouth, "Thou hast conquered, Galilean!" 
 may be only a poetical figment, nevertheless it is 
 an embodiment of historical truth. 
 
 With the death of him who had been shudder- 
 ingly styled Antichrist by the followers of the 
 new faith, the victory of Christ and of that new 
 faith was made complete. 
 
 Mereshkovski has presented a brilliant and 
 effective picture not only of this central figure 
 but of the epoch in which he lived, when Catho- 
 lics and Arians were but the largest factions in a 
 host of contending sects which made up an inhar- 
 monious camp of Christians. He has reproduced 
 the ever-changing moods of the period, its habits, 
 its manners, its passions, its entire life, in short, 
 with the rarest fidelity to history and to human 
 nature. 
 
 Basing his work upon the eternal verities he is 
 far more real than the self-styled "realists." 
 
 WILLIAM SHEPARD.
 
 JULIAN THE APOSTATE. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 SCUDILO AND THE MAGICIAN. 
 
 Twenty stadia from Cesarea of Cappadocia, on 
 the wooded spurs of the Argian hills, beside the 
 great Koman road, was a spring of warm, healing 
 water. A block of stone, with coarsely-graven 
 sculptures of human figures and Greek inscrip- 
 tions, bore witness that the spring had once been 
 consecrated to the brothers Castor and Pollux, the 
 Dioscuri. The images of the heathen gods re- 
 maining uninjured were held to be the images of 
 the Christian saints Cosmas and Damian. 
 
 On the other side of the road, opposite the holy 
 spring, was built a low tavern, covered with straw 
 thatch, with a foully-kept courtyard for cattle, 
 and a shed for fowl and geese. In the tavern 
 could be had goat's cheese, grey bread, honey, 
 olive oil and the sour local wine. The tavern was 
 kept by the crafty Armenian, Syrophenix. 
 
 A partition divided the tavern in two parts, 
 one for the common folk, the other for more 
 esteemed guests. Under the ceiling, blackened by 
 acrid smoke, hung hams and bunches of scented
 
 8 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 mountain herbs, for Fortunata, the wife of Syro- 
 phenix, was a notable housewife. 
 
 The tavern had an evil name. Honest people 
 did not remain there after nightfall. There were 
 rumors of dark deeds done under that low roof. 
 But Syrophenix was cunning, and could give a 
 bribe when need was, and so came forth dry out of 
 the water. 
 
 The partition consisted of two slender columns 
 and of an old faded cloak of Fortunata's, instead 
 of a curtain. The columns, with their naive pre- 
 tension to Doric style, were the one elegance of 
 the inn and the pride of Syrophenix. Once 
 gilded, they were long since cracked and peeled. 
 The once bright purple, but now dusty blue cloak, 
 was variegated with innumerable stains, the traces 
 of all the breakfasts, suppers and dinners that 
 recalled to the beneficent Fortunata ten years of 
 her family life. 
 
 In the clean half, shut off by the curtain, on 
 the narrow couch, worn through in many places, 
 beside a table with a pewter mixing-bowl and 
 wine-cups on it, reclined Marcus Scudilo, the 
 Roman military tribune of the sixteenth legion, 
 and the ninth cohort. Marcus was a provincial 
 dandy, with one of those faces at sight of which 
 forward slave-girls and the cheap heterae of the 
 suburbs cried out in simple-hearted ecstacy: 
 "What a handsome man!" At his feet, on the 
 same couch, in an humble and uncomfortable atti- 
 tude, sat a stout man, red-faced and short of 
 breath, with a bald head and thin, grey hair 
 drawn forward from the nape of his neck to the 
 temples, Publius Aquila, the centurion of the 
 eighth hundred. At a little distance off, on the
 
 Scudilo and the Magician. 9 
 
 floor, twelve Eoman legionaries were playing at 
 knuckle-bones. 
 
 "I swear by Hercules!" exclaimed Scudilo, "I 
 would rather be the last man in Constantinople 
 than the first in a mouse-hole. Is this life, Pub- 
 lius? Come, answer with a clear conscience, is 
 this life? You know that nothing is coming but 
 drill and the barracks and the camp. You rot in 
 a foul marsh and do not see the light!" 
 
 "Yes, you may well say it, life here is not gay," 
 assented Publius, "but then how peaceful." 
 
 The old centurion was watching the knuckle- 
 bones. The game was an absorbing one. Pretend- 
 ing to listen to his superior's gossip, and nodding 
 to his words, he watched the game under his 
 brows, and thought: "If the red-headed fellow 
 throws cleverly he is likely to win." Then, for 
 the sake of appearances, Publius asked the tribune, 
 as though the question interested him: 
 
 "Why do you say the prefect Helvidius is angry 
 with you?" ' 
 
 "Because of a' woman, my friend, all because of 
 a woman." 
 
 And Marcus Scudilo, in a fit of talkative confi- 
 dence, with a great show of mystery, speaking in 
 the centurion's ear, related that the prefect, "that 
 old he-goat Helvidius," was jealous of him on 
 account of a newly-arrived hetera, a Lilybasum. 
 And Scudilo wished to win back the prefect's 
 favor at once by some considerable service. Not 
 far from Cesarea, in the fortress of Macellum, 
 Julian and Gallus were confined, the cousins of 
 the ruling Emperor Constantius, and nephews of 
 Constantine the Great, the last scions of the ill- 
 -starred house of Flavius. On ascending the throne,
 
 10 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 through fear of rivals, Constantius had assassi- 
 nated his uncle, the father of Julian and Gallus, 
 Constantino's brother, Julius Constantius. Many 
 other victims fell. But Julian and Gallus they 
 spared, sending them to the lonely fortress of 
 Macellum. The prefect in Cesarea was in serious 
 difficulties. Knowing that the new emperor hated 
 the two boys, who reminded him of his crime, 
 Helvidius wished and yet feared to divine the 
 emperor's will. Julian and Gallus lived in per- 
 petual dread of death. The crafty tribune, Scu- 
 dilo, dreaming of the possibility of a career at 
 court, understood from the hints of his superior 
 that he could not decide to take the responsibility 
 on himself, and was frightened by the rumors of 
 the escape of Constantino's heirs. Then Marcus 
 Scudilo decided to go with a company of legion- 
 aries to Macellum, to arrest the prisoners at his 
 own risk, and to bring them to Cesarea, holding 
 that he had nothing to fear from two youths, 
 mere abandoned orphans, detested by the em- 
 peror. By this daring deed, he hoped to regain 
 the favor of the prefect Helvidius, which he had 
 lost for the golden-haired Lilybasum. 
 
 But he only told Publius a part of his plan, and 
 this with the utmost caution. 
 
 "What do you wish to do, Scudilo? Have 
 orders come from Constantinople?" 
 
 "No, there are no orders. No one knows any- 
 thing for certain. But rumors, you see, .a thou- 
 sand different rumors, and expectations, and 
 hints, and insinuations, and threats, and secrets, 
 oh, no end of secrets! For things like that you 
 get thanks. Any fool can carry out an order. But 
 you must guess the ruler's will without words!
 
 Si-udilo and the Magician. 11 
 
 Let us see, let us try, let us look out. Most of all, 
 courage, courage, signing yourself with the sign 
 of the cross! I depend on you, Publius. May- 
 hap, we shall both soon be drinking at court, and 
 a better wine than this." 
 
 Through the small, latticed window fell the 
 melancholy light of a gloomy evening. The rain 
 pattered monotonously. 
 
 Further on, beyond a thin clay wall, with many 
 holes in it, was a stable. A smell of manure came 
 from it. The clucking of hens, the shrill piping 
 of chickens and the grunting of pigs were mingled 
 together. 
 
 Milk was pouring into an echoing vessel; the 
 housewife was milking her cows. The soldiers 
 were quarreling about the stakes, and abused each 
 other in whispers. At the level of the ground, 
 between the osier wattles, lightly smeared with 
 clay, the soft pink snout of a sucking pig peeped 
 through a crevice. He had got caught in a trap, 
 and could not draw back his head, and squeaked 
 piteously. 
 
 Publius thought: 
 
 "Well, that is all very well, but meanwhile we 
 are nearer the courtyard than the court." 
 
 His excitement had passed. The tribune also, 
 after his incautious confidences, had grown weary. 
 He looked at the grey rainy sky, through the win- 
 dow, at the pig's snout, at the sour lees of the bad 
 wine in the pewter bowl, at the dirty soldiers, and 
 bitterness came over him. 
 
 He struck his fist on the table till it staggered 
 on its uneven legs. 
 
 "Here, you rogue, you betrayer of Christ, Syro-
 
 12 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 phenix! Come here. What kind of wine is that, 
 you rascal ?" 
 
 The inn-keeper ran up. He had hair as black 
 as jet, in little curls, and a beard as black, even 
 with a bluish tinge, and also in innumerable little 
 ringlets. In moments of conjugal tenderness, 
 Fortunata used to say that Syrophenix's beard 
 was like a cluster of sweet grapes. His eyes were 
 also black and of uncommon sweetness. A won- 
 derfully sweet smile never left his lips, bright red 
 lips. He was like a caricature of Dionysus, god 
 of wine, and seemed altogether black and sweet. 
 
 The inn-keeper swore by Moses, and Dindymene, 
 and Christ, and Hercules, that the wine was excel- 
 lent; but the tribune declared that he knew in 
 whose house Glabrio, the Pamphylian merchant, 
 had his throat cut a short time back, and that he 
 would bring him, Syrophenix, to trial one of 
 these days. The terrified Armenian rushed at full 
 speed to the cellar, and soon came back, trium- 
 phantly carrying a bottle of unusual form, wide 
 and flat below, with a narrow neck, covered with 
 cobwebs and moss, as if it was grey with old age. 
 Through the cobwebs here and there appeared the 
 glass, no longer transparent, but dull, with a slight 
 rainbow tint. On a billet of cypress-wood, hung 
 around the neck of the bottle, you could make out 
 the letters "Anthosmium" and, further on, "an- 
 norum centum" (a hundred years). 
 
 But Syrophenix vowed that the wine had been a 
 hundred years old in the time of the Emperor 
 Diocletian. 
 
 "Dark?" asked Publius, ecstatically. 
 
 "As pitch, and perfumed like ambrosia. Ho, 
 Fortunata, for a wine like this we need the crystal
 
 Scudilo and the ]\Iagician. 13 
 
 glasses. And bring us some fresh, white snow 
 from the ice-house." 
 
 Fortunata brought two goblets. Her face had 
 a color of perfect health, with a pleasant yellowish 
 bloom, like the ripest plums. It seemed that 
 rustic freshness breathed from her. and a scent of 
 new milk, a farmyard smell. 
 
 The inn-keeper glanced at the bottle with a 
 sigh of adoration, and kissed the neck of it. Then 
 he carefully removed the wax seal and uncorked it. 
 They put snow in the bottom of the crystal cup. 
 The wine trickled forth in a thick, black, scented 
 stream, the Snow melted" from the strength of the 
 fiery Anthosmian, and the crystal sides of the 
 goblet were dimmed and bedewed by the cold. 
 Then Scudilo, who had had a cheap education, 
 he was capable of confusing Hecuba and Hecate, 
 pompously repeated the single verse of Martial 
 that he remembered: 
 
 "The crystal's whiteness darkens with old 
 Falernian." 
 
 "Wait a moment. It will taste better yet." 
 
 And Syrophenix plunged his hand into his deep 
 pocket and brought forth a little phial, cut from 
 a single onyx, and with a feeling smile carefully 
 poured into the wine a single drop, of precious 
 Arabian cinnamon. The drop fell into the black 
 Anthosmian, like a dull, white pearl, and melted 
 into the wine. A sweet, strange odor pervaded 
 the room. 
 
 While the tribune drank slowly, in rapture, 
 Syrophenix clucked his tongue : 
 
 "Byblian, or Maronian from Thrace, or Lace- 
 nian from Chios, or Icarian wine, are all rubbish 
 compared to this."
 
 14: Julian the Apostate. 
 
 It grew dark. Scudilo gave the order to pro- 
 ceed homewards. The legionaries buckled on 
 their breastplates and helmets, fastened the yellow 
 greaves on their right legs, and took their shields 
 and swords. 
 
 When they had passed beyond the partition, the 
 Isaurian shepherds, looking like brigands, sitting 
 round their fire, rose respectfully before the 
 Eoman tribune. He was full of the sense of his 
 own dignity, and his head hummed, and his veins 
 glowed with the fire of the noble wine. On the 
 threshold, a man came up to him, in a strange 
 eastern dress, a white robe, with red, transverse 
 stripes and a high, many-storied headgear of felt, 
 a Persian tiara, that looked like a tower. Scudilo 
 stopped. The Persian's face was refined, long and 
 thin, of a yellowish olive color. His narrow, pier- 
 cing eyes were full of deep, crafty thought. In his 
 every movement there was an expression of 
 haughty calm. He was one of the wandering con- 
 jurors and astrologers, who proudly called them- 
 selves Chaldeans, Magians, and Mathematicians. 
 He immediately informed the tribune that his 
 name was Nogodares; he was staying with Syro- 
 phenix on his journey; his path lay from distant 
 Adiabene to. the shores of the Ionian Sea, to the 
 renowned philosopher and theurgian, Maximus of 
 Ephesus. The magian asked permission to exhibit 
 his art and to tell the tribune's fortune. 
 
 They closed the shutters. The Persian pre- 
 pared something on the floor. Suddenly a slight 
 crackling was heard. All became silent. A ruddy 
 flame rose in a long, thin tongue from the smoke, 
 which filled the room with its white clouds. No- 
 godares put a two-stemmed, reed-pipe to his blood-
 
 Scudilo and the Magician. 15 
 
 less lips and played, and the sound was sombre, 
 pitiful and reminiscent of a Lydian funeral song. 
 The flame, as if affected by this mournful sound, 
 grew yellow, then faded, and then flashed up 
 again with a faint, pale blue light. The magian 
 threw some dried herbs into the flame. A strong, 
 pleasant odor filled the room. The odor also 
 seemed melancholy; like the odor of half-dried 
 grass, on a misty evening, in the dead wilderness 
 of Arachosia or Drangina. 
 
 And hearing the melancholy sound of the two- 
 stemmed pipe, a large snake began to glide forth 
 slowly from a black basket at the magician's feet, 
 unwinding its folds with a rustling sound, and 
 glittering with a metallic sheen. Then he began 
 to sing in a low, monotonous voice, so that the 
 song seemed to come from afar. And he repeated 
 the same words: "Mara, mara, mara," many times. 
 The snake wound itself around his lean body, and 
 caressingly, with a soft hissing, brought its flat, 
 green, scaly head, with eyes glowing like car- 
 buncles, close to the magician's ear; the long- 
 forked tongue flashed out hissing, as if it was 
 whispering something. The magician threw the 
 flute on the ground. The flame again filled the 
 room with dim, white smoke, but this time with a 
 heavy narcotic odor, as if of the tomb, and sud- 
 denly went out. It grew dark and fearsome. All 
 were bewildered. But when they opened the 
 shutters, and the leaden light of the rainy twilight 
 entered the room, there was not a trace of the 
 snake and the black basket. The faces of all 
 seemed deadly pale. 
 
 Nogodares came close to the tribune: 
 "Rejoice! The great and signal favor of the
 
 16 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 blessed Augustus awaits you; the early favor of 
 the Emperor Constantius." 
 
 Then for some moments he examined Scudilo's 
 hand and the lines in his palm inquisitively, and, 
 quickly hending to his ear, so that no one could 
 hear, said in a whisper: 
 
 "Blood, the blood of Caesar is on this hand." 
 
 Scudilo was terrified. 
 
 "How dare you, cursed Chaldean dog? I am a 
 loyal servant!" 
 
 But the other almost mockingly gazed into his 
 face, with a penetrating glance of his cunning 
 eyes, and whispered: 
 
 "What do you fear? After many years. And 
 can you win glory without blood?" 
 
 When the soldiers left the tavern, pride and 
 gladness filled the heart of Scudilo. He ap- 
 proached the holy spring, piously crossing himself, 
 and drank some of the healing water, invoking 
 Cosnias and Damian in heartfelt prayer, and 
 secretly hoping that the soothsaying of Nogodares 
 would not prove vain. Then he sprang on his 
 splendid Cappadocian stallion, and gave the sign 
 for the legionaries to march. The standard- 
 bearer raised the standard of purple cloth em- 
 broidered with a dragon. The tribune was over- 
 come by a desire to make a show before the crowd 
 streaming out from the tavern of S}Tophenix. He 
 knew that it was dangerous, but could not restrain 
 himself, intoxicated with wine and pride. Stretch- 
 ing out his sword in the direction of the mist- 
 covered fortress, he cried out loudly and haughtily: 
 
 "To Macellum!" 
 
 A murmur of astonishment arose; the names of 
 Julian and Gallus were uttered.
 
 A Wandering Conjurer. (P. 14.)
 
 Julian's Dream. 17 
 
 The trumpeter, standing in front, gave the 
 signal, blowing his copper "buccina," twisted up- 
 ward in several curves, like a ram's horn. 
 
 The long-drawn sound of the Roman trumpet 
 echoed far up the cliff, and the mountain echo 
 sent it back again. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 JULIAN'S DREAM. 
 
 Darkness reigned in the great sleeping-chamber 
 of Macellum, once the palace of the Cappadociau 
 kings. 
 
 Ten-year-old Julian's bed was hard; a bare 
 board, covered with a leopard-skin. The boy him- 
 self desired it so. It was not in vain that his old 
 tutor, Mardonius, deifying the wisdom of old, 
 educated him in the stern principles of the Stoic 
 philosophy. 
 
 Julian could not sleep. The wind rose from 
 time to time in gusts and wailed mournfully in 
 the crevices like some captive animal. Then came 
 sudden stillness. And in that strange stillness he 
 could hear the large rain-drops fall from time to 
 time, with metallic resonance, on the stone flags, 
 evidently from a great height. It seemed to Julian 
 that in the dark shadow of the vaulted roof he 
 could catch the swift rustle of a bat's wings. He 
 could distinguish the heavy breathing of his 
 brother, sleeping on a soft couch, for he was a 
 delicate and fastidious lad, under the old-fash- 
 ioned, dusty baldachin, the last remnant of the
 
 18 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 luxury of the Cappadocian kings. The heavy 
 snore of the pedagogue Mardonius was heard in 
 the next room. 
 
 Suddenly the small, heavily-clamped door of the 
 secret staircase in the wall creaked softly and 
 opened, and a ray of light dazzled Julian's eyes. 
 The old slave-woman, Labda, entered. She was 
 carrying a bronze lamp in her hand. 
 
 "Nurse, I am afraid; do not take the light 
 away." 
 
 The old woman set the lamp in the semi-circular 
 stone niche above Julian's pillow. 
 
 "You are not asleep? Is your head aching? 
 Are you hungry? That old sinner Mardonius 
 half starves you. I have brought you some honey- 
 wafers. They are good! Taste!" 
 
 To feed Julian was Labda's greatest delight. 
 But Mardonius did not allow it, by day, so she 
 brought him dainties secretly at night. 
 
 Labda, a half-blind old woman, who could 
 hardly drag her feet after her, always went about 
 in the black robe of a nun. She was considered 
 a Thessalian witch. But she was a pious Chris- 
 tian. The haziest ancient and modern supersti- 
 tions were mingled in her mind into a strange, 
 wild religion. She mixed prayers and incanta- 
 tions, Olympian gods and goat-legged demons, the 
 rites of the Church and witchcraft. She was hung 
 all over with little crosses, sacreligious amulets of 
 dead bones, and charms from the relics of saints. 
 
 The old woman loved Julian devotedly, with a 
 superstitious love, holding the boy to be the sole 
 lawful heir of the Emperor Constantine, and Con- 
 stantius a murderer and a usurper. 
 
 Labda knew, as no one else did, the whole
 
 Julian's Dream. 19 
 
 genealogical tree, and all the immemorial family 
 traditions of the house of Flavins, and remem- 
 bered Julian's grandfather, Constantius Chlorus. 
 Bloody court secrets were hidden in her memory. 
 At night the old woman told everything to Julian^ 
 indiscriminately discerning. And though there 
 was much which his childish mind could not 
 understand, his heart died within him from dim 
 dread and indignation. With dull eyes, and even 
 monotonous voice, she related these terrible, end- 
 less stories, as people tell old tales. 
 
 Setting down the lamp, the old woman crossed 
 Julian, looked to see whether the amber amulet 
 on his breast was safe, and repeating two or three 
 incantations, to drive away evil spirits, she dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 Julian sank into a heavy half-sleep. He was 
 hot, and those slow, heavy drops of water tortured 
 him, falling through the silence, from above, as 
 if into a resounding vessel. 
 
 And he could not tell whether he was asleep or 
 not; whether it was the night wind blowing, or old 
 Labda, like one of the Fates, muttering and whis- 
 pering in his ear the terrible traditions of his 
 family. What he had heard from her, and what 
 he himself had seen in his childhood, mingled 
 together in a confused delirium. 
 
 He saw the corpse of the great emperor on^a 
 splendid catafalque. The dead man was rouged 
 and powdered; a many-storied head-dress of false 
 hair had been made by skilful wig-makers. They 
 brought little Julian to kiss his grandfather's 
 hand for the last time. The child was afraid. He 
 was dazzled by the purple, the diadem on the false 
 curls and the blaze of precious stones, glittering
 
 20 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 in the light .of the funeral candles. Through the 
 heavy Arabian incense he smelt the odor of death, 
 the smell of decay, for the first time. But the 
 courtiers, the bishops, the eunuchs, the generals 
 greeted the emperor as if he was alive; ambassadors 
 bowed before him, maintaining their pompous 
 etiquette; the servants of the government read out 
 edicts, laws, and decrees of the senate, seeking the 
 dead man's assent, as if he could still hear, and a 
 whisper of flattery hovered over the crowd: people 
 assured each other that he was so great that by 
 the special grace of Providence he alone reigned, 
 even after his death. 
 
 And the boy knows that he slew his own son. 
 The young hero's whole fault lay in this, that the 
 people loved him. The son was calumniated by 
 his stepmother; she loved her stepson with a 
 criminal love, and took vengeance on him, as 
 Phaedra did on Hippolytus. Afterward it was dis- 
 covered that the wife of Caesar was concerned in 
 a criminal intrigue with one of the slaves employed 
 in the imperial stables, and she was stifled in a 
 bath of scalding water. Then came the turn of 
 the noble Licinius. Corpse after corpse, victim 
 after victim. The monarch, tortured by con- 
 science, prayed the hierophants of the pagan mys- 
 teries to purify him, but they refused. Then 
 Bishop Oscius assured him that in religion alone 
 there were mysteries able to cleanse him, even 
 from such crimes as these. And so a splendid 
 Labarum, a standard with the monogram of the 
 Christ, in precious stones, now glittered above the 
 'Catafalque of him who slew his son. 
 
 Julian wished to wake, to open his eyes, and 
 could not. The resounding drops fell ss before,
 
 Julian's Dream. 21 
 
 like heavy, slow tears, and the wind whispered; 
 but it seemed to him that it was not the wind, but 
 that Labda was whispering, like an ancient Fate, 
 muttering in his ear the terrible tales of the house 
 of Flavius, with her toothless lips. 
 
 Julian dreamed that he was in the cold damp- 
 ness, beside the porphyry sarcophagi, filled with 
 the dust of kings, in the family crypt of Constan- 
 tius Chlorus. Labda was covering him, and hiding 
 him in the darkest corner, among the coffins; and 
 was rocking sick Gallus to sleep, for he was ill with 
 fever. Suddenly a death-like cry echoed up above 
 in the palace, from room to room, beneath the 
 vaulted stone roofs of the resounding, deserted 
 arcades. Julian recognized his father's voice, and 
 tried to cry out in answer and to run to him. But 
 Labda held the boy back with her bony hands, 
 and whispered: "Hush, hush, or they will come!" 
 and covered him over from head to foot. Then 
 slow steps sounded on the stairs, ever nearer and 
 nearer. Labda crossed the boy and whispered 
 incantations. A knock at the door, and by the 
 gleam of torches were seen the soldiers of Caesar. 
 They were disguised as monks. The Bishop Euse- 
 bius, of Nicomedia, led them. Breast-plates 
 gleamed under their black gowns. 
 
 "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, 
 and of the Holy Ghost, open! Who is here?" 
 
 Labda shrank into the corner with the children. 
 And again reechoed the words: 
 
 "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, 
 and of the Holy Ghost, who is here?" And again 
 the third time. Then the murderers probed the 
 corners, with their naked sword-blades. Labda
 
 99 
 
 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 threw herself at their feet, and showed them sick 
 Gallus and helpless Julian. 
 
 "Fear God! What can a five-year-old boy do 
 against the emperor?" And the soldiers forced 
 all three of them to kiss the cross in the hands of 
 Eusebius and swear fealty to the new emperor. 
 Julian remembered the great cross of enameled 
 cypress wood, with the image of the Saviour; 
 lower down, on the old, dark wood, were visible 
 traces of fresh blood, reddening the hands of the 
 murderer who held the cross. It might be the 
 blood of his father, or of one of his six cousins, 
 Dalmatius, Hannibalianus, Nepotianus, Constan- 
 tine, the younger, or the others. The fratricide 
 stepped over seven corpses to mount the throne, 
 and all was accomplished in the name of Him 
 who was crucified on the cross. And more and 
 more, many a victim to count and to remember 
 whom was difficult. 
 
 Julian awoke from fear and from the silence. 
 The loud, slow drops had ceased to fall. The 
 wind was stilled. The lamp, unflickering, burned 
 in the niche with a steady, thin, long tongue of 
 flame. He sprang up on his bed, listening to the 
 loud beating of his own heart. . The silence was 
 deathlike and intolerable. Suddenly, below, re- 
 sounded loud voices and steps, from room to room, 
 under the vaulted roofs of stone, along the echo- 
 ing, deserted arcades, here in Macellum, as there 
 in the crypt of the Flavii. Julian shuddered; he 
 thought he was still delirious. The steps drew 
 near and the voices grew clearer. Then he cried 
 out: 
 
 "Brother! brother! are you sleeping? Mar- 
 donius! Do you not hear?"
 
 Julian's Dream. 23 
 
 Gallus awoke. Mardonius, barefoot, with dis- 
 heveled gray hair, in a short night tunic a 
 eunuch, with wrinkled, yellow and puffy face, like 
 an old woman's, ran to the secret door. 
 
 "The prefect's soldiers! Dress quickly! We 
 must flee!" 
 
 But it was too late. The creak of iron was 
 heard. The small, iron-studded door was shut 
 from the outside. On the stone pillars of the great 
 stairway gleamed the light of torches, and in the 
 light appeared the purple standard and the shi- 
 ning cross with the monogram of the Christ on the 
 helmet of one of the legionaries. 
 
 "In the name of the orthodox and hlessed 
 Augustus, the Emperor Constantius, I Marcus 
 Scudilo, tribune of the legion of Fretensis, take 
 under my ward Julian and Gallus, sons of the 
 patrician Julius." 
 
 Mardonius, with his sword drawn, stood, bar- 
 ring the path of the soldiers, before the closed 
 door of the sleeping-chamber, in a most martial 
 pose. His sword was dull and good for nothing. 
 It served the old pedagogue only during the 
 lessons of the Iliad to show his pupils, by living 
 examples in classic pose, how Hector fought with 
 Achilles. The scholastic Achilles could hardly 
 have beheaded a fowl. Now he flourished the dull 
 sword before Publius' nose, according to all the 
 rules of the military art of Homer's time. Pub- 
 lius, who was drunk, grew furious at this. 
 
 "Out of the way you lard-bladder, old carrion, 
 wind-bellows! Away, if you do not want me to 
 pierce a hole and let the wind out of you!" 
 
 He seized Mardonius by the throat and threw 
 him so fnr that he struck the wall mid almost fell.
 
 24 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Scudilo ran to the doors of the sleeping-chamber 
 and flung them open. 
 
 The steady flame of the bronze lamp grew pale 
 in the red light of the torches. 
 
 And the tribune for the first time in his life 
 beheld the last descendants of Constantius 
 Chlorus. Gallus looked tall and strong. But his 
 skin was fine, white and soft, like a girl's. His 
 eyes were light blue, lazy and indifferent. His 
 hair was fair as flax, a common sign of the race 
 of Constantine, and, falling in curls, it covered 
 his strong, healthy neck. In spite of the manly 
 mold of his body and the light down beginning to 
 appear on his chin, eighteen-year-old Gallus 
 seemed a mere boy; such innocent bewilderment 
 and childish fear were manifested in his face. His 
 lips trembled like a little child's when it is begin- 
 ning to cry, and he helplessly winked his eyelids, 
 red and swollen with sleep, with their light 
 lashes, and slowly crossed himself, whispering: 
 "Lord have mercy! Lord have mercy!" 
 
 Julian was a lank child, lean and pale. His 
 face was ugly and irregular. His hair was coarse, 
 smooth and black. His nose was too large. His 
 lower lip stuck out. But his eyes were remark- 
 able; making his face one of those which once 
 seen can never be forgotten, large, strange, 
 changeable, with a mature, intense and morbidly 
 bright glitter, which sometimes seemed mad. 
 Publius, who in his youth had often seen Con- 
 stantine the Great, thought: 
 
 "That boy will be like his uncle." 
 
 Julian's fear at the presence of the soldiers van- 
 ished. He felt only anger. Clenching his teeth, 
 he cast the leopard-skin from the bed across his
 
 Julian's Dream. 25 
 
 shoulders and gazed at Scudilo steadily, with knit 
 brows, and his protruding lip trembled. In his 
 right hand, under the leopard-skin, he grasped the 
 hilt of a keen Persian dagger, secretly given to 
 him by Labda. The point was poisoned with a 
 deadly venom. 
 
 "Wolf's cub!" muttered one of the legionaries, 
 pointing at Julian, to one of his companions. 
 
 Scudilo wished to pass the threshold of the 
 sleeping-chamber, when a new thought came to 
 Mardonius. He cast his useless sword away, caught 
 the tribune by his cloak, and suddenly cried out 
 in a piercing, unexpectedly shrill and womanish 
 voice: 
 
 "What are you doing, knave! How dare you 
 insult the messenger of the Emperor Constantius? 
 I am charged to bring these imperial scions to the 
 court. Augustus has restored them to his favor! 
 Here is the order from Constantinople." 
 
 "What does he say? What order?" 
 
 Scudilo glanced at Mardonius. The wrinkled 
 old-woman's face bore witness that he was really 
 a eunuch. The tribune had never seen Mardonius 
 before, but he well knew in what high favor the 
 eunuchs were held at the emperor's court. 
 
 Mardonius hastily drew a packet forth from the 
 great book-chest, with the parchment rolls of 
 Hesiod and Homer, and gave it to the tribune. 
 
 Scudilo unrolled it and turned pale. He only 
 read the first words, saw the name of the emperor, 
 who called himself, in the edict, "Our Eternity," 
 and did not notice either the year or the month. 
 When the tribune saw the immense and familiar 
 seal of the emperor, of dark green wax, on gilded
 
 26 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 ribbons, a mist came before his eyes. He felt his 
 knees trembling. 
 
 "Forgive me! This is a mistake!" 
 
 "What, you knaves! forth from here; don't leave 
 a trace of yourselves! And drunk, too! The 
 emperor shall know all!" 
 
 Mardonius quickly snatched the paper from 
 Scudilo's trembling hands. 
 
 "Do not ruin me! We are all brothers; we are all 
 sinful people. I pray you in the name of Christ." 
 
 "I know what you do in the name of Christ, 
 rascal! Forth from here!" 
 
 The poor tribune made a sign of surrender. 
 Then Mardonius once more raised the blunt sword 
 and, brandishing it, took the classic pose of an 
 ancient warrior. The drunken centurion alone 
 struggled toward him, crying: 
 
 "Let me go, let me go! Fll stick him and see 
 how the old lard-bladder bursts!" 
 
 They dragged the drunken man away by the 
 arms. 
 
 When their steps had ceased, and Mardonius 
 was satisfied that the danger was over, he laughed 
 aloud. His whole flabby, effeminate body quivered 
 with laughter. The old man forgot the dignity 
 and decency of the pedagogue and hopped about 
 on his weak, bare legs, in his night tunic, crying 
 out exultantly: 
 
 "Children, my children! Glory be to Hermes! 
 We cheated them cleverly! The edict is three 
 years old. Fools, fools!" 
 
 Before sunrise Julian sank into a deep, quiet 
 sleep. He awoke late, refreshed and gay, when 
 the pale blue sky was gleaming through the high 
 lattice of the window of the sleeping-chamber.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 THE MONK EUTROPIUS. 
 
 In the morning came the lesson in the cathe- 
 chism. The teacher of theology was the monk 
 Eutropius, an Arian presbyter, with hands that 
 were always damp, cold and bony; with pale, 
 melancholy, frog-like eyes; bent, long as a pole, 
 thin as a splinter. He had a repulsive habit of 
 furtively licking the palm of his hand, then 
 quickly stroking his thin, gray temples with it, 
 and immediately clasping his fingers together and 
 cracking his knuckles. Julian knew that the one 
 movement would inevitably be followed by the 
 other, and this irritated him to the verge of mad- 
 ness. Eutropius wore a patched black gown with 
 many stains, asserting that he wore poor garments 
 from humility. In reality, he was a miser. 
 
 Eusebius, of Nicomedia, Julian's spiritual guar- 
 dian, had chosen this teacher. 
 
 The monk suspected in his young pupil a secret 
 contumacy of spirit, which, if not overcome, in the 
 teacher's opinion, threatened Julian with everlast- 
 ing damnation. 
 
 The teacher was unwearying in speaking of the 
 feelings which the boy ought to entertain toward 
 his benefactor Constantius. Whether he was ex- 
 plaining the text of the New Testament, or the 
 Arian dogmas, or the allegories of the prophets, 
 everything led to that, to "the root of holy obe- 
 dience and filial subjection." It seemed that the 
 
 27
 
 28 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 religion of love, with all its martyr sacrifices, was 
 only the flight of steps up which the triumphant 
 Constantius had ascended to the throne. But 
 sometimes while the monk was speaking of the 
 emperor's benefactions heaped on Julian, the boy 
 looked into his teacher's eyes with a deep and 
 silent gaze. He knew the monk's thoughts at the 
 moment, and the monk likewise knew the thoughts 
 of his pupil. And neither of them uttered a word. 
 But afterward, if Julian broke down, forgetting 
 some text, or the names of the Old Testament 
 patriarchs, or failed to repeat some prayer, Eutro- 
 
 Eius looked at him exulting, in silence, with his 
 rog-like eyes, and softly caught Julian's ear be- 
 tween his finger and thumb, as if caressing him. 
 The boy felt the two sharp, cruel nails slowly 
 burying themselves in his ear. Eutropius, in 
 spite of his forbidding character, was of a mocking 
 and even gay humor. He gave his pupil the ten- 
 derest titles: "My dear," "first-born of my soul," 
 "my beloved son," and made sport of his imperial 
 origin. Every time when he pinched Julian's ear, 
 and his pupil grew white with anger rather than 
 with pain, Eutropius said in a cringing voice: 
 
 "Is not your Majesty displeased with your 
 humble and unlearned slave, Eutropius?" 
 
 "And, licking his palm, he stroked his temple 
 and softly cracked his knuckles, adding that it 
 would sometimes be a good thing, a very good 
 thing, to give ill-tempered and idle boys a lesson 
 with the rod, that this was even the counsel of 
 Holy Writ, that the rod enlightened a dark and 
 rebellious spirit. This he said only to subdue the 
 "devilish spirit of pride" in Julian. The boy 
 knew that Eutropius would not dare to carry out
 
 The Monk Eutropius. 29 
 
 his threats; and the monk himself was secretly 
 convinced that the boy would rather die thaii 
 allow himself to be beaten. Yet the teacher often 
 spoke of it, and at great length. 
 
 At the end of a lesson, when a text was being 
 explained, Julian happened to drop some hint of 
 the antipodes, about which he had heard from 
 Mardonius. Perhaps Julian did this intention- 
 ally to exasperate the monk. But the latter 
 laughing a thin, crackling laugh, carefully cover- 
 ed his mouth with his hand. 
 
 "And who told you about the antipodes, my 
 dear? Well, you have made me laugh, sinner that 
 I am. I know, I know that the old fool Plato 
 speaks of them somewhere. And so you believe 
 that people walk upside down?" 
 
 And Eutropius set himself to confute the god- 
 less heresy of the philosophers. Was it not shame- 
 ful to think that men, made in the image and 
 likeness of the Creator, should walk on their 
 heads, making a mockery of the firmament? And 
 when Julian, wounded for his beloved sages, spoke 
 of the earth's spherical form, Eutropius suddenly 
 ceased laughing and flew into such a passion that 
 he grew scarlet, and stamped his feet. 
 
 "You have heard this godless lie from Mardo- 
 nius, from that old heathen!" 
 
 When he was angry he stuttered in his speech, 
 and the spittle flew in flecks from his lips. It 
 seemed to Julian that this spittle was poisonous. 
 The monk fell savagely on all the sages of Hellas. 
 He forgot that he was speaking to a child and 
 launched into a whole sermon, which wounded 
 Julian in a sensitive place. He attacked Pythag- 
 oras, as an old man fallen into his dotage, in
 
 30 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 the most shameful terms. And Plato's ravings 
 seemed to him not worth talking about. He 
 simply called them abominable, and spoke of the 
 great pupil of Socrates as an imbecile. 
 
 "Head what Diogenes Laerlius says about Soc- 
 rates," he said to Julian, with malicious pleasure, 
 "and you will see that he was a usurer, and besides 
 that, he stained himself with sins which it is not 
 lawful even to speak about/' 
 
 But a special detestation was awakened in him 
 toward Epicurus. 
 
 "I hold him to be unworthy of an answer. The 
 bestiality with which he plunged into all kinds of 
 passions, and the baseness with which he made 
 himself the slave of sensual pleasures, show well 
 enough that he was not a man, but a beast!" 
 
 Quieting down a little, be began to explain some 
 impalpable shade of Arian dogma., falling with 
 peculiar bitterness on the orthodox Catholic 
 Church, which Eutropius counted heretical. 
 
 Through the window, from the splendid, de- 
 serted garden, came a breath of freshness. Julian 
 pretended to listen attentively to Eutropius. In 
 reality he was thinking of other things, thinking 
 of his dear teacher Mardonius, and remembering 
 his learned lectures, his readings from Homer and 
 Hesiod. How unlike they were to the monk's 
 lessons! 
 
 Mardonius did not read Homer, but chanted 
 him in the manner of the old rhapsodists, and 
 Labda laughed at him, saying that he howled like 
 a dog at the moon. And in fact, for people who 
 Avere not used to it, it was droll at first. The old 
 eunuch conscientiously scanned every foot of the 
 hexameters, waving his hand in time, and a tri-
 
 The Monk Eutropius. 31 
 
 umphant grandeur covered his yellow, wrinkled 
 face. But as his thin, womanish voice grew ever 
 louder and louder Julian no longer noticed the 
 the old man's ugliness, but only his living, pas- 
 sionate soul, moved and stirred by the perfection 
 of beauty. A shiver of delight ran down his back. 
 The divine hexameters mingled and flowed like 
 waves. He saw the parting of Hector and Andro- 
 mache; Odysseus longing for his Ithaca, on Ca- 
 lypso's isle, before the sad, unharvested sea. And 
 a sweet pain stirred Julian's heart; a longing for 
 beloved, ever-living Hellas, the motherland of the 
 gods, the motherland of all who love beauty. 
 Tears trembled in the teacher's voice, tears flowed 
 down his yellow cheeks. 
 
 At times Mardonius spoke to the boy of wisdom, 
 of the stern worthies, of the death of heroes for 
 freedom. And how unlike these speeches also 
 were to the lessons of Eutropius; Mardonius told 
 him of the life of Socrates. When he came to the 
 "Apology" before the people of Athens, the teacher 
 sprang to his feet, took up an attitude of stately 
 dignity, and declaimed the philosopher's speech 
 from memory. His face grew peaceful and rather 
 disdainful. It seemed as if he were not judged 
 by the people, but judging the people. Socrates 
 asked not for mercy. All the power, all the laws 
 of the state, were as nothing before the freedom 
 of the human soul. The Athenians might put him 
 to death, but could never take away the freedom 
 and happiness of his immortal spirit. And when 
 this Scythian, this barbarian, who had been bought 
 a slave from the banks of the Borysthenes, loudly 
 repeated "Liberty!" it seemed to Julian that there 
 was such a superhuman beauty in that word that
 
 32 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 even the fair imagery of Homer grew pale before 
 it, and gazing with wide-open, almost ecstatic 
 eyes, at his teacher, he trembled and grew white 
 for very joy. 
 
 The boy woke up from his dreams, feeling the 
 cold, bony fingers approaching his ears. The 
 lesson in the catechism was at an end. Kneeling 
 down, he pronounced a prayer of gratitude. 
 
 Then leaving Eutropius, he ran swiftly to his 
 room, took a book, and went to his favorite nook 
 in the garden, to read in peace. The book was 
 interdicted: "The Symposium of the Blasphe- 
 mous and Unclean Plato." On the stair, Julian 
 unexpectedly ran into the departing Eutropius. 
 
 "Wait, wait, my dear! What sort of a book has 
 you Majesty got?" 
 
 Julian looked up at him quietly and gave him 
 the book. 
 
 On the parchment binding, Eutropius read the 
 title in large letters: "The Epistles of Paul the 
 Apostle." He gave it back, without opening it. 
 
 "Oh! that's it, is it? Remember that I am 
 responsible for your soul before God, and before 
 the mighty Emperor. Do not read heretical books, 
 especially the philosophers, whose vain learning I 
 sufficiently confuted to-day." 
 
 That was the boy's usual subterfuge. He 
 wrapped the dangerous books in bindings with 
 innocent titles. From his childhood, Julian had 
 learned to dissemble, with more than a child's 
 skill. He took a pleasure in deceiving, especially 
 Eutropius. He sometimes pretended, dissembled, 
 and deceived, without any particular need, from 
 mere habit, misleading everyone except Mardonius, 
 with a feeling of malicious and vengeful pleasure.
 
 The Monk Entropitis. 33 
 
 In Macellura, amongst numberless idle servants, 
 men and women, there was no end of intrigue, 
 slander, gossip, suspicion, tale-bearing. All this 
 servile throng, in the hope of some personal 
 profit, day and night spied on the royal brothers 
 fallen into disfavor. Since Julian could remem- 
 ber, he had expected death from day to day, and 
 little by little had almost grown accustomed to 
 perpetual fear, knowing that neither in the house 
 nor in the garden could he take a step or make a 
 movement that might escape thousands of curious, 
 unseen eyes. The boy heard much, and under- 
 stood much, but had to pretend he neither heard 
 nor understood. Once he overheard a few words 
 of a conversation between Eutropius and a spy 
 sent from Constantius, in which the monk called 
 Julian and Gallus the royal whelps. At another 
 time in the gallery, under the windows of the 
 kitchen, the boy involuntarily heard how the 
 drunken old cook, irritated by some impertinence 
 of Gallus, said to the slave-woman, his paramour, 
 who was washing dishes: "God protect my soul, 
 Priscilla, I cannot understand how it is they 
 have not smothered them yet!" 
 
 When Julian, after the catechetical lesson, ran 
 from the house, and saw the greenness of the trees, 
 he breathed more freely. 
 
 The eternal snows of the two-peaked summit 
 of the Argian mount gleamed white against the 
 blueness of the sky. A cool breath blew from the 
 neighboring glaciers. Paths led away into the dis- 
 tance, through the impenetrable shadow of south- 
 ern stone-oaks, with their small, shining, dark- 
 green leaves. Here and there a ray broke through, 
 and fell on the green of the plane-trees. On one
 
 34 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 side of the garden there was no wall. It ended 
 there in a declivity. Beneath extended the dead 
 desert to the very horizon, to Antitaurus. A hot 
 breath came up from it; but in the garden, cold 
 water sounded, murmuring and bubbling foun- 
 tains played, and streamlets gurgled under clumps 
 of oleanders. Macellum a century ago had been 
 the favorite retreat of Ariarathes, the luxurious 
 and half-mad king of Cappadocia. 
 
 Julian took his way with his Plato to a lonely 
 grotto, not far from the declivity. There stood 
 goat-legged Pan, playing his fhite, and a little 
 altar. From a lion's mouth, a stream of water fell 
 into a marble shell. The entrance was curtained 
 by tea-roses. Through them were seen the hillocks 
 of the desert, misty-blue, undulating like the sea. 
 The scent of the tea-roses filled the cave, and the 
 air would have been heavy but for the crystal 
 spring. The wind brought with it pale yellow 
 leaves, strewing them on the ground, and in the 
 water of the basin; and the humming of bees was 
 heard in the warm, dark air. 
 
 Julian, lying on the moss, read the "Banquet." 
 Much of it he did not understand. But the charm 
 of the book lay in its being forbidden. 
 
 Laying Plato aside, he wrapped it again in the 
 binding of the Epistles of Paul the Apostle, went 
 softly up to Pan's altar, gazed a while at the jolly 
 god, as at an old companion, and lying on his 
 breast on the yellow leaves, brought forth from 
 the interior of the altar, broken and covered with 
 a thin board, an object which was carefully 
 wrapped up in a piece of cloth. Unwrapping it 
 tenderly, the boy set it before him. It was his 
 own handiwork, a splendid toy ship, a Liburnian
 
 The ]\Ionk Entropius. 35 
 
 trireme. He came close to the basin, and put 
 the boat into the water. The trireme rocked on 
 the little waves. It was complete, three masts,, 
 rigging, oars, a gilded beak, and a sail, made from 
 a silk rag that Labda had given him. It remained 
 to make the rudder, and the boy set to work. 
 Whittling a piece of wood; he looked away now 
 and then into the distance, at the undulating hills 
 that peeped between the roses. And over his toy 
 ship he soon forgot all insults, all his hatred and 
 perpetual fear of death. In his grotto, he imag- 
 ined himself lost somewhere amongst the waves;, 
 in a desert cave, high above the sea, subtle- 
 souled Odysseus, building a ship to return to his 
 beloved Ithaca. But there, among the hillocks, 
 where gleamed the roofs of Cesarea, like the foam 
 of the sea, a cross, a little, shining cross, over a 
 basilica, tormented him. That everlasting cross! 
 He tried not to see it, consoling himself with hie 
 trireme. 
 
 "Julian! Julian! Where is he? It is time for 
 church! Eutropius is calling you to church!" 
 
 The boy shuddered, and .hurriedly hid his tri- 
 reme in the hollow of the altar. 
 
 Then he set his hair and clothing in order, and 
 when he left the grotto, his face had again taken 
 on its impenetrable and unchildlike expression 
 of deep dissimulation, as if life had flown away 
 from it. 
 
 Eutropius, holding Julian's hand in his cold,, 
 bony hand, led him to the church.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE BASILICA OF SAINT MAURICE. 
 
 The Arian basilica of Saint Maurice was almost 
 wholly built of stones from the ruined temple of 
 Apollo. 
 
 The sacred court, the atrium, was surrounded 
 on its four sides by colonnades. In the center 
 a fountain bubbled, for the ablutions of the wor- 
 shippers. In one of the side porticos was an old 
 sarcophagus of carved and blackened oak. In the 
 coffin lay the miracle-working remains of Saint 
 Mamas. Eutropius set Julian and Gallus to build 
 a stone grotto over the relics. The work of Gallua, 
 who considered it a pleasant exercise, got on won- 
 derfully; but Julian's wall kept falling all the 
 time. Eutropius explained this by saying the 
 Saint Mamas refused the offering of the boy, who 
 was possessed of a spirit of demoniac pride. 
 
 Near the grotto was a crowd of sick folk, waiting 
 to be healed. One of the Arian monks held a pair 
 of scales. The pilgrims, many of them from dis- 
 tant villages, many parasargs off, carefully weighed 
 pieces of linen, woolen or silk stuff, and laying 
 them on the tomb of Saint Mamas, prayed for a 
 long time, sometimes through the whole night 
 until morning. Then they weighed the same 
 piece of stuff again, to compare it with its former 
 weight. If the stuff was heavier, it meant that 
 the prayer was heard, that the saint had given his 
 blessing like evening dew, falling on the silk, the 
 36
 
 The Basilica of Saint Maurice. 37 
 
 linen, or the wool, and now the stuff could heal 
 diseases. But often the prayers remained un- 
 heard, the stuff remained light, and the pilgrims 
 passed days, weeks, or months beside the tomb. 
 There was one poor woman there, an old nun, 
 Theodyle by name: some thought she was a saint; 
 others thought her half mad. For years she had 
 not left the tomb of Saint Mamas. The sick 
 daughter, for whom the pilgrim had originally 
 asked the saint's blessing, had died long ago, and 
 Theodyle went on praying as before, over her 
 piece of faded, ragged cloth. 
 
 From the atrium, three doors led into the Arian 
 basilica: one of them into the men's division; 
 another into the women's division; the third, to 
 the division for the monks and the clergy. 
 
 Along with Gallus and Eutropius, Julian en- 
 tered by the middle door. He was the anagnost 
 of St. Maurice's; that is, the church reader. A 
 long black robe with wide sleeves covered him. 
 His hair, anointed with olive oil, was held back 
 by a thin band, to keep it out of his eyes, while 
 he was reading. He passed through the crowd, 
 with humbly bent head. His pale face almost 
 involuntarily took on the expression of hypocrit- 
 ical humility, which was indispensable, and to 
 which he had long accustomed it. 
 
 He entered the high Arian ambo. 
 
 The frescoes on one of the walls represented the 
 martyrdom of St. Euphemia. The executioner 
 had caught hold of the martyr's head, and was 
 holding it bent back, immovable. Another, open- 
 ing her mouth with a pair of tongs, brought a cup 
 close to her throat, probably with melted lead. 
 Beside it was depicted another scene of torture.
 
 38 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 The same St. Euphemia was hanging to a tree 
 by her hands, and the executioner was scarring 
 her blood-stained and almost childish limbs with 
 an instrument of torture. 
 
 Under the frescoes was an inscription: "By the 
 blood of the martyrs, oh Lord, thy church is made 
 beautiful, as by purple and fine linen." 
 
 On the opposite wall sinners were depicted, 
 flaming in hell. Above was seen paradise, with 
 the just made perfect; one of them was gathering 
 red fruit from the tree of life; another was sing- 
 ing, playing on a harp; and a third was bending 
 down, leaning on a cloud, and watching the tor- 
 tures of hell, with a serene smile. 
 
 Beneath was the inscription: ''There shall be 
 weeping and gnashing of teeth." 
 
 The sick from the tomb of St. Mamas entered 
 the church. There were lame, blind, cripples, 
 paralytics, children on crutches, looking like old 
 men, demoniacs, idiots, pale faces with inflamed 
 eyelids, and with an expression of dumb and hope- 
 less submission. When the choir ceased, in the 
 silence was heard the heart-breaking sighing of 
 the church widows, in their black dresses, or the 
 rattling of the old Monk Pamphilus' chains. 
 During many years, Pamphilus had not exchanged 
 a word with any one, perpetually repeating: "Oh 
 Lord! oh Lord! give me tears, give me feeling, 
 give me mortal memory!" 
 
 The air was hot, as in a vault, heavy, charged 
 with incense, the smell of wax, the smoke of lamps, 
 the breath of all those sick people. 
 
 That day Julian had to read from the Apoc- 
 alypse.
 
 The Basilica of Saint Maurice. 39 
 
 The terrible images of the Kevelation were 
 enumerated. 
 
 There was the pale horse, and his name that 
 sat on him was Death. And the nations of the 
 earth trembled, for the end of all things was at 
 hand. And the sun became black as sackcloth of 
 hair, and the moon became as blood. And men 
 said to the mountains and rocks: "Fall on us, and 
 hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the 
 throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb. For the 
 great day of his wrath is come, and who shall be 
 able to stand?" 
 
 And the prophecy was repeated: "And in those 
 days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; 
 and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from 
 them." 
 
 And a cry arose: "Blessed are the dead!" And 
 there was the bloody slaughter of the nations. 
 And the vine of the earth was cast into the great 
 winepress of the wrath of God, and the winepress 
 was trodden, and blood came out of the winepress, 
 even unto the horse bridles, by the space of a 
 thousand and six hundred furlongs. 
 
 And men blasphemed the God of heaven, be- 
 cause of their pains and of their sores, and re- 
 pented not of their deeds. And an angel cried 
 with a loud voice, saying: "If any man worship 
 the beast of his image, the same shall drink of the 
 wine of the wrath of God, which is poured out 
 without mixture into the cup of his indignation, 
 and he shall be tormented with fire and brimstone 
 in the presence of the holy angels, and in the 
 presence of the Lamb. And the smoke of their 
 torment ascendeth up for ever and ever; and they
 
 40 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 have no rest day nor night who worship the beast 
 and his image." 
 
 Julian ceased. Silence reigned in the church. 
 Heavy sighs were heard through the frightened 
 crowd, and people beating their heads against the 
 flagstones of the church, and the rattling of the 
 idiot's chains, as he cried: "Oh Lord! oh Lord! 
 give me tears, give me feeling, give me mortal 
 memory!" 
 
 The boy looked up, at the great half-circle of 
 mosaic, between the pillars of the arcade. It was 
 the Arian image of the Christ, a menacing, dark, 
 thin face, with a golden oreole and diadem, already 
 grown like the diadems of the Byzantine emper- 
 ors; almost an old man, with a long, thin nose, and 
 tightly-pressed lips. With his right hand he was 
 blessing the earth, and with his left hand he held 
 a book, and in the book was written: "Peace be 
 unto you. I am the light of the world." He was 
 seated on a splendid throne, and a Eoman emperor 
 (it seemed to Julian that it was Constantius) was 
 kissing his feet. 
 
 But at the same time, there, below, in the twi- 
 light, where was only the light of a small lamp, 
 was seen a bas-relief on a sarcophagus of the ear- 
 liest Christian period. There were sculptured 
 graceful little Nereids, panthers, merry Tritons, 
 and beside them Moses, simple-minded Jonah with 
 the whale, Orpheus charming wild beasts with the 
 sound of his lyre, olive boughs, doves, fish, simple 
 symbols of pure, childlike faith. And among 
 them the Good Shepherd, carrying a lamb on his 
 shoulders; the lamb that had been lost and was 
 found, the sinner's soul. He was simple and joy- 
 ful, the bare-footed youth with his beardless,
 
 The Basilica of Saint Maurice. 41 
 
 humble and modest face, like the faces of the poor 
 country people. He wore a smile of heavenly 
 gladness. It seemed to Julian that no one any 
 longer saw or knew the Good Shepherd, and with 
 that little image of other times was bound up in 
 his mind a kind of far-away, childish dream, 
 which he sometimes wished to recall, and could 
 not. The youth with the lamb on his shoulders 
 looked at him alone, with a mysterious reproach. 
 And Julian whispered the word he had heard 
 from Mardonius: "Galilean!" 
 
 At that moment the oblique rays of the sun, 
 falling through the window, made a tremulous 
 pillar in the smoke of the incense; and the pillar, 
 slightly rocking, seemed to rise into a menacing, 
 dark head, the head of the Arian Christ, sur- 
 rounded with a golden oreole. The choir suddenly 
 burst forth triumphant: 
 
 "And let all flesh of man keep silent, and stand 
 in fear and trembling, and let nought upon earth 
 trust in itself. For the King of kings and Lord 
 of lords cometh to judge and to give them for food 
 to the faithful. And let the angels come before 
 him, with every principality and power, the many- 
 eyed cherubim and the six-winged seraphim, cov- 
 ering their faces, and singing: Alleluia! Alleluia! 
 Alleluia!" 
 
 And the chant swept like a storm over the bent 
 heads of the worshippers. 
 
 The image of the bare-footed youth, the Good 
 Shepherd, departed to an immeasurable distance, 
 but still watched Julian reproachfully, and the 
 boy's heart was full, not of reverence, but of intol- 
 erable fear before that secret, which he was not 
 destined to penetrate his whole life long.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 THE SHRINE OF VENUS. 
 
 From the Arian basilica, Julian returned to 
 Maeellum, taking with him his model trireme, 
 completed, and carefully wrapped up, and unseen 
 by anyone, Eutropius had gone away for several 
 days, slipped out through the gates of the for- 
 tress, and ran past the church of St. Maurice, to 
 the neighboring shrine of Aphrodite. 
 
 The sacred grove of the goddess bordered on 
 the graveyard of the Christian church. Hostility 
 and quarrels, even lawsuits between the two tem- 
 ples never ceased. The Christians demanded the 
 destruction of the unclean shrine; the priest 
 Olympiodorus made complaints against the 
 church watchmen: by night they secretly broke 
 the immemorial cypresses of the sacramental 
 grove, and dug graves for Christian dead in the 
 sacred soil of Aphrodite. 
 
 Julian entered the grove. The warm air encir- 
 cled him. The heat of midday sucked big drops 
 of resin from the grey, gnarled roots of the black 
 cypresses. Julian felt as though the twilight of 
 the grove was full of the inspiration of Aphrodite. 
 
 Statues gleamed white among the trees. Here 
 was Eros, drawing his bow. Probably one of the 
 church watchmen, in wrath against the idol, had 
 broken off the marble bow. Along with the god's 
 two pretty arms, Love's weapon lay in the grass, 
 at the foot of the statue. But the armless boy, 
 42
 
 The Shrine of Venus. 43 
 
 planting one plump leg in front of him, was still 
 aiming with a wanton smile. 
 
 Julian entered the house of the priest Olym- 
 piodorus. The rooms were tiny, narrow, almost 
 playthings, but cozy. There was no luxury, but 
 rather poverty. There were neither carpets nor 
 plate. Plain stone floors, wooden furniture, cheap 
 amphoras of baked clay. But in every trifle there 
 was distinction. The handle of a simple kitchen 
 lamp was a figure of Poseidon with his trident. 
 It was antique, wonderful work. Sometimes 
 Julian gazed long in ecstasy at the graceful form 
 of a clay vase of cheap olive oil. Everywhere on 
 the walls bright frescoes were seen: here the 
 Xereids, seated on their scaly water-horses; there 
 a young goddess dancing, in a long robe with 
 curved and swelling folds. 
 
 Everything in the little house was smiling, 
 flooded with sunlight. The Nereids on the walls 
 were smiling, and the dancing goddesses, and the 
 Tritons, even the scaly sea-horses, and the bronze 
 Poseidon on the handle of the lamp. And the 
 same gayety was on the faces of the dwellers in 
 the house. They were born gay. They did not 
 know how to be unlovely, or angry, or gloomy. 
 They were satisfied with a dozen or two of tasty 
 olives, some white wheaten bread, a bunch or two 
 of grapes, some cups of wine, mixed with water, 
 this was a regular feast for them. And Diophane, 
 the wife of Olympiodorus, would hang a wreath 
 of laurels in the doorway in sign of the festival. 
 
 Julian entered the little garden of the Atrium. 
 Under the open sky was a fountain, and beside it, 
 among narcissus, acanthus, tulips and myrtle, 
 stood a little bronze image of Hermes, winged,
 
 44 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 laughing, like everything in the house, ready to 
 spread his wings and fly away. Over the flower- 
 beds, in the sun, hovered butterflies and bees. 
 
 Under the light shadow of the portico in the 
 courtyard, Olympiodorus and his seventeen-year- 
 old daughter Amaryllis were playing the graceful 
 Athenian game of cottabus. On a little column, 
 sunk into the ground, swayed a transverse cross- 
 beam, like the scale-beam of a balance. At each 
 end of it were hung small cups. Under each was 
 placed a vessel of water, with a little bronze statu- 
 ette in it. The game was to splash wine out of a 
 cup, from a certain distance, so that it should fall 
 in one of the scales, which then tipped down, and 
 struck the bronze statuette. 
 
 "Play, play. It is your turn!" cried Amaryllis. 
 
 "One, two, three!" 
 
 Olympiodorus splashed the wine, but missed. 
 He laughed a childlike laugh; it was strange to 
 see a full-grown man, with grey streaks in his 
 hair, carried away by a game, like a child. 
 
 The girl, with a charming gesture of her bare 
 arm, throwing back the purple tunic, splashed the 
 wine, and the kottabos struck the statuette, and 
 rang. 
 
 Amaryllis clapped her hands, and laughed. 
 
 Suddenly they saw Julian in the doorway. 
 
 They all began to kiss him, and embrace him. 
 Amaryllis cried: 
 
 "Diophane, where are you? Look at the guest 
 who has come. Quick, quick!" 
 
 Diophane ran in from the kitchen. 
 
 "Julian, my beloved boy! You look as if you 
 had grown thin. We have not seen you for a long 
 time."
 
 The Shrine of Venus. 45 
 
 And she cried out, radiant with pleasure: 
 
 "Well, make merry, my children. To-day we 
 shall have a real feast. I shall make garlands of 
 fresh roses, and roast three whole perch, and make 
 sweet ginger pastry!" 
 
 At that moment, a young slave-girl came up and 
 whispered to Olympiodorus that a rich patrician 
 lady from Cesarea wished to see him, as priest of 
 Aphrodite. He went out. 
 
 Julian and Amaryllis were left to play kottabos. 
 
 Then noiselessly on the threshold appeared a 
 ten-year-old, slender, pale, fair-haired girl, 
 Psyche, the younger daughter of Olympiodorus. 
 She had light blue, large, sad eyes. Alone of the 
 whole household she seemed to Olympiodorus not 
 consecrated to Aphrodite, a stranger to the gen- 
 eral gladness. She lived a life apart, remained 
 pensive, when the others laughed, and no one knew 
 the cause of her sorrows and her joys. Her father 
 considered her a pitiful creature, -incurably ailing, 
 tainted by the evil eye, and the charms of his 
 everlasting foes, the Galileans. They took his 
 child in revenge. Black-curled Amaryllis was 
 Olympiodorus' favorite daughter. But her mother 
 secretly spoiled Psyche, and loved her sickly child 
 with a jealous passion, not understanding her 
 inner life. 
 
 Psyche, unknown to her father, went to the 
 basilica of Saint Maurice. 
 
 Neither the caresses of her mother, nor her 
 prayers, or threats were of any avail. 
 
 The priest in despair shunned Psyche. When 
 she was mentioned, his face clouded over, and his 
 expression became unkind. He asserted that, 
 through his daughter's impiety, the vineyard for-
 
 46 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 merly blessed by Aphrodite, began to bear less 
 fruit,, that the little cross of gold, which the girl 
 wore on her breast, was enough to pollute the 
 temple of Aphrodite. 
 
 "Why do you go to the church?" Julian asked 
 her once. 
 
 "I do not know. It is pleasant there. Have 
 you seen the Good Shepherd?" 
 
 "Yes, I have seen him. The Galilean! Where 
 did you learn about him?" 
 
 "The old woman Theodyle told me. Since then, 
 I have gone to the church. And why is it, tell 
 me, Julian, why do they all hate the Good Shep- 
 herd so?" 
 
 Olympiodorus returned triumphant, and told 
 of his talk with the patrician lady. She was a 
 young, distinguished girl. Her betrothed had 
 ceased to love her. She thought that he was be- 
 witched by the charms of a rival. She had gone 
 many time to the Christian church, fervently 
 praying at the' tomb of Saint Mamas. Neither 
 fasts, nor vigils, nor prayers availed. "As if the 
 Christians can help you!" exclaimed Olympio- 
 dorus, contemptuously, and glanced under his knit 
 brows at Psyche, who was listening attentively. 
 "And so the Christian came to me. Aphrodite 
 will heal her." 
 
 He triumphantly showed two white doves tied 
 together. The Christian lady had asked him to 
 offer them as a sacrifice to the goddess of love. 
 
 Amaryllis, taking the doves in her hands, kissed 
 their soft red toes, and cried that it was a pity to 
 kill them. 
 
 "Father, let us offer them, but without killing 
 them."
 
 The Shrine of Venus. 47 
 
 "How? Can there be an offering without 
 blood?" 
 
 "Let us do this. Let us set them free! They 
 will fly straight up to heaven, to the throne of 
 Aphrodite. Is it not true the goddess is there, in 
 the sky? She will take them to her. Allow me, 
 please, dearest!" 
 
 Amaryllis kissed him so tenderly that he had 
 %ot the courage to refuse. 
 
 Then the girl loosed the doves, and set them 
 free. They fluttered their white wings with a 
 joyful rustle, and flew up into the sky, to the 
 throne of Aphrodite. Shading his eyes with his 
 hands, the priest watched the Christian's offering 
 disappear in the blue. And Amaryllis jumped 
 with joy, and clapped her hands: 
 
 "Aphrodite! Aphrodite! Accept this bloodless 
 sacrifice!" 
 
 Olympiodorus went out. Julian triumphantly 
 and shyly approached Amaryllis. His voice 
 trembled, when he uttered the girl's name in a 
 low voice, and his cheeks grew red. 
 
 "Amaryllis, I have brought you " 
 
 "Yes, I wanted to ask long ago what you had 
 with you?" 
 
 "It is a trireme." 
 
 "A trireme? What kind? What for? What 
 do you say?" 
 
 "A real Liburnian one!" 
 
 He began rapidly to unwrap his present, and 
 suddenly felt an indefinable shame and shyness. 
 
 Amaryllis watched him, bewildered. 
 
 He grew completely confused, and looked at her 
 silently, entreatingly, launching the toy ship in 
 the basin of the fountain.
 
 48 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "Do not think, Amaryllis. It is a trireme, a real 
 one, with sails. You see, it floats, and there is a 
 rudder." 
 
 But Amaryllis laughed aloud at his present. 
 
 "How odd you are! What am I to do with a 
 trireme? You cannot go far in her! That is a 
 ship for mice or cicadas! Better give it to Psyche, 
 she will be glad. You see how hungrily she is 
 watching!" 
 
 Julian was deeply hurt. He tried to assume an 
 indifferent expression, but felt that tears were 
 near, that his throat was contracted, that his lips 
 trembled and pouted. He made a desperate effort, 
 restrained his tears, and said: 
 
 "I see, you do not understand anything." 
 
 He thought a moment, and added : 
 
 "You do not understand anything about art." 
 
 But Amaryllis only laughed the louder. 
 
 To add to the insult, she was called away to 
 meet her betrothed. He was a rich merchant of 
 Samos. He scented himself too much, dressed 
 without taste, and made grammatical blunders in 
 conversation. Julian detested him. The whole 
 house was overcast for him, and its gayety fled 
 when he learned that" the Samian had come. 
 
 From the next room came the joyful twittering 
 of Amaryllis, and the voice of her betrothed. 
 
 Julian seized his beloved Liburnian trireme, 
 which had cost him such infinite pains, broke the 
 mast, tore up the sail, tangled the rigging, broke 
 and disfigured the hull, without saying a word, 
 with silent detestation, to the no small astonish- 
 ment of Psyche. 
 
 Amaryllis returned. On her face were the 
 traces of another's happiness, the excess of life,
 
 The Shrine of Venus. 40 
 
 the immeasurable joy of love, which makes young 
 girls feel the need of kissing and embracing some 
 one. 
 
 "Julian, forgive me. I have offended you. 
 Well, forgive me, dear. You see how I love you, 
 I love you." 
 
 And before he could come to himself, Ama- 
 ryllis, throwing back her tunic, flung her bare, 
 fresh arms around his neck. And his heart ceased 
 beating from the sweetness of passion: he saw, 
 nearer him than he had ever seen them, those big, 
 soft, dark eyes. A perfume breathed from her, 
 strong as from flowers, when you press your face 
 into a bouquet. The boy's head was turned. She 
 pressed his body to her supple young breast. He 
 closed his eyes, and felt on his lips a lingering, 
 tormenting kiss. 
 
 "Amaryllis! Amaryllis! Where are you?" 
 
 It was the voice of the Samian. Julian pushed 
 the girl away from him with all his strength. His 
 heart was sore with pain and hate. 
 
 He cried out: "Let me alone, leave me!" tore 
 himself away, and fled. 
 
 "Julian! Julian!" 
 
 Unheeding, he ran from the house, through the 
 vineyard, through the cypress grove, and only 
 stopped at the temple of Aphrodite. 
 
 He heard them calling him, he heard Dio- 
 phane's gay voice, announcing that the ginger 
 pastry was ready, and did not answer. They began 
 to look for him. He hid in the laurel bushes at the 
 pedestal of Eros, and waited. They thought he 
 had run back to Macellum. The household had 
 grown used to his sombre strangeness. 
 
 When all had grown quiet, he left his hiding-
 
 50 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 place, and looked at the temple of the goddess of 
 love. 
 
 The temple stood on a considerable hillock, 
 open on all sides. 
 
 The white marble of the Ionic columns, flooded 
 with sunlight, bathed voluptuously in the azure, 
 and the dark, warm blue rejoiced, embracing the 
 marble, cold and white as snoAV. At either corner, 
 the pediment was crowned with two acroteres, in 
 the form of griffons. With uplifted claws, with 
 open eagle beaks, with round, woman's breasts, 
 they stood out, firm outlines against the blue 
 heavens. 
 
 Julian ascended the steps to the portico, softly 
 opened the unfastened door of bronze, and en- 
 tered the interior of the shrine, the sacred naos. 
 
 Coolness and stillness breathed around him. 
 
 The declining sun still lighted the upper row 
 of capitols, with their fine carving, like ringlets. 
 Below was twilight. From a tripod came the 
 scent of the burned ashes of myrrh. 
 
 Julian shyly raised his eyes, pressing close to 
 the wall, and holding his breath. He was struck 
 dumb. 
 
 It was she. Under the open sky stood white 
 Aphrodite Anadyomene, in the midst of the 
 temple, goddess new-born from the foam, in all 
 her unshamed beauty of nakedness. The god- 
 dess looked on heaven and earth with a smile, 
 wondering at the loveliness of the world, not 
 knowing yet that it was her own loveliness, 
 reflected in heaven and earth, as in everlasting 
 mirrors. The touch of human garments had not 
 defiled her. Thus stood she there, perfect and
 
 The Shrine of Venus. 51 
 
 naked, like that cloudless sky of almost menacing 
 blue above her head. 
 
 Julian gazed insatiate. Time stood still. Sud- 
 denly he felt a throb of reverence run through his 
 body. The boy, in his dark, monk's gown, fell on 
 his knees before Aphrodite, with face uplifted, 
 pressing his hands to his heart. 
 
 Afterward, still as distantly, and as shyly, he 
 sat on the pedestal of a column, his eyes fixed on 
 her, and his cheek pressed to the cold marble. 
 The stillness entered his soul. He sank into sleep. 
 But even in dream, he felt her presence. She 
 drew nearer and nearer to him. Her soft, white 
 arms encircled his neck. The boy gave himself up 
 with a passionless smile to her passionless embrace. 
 The coldness of the marble entered into the deeps 
 of his heart. This holy embrace was not like the 
 hot, painfully passionate embrace of Amaryllis. 
 His soul was set free from earthly love. This was 
 the last rest, like the ambrosial nights of Homer, 
 like the sweet repose of death. 
 
 When he awoke, it was dark. Stars were shi- 
 ning in the square of open sky. The sickle of the 
 moon cast a gleam on Aphrodite's head. 
 
 Julian arose. Olympiodorus must have come, 
 but had not noticed the boy; or had not wished 
 to disturb him, guessing his grief. On the bronze 
 tripod, fresh coals were glowing red, and a thread 
 of scented smoke rose before the image of the 
 goddess. 
 
 Julian approached with a glad smile, and from 
 the vase of chrysolite, between the feet of the 
 tripod, took a few grains of scented resin, and
 
 52 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 threw them on the coals of the altar. The smoke 
 rose thicker. 
 
 And a rosy gleam of fire flamed up, like a light 
 flush of life on the goddess's face, mingling with 
 the gleam of the new-born moon. 
 
 Pure Aphrodite; as it were Urania, descended 
 from the stars to the earth. 
 
 Julian bowed down and kissed the feet of the 
 image. 
 
 He prayed to her: 
 
 "Aphrodite! Aphrodite! I will be thine for 
 ever!" 
 
 And hot tears fell on the cold marble feet of the 
 statue. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 CALLUS AND THE DANCING GIRL. 
 
 In one of the poor and dirty quarters of Syrian 
 Seleucia, on the shore of the Mediterranean sea, 
 the trade haven of Antioch, the great, narrow, 
 crooked streets issued on a square by the wharves. 
 The sea was invisible from the forest of masts and 
 rigging. 
 
 The houses consisted of disordered frames 
 heaped together, and smeared with clay. On the 
 street side, they were sometimes covered with a 
 tattered carpet, looking like dirty rags, or matting. 
 In all these corners, frames, by-streets with their 
 heavy smell of washing, launderies, and work- 
 men's baths, a variegated, beggarly, and hungry 
 mob perpetually swarmed.
 
 Gallus and the Dancing Girl. 53 
 
 The sun was setting after burning the earth 
 dry. The twilight descended on swift wings. The 
 heat, dust, and glow still hung heavy over the city. 
 From the market came a suffocating smell of meat 
 and vegetables, that had lain all day in the heat. 
 Half-naked slaves were carrying bales from the 
 ships along the gangway-planks. One side of 
 their heads was shaven. Red weals from blows 
 were seen through their rags. On the faces of 
 many were great scars, branded with hot irons. 
 Some times there were the two letters, C and F, 
 meaning "Cave furem," "Beware of the thief." 
 
 Fires were being lit. In spite of the approach 
 of night, the stir and talk in the narrow by-streets 
 did not diminish. From a neighboring smithy 
 were heard the ear-splitting blows of a hammer 
 on sheet-iron; the glow of the furnace flamed, the 
 black smoke rolled upward. Alongside bakers, 
 covered from head to foot with the white dust of 
 flour, with red eyelids, inflamed by the heat, were 
 setting bread in the ovens. A shoemaker, with an. 
 open shop-front, from which came a smell of cob- 
 bler's wax and leather, was stitching shoes by the 
 light of a little lamp, sitting on his haunches, and 
 with full throat singing a song in a barbarian 
 tongue. From one room to another, across a by- 
 street, two old women, regular witches, with dis- 
 heveled grey hair, were crying out and abusing 
 each other, stretching out their hands to scratch 
 each other, and all on account of a cord on which 
 they hung rags to dry. And below, a merchant, 
 hurrying from afar, on a bony, broken-down nag, 
 to a market which was to take place on the mor- 
 row, was carrying a whole mountain of stale fish 
 in his wicker panniers. The passers-by turned and
 
 54 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 cursed at the intolerable stench. A fat-cheeked 
 little Jew, with ruddy curls, was hammering a 
 huge bronze dish, delighted with the deafening 
 noise. Other children, small, innumerable, born 
 and dying every day in hundreds in that nest of 
 paupers, rolled in the dust, squeaking like sucking 
 pigs, round a pool where were pieces of orange- 
 peel and egg-shell. In even darker and more sus- 
 picious by-streets, where lived the petty thieves, 
 where a smell of dampness and sour wine rose 
 from the taverns, sailors from the ends of the 
 earth went arm in arm, shouting out drunken 
 songs. Over the doors of a lupanarium was hung 
 a lamp with a carven image, dedicated to the 
 god Priapus; and when the curtain in the doorway 
 was raised, a crowded row of little rooms, like 
 stalls, were seen within. Above each was a sign 
 with a price. In the breathless darkness the 
 naked bodies of women gleamed white. 
 
 And above all this noise and talk, over all this 
 human filth and poverty, was heard the distant 
 sigh of the breakers, the murmur of the invisible, 
 everlasting sea. 
 
 At the very windows of an underground kit- 
 chen, kept by a Phoenician merchant, beggars 
 were playing at knuckle-bones, and chattering. 
 The fumes of stewing fat spread from the kitchen, 
 in thick clouds with a smell of pastry and cooked 
 game. The hungry knaves inhaled it, closing 
 their eyes in delight. 
 
 A Christian, a dyer of purple, dismissed from a 
 rich Tyrian factory for theft, who was hungrily 
 sucking a leaf of mallow, thrown out by the cook, 
 spoke: 
 
 ."And good people, what is doing in Antioch
 
 Callus and the Dancing Girl. 55 
 
 it is best not to speak about it, especially at night- 
 fall! The other day, the starving people pulled 
 the prefect Theophilus to pieces. And what for, 
 God only knows! When they had done with him, 
 they remembered that the poor fellow was a good 
 sort, and an honest man. They say Caesar set the 
 mob on him." 
 
 Then a broken-down old man, a very skilful 
 pickpocket, began: 
 
 "I saw Caesar once. I don't know. I liked him. 
 Young he was, with hair as white as flax. A fat 
 face, but good-natured. But how many murders, 
 oh Lord, how many murders! Revolution! Peo- 
 ple go through the streets in fear." 
 
 "All that is not Caesar but his wife, Constan- 
 tina: she is a witch!" 
 
 Some strangers came up to the speakers, as if 
 they wished to take part in the conversation. If 
 the light from the kitchen nad been stronger, it 
 might have been seen that their faces were painted, 
 that their clothing was tattered and torn artifici- 
 ally, like that of beggars on the stage. In spite of 
 his rags, the hands of the dirtiest were white and 
 fine, with pink, trim nails. One of them said to 
 his companions, speaking low, close to his ear: 
 
 "Listen, listen, Agamemnon: they are talking 
 about Caesar here, too." 
 
 The stranger whom they called Agamemnon 
 seemed to be drunk. He staggered. His beard, 
 unnaturally thick and long, made him look like a 
 fantastic brigand. But his eyes were good-natured, 
 bright-blue, and even childish. His companions 
 stopped him with a frightened whisper: 
 
 "Take care."
 
 56 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 The pickpocket continued in a whining voice, 
 as if he was singing: 
 
 "No, but tell me, men and brothers, is it right? 
 Bread gets dearer every day. People die like 
 flies. And suddenly No, only think of it, is 
 that right? A day or two ago, a big, three- 
 masted ship came from Egypt. Everybody was 
 delighted. We thought it was bread. Caesar, they 
 said, wrote for it, to feed the people. And what 
 was it, what was it, good people? Dust from 
 Alexandria, a special kind of red, Libyan dust, to 
 rub the athletes with. Dust, instead of bread. 
 Well, is that right?" he concluded, making a ges- 
 ture of dissatisfaction with his deft, thievish 
 fingers. 
 
 Agamemnon nudged his companion. 
 
 "Quick! ask his name! ask his name!" 
 
 "Gently, not now; later." 
 
 A wool-carder remarked: 
 
 "We have everything quiet enough in Seleucia. 
 But in Antioch, treachery, accusations, spying!" 
 
 The dyer, who had sucked the mallow-leaf for 
 the last time, and thrown it away, convinced that 
 it* had lost the last vestige of taste, muttered 
 gloomily under his breath: 
 
 "Well, please God, human flesh and blood will 
 soon be cheaper than bread and wine." 
 
 The wool-carder, a terrible drunkard and phil- 
 osopher, sighed heavily: 
 
 "Oh-ho-ho! We wretched mortals! The blessed 
 Olympians play with us as if we were balls. Now 
 to the right, now to the left, now up, now down: 
 men weep, but the gods laugh!" 
 
 Agamemnon's companion managed to mix in 
 the conversation, and deftly, as if he hardly cared,
 
 Callus and 'the Dancing Girl. 57 
 
 asked their names. He even managed to overhear 
 what the wandering shoemaker said in a whisper 
 to the wool-carder, about a plot against Caesar's 
 life, among the Pretorian soldiers. 
 
 Then going a few steps backward, he wrote the 
 names of the speakers with an elegant stylus on 
 wax tablets, where many names were already 
 recorded. 
 
 At this moment there came from the market- 
 square the hoarse, rumbling sounds of a hydraulic 
 organ, like the cry of some subterranean monster, 
 something between laughter and crying. A blind 
 Christian slave was paid four oboli a day to pump 
 water to produce these strange and weird sounds. 
 
 Agamemnon dragged his companions to the 
 booth, beside which stood the organ; it was cov- 
 ered, like a tent, with blue cloth, on which were 
 silver stars. A lamp illuminated a blackboard 
 serving as a notice-board with a program of the 
 representation, written in chalk, in Syrian and 
 Greek. 
 
 Inside, it was breathless. It smelt of garlic and 
 smoking oil-lamps. To supplement the organ, 
 two piercing flutes were shrilling, and a black 
 Ethiopian was hammering a tambourine, and turn- 
 ing up the white of his eyes. 
 
 A dancer leaped and twisted on a rope, clapping 
 his hands in time to the music. He sang a fash- 
 ionable song. 
 
 The lean, snub-nosed buffon, the cinaedus, was 
 old, hideous, and grey. Drops of sweat streamed 
 from his shaven forehead, mixed with rouge. His 
 wrinkles, plastered with powder, were like crevices 
 in a wall, where the lime is melted by the rain. 
 
 When he disappeared, the organ and the flutes
 
 58 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 stopped. A fifteen-year-old girl came out on the 
 stage to perform the famous "cordax," a dance 
 that all the people were mad about. The fathers 
 of the church fulminated against it, the Eoman 
 laws forbade it, but all in vain. The cordax was 
 danced everywhere, by poor and rich, the wives 
 of senators and street-dancing girls alike. 
 
 Agamemnon cried out in ecstasy: 
 
 "What a girl!" 
 
 Thanks to the fists of his companions, he strug- 
 gled through to the front row. 
 
 The lean, dusky body of the Nubian girl was 
 encircled round the middle only by a gauze-like, 
 rose-colored fabric. Her hair lay thickly on her 
 head, in glossy black curls, after the manner of 
 the women of Ethiopia. The girl's face was of the 
 purest Egyptian type, recalling the face of the 
 sphinx. 
 
 The crotalistria began to dance languidly and. 
 carelessly as though she were weary. Above her 
 head, the bronze cymbals, the crotalia, tinkled 
 almost inaudibly in her finely-shaped hands. 
 
 Then her movements grew quicker, and sud- 
 denly from beneath her long lashes, her yellowish 
 eyes flashed, transparent and fierce like the eyes 
 of a wild beast. She straightened herself, and the 
 bronze crotalia rang with a penetrating note, so 
 keen and clear that the whole crowd started, 
 breathless. 
 
 Then the girl began to turn, swift, slender, 
 supple as a snake. Her nostrils distended. A 
 strange cry broke from her lips. At every swift 
 movement, her small, dark breasts, girt with a 
 green silk net, trembled like two ripe fruit in the
 
 Gallus and the Dancing Girl. 59 
 
 wind, and the rouge with which they were tipped 
 shone red through the net. 
 
 The crowd cried out with delight. Agamem- 
 non was beside himself. His companions held him 
 by the arms. 
 
 Suddenly the girl stopped, as if her strength 
 had failed her. A light shiver ran along her 
 dusky body from head to foot. Silence followed. 
 The Nubian's head was thrown back, and the cym- 
 bals above it vibrated with an almost intangible, 
 dying sound, like the wings of a captive butterfly. 
 Her yellow eyes grew dim. But in their very 
 depths gleamed two sparks. Her face was set and 
 menacing. And on her thick, red lips, the lips of 
 the sphinx, a faint smile trembled. And the 
 bronze cymbals died into stillness. 
 
 The crowd cried out and applauded so loudly 
 that the blue stuff with silver stars fluttered like 
 a sail in a storm, and the master of the booth 
 thought it would fall. 
 
 His companions could no longer restrain Aga- 
 memnon. He threw himself on the stage, raising 
 the curtain, and reached the platform. 
 
 His companions whispered to him: 
 
 "Wait! It could be done to-morrow. Now 
 they might " 
 
 Agamemnon interrupted. 
 
 "Not to-morrow, now!" 
 
 He went to the master of the booth, the sly 
 Greek Myrmex, and hastily, almost without ex- 
 planation, poured a heap of gold coins into the 
 lap of his tunic. 
 
 "The crotalistria is your slave?" 
 
 "Yes; what desires my master?" 
 
 Myrmex looked first at the torn dress which
 
 60 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Agamemnon wore, and then, with astonishment, 
 at the gold. 
 
 "What is your name, girl?" 
 
 "Phyllis." 
 
 To her also he gave money, without counting it. 
 The Greek whispered something in Phyllis' ear. 
 She threw the ringing coins into the air, and 
 caught them again in her palm, and laughing, 
 turned her gleaming golden-glinting, wild eyes on 
 Agamemnon. He spoke: 
 
 "Come with me!" 
 
 Phyllis cast a dark cloak over her bare, dusky 
 shoulders, and glided out beside him into the 
 street. 
 
 She asked submissively: 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "I do not know." 
 
 "To your house?" 
 
 "Impossible. I live in Antioch." 
 
 "And I only came in the ship to-day, and I 
 know nothing of this city." 
 
 "What are we to do?" 
 
 "Wait. Just a little while ago, I saw an un- 
 closed temple of Priapus in the next by-street. 
 Let us go there." 
 
 Phyllis drew him along, laughing. His com- 
 panions wished to follow. He said: 
 
 "Do not come. Stay here." 
 
 "Take care! At least take a weapon. In this 
 quarter it is dangerous." 
 
 And drawing a short sword, like a dagger, from 
 under his cloak, one of his companions gave it to 
 him, respectfully. The handle was splendidly 
 inlaid. 
 
 Stumbling through the darkness, Agamemnon
 
 Galhis and the Dancing Girl. 61 
 
 and Phyllis entered a dark side-street, not far 
 from the market. 
 
 "Here! here! do not fear; go in." 
 
 They entered the porch of the small, deserted 
 temple. A hanging lamp faintly illumined the 
 coarse old columns. 
 
 "Close the door!" 
 
 Just then, from the interior of the temple, came 
 a piercing, cackling, and a weird flutter of white 
 wings, raising such a wind that the lamp almost 
 went out. 
 
 Agamemnon let Phyllis go, and stammered: 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 White forms glimmered in the darkness, like 
 ghosts. Agamemnon, completely frightened, 
 crossed himself involuntarily. 
 
 "What is it? The power of the cross be 
 over us!" 
 
 At that moment something pinched his foot 
 sharply. He cried out with fright and pain. Then 
 he caught his unknown enemy by the throat. He 
 pierced another with his sword. A deafening 
 noise of cries and hissing, and cackling, and flut- 
 tering, arose. The lamp flickered up for the last 
 time, before going out; and Phyllis called out, 
 laughing: 
 
 "They are geese, the sacred geese of Priapus! 
 What have you done?" 
 
 The victor stood, white and trembling, holding 
 in one hand his bloody sword, and in the other a 
 slaughtered goose. 
 
 Loud voices were beard from without, and a 
 whole crowd with torches pressed into the temple. 
 In front was Scabra, the old priestess of Priapus. 
 As was her wont, she had been peaceably drinking
 
 62 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 her wine in the neighboring tavern, when she 
 heard the cries of the sacred geese, and hastened 
 to their assistance, with a whole crowd of night- 
 wanderers. Her hooked red nose, grey, unkempt 
 hair, and eyes like two steel blades, made the 
 priestess of Priapus the image of a Fury. She 
 cried out: 
 
 "Help! help! The temple is polluted! The 
 sacred geese of Priapus are slain! See, these are 
 godless Christians! Seize them!" 
 
 Phyllis escaped, covered from head to foot by 
 her cloak. In an instant the crowd dragged Aga- 
 memnon out to the market-place; he was so be- 
 wildered that he still held the dead goose in his 
 hand. Scabra called the Agoranomes, the market 
 watchmen. 
 
 Every moment the crowd grew denser. 
 
 Agamemnon's companions ran to his rescue. 
 But it was too late. From their haunts, from the 
 taverns, from the shops, from blind alleys, people 
 streamed forth, attracted by the noise. On their 
 faces was that expression of delighted and ecstatic 
 curiosity which always appears at a street commo- 
 tion. A blacksmith ran up, with a hammer in his 
 hand; the old women, his neighbors, the baker, 
 smeared with paste, the shoemaker, hurried up, 
 limping. And behind all the rest, the little red- 
 headed Jewish boy flew along whisting and shout- 
 ing, hammering his bronze basin with a deafening 
 din, as though he was sounding the tocsin. 
 
 Scabra cried out, sticking her nails into Aga- 
 memnon's garment: 
 
 "Wait! Ill get at your vile beard! I won't 
 leave a lock of it! You carrion, raven's food! You
 
 Callus and the Dancing Girl. 63 
 
 night marauder, you are not worth the cord you 
 will hang by!" 
 
 Finally, the awakened Agoranomes appeared, 
 very questionable in their outward looks, much 
 more like night robbers than guardians of the 
 peace. 
 
 In the crowd, the noise was so deafening, min- 
 gled cries, laughter, abuse, that no one could 
 understand anything. Some one cried out: "Mur- 
 derers!" Others: "They were stealing!" Yet 
 others: "Fire!" 
 
 But at that moment, dominating everything, 
 resounded the thundering voice of a half-naked, 
 red-headed giant, with a freckled face, by pro- 
 fession, a bath-attendant; by calling, a street 
 orator: 
 
 "Citizens. Hear me and hearken. I have been 
 following that knave for a long time, and his com- 
 panions, too. They were writing down names. 
 They are spies, spies of Caesar!" 
 
 Scabra, carrying out her long-formed intention, 
 clutched Agamemnon's hair with one hand, and 
 his beard with the other. He tried to push her 
 aside, but she pulled with all her might, and to the 
 astonishment of all, the long black beard and 
 thick hair remained in her hands. The old woman 
 fell on her back. Before the people, instead of 
 Agamemnon, stood a handsome young man, with 
 flowing, soft hair, light as flax, and a little beard. 
 
 The crowd was dumb with astonishment. Then 
 the voice of the bath -man thundered forth again: 
 
 <r Y"ou see, citizens, they are informers, dis- 
 guised !" 
 
 Some one cried: 
 
 "Beat them! Beat them!"
 
 64 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 The crowd wavered. Stones began to fly. His 
 companions gathered round the transformed Aga- 
 memnon, and bared their swords. The wool- 
 carder was struck down by the first blow. He fell, 
 soaked in blood. The little Jew with the bronze 
 basin was knocked over. Faces became like wild 
 beasts. 
 
 At that moment, ten immense Paphlagonian 
 slaves, with a purple litter on their shoulders, 
 knocked the crowd this way and that. 
 
 "Saved!" cried the light-haired youth, and 
 threw himself, with one of his companions, into 
 the litter. 
 
 The Paphlagonians lifted it on their shoulders 
 and ran. 
 
 The maddened crowd would have stopped them, 
 and torn them to pieces on the spot, if some one 
 had not cried out: 
 
 "Do you not see, citizens? It is the Caesar, 
 Gallus Caesar himself!" 
 
 The people stood still, petrified with terror. 
 
 The purple litter, rocking on the backs of the 
 slaves, like a boat on the waves, disappeared in the 
 depths of an unlighted street. 
 
 Six years had passed since the time when Julian 
 and Gallus were confined in the fortress of Macel- 
 lum. The Emperor Constantius had restored 
 them to his favor. Nineteen-year-old Julian had 
 been summoned to Constantinople, and had after- 
 ward been permitted to travel through the cities 
 of Asia Minor. The emperor had made Gallus his 
 coadjutor, the Caesar, and had given him the gov- 
 ernment of the East. But this unexpected favor 
 boded no good. Constantius loved to overwhelm
 
 Gallus and the Dancing Girl. 65 
 
 his enemies, disarming their suspicions with exces- 
 sive favors. 
 
 "Well, Glycon, no matter how much Constan- 
 tina tries to assure me, I will go no more into the 
 streets with false hair. This is the end of it!" 
 
 "We warned your Majesty that it was danger- 
 ous." 
 
 But the Caesar, reclining on the soft cushions 
 of the litter, forgot his recent fear. He was laugh- 
 ing already: 
 
 "Glycon! Glycon! Did you see how that 
 cursed old woman tumbled head over heels, with 
 my beard in her hands? When I looked, she was 
 down already!" 
 
 When they reached the palace, the Caesar or- 
 dered: 
 
 "'Quick, a perfumed bath, and then supper. T 
 am hungry." 
 
 A court attendant approached with a letter. 
 
 "What is it, Norbanus? No, no, business to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 "Gracious Caesar, the letter is important; it 
 comes straight from the camp of the Emperor 
 Constantius." 
 
 "From Constantius! What is it? Give it to 
 me." 
 
 He broke the seal, read it, and grew pale. His 
 knees trembled under him. If the courtiers had 
 not held him up, Gallus would have fallen on the 
 floor. 
 
 Constantius, in the most elaborate, and even 
 flattering terms, invited his dearly-beloved cousin, 
 Gallus, to Mediolanum. At the same time tha 
 emperor commanded that he should immediately 
 Bend him the two legions which were stationed
 
 66 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 in Antioch, Gallus' only protection. Constantius 
 wished to disarm and ensnare his enemy. 
 
 When the Caesar came to himself, he said in a 
 weak voice: 
 
 "Call my wife." 
 
 "Our gracious master, it was your consort's 
 pleasure to leave a short time ago for Antioch." 
 
 "What? And she knows nothing?" 
 
 "She knows nothing." 
 
 "Lord, Lord! What does it mean? Without 
 her! Tell the emperor's messenger no, tell him 
 nothing. I do not know. Can I, without her? 
 Send a swift rider! Tell her that Caesar begs her 
 to return. Lord, what am I to do?" 
 
 He walked about, bewildered, seizing his head 
 with both hands, twisting his fair beard with 
 trembling fingers, and repeating, helplessly: 
 
 "No, no, I will not go for anything. Better 
 death! Oh, I know Constantius!" 
 
 Another messenger came with a paper. 
 
 "From Caesar's consort. On setting out, she 
 begged him to sign it without delay. 
 
 "What? Another death-warrant already! 
 Clematius of Alexandria! This is too much; it 
 cannot be. Three every day!" 
 
 "But such is your consort's good pleasure." 
 
 "Well, it is all the same! Give me the ink! It 
 is all the same now. But why did she go away? 
 What can I do now, alone?" 
 
 And he signed the death-warrant, and looked 
 up with his childish, light-blue, good-natured eyes. 
 
 "The bath and supper are ready." 
 
 "Supper? No but what is there?" 
 
 "Truffles from Africa." 
 
 "Fresh?"
 
 The Godlike lambliclius. 67 
 
 "They have just come." 
 
 "Well, it is better to get some strength, eh? 
 What do you think, my friends? I felt so weak. 
 Truffles. I thought this morning " 
 
 A shallow smile lit up his bewildered face. 
 
 Before entering the cool water, dull opal from 
 the perfumes, the Caesar exclaimed, with a wave 
 of his hand: 
 
 "Well, no matter, no matter! There is no use 
 thinking about it. Oh Lord, have mercy upon us 
 sinful men! Perhaps Constantina will arrange it 
 somehow!" 
 
 And the over-fed pink face grew quite cheerful 
 again. When he plunged into the bath, with his 
 wonted delight, the Caesar cried out joyfully: 
 
 "Tell the cook, without fail, to serve a sour red 
 sauce with the truffles!" 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 THE GODLIKE IAMBLICHUS. 
 
 In the cities of Asia Minor, Nicomedia, Per- 
 gamos, Smyrna, whither nineteen-year-old Julian 
 had wandered in search of Grecian wisdom, he 
 had heard of the famous theurgist and sophist, 
 lambliclius of Chalcidica, the pupil of the Neo- 
 platonist Porphyry, the godlike lamblichus, as all 
 men called him. 
 
 Julian went to him, in Ephesus. 
 
 lamblichus was an old man, small, lean, 
 wrinkled. 
 
 He loved to complain of his illnesses, his gout,
 
 68 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 his rheumatism, his headaches. He abused the 
 doctors, but carefully followed their treatment. 
 He took great delight in talking about poultices, 
 infusions, medicines and plasters. He went about 
 in a soft lined tunic, even in summer, and could 
 never keep warm. He was as fond of the sun as 
 a lizard. 
 
 From his early youth, lamblichus had abstained 
 from eating flesh, and spoke of it with sincere dis- 
 gust. He could not understand how people could 
 eat anything that had had life. His maid-servant 
 prepared him a special kind of barley porridge, a 
 little warm wine, and honey. Even bread the old 
 man could not masticate with his toothless gums. 
 
 Around him were gathered a great crowd of 
 pupils, full of respect and adoration for him, from 
 Rome, Antioch, Carthage, Egypt, Mesopotamia, 
 and Persia. All believed that lamblichus worked 
 miracles. He treated them like a father, who was 
 weary of having so many little, helpless children. 
 When they began to dispute or quarrel, the teacher 
 waved his hand with a grimace of physical pain. 
 He spoke in a gentle, pleasant voice, and the 
 higher rose the voices of the disputants, the more 
 gently spoke lamblichus. He could not endure 
 noise, and hated loud voices and creaking sandals. 
 
 Julian, greatly disappointed, looked with per- 
 plexity at the capricious, shivering, sick, old man, 
 unable to see what power could attract people to 
 him. 
 
 He remembered that it was said that his pupik 
 had seen him once, at night, at the hour of prayer, 
 raised by a miraculous force ten cubits above the 
 ground, and surrounded with an oreole of golden 
 radiance. And there was another story of how the
 
 The Godlike lamblichus. 69 
 
 teacher, in the Syrian town of Gadara, had evoked 
 from the two springs of Eros and Anteros, a joyful 
 genius of love, with fair curls, and a dark, sorrow- 
 ful spirit. Both nestled up to lamblichus, like 
 children, and vanished again at a wave of his hand. 
 
 Julian listened to the words of the teacher, but 
 could find no power in them. The metaphysics 
 of the school of Porphyry seemed to him dry, dead, 
 and terribly complicated. lamblichus seemed to 
 be playing at overcoming dialectic difficulties on 
 contested points. In his teaching of God, of the 
 world, of Ideas, of the Triad of Plotinus, there 
 was deep book-knowledge, and not a spark of 
 life. Julian had expected something different. 
 
 Nevertheless, he waited, and did not go away. 
 
 lamblichus had strange, green eyes, which 
 showed even more distinctly against his dusky, 
 wrinkled skin. Sometimes the evening sky has 
 this greenish color, when seen between dark 
 clouds, before a storm. It seemed to Julian that 
 in those eyes, which were not human, and still 
 less divine, there gleamed that occult, higher, ser- 
 pentlike wisdom, of which lamblichus uttered not. 
 a word to his disciples. But suddenly, in a tired, 
 low voice, the godlike teacher asked why his barley 
 porridge or poultices were not ready, or com- 
 plained of his gout, and Julian's reverence van- 
 ished. 
 
 Once he was walking with Julian outside tho 
 city, on the sea-shore. It was a soft, sad evening. 
 Far off, over the harbor of Panormos, gleamed the 
 white terraces of the famous temple of Diana of 
 the Ephesian?, crowned with statues. On the 
 sandy shore of Cayster, it was here, according to 
 tradition, that Latona gave birth to Apollo and
 
 70 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Diana, the thin, dark reeds were motionless. 
 The smoke of innumerable altars from the sacred 
 grove of Ortygia rose in straight columns to the 
 sky. To the south, the mountains of Samos shone 
 white. The beating of the breakers was soft as 
 the breath of a sleeping child. Transparent waves 
 broke over the smooth, black sand. There was a 
 smell of the salt water warmed by the sun, and of 
 seaweed. The setting sun was hidden behind the 
 clouds, gilding their piled-up masses. 
 
 lamblichus sat down on a stone, and Julian 
 reclined at his feet. The teacher stroked Julian's 
 stiff, black hair: 
 
 "You are sad?" 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "I know, I know. You are seeking, but not 
 finding. You have not the strength to say: 'He 
 is;' and you have not the courage to say 'He is 
 not.' " 
 
 "How did you guess, teacher?" 
 
 "Poor boy! I have been suffering from the same 
 malady for fifty years. And I shall suffer, to the 
 day of my death. Do you think I know Him more 
 than you do? These are perpetual birth-pains. 
 In comparison with them, all other pains are as 
 nothing. People think that they suffer from 
 hunger or thirst or pain or poverty. In reality 
 they suffer only from the thought that perhaps 
 He is not. This is the only suffering in the world. 
 Who dares to say 'He is not?' and who knows what 
 superhuman power is needed to say 'He is?' " 
 
 "And you, even you have never drawn near to 
 Him?" 
 
 "Thrice in my life I experienced the ecstasy, 
 the full absorption into Him. Plotinus experi-
 
 The Godlike lamblichus. 71 
 
 enced it four times. Porphyry, five. There were 
 three moments in my life, for the sake of which 
 it was worth while to live." 
 
 "I asked your pupils about this. They knew 
 nothing." 
 
 "Do they dare to know? The husks of wisdom 
 are enough for them. For almost all men, the 
 kernel is deadly." 
 
 "Let me die, teacher! But give it to me!" 
 
 "You dare?" 
 
 "I dare! Tell me! tell me!" 
 
 "What can I tell you? I know not how. And 
 is it right to speak of it? Listen to the stillness 
 of the evening. It will tell you the secret better 
 than any words." 
 
 And he stroked Julian's head as before, as 
 though he had been a child. The pupil thought: 
 "This is it! this is what I was waiting for!" He 
 clasped lamblichus' knees, looked up entreatingly 
 into his eyes, and said: 
 
 "Teacher, have pity! Reveal all. Do not desert 
 me." 
 
 lamblichus spoke low, as if to himself, as if he 
 neither heard nor saw his puipl.- His strangely 
 unmoving, green eyes were fixed on the clouds, 
 inwardly gilded by the sun. 
 
 "Yes, yes, we have all forgotten the Father's 
 voice. Like children separated from the Father 
 from our cradles, we hear it, and do not recognize 
 it. There must be perfect silence in the soul, a 
 ceasing of all earthly and heavenly voices. Then 
 may we hear His voice. While the reason shines, 
 and like a noonday sun illumines the soul, we 
 remain in ourselves, and behold not God. But 
 when the reason draws near to its setting, an
 
 72 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 ecstasy comes over the soul, like the dew of even- 
 ing. The wicked cannot feel that ecstasy. Only 
 the wise man becomes a lyre, which trembles and 
 resounds under the hand of God. Whence comes 
 the light that illumines the soul? I know not. 
 It comes stealthily, when you do not expect it. 
 It cannot be sought out. God is not far from us, 
 "We must prepare ourselves. We must be full of 
 quietness, and wait, as the eyes wait, for the rising 
 of the sun, that uplifts his light in the words of 
 the poet, from the dark ocean. God neither comes 
 nor goes. He only manifests himself. And then 
 He is the opposite of the world, the opposite of 
 all that is. He is nothing. He is All." 
 
 lamblichus rose from the stone, and slowly 
 spread his lean, weak hands. 
 
 "Be still, be still, I say unto you, be still! 
 Hearken unto Him. He is here. Let the earth 
 and the sea be silent, and the air, and even the 
 heavens! Hearken! It is He who fills the uni- 
 verse, piercing the atoms with His breath, and 
 illumining matter, Chaos, 'that makes the gods 
 to fear,' as the evening sun gilds that dark 
 cloud." 
 
 Julian listened, and it seemed to him that the 
 teacher's voice, weak and low, filled the world, 
 reaching even to the very heavens, to the utmost 
 limits of the deep. But Julian's sadness was so 
 great that it escaped from his breast in an invol- 
 untary sigh: 
 
 "My father, forgive me, but if it be so, to what 
 end is life? why this eternal alternation of life 
 and death? why are there sufferings? why is there 
 evil? why is there a body? why are there doubts? 
 why is there a longing after the impossible?"
 
 The Godlike lamblielius. 73 
 
 lamblichus shuddered slightly, laid his hand on 
 Julian's hair once more, and answered: 
 
 "That is where the mystery lies, my son. There 
 is neither evil, nor the body, nor the world, if He 
 is. Either He, or the world. It seems to us that 
 there is evil, that there is the body, that there is 
 the world. This is but an illusion, a cheat of 
 life. Remember, all have one soul, all men, and 
 even inarticulate things. There was a time when 
 we all rested together in the bosom of the Father, 
 in the everlasting light. But once we looked from 
 above, into the darkness, the material world, and 
 each saw in it his own image, as in a mirror. And 
 the soul said to itself: 'I can and will be free! I 
 am as He is. Can I not dare to separate myself 
 from him, and become the All?' The soul, like 
 Narcissus in the stream, was taken captive by the 
 beauty of its own image, mirrored in the body. 
 And then it fell; it wished to fall to the end, to 
 separate itself from God forever, and could not. 
 The feet of a mortal touch the earth; his brow is 
 higher than the summit of heaven. And so by the 
 everlasting ladder of birth and death, souls, all 
 beings, rise to Him, and descend from Him. They 
 try to depart from the Father, and cannot. Every 
 soul wishes to be God, but in vain: it longs for 
 the bosom of the Father, and finds no rest on 
 earth, thirsting to return to the One. We must 
 return to Him, and then all will be God, and God 
 will be all. Are you the only one who longs for 
 Him? See what a heavenly sadness there is in 
 the stillness of nature. Listen! Can you not feel 
 that all things are longing for Him?" 
 
 The sun set. The golden, incandescent clouds 
 grew cold. The sea became pale and ethereal as
 
 74 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 the sky. The sky, as blue and clear as the sea. 
 Along the road a wagon rumbled. In it sat a 
 youth and a woman, two lovers, perhaps. The 
 woman's voice sang a sad, familiar love-song. 
 Afterward all once more became silent, and still 
 sadder. The swift, southern night descended from 
 the heavens. Julian murmured: 
 
 "How often I have wondered why nature is so 
 sad. The more beautiful, the sadder it is/' 
 
 lamblichus replied with a smile: 
 
 "Yes, yes; nature would fain say what she is 
 grieving for, but cannot. She is dumb. She 
 sleeps, and tries to remember God in her slumber, 
 through the veil of her dream, but cannot, because 
 of the burden of matter. She conceives God 
 dimly and dreamily. All worlds, all stars, and the 
 sea, and the earth, and living things, and trees, 
 and people, all are nature's dreams of God. What 
 she conceives is born and dies. She creates by 
 conceiving only, as happens in dreams; creates 
 easily, knowing neither effort nor obstacle. That 
 is why the waves of her creation are so beautiful, 
 so purposeless, so divine. Nature plays at seeing 
 visions, it is like the sport of the clouds. With- 
 out beginning, it is without end. Beyond con- 
 ceiving, there is nothing in the universe. The 
 deeper it is, the quieter. Will, struggle, action, 
 are only weak, incomplete, or clouded dreams of 
 God. Nature, in her mighty inactivity, creates 
 forms, like Geometry. What she sees, exists. She 
 pours forth form after form, from her maternal 
 bosom. But her dim and silent conception is only 
 the image of another, and a bright one. Nature 
 seeks the word, and finds it not. Nature is the 
 sleeping mother Cybele, with eyes perpetually
 
 The Godlike lamblichus. 75 
 
 closed. Man alone has discovered the word which 
 nature sought, and found not. The soul of man 
 is nature, opening her sleeping lids, awakening, 
 and ready to behold God, no longer in a dream, 
 but openly, face to face." 
 
 The first stars shone out on the darkening and 
 deepening sky. Now and again they faded, only 
 to flash up again once more. They seemed to 
 rotate, like great diamonds, strung to the firma- 
 ment. New stars kept lighting up, and ever new 
 ones. lamblichus pointed to them: 
 
 "To what shall I liken the world all these 
 suns and stars? I shall liken them to a net, cast 
 by the fishermen into the sea. The net moves, but 
 cannot stop the water, and the universe tries to 
 lay hold on God, but cannot. The net moves, 
 but God is still, as the limitless ocean, in which 
 the net is cast. If the universe did not move, God 
 would have created nothing, would not have moved 
 from his repose; for why and what should He 
 strive after? There, in the kingdom of the eternal 
 Mothers, in the bosom of the Universal Spirit, lie 
 the seeds, the Idea-forms, of all that has been, and 
 shall be, the Logos lies hidden, the germ of the 
 cricket, of a blade of grass, and side by side with 
 them, in the germ of the Olympian God." 
 
 Then Julian cried aloud, and his voice sounded 
 on the evening stillness like a cry of mortal pain : 
 
 "But who is He? Who is He? Why does He 
 not answer when we cry to Him? What is His 
 name? I would known Him, see and hear Him. 
 Why does He evade my thought? Where is He?" 
 
 "Poor child, what means thought before Him? 
 He has no name. He is of such nature that we 
 can only say what He cannot be, and never what
 
 76 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 He is. But you cannot suffer without praising 
 Him; you cannot love without praising Him; you 
 cannot curse without praising Him. Creating all, 
 He himself is nought of what He has created. 
 When you say 'He is not/ you offer Him not less 
 praise than when you say 'He is/ Nought can be 
 affirmed of Him; neither existence, nor being, nor 
 life; because He is above all existence, higher than 
 all being, beyond all life. That is why I said He 
 is the negation of the world, the negation of your 
 thought. Turn away from the existent, from all 
 that is; and there, in the abyss of the abyss, the 
 depths of unspeakable darkness, like to the light, 
 thou shalt find Him. Give up for Him friends 
 and kin and land, heaven and earth, and thyself 
 and thy reason. Then thou shalt no longer see 
 the light, for thou shalt be the light. Thou wilt 
 no longer say: 'He and I;' thou wilt feel that 
 He and ihon are one; and thy soul will mock at 
 thine own body, as at a mirage. Then, the 
 silence, and no more words at all. And if the 
 world, at that very moment, should fall into ruins, 
 thou wilt rejoice, for what is the world to thee 
 who art one with Him? Thy soul will desire no 
 more, for He has no desire; it will no more live, 
 for He is above life; it will not think, because He 
 is higher than thought. Thought is a searching 
 for the light; but He seeks not the light, because 
 He is the Light. He penetrates thy soul utterly, 
 and re-creates it into Himself. And then above 
 passion and alone, it rests above reason; higher 
 than the righteous, higher than the realm of 
 Ideas, higher than beauty, in the abyss, in the 
 bosom of the Father of Lights. The soul becomes 
 God, or to speak more truly, it understands at last
 
 The Godlike lambliclms. 77 
 
 that throughout the eternities, it was, and is, and 
 shall be God. . . . Such, my son, is the life of 
 the Olympians, such is the life of godlike men and 
 sages. A renunciation of all that is in the world, 
 a contempt for the passions of earth, the flight of 
 the soul to him whom it beholds face to face." 
 
 He was silent, and Julian fell at his feet, not 
 daring to touch him, and only kissed the earth 
 which the feet of the holy man had touched. 
 Then the pupil raised his face, and gazed into 
 those strange green eyes, in which shone the un- 
 veiled secret of the Serpent's wisdom. They 
 seemed quiet, and deeper than the sky; within 
 them seemed to flow a magical power. Julian 
 whispered : 
 
 "Teacher, you can do all things, I believe! 
 Command the mountains, and the mountains will 
 move! Be like Him! Work a miracle! Accom- 
 plish the impossible; pity me; I believe!" 
 
 "My poor child, what do you ask of me? Is not 
 the miracle which may be accomplished in your 
 soul greater than any miracle that I can work. My 
 child, is not that miracle more terrible and divine, 
 that power in whose name you dare to say: 'He 
 is,' and if He is not, all the same 'He shall be.' 
 And you say: 'So shall He be; I will it so!' "
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF THE TEMPLE. 
 
 When teacher and pupil, returning from their 
 walk, were passing Panormus, the populous port 
 of Ephesus, they noticed an unwonted tumult. 
 
 Many were running through the streets, waving 
 flaming pine torches, and crying: 
 
 "The Christians are destroying the temple! 
 Woe unto us!" 
 
 Others cried: 
 
 "Death to the Olympian gods! Astarte is con- 
 quered by Christ!" 
 
 lamblichus thought to escape by deserted by- 
 streets, but the hurrying crowd carried them along 
 the quay of Cayster, past the shrine of Diana of 
 the Ephesians. The splendid temple, the creation 
 of Dinocrates, stood like a fortress, stern, dark, 
 and immovable, clear-cut against the starry sky. 
 The gleam of the torches shone on the tall col- 
 umns, with their lovely and delicate groups, little 
 caryatides instead of pedestals. Up till now, not 
 only all the Eoman empire, but all the world, had 
 held it sacred. Some one in the crowd cried out 
 hesitatingly: 
 
 "Great is Diana of the Ephesians!" 
 
 And hundreds of voices answered him: 
 
 "Death to the Olympian gods, and to Diana!" 
 
 Above the black walls of the city arsenal rose a 
 blood-red glow. 
 
 Julian looked at his godlike teacher, and did not 
 78
 
 The Destruction of the Temple. 79 
 
 recognize him. lamblichus had once more be- 
 come the timid, sick old man. He complained of 
 headache and expressed a fear that his rheumatism 
 would begin again at night, and that the servant 
 had forgotten the poultices. Julian gave the 
 teacher his upper cloak. Yet he was still cold. 
 With a morbid grimace, he stopped his ears, not 
 to hear the cries and laughter of the crowd. 
 
 lamblichus feared a crowd above all else in the 
 world, and said that no demon was stupider or 
 more repulsive than the genius of the mob. He 
 directed his pupil's attention to the faces of the 
 people who were hurrying past him: 
 
 "Look! what ugliness, what baseness! How 
 confident they are that they are right! Is it not 
 shameful to be a man of the same flesh, the same 
 clay as they?" 
 
 An old Christian woman whimpered: 
 
 "And my sick grandson says'to me: 'Grandma, 
 cook me some meat-soup.' All right, dear, I said, 
 I'm off to the market to get the meat. And I 
 think to myself: meat is cheaper than wheaten 
 bread now. I bought five oboli's worth. I made 
 the soup for him. And my neighbor in the court- 
 yard calls out to me: 'What are you cooking? 
 Do you not know that meat is defiled?' How de- 
 filed? What is the matter? It was this way: to 
 injure good Christian souls, the priests of the 
 goddess Demeter went at night, and sprinkled the 
 whole market and all the meat-shops with water 
 that had been consecrated to the goddess. No one 
 in the city will eat the defiled meat. That is why 
 they are stoning the priests of Demeter, and pull- 
 ing down Demeter's diabolical shrine. And so I 
 threw out the meat-soup to the dogs. Is that a
 
 80 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 joke-five oboli? It would take you a whole day to 
 earn it! But I did not defile my grandson." 
 
 Others told how, the year before, a niggardly 
 Christian had eaten the defiled meat, and all his 
 intestines had rotted. And there was such a 
 stench in the house that all his kindred fled. 
 
 They reached the square. Here was a charming 
 little shrine of Demeter-Isis-Astarte, the three- 
 faced Hecate, the mysterious goddess of the earth's 
 fertility, the mighty and prolific Cybele, the 
 mother of the gods. Monks were crowding round 
 the shrine on all sides, like flies round a honey- 
 comb. The monks swarmed along the white cor- 
 nices, crowding up the stairs singing psalms, and 
 smashed the statues and bas-reliefs. The columns 
 trembled. Splinters of soft marble flew about. It 
 seemed to suffer, like a living body. They tried to 
 set fire to the building, but it was all of marble, 
 and they could not. 
 
 Suddenly within the temple there arose a deaf- 
 ening, and at the same time strangely melodious 
 metallic sound. The triumphant howls of the 
 people rose to the skies. 
 
 "A rope! a rope! Bind her shameless hands and 
 feet!" 
 
 With chanted prayers and joyful laughter, the 
 crowd dragged forth from the door of the temple 
 the rope-bound goddess, a pale, fair body of ring- 
 ing silver; it was the mother of the gods, the work 
 of Scopas. 
 
 "To the fire! to the fire!" 
 
 And they dragged her along the dirty square. 
 
 A lawyer monk read aloud a part of the recent 
 and famous law of the Emperor Constans, the 
 brother of Constantius:
 
 The Destruction of the Temple. 81 
 
 "Let superstition cease, and the madness of 
 sacrifices be abolished!" 
 
 "Fear- nothing! Destroy and plunder every- 
 thing in the devil's shrine!" 
 
 Another was reading by torchlight from a 
 parchment roll the following lines of the book of 
 Firmicus Maternus: De err&re profanarum reli- 
 gionum: 
 
 "Holy emperors! come to the rescue of the un- 
 happy heathen! Better save them by force than 
 give them over to perish. Tear the ornaments 
 from their temples; let their treasures enrich your 
 treasuries. And let him who brings offerings to 
 idols, be uprooted from the earth. Give him up 
 to death, stone him, though he be thy son, thy 
 brother, thy wife, sleeping on thy bosom." 
 
 And a triumphant cry rose above the crowd: 
 "Death, death to the Olympian gods!" 
 
 A huge Arian monk, with disheveled black hair, 
 clotted against his sweaty face, raised a bronze axe 
 above the goddess, and chose a place to strike. 
 
 Some one advised him: 
 
 "Her breast, her foul breast!" 
 
 The silver body bent, disfigured; the blows rang 
 mercilessly, leaving gashes on the breast of 
 Demeter, the all-nourishing, the Mother of gods 
 and men. 
 
 An old heathen covered his face with his goAvn, 
 not to see the sacrilege. He wept, and thought 
 that all was over now, that the world was lost. 
 The fertile earth, Demeter, would no longer be 
 willing to bring forth a single blade of corn for 
 men. 
 
 A hermit, come from the desert of Mesopotamia, 
 in a sheepskin, with a staff and a hollow gourd,
 
 82 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 instead of a bottle, in coarse sandals, with iron 
 hob-nails, ran to the goddess. 
 
 "For forty years I have not washed myself, in 
 order not to look upon my own nakedness, so that 
 I may not be allured. But as soon as you come 
 into the city, brothers, the Lord forgive us, you 
 see nothing but the naked bodies of these cursed 
 gods everywhere. Are we to suffer this devilish 
 enticement much longer? Pagan idols every- 
 where: in the houses, in the streets, on the roofs, 
 in the baths, under our feet, above our heads! All 
 the time you have, spit at them right and left!" 
 
 And full of detestation for the naked body, full 
 of the terror of sin, the old man struck the benign 
 breasts of Cybele with his sandals. He kicked her 
 bare bosom; she seemed to him so lifelike that he 
 wished to crush her under the sharp nails of his 
 heavy sandals. He hissed, choking with anger: 
 
 "Take that, shameless, naked harlot. Take that!" 
 
 Under his feet, the lips of the goddess preserved 
 their quiet smile. The crowd began to lift her up, 
 to throw her into the bonfire. A drunken crafts- 
 man, his breath smelling of garlic, spat in her face. 
 
 The bonfire was huge. They threw all the 
 wooden stalls from the market-place, which had 
 been defiled by the consecrated water, into it. 
 High above the crowd, the quiet stars hardly 
 twinkled through the smoke. 
 
 They threw the goddess into the fire to melt her 
 silver body. And once more, with a soft ringing 
 sound, she struck against the naming firebrands. 
 
 "Five talents of molten metal. Thirty thou- 
 sand pieces of silver. "We shall send half to the 
 emperor, to pay the soldiers, and give the other 
 half to the poor. Cybele at least will do some one
 
 The Destruction of the Temple. 83 
 
 some good. Out of a goddess thirty thousand 
 pieces of silver for the soldiers and the poor!" 
 
 "Firewood! More firewood!" 
 
 The flame blazed up brighter, and all grew 
 gayer around it. 
 
 "Let us see whether the devil will fly out of her. 
 They say there is a devil in every idol, and in a 
 goddess, two or three!" 
 
 "As soon as she begins to melt, the evil one will 
 feel hot. And then he will jump out of her 
 heathen mouth, like a blood-red or a fiery snake." 
 
 "No, we ought to have made the sign of the 
 cross on her first; for the devil will bury itself in 
 the ground like an adder. The year before last, 
 they burned the shrine of Aphrodite 4 Somebody 
 sprinkled her with holy water. And what do you 
 think? From under her robe came a lot of little 
 devils. I saw them myself. They were fetid, 
 black, with white stripes, and hairy. And they 
 squealed like mice. And when they smashed 
 Aphrodite's head off, the biggest of them jumped 
 out of her throat, and he had horns as big as that! 
 and a peeled tail, naked, without any hair on it, 
 like a mangy dog's!" 
 
 But the skeptic remarked: 
 
 "I do not deny it. Perhaps, you really did see 
 the devils. Only, when they were breaking up the 
 image of Zeus in Gaza the other day, there were 
 no devils in him, but all sorts of rubbish, that it is a 
 shame to speak of. Outwardly, he was terrible and 
 mighty; ivory, gold, with lightning in his hands. 
 And inside, spiders' webs, rats, dust, rotting beams, 
 iron bars, nails, stinking tar, and the devil knows 
 what rubbish more. Those are the gods for you!" 
 
 At the same moment, lamblichus, terrified, with
 
 84 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 eyes starting forth, took Julian by the arm, and 
 led him to one side. 
 
 "Look, do you see those two? They are spies 
 from Constantius. You know they have already 
 taken your brother Gallus away under a guard to 
 Constantinople. Take care! They will send their 
 report to-day ." 
 
 "What am I to do, teacher? I am used to it. I 
 know they have been following me for a long time." 
 
 "For a long time? Why did you not tell me?" 
 
 And his hand trembled on Julian's arm. 
 
 "What are they whispering about? Are they 
 not heathens?" 
 
 "Ho, old man! bestir yourself! Bring wood!" 
 cried a ragged beggar, feeling that he was their 
 master. 
 
 lamblichus whispered to Julian: 
 
 "Let us despise them, and submit. Is it not all 
 one? The foolishness of men cannot injure the 
 majesty of the gods!" 
 
 And the godlike one took a log of wood from a 
 Christian's hands, and threw it into the fire. At 
 first Julian could not believe his eyes. But the 
 spies were watching him now, smiling, steadily 
 and curiously. 
 
 Then weakness, the habit of hypocrisy, con- 
 tempt for himself, and for mankind, and an unin- 
 telligible passion overcame Julian's soul. Feeling 
 the eyes of the spies on his back, he went up to a 
 bundle of wood, chose a large log, and after 
 lamblichus, threw it into the fire on which the 
 goddess' incandescent body was melting. He saw 
 clearly how the red-hot silver flowed over her face, 
 like drops of immortal sweat, and on her lips, as 
 before, was an unconquerable and quiet smile.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 SEEKING A SIGN. 
 
 "Looking at those men in black robes, Julian? 
 They are the shades of night, the shadows of 
 death. Soon there will not be a single antique 
 white robe, a single piece of marble, illumined by 
 the sun. It is finished." 
 
 Thus spoke the young sophist Antoninus, the 
 son of the Egyptian prophetess Sosipatra, and the 
 Neoplatonist Edesias. He was standing with 
 Julian on the great Terrace of the Altar of Per- 
 gamos, flooded with sunlight, and enfolded by the 
 blue sky. On the pedestal of the balustrade was 
 sculptured the Gigantomachia, the war of the 
 Titans and the gods. The gods were triumphing, 
 the hoofs of their winged horses crushed the ser- 
 pentine feet of the ancient giants. Antoninus 
 pointed to the haut-relief : 
 
 "The Olympians conquered the Titans, and now 
 the gods of the barbarians are conquering the 
 Olympians. The temples are becoming their 
 tombs," he said to Julian. 
 
 Antoninus was a well-built youth. Some traits 
 of his body and face called to mind the old 
 statues. 
 
 But for many years he had suffered from an 
 incurable sickness. And it was strange to see this 
 once handsome face of pure Hellenic type, yellow, 
 lean with an expression of pain, a new sickness, 
 foreign to the faces of the men of old. 
 
 85
 
 86 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "I pray the gods for one thing," continued 
 Antoninus; "that I may not see that night; that 
 I may die before it. Khetoricians, sophists, men 
 of science, poets, artists, lovers of Grecian wisdom, 
 all of us are out of place. We are belated. It is 
 finished and done with." 
 
 "And if it is not yet finished," murmured 
 Julian, as if speaking to himself. 
 
 "No, it is finished! We are sickly. We have 
 no force." 
 
 The face of nineteen-year-old Julian seemed 
 almost as pale and thin as that of Antoninus. His 
 protruding lower lip gave him an expression of 
 gloomy pride. His thick brows were knit with 
 obstinate and stern intensity. Early wrinkles 
 showed close to his ugly, large nose. His eyes, as 
 strange as ever, glowed with a dry, unpleasant, 
 and feverish fire. He wore the robe of a lay- 
 brother. By day, as before, he visited churches 
 and the tombs of the martyrs, and read the Holy 
 Scriptures from the ambo, preparing for the 
 monastic tonsure. Sometimes this hypocrisy 
 seemed useless to him. He knew what fate had 
 overtaken Gallus, and he knew that his brother 
 could not escape death. And he himself lived, 
 day after day, and month after month, in expecta- 
 tion of death. 
 
 Julian passed his nights in the library of Per- 
 gamos, where he studied the famous work of the 
 orator Libanius, the greatest opponent of Chris- 
 tianity. He attended the lessons of the Greek 
 sophists, Edesias of Pergamos, Chrysantheus of 
 Sardis, Priscus of Thesprotia, Eusebius of Hindus, 
 Proeresias, and Nymphidian. 
 
 They spoke to him of what he had already heard
 
 Seeking a Sign. 87 
 
 from lamblichus: the Triad, of the Neoplatonists, 
 and the sacred ecstasy. He thought: "All this is 
 not what I am in search of. They are hiding the 
 heart of the matter from me/' 
 
 Priscus, imitating Pythagoras, had passed five 
 years in silence, ate nothing that had life, and 
 wore neither woolen cloth, nor leather sandals. 
 His garments were made of vegetable substances 
 only, like his food. He wore a Pythagorean cloak, 
 of pure white linen, and sandals of palm-leaf. "In 
 our century," he said, "the chief thing is to be 
 able to keep silence, and to learn how to die with 
 dignity." And Priscus, despising all, with dignity 
 awaited what he considered to be destruction: the 
 final victory of the Christians over the Hellenes. 
 
 The cunning and cautious Chrysantheus, when 
 the gods were spoken of, raised his eyes to heaven, 
 asserting that he did not venture to say anything 
 about them, as he knew nothing, and what he had 
 formerly known he had long forgotten, and ad- 
 vised others to forget. Of magic, wonders, visions, 
 he would not hear a word, asserting that all this 
 was but unlawful jugglery, forbidden by the 
 emperor's decrees. 
 
 Julian ate poorly, slept little, and his blood 
 boiled with passionate impatience. Every morn- 
 ing, on awaking, he asked himself: "May it not 
 be to-day?" 
 
 He wearied the poor frightened theurgists and 
 philosophers with his questions of the mysteries 
 and miracles. Many of them laughed at him, 
 especially Chrysantheus. He had a cunning, fox- 
 like smile, and the habit of agreeing with opinions 
 which he held to be the greatest folly.
 
 88 Julian tlie Apostate. 
 
 Once Edesias, a wise old man, timid and gentle, 
 taking pity on Julian, said: 
 
 "My child! I want to die in peace. You are 
 still young. Leave me alone. Go to my pupils. 
 They will reveal everything to you. Yes, there 
 are many things which we dare not speak of. 
 When you are initiated in the mysteries, perhaps 
 you will be ashamed that you were born 'only a 
 human being,' and that you so remained." 
 
 Eusebius of Hindus, a disciple of Edesias, was 
 a man of jealous and bilious character. 
 
 "There are no more miracles," he announced to 
 Julian, "and so do not look for any. The gods 
 axe tired of mankind. Magic is nonsense! Only 
 fools believe in it. But if you are tired of wisdom, 
 and are determined to be deceived, go to Maximus. 
 
 He despises our dialectics, and , but I 
 
 will not speak ill of a friend. Better listen to what 
 took place not long ago, in an underground shrine 
 of Hecate, whither Maximus brought us, to show 
 us his art. When we had entered, and had prayed 
 to the goddess, he said: 'Be seated, and you will 
 see a miracle.' We sat down. He threw a grain 
 of incense on the altar, and muttered something, 
 probably a hymn. And we saw clearly how the 
 image of Hecate smiled. Maximus said: 'Do not 
 fear, you will see in a moment how both lamps in 
 the hands of the goddess will light of themselves. 
 Look,' and he had not had time to finish speaking 
 when the lamps flashed up." 
 
 "It was a miracle!" cried Julian. 
 
 "Yes, yes. We were so full of bewilderment 
 that we fell on our faces. But as I was going out 
 of the temple, I thought to myself: 'Well, is what 
 Maximus is doing worthy of the philosophy? Bead
 
 Maximus tlie Ephesiaii. 89 
 
 the books, read Pythagoras, Plato, Porphyry; 
 there you will find wisdom. Is not the cleansing 
 of the heart by divine dialectics more lovely than 
 any miracle?" 
 
 Julian was no longer listening. With glowing 
 eyes he was watching Eusebius' sallow, bilious face, 
 and leaving his school, he said: 
 
 "Keep your books and dialectics! I want life 
 and faith! And can there be faith without 
 miracles? I thank you, Eusebius. You have 
 shown me the man I have long been seeking." 
 
 The sophist looked at him with a bitter smile, 
 and said, as Julian turned to go: 
 
 "Well, nephew of Constantine, you have not 
 gone far from your ancestors. Socrates did not 
 need wonders in order to believe." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MAXIMUS THE EPHESIAN. 
 
 Exactly at midnight, in the ante-room of the 
 great hall of the mysteries, Julian laid aside the 
 garment of a lay-brother, and the mystagogues, 
 the priests consecrated in the mysteries, robed him 
 in the garment of the hierophants, made of the 
 fibers of white Egyptian papyrus. They put a 
 palm-branch in his hand. His feet remained bare. 
 
 He entered a long, low hall. 
 
 A double row of thick columns of bronze, of a 
 peculiar greenish color, held up the roof. Each 
 column represented two intertwined snakes. A 
 metallic smell came from the bronze columns.
 
 90 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Beside the columns stood censors, on thin, tall 
 legs. On them nickered tongues of flame, and 
 wreathes of white smoke filled the hall. 
 
 At the far end faintly glimmered two golden- 
 winged Assyrian bulls. They supported a splendid 
 throne. On it was seated the chief hierophant, 
 Maximus of Ephesus, like a god, in a long, black 
 robe, embroidered with gold, and heavy with emer- 
 alds and carbuncles. 
 
 The slow voice of the hierodyle announced the 
 beginning of the mysteries: 
 
 "If there are in this assembly any godless, or 
 Christians, or Epicureans, let them depart!" 
 
 Julian had been told the initiate's answer. He 
 replied: 
 
 "Christians, let them depart!" 
 
 The choir of hierodyles, hidden in the darkness, 
 chanted in a melancholy voice: 
 
 "Christians, let them depart! Let the godless 
 depart ." 
 
 Then twenty boys appeared from the darkness. 
 They were naked. In the hands of each gleamed 
 a silver, semi-circular sistrum, like the sickle of 
 the new moon. Only the ends of the sickle were 
 united in a complete circumference, and to them 
 fine points were fastened, which trembled at the 
 slightest movement. The boys all at once raised 
 these musical instruments above their heads, and 
 struck them with a uniform, graceful movement 
 of their fingers, and the sistrums resounded with 
 a melancholy and languorous sound. 
 
 Maximus made a sign. 
 
 Someone approached Julian from behind, and 
 tightly bandaging his eyes, said:
 
 Maximus the Ephesian. 91 
 
 "Go! Fear neither water, nor fire, nor spirit, 
 nor body, nor life, nor death." 
 
 He was led forward. Apparently, an iron door 
 was opened. He was allowed to pass through it. 
 Close air blew in his face; under his feet were 
 slippery, abrupt steps. 
 
 He began to descend an apparently endless 
 staircase. There was a silence as of death. The 
 air smelt of mildew. It seemed to him that he 
 must be deep under the ground. 
 
 The staircase ended. ISTow he passed along a 
 narrow corridor. He could feel the walls with 
 his hands. 
 
 Suddenly his bare feet felt a dampness. There 
 was a sound of murmuring streams. The water 
 covered his feet. He continued to advance. With 
 every step, the level of the water rose, reaching his 
 ankles, then his knees, and at last his waist. His 
 teeth chattered with cold. He continued to go 
 forward. The water reached his breast. He 
 thought: "Perhaps this is a trick; does Maximus 
 want to kill me to please Constantius?" But he 
 still went forward. 
 
 The water began to decrease. 
 
 Suddenly heat, as from a forge, blew in his face. 
 The ground began to burn his feet. He seemed 
 to be approaching a huge, red-hot furnace. The 
 blood beat in his temples. Sometimes it became 
 so hot that he thought a torch was held close to 
 his face, or a red-hot iron. He continued to 
 advance. 
 
 The heat diminished. But his breathing was 
 checked by a heavy stench. He struck against 
 something round, then another and another. By
 
 92 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 the smell, he guessed that they were skulls and 
 bones. 
 
 It seemed to him that someone was walking 
 beside him, gliding silently, like a shade. A cold 
 hand grasped his hand. He uttered a cry. Then 
 two hands began to clutch at him, and catch hold 
 of his robe. He felt the dry skin of them like a 
 husk, and the bare bones underneath. In the way 
 these hands caught at his robe, there was a repul- 
 sive caress like the caresses of lascivious women. 
 Julian felt someone's breath on his cheek. In it, 
 there was an odor of decay, a dampness of the 
 tomb. And suddenly at his very ear, a quick 
 whisper, like the rustling of autumn leaves at mid- 
 night, murmured: 
 
 "It is I, it is I! Do you not recognize me? It 
 is I!" 
 
 "Who are you?" he asked, and remembered that 
 he was breaking his vow of silence. 
 
 "It is I. If you wish it, I will take the bandage 
 from your eyes, and you will know all. You will 
 see me?" 
 
 The bony hands moved over his face, to take 
 away the bandage with the same horrid, joyous 
 rapidity. 
 
 The chill of death pierced to his heart, and 
 involuntarily, by force of habit, he crossed himself 
 three times, as he had done in childhood, when he 
 dreamed a horrible dream. 
 
 There was a sound of thunder; the earth swayed 
 beneath his feet; he felt that he was falling, and 
 lost consciousness. 
 
 When Julian came to himself, the bandages 
 were no longer on his eyes, and he was lying on 
 soft cushions, in a huge, dimly-lighted grotto.
 
 Maximus the Ephesian. 93 
 
 They gave him a kerchief to smell, impregnated 
 with strong perfumes. 
 
 Opposite Julian's couch stood a lean and naked 
 man, with a dusky skin. He was an Indian Gyni- 
 nosophist, the assistant of Maximus. He held a 
 shining circle of metal motionless above his head. 
 Someone said to Julian: 
 
 "Look!" 
 
 And he fixed his eyes on a metal disk, which 
 shone with a painful brightness. He looked long, 
 and the outlines of surrounding objects began to 
 melt away in a mist. He felt a pleasant, soothing 
 weakness steal through his limbs. It seemed to 
 him that the bright disk shone not outside him, 
 but in him. His eyelids sank down, and on his 
 lips played a tired and submissive smile. He gave 
 himself up to adoration of the light. 
 
 Someone passed a hand several times over his 
 face, and asked him: 
 
 "Are you asleep?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Look into my eyes." 
 
 Julian lifted his lids with an effort, and saw 
 that Maximus was bending over him. 
 
 He was an old man of seventy. A beard, white 
 as snow, fell almost to his belt. His hair, falling 
 on his shoulders, had a faint gleam of gold 
 through its whiteness. On his cheeks, and on his 
 forehead were dark, clearly-marked wrinkles, 
 showing not suffering, but strength of will, and 
 wisdom. But Maximus' eyes fascinated Julian 
 more than all. Beneath grey, overhanging brows, 
 small, glittering and bright, they had a piercing 
 look of mockery and tenderness combined. The 
 hierophant asked:
 
 94 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "Dost thou wish to behold the mighty Titan?" 
 
 "I do/' replied Julian. 
 
 "Behold!" - 
 
 And the magician directed his gaze to the 
 depths of the grotto, where stood a tripod of 
 golden bronze: above it rose a whole cloud of white 
 smoke in great curling wreaths. A voice sounded, 
 like the voice of a storm, till all the grotto rang: 
 
 "Hercules! Hercules! set me free!" 
 
 The blue sky gleamed between the opening 
 clouds of smoke. Julian lay with pale, motionless 
 face, with half-closed lids, and was conscious of 
 swift, fleeting images, moving before him, and it 
 seemed to him that he did not see them of himself, 
 but that someone commanded him to see them. 
 
 As in a dream, he saw clouds and snowy moun- 
 tains. Somewhere down below, in an abyss, the 
 sea was moaning. He saw a huge form. His 
 hands and feet were fastened to the rock with 
 chains. A vulture was tearing at his vitals. Drops 
 of dark blood dripped from his side. The chains 
 rang, as he writhed in anguish: 
 
 "Free me, Hercules!" 
 
 And the Titan raised his shaggy head: his eyes 
 met the eyes of the sleeper. 
 
 "Who art thou? Whom dost thou call for?" 
 asked Julian, with a strong effort, like one speak- 
 ing in sleep. 
 
 "Thee." 
 
 "I am a weak mortal." 
 
 "Thou art my brother! Set me free!" 
 
 "Who forged thy chains anew?" 
 
 "Humble, timid slaves, who forgive their ene- 
 mies from fear! Set me free!" 
 
 "How can I?"
 
 Maximus the Ephesian. 95 
 
 "Become as I am!" 
 
 The clouds grew dark and heavy, the thunder 
 muttered in the distance. Lightning flashed. 
 The vulture uttered a cry. Drops of blood 
 dripped from his beak. But louder than the 
 thunder rose the voice of the Titan: 
 
 "Hercules, set me free!" 
 
 Then the clouds of smoke hid everything again, 
 as they rose from the tripod. 
 
 Julian came to himself in a moment. The 
 hierophant asked: 
 
 "Dost thou wish to behold the Adversary?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "Look." 
 
 Julian again half-closed his eyes, and gave him- 
 self up to the light enchantment of sleep. 
 
 In the white smoke appeared a faint outline of 
 a head and two huge wings. The feathers hung 
 drooping, like the branches of a weeping yew, and 
 a bluish light gleamed fitfully on them. Someone 
 called him in a far-away, faint voice, like a dying 
 friend: 
 
 "Julian, Julian, in my name renounce the Gali- 
 lean!" 
 
 Julian was silent. 
 
 Maximus whispered to him: "If thou wouldst 
 see the mighty Angel, renounce!" Then Julian 
 answered: 
 
 "I renounce!" 
 
 Above the head of the apparition, through the 
 mist, shone the morning star, the star of Aurora. 
 And the Angel repeated: 
 
 "Julian, in my name, renounce the Galilean!" 
 
 "I renounce!" 
 
 And for the third time the Angel spoke, in a
 
 90 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 voice that was now loud, near, and triumphant: 
 "Kenounce!" And for the third time Julian 
 repeated: 
 
 "I renounce!" 
 
 And the Angel said: 
 
 "Come to me!" 
 
 "Who art thou?" 
 
 "I am the Bringer of Light! I am the East, I 
 am the Morning Star!" 
 
 "How beautiful thou art!" 
 
 "Be like unto me!" 
 
 "What sadness is in thine eyes!" 
 
 "I suffer for all that live. Neither birth nor 
 death are needful. Come to me! I am the 
 shadow, I am rest, I am freedom." 
 
 "How do men name thee?" 
 
 "Evil." 
 
 "Thou art evil?" 
 
 "I revolted." 
 
 "Against whom?" 
 
 "Against Him, whose equal I am. He wished 
 to be alone, but we are twain." 
 
 "Grant me to be like thee!" 
 
 "Eevolt, as I did. I will give thee strength!" 
 
 "Teach me how!" 
 
 "Break the law. Love thyself. Curse Him, and 
 be as I am." 
 
 The Angel disappeared. A gust of cold air 
 blew; the flame of the tripod quivered. First it 
 sank to the ground, lapping along it, then the 
 tripod was overturned by the wind, and the flame 
 was extinguished. In the darkness was heard a 
 stamping, a sound of cries and footsteps, as if an 
 invisible army, fleeing before the foe, was rushing 
 through the air. Julian, overcome with terror,
 
 Maximus the Ephesian. 97 
 
 fell with his face to the ground, and the hiero- 
 phant's long, black robe struck against him in the 
 wind. "Flee, flee!" cried innumerable voices. 
 "The gates of Hell are thrown open. It is He; 
 it is He, it is He, the Conqueror!" 
 
 The wind whistled in Julian's ears. And legion 
 after legion crowded past him. Then suddenly, 
 after a sound of thunder beneath the earth, silence 
 descended over all, and a heavenly freshness 
 spread through it, as in the middle of a quiet 
 summer night. Then a voice resounded: 
 "Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou Me?" 
 It seemed to Julian that he had already heard 
 that voice somewhere in dim, unremembered 
 childhood. 
 
 Then again, but lower, as if from afar: 
 "Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou Me?" 
 And the voice faded away to such a distance 
 that it spoke with a hardly audible sigh: 
 "Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou Me?" 
 When Julian awoke, and raised his face from 
 the ground, he saw that one of the hierodyles was 
 lighting the lamp. He felt dizzy. But he clearly 
 remembered everything that had happened, as ono 
 remembers a vivid dream. 
 
 They bandaged his eyes again, and gave him a 
 draught of spiced wine. He felt strength and 
 lightness course through his limbs. 
 
 They led him up the stair. His hand was now 
 in Maximus' strong hand. To Julian, it seemed 
 that an invisible force was lifting him up the 
 steps, as if on wings. The hierophant said: 
 "Ask!" 
 
 "Did you call Him?" questioned Julian. 
 "No, but when one string on the lyre trembles,
 
 98 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 the other answers to it. Opposite answers to oppo- 
 site." 
 
 "Why is there such power in His words, if they 
 are a lie?" 
 
 "They are truth." 
 
 "What? you mean that the Titan and the 
 Angel are lies?" 
 
 "They also are truth." 
 
 "Two truths?" 
 
 "Two. All things are dual." 
 
 "You are deluding me." 
 
 "Not I, but the full truth is misleading and 
 strange. If you are afraid, be silent." 
 
 "I am not afraid. Tell me all. Are the Gali- 
 leans right?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why then did I renounce Him?" 
 
 "There is yet another right." 
 
 "A higher?" 
 
 "N"o, equal to that which you renounced." 
 
 "But what am I to believe in? Where is the 
 God whom I seek?" 
 
 "Both here and there. Serve Ahriman, serve 
 Ormuzd, whichever you please; but remember 
 that the kingdom of Lucifer is equal to the king- 
 dom of God." 
 
 "Whither must I go?" 
 
 "Choose one of the two ways, and do not hesi- 
 tate." 
 
 "Which?" 
 
 "If you believe in Him, take up your cross, and 
 follow Him, as He commanded. Be humble, be 
 chaste, be the lamb, dumb before the slaughterers. 
 Flee into the desert, give up flesh and blood and 
 reason for Him; endure; believe. That is one of
 
 Maximus the Ephesiari. i)t> 
 
 the two ways: the great ascetic Galileans attain 
 the same liberty as Prometheus and Lucifer." 
 
 "That way I cannot choose/' 
 
 "Then choose the other. Be mighty, be like 
 the stern men of old. Be strong, be proud, be 
 implacable, be splendid. Pity not, love not, 
 pardon not. Kevolt, and conquer all. Let your 
 body be as the bodies of the marble demigods. 
 Take, and give not. Taste the forbidden fruit, 
 and repent not. Believe not, and acknowledge it. 
 And the world will be yours, and you will be like 
 the Titan, and the Angel, who revolted against 
 Him." 
 
 "But I cannot believe that in the words of the 
 Galilean there is also truth. And I cannot endure 
 two truths." 
 
 "If you cannot, you will be as all are. Better 
 perish. But you can. Dare! You will be Roman 
 emperor!" 
 
 "I emperor?" 
 
 "You will have a power in your hands that 
 Alexander of Macedon did not possess." 
 
 Julian felt that they were leaving the under- 
 ground vault, and coming forth to the fresh air. 
 A free morning breeze from the sea breathed 
 around them. He did not see, but divined the 
 endlessness of the sea and sky around him. 
 
 The hierophant took the bandage from his eyes. 
 They were standing on a lofty marble tower. It 
 was the astronomical observatory of the great 
 theurgist, like the towers of the ancient Chal- 
 deans, built on a huge overhanging promontory, 
 above the sea. Below it were the luxurious villa 
 and gardens of Maximus, palaces and propylas, 
 recalling the colonnades of Persepolis. Further
 
 100 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 away, in the mist, were Artemisium, and many- 
 pillared Ephesus. Further still, to the east, the 
 mountains. To the west, the south, the north, 
 spread the quiet sea, limitless, misty, deep blue, 
 all tremulous and smiling for the coming of the 
 sun. They stood at such a height that Julian's 
 head swam. He had to lean on Maximus' arm for 
 support. The rising sun shone forth from hehind 
 the mountains; Julian half closed his eyes with 
 a smile, and the sun touched his white, conse- 
 crated robe with its first pale rose, and then 
 crimson ray. 
 
 The hierophant stretched forth his hand to the 
 horizon, and pointed to the land and sea. 
 
 "Look, it is all yours!" 
 
 "Have I the power, teacher? I expect death 
 daily. I am weak and sickly." 
 
 "The sun, the god Mithra, crowns you with his 
 purple! It is the purple of the Roman emperor. 
 All is yours. Dare!" 
 
 "What good is all to me, if there is not one 
 truth? the one God, whom I seek?" 
 
 "Find Him, if you can; unite the truth of the 
 Titan with the truth of the Galilean, and you will 
 be greater than any man upon earth, of woman 
 born."
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 CALLUS A PRISONER. 
 
 Julian visited his unhappy brother Gallus, 
 when the latter stopped at Constantinople, on his 
 journey to Milan. 
 
 He found him surrounded by a treacherous 
 guard of Constantius' minions. The questor 
 Leontius was there, a crafty and cultivated court 
 fop, who was famed for the not insignificant art 
 of listening at doors and extorting information 
 from slaves; the tribune Bainobaudes, chief of the 
 shield-bearing scutarii, a silent, impenetrable bar- 
 barian who looked like a disguised executioner; 
 Lucillianus, the powerful master of ceremonies of 
 the emperor, the "comes domesticorum;" and,. 
 finally, Scudilo, who had once been military trib- 
 une in Cesarea of Cappadocia, and now, thanks to 
 the protection of certain old ladies, had received 
 a coveted position at court. 
 
 Gallus, as usual, was healthy, gay, light-minded, 
 and treated Julian to a splendid supper. He was 
 especially proud of a fat pheasant from Colchis, 
 garnished with fresh figs from the Thebaid. He 
 laughed like a child, and talked of Macellum. 
 Suddenly, in the midst of their conversation, 
 Julian asked about Gallus' wife, Constantina. 
 
 Gallus' face changed. He let his fingers, which 
 were lifting a white, juicy piece of pheasant to his 
 mouth, fall again. His eyes filled with tears. 
 
 "Do you not know, Julian?" he answered, 
 
 101
 
 102 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "Constantina died suddenly of a malignant fever, 
 on her way to the emperor, at Gallician Caene, a 
 little town in Bithynia. I wept two whole nights 
 when I heard of her death." 
 
 He looked at the door hesitatingly, then ap- 
 proached Julian, and whispered in his ear: 
 
 "Since that, I have thrown everything over- 
 board. She alone could have saved me. Brother, 
 she was a wonderful woman! Without her I am 
 ruined. I can do nothing, and understand noth- 
 ing. I simply let my hands fall. They do what 
 they will with me." 
 
 He drank a great cup of undiluted wine at a 
 single draught. 
 
 Julian remembered Constantina, a widow no 
 longer young, Constantius' sister, who had been 
 his brother's evil genius; he thought of the innu- 
 merable base and foolish crimes which she had 
 led him to commit, sometimes simply for an 
 expensive trifle, some long-promised necklace; and 
 he asked, trying to guess what power could have 
 subjected him to that woman: 
 
 "Was she beautiful?" 
 
 "Did you never see her? No, she was not beau- 
 tiful, even very ugly. She was dusky, pock- 
 marked, short; she had bad teeth, a thing I can- 
 not endure in women. But then, knowing her 
 weak points, she avoided laughing. They say 
 that she used to deceive me. But what had that 
 to do with me? Did I not deceive her? She did 
 not prevent my enjoying life, and I did not pre- 
 vent her. They say my dead wife was cruel. Yes, 
 Julian, she knew how to rule! She had no love 
 for the makers of epigrams and street verses, in 
 which the rascals sometimes blamed her for bad
 
 Callus a Prisoner. 103 
 
 manners, and compared her to a kitchen slave, 
 dressed up as Cesar's wife. She loved revenge! 
 What a mind, Julian, what a mind she had. 
 Beside her I was as safe as if I had been behind a 
 stone wall. And what a time we had of merry- 
 making! To our hearts' content!" 
 
 He smiled at his pleasant memories, and silently 
 licked his red lips with the tip of his tongue, 
 which were still wet with Chian wine. 
 
 "Yes, there is no denying it, we had our fes- 
 tival!" he concluded, not without pride. 
 
 When Julian had come to this meeting, he had 
 hoped to arouse a feeling of repentance in his 
 brother, and had prepared a speech against 
 tyrants, in the style of Libanius. He expected to 
 find a victim, pursued by the scourge of Nemesis; 
 but he saw before him the peaceful, sleek face of 
 an overfed Greek athlete. The words died on 
 Julian's lips. He looked without the slightest 
 antipathy or anger on the "good-natured animal" 
 (as he mentally called his brother), and thought 
 that it would be as out of place to read him a 
 lecture as if he had been a handsome young stal- 
 lion. Julian only asked in a whisper, glancing 
 toward the door in his turn: 
 
 "Why are you going to Mediolanum? Can you 
 not guess?" 
 
 "Do not say it. I know. But I cannot turn 
 back. It is too late/' 
 
 He pointed to his white neck. 
 
 "Death's noose is here, do you understand? 
 And he gently pulls at it. He would dig me up 
 from beneath the earth, Julian! There is no use 
 talking. It is finished. We have had our merry- 
 making, and now it is over."
 
 104 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "You had two legions left in Antioch." 
 
 "Not even one. He took away all my best sol- 
 diers, little by little, slowly, and all for my own 
 glory! How he cared for me, how he concerned 
 himself about me, how he thirsted for my coun- 
 sels! Julian, he is a terrible man. You do not 
 know, and God grant that you may not know, 
 what a man he is. He sees everything, he can see 
 ten cubits into the earth. He knows my most 
 secret thoughts which my own pillow does not 
 even know. And he sees through you, too. I 
 dread him, brother!" 
 
 "Can you not run away?" 
 
 "Softly, hush! What are you saying?" 
 
 A school-boy's fear of punishment was expressed 
 in Gallus' indolent, soft features. 
 
 "No, of course not! I am like a fish on the 
 hook. He is pulling in gently, so as not to break 
 the line. And Ca3sar, whoever he may be, is a 
 pretty heavy fish. But I know that I cannot break 
 away. Sooner or later he will land me. I see, 
 how could I not see, that it is a trap? But I go 
 into it, of my own accord, through fear. These six 
 years, and earlier, too, ever since I remember my- 
 self, I have lived in fear of him. Enough! The 
 boy has had what was his, he has played his game, 
 and now it is over. Brother, he will cut my throat, 
 as the cook cuts the throat of a fat chicken. But 
 first he will torment me by craft and caresses. The 
 sooner the better." 
 
 Suddenly a flash came into his eyes. 
 
 "But if she was here with me, now, what do 
 you think, brother? She would have saved me, 
 she would certainly have saved me! That is why
 
 Gallus a Prisoner. 105 
 
 I say she was a wonderful and extraordinary 
 woman!" 
 
 The tribune, Scudilo, entering the triclinium 
 with a servile bow, announced that on the morrow, 
 in honor of the Caesar's presence, races had been 
 arranged in the hippodrome of Constantinople, in 
 which the famous rider, Corax, would take part. 
 Gallus was delighted. He ordered a laurel wreath 
 to be prepared, to crown his favorite Corax, with 
 his own hand, if he should be victorious. The 
 talk turned to horses, races, and the skill of 
 famous drivers. 
 
 Gallus drank much, and there was not a trace 
 of his recent fear; he laughed his open and light- 
 hearted laughter like a healthy man with an easy 
 conscience. 
 
 Only at the moment of leave-taking, as he 
 warmly embraced Julian, his eyes filled with tears: 
 
 "God spare you, God spare you," he murmured, 
 falling into excessive sensibility, perhaps from the 
 wine, "I know you alone loved me, you and Con- 
 stantina." 
 
 Then he whispered in Julian's ear: 
 
 "I hope you will save yourself, brother. You 
 know how to dissemble. I always envied you. 
 Well, God spare you." 
 
 Julian felt sorry for him. He understood that 
 his brother could not get off Constantius' hook. 
 
 On the following day, Gallus left Constanti- 
 nople with the same convoy. Not far from the 
 city gates, Taurus, the recently-appointed questor 
 of Armenia met him. Taurus, a court upstart, 
 looked insolently and mockingly at the Cassar, and 
 did not salute him.
 
 106 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Meanwhile, letter after letter came from the 
 emperor. 
 
 After Adrianople, only ten chariots of the 
 imperial post were left with Gallus. All his bag- 
 gage and suite, with the exception of two or three 
 attendants of the bed-chamber and table, ministri 
 tori et mensae, were left behind. 
 
 Late autumn had come on. The roads were 
 abominable. The rain fell for days. The Cassar 
 was hurried along; no time was given him to rest, 
 or even to get enough sleep. He had not taken a 
 bath for two weeks. 
 
 One of his greatest torments was the incessant 
 and unaccustomed feeling of dirt. All his life hs 
 had carefully tended his healthy, pampered, and 
 handsome body. The Csesax looked at his un- 
 cleaned and untrimmed nails with sincere grief, 
 and also the royal purple of his cloak, stained with 
 the dust and dirt of the high roads. 
 
 Scudilo did not leave him for a moment. Gallus 
 had reason to fear this attentive fellow-traveler. 
 
 The tribune who had just come with a commis- 
 sion from the emperor to the court of Antioch, 
 had offended the Cesar's wife by a careless word 
 or hint; one of those fits of blind, almost mad, 
 rage, which she was subject to, came upon her. 
 
 Eumor said that Constantina had ordered the 
 tribune of the shield-bearers, newly sent thither 
 by the emperor, to be punished with blows of the 
 lash, like a slave, and then to be cast into a dun- 
 geon. 
 
 But others refused to believe that even the 
 madly passionate wife of the Cssar was capable of 
 such an unheard-of insult to the imperial majesty, 
 in the person of the Koman tribune.
 
 Callus a Prisoner. 107 
 
 In any case, Constantina soon thought better of 
 it, and had Scudilo liberated from the dungeon. 
 He appeared again at the Caesar's court as if noth- 
 ing had happened, taking advantage of the fact 
 that no one knew anything for certain. He did 
 not even send a report to Mediolanum, and 
 silently swallowed the insult, according to the 
 expression of those who envied him. Perhaps the 
 tribune thought that the rumors of his shameful 
 punishment would damage his future career at 
 court. 
 
 But during the whole journey from Antioch to 
 Mediolanum, Scudilo had traveled in the chariot 
 with the Caesar, not leaving him for a moment, 
 had waited on him slavishly, had played with him, 
 not leaving him in peace for a moment, and treat- 
 ing him as an obstinate, sick child, whom he 
 (Scudilo) was so devoted to that he had not the 
 heart to leave him. 
 
 During dangerous river-crossings, or on the 
 quaking causeways over the Illyrian marshes, 
 Scudilo firmly upheld Caesar's body with his arm, 
 with a gentle concern. If Gallus tried to free him- 
 self, the tribune held him more firmly, more ten- 
 derly, asserting that he would sooner consent to 
 die than to permit such a precious life to run the 
 slightest danger. . 
 
 The tribune's face bore a singular, thoughtful 
 expression when he looked silently and sweetly at 
 Gallus' neck, soft and white as a young girl's. The 
 Caesar felt that lingering look, and grew so uncom- 
 fortable that he turned away. At that moment, 
 he wished to box the caressing tribune's ears. But 
 the poor prisoner soon came to himself, and only 
 asked, in a pitiful voice, that at any rate they
 
 108 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 should stop to eat something. His appetite, in 
 spite of everything, was wonderful. 
 
 In the Noric country, in the city of Petobion, 
 they were met by two messengers from the em- 
 peror, Barbation and Apodemus, with a cohort of 
 the emperor's bodyguard. 
 
 Then the mask was thrown away. An armed 
 guard was posted round Gallus' palace at night, as 
 though it were a prison. 
 
 In the evening, Barbation, coming to the Cassar, 
 without the slightest etiquette, ordered him to 
 take off the Ca3sarean cloak, and dress himself in a 
 simple tunic and paludamentum. Scudilo at this 
 made an exhibition of his zeal. He began to take 
 the cloak off Gallus so hastily that he tore the 
 purple. 
 
 Next morning they put the prisoner in a two- 
 wheeled post-cart, a carpenta, in which the inferior 
 officers of the government traveled when on duty. 
 There was no covering to the carpenta. There 
 was a piercing wind, and wet snow was falling. 
 Scudilo, as was his habit, threw one arm around 
 Gallus, and began to finger his new garment. 
 
 "It is a good cloak, downy and warm, far 
 better than the purple, in my opinion. The 
 purple does not keep you warm. But this cloak 
 has a soft, warm lining of wool." 
 
 And as if to feel the lining, he slipped his hand 
 under the Caesar's cloak, and inside the tunic, and 
 then with a soft, caressing laugh, he drew forth 
 a keen-edged dagger, which Gallus had managed 
 to conceal in a fold of his tunic. 
 
 "That is not right, not right at all," said Scu- 
 dilo, with a gleeful smile. "You might cut your- 
 self somehow, by accident. What a toy!"
 
 Gallus a Prisoner. 109 
 
 He threw the dagger on the road. 
 
 A boundless weariness and weakness took pos- 
 session of Gallus' body. He shut his eyes, and felt 
 that Scudilo was still embracing him with great 
 tenderness. It seemed to the Cassar that he was 
 dreaming a horrible dream. 
 
 They stopped not far from the fortress of Pola 
 in Istria', on the shores of the Adriatic. In that 
 same city a sanguinary atrocity a few years before 
 had been accomplished, the murder of a noble 
 youth, Crispus, son of Constantine. 
 
 The city, inhabited only by soldiers, seemed a 
 melancholy out of the way corner. Endless bar- 
 racks had been built, in the style of Diocletian. 
 Snow lay on the roofs. The wind whistled in the 
 empty streets and the sea moaned. 
 
 Gallus was taken to one of the barracks. 
 
 They set him before the window, so that the 
 raw wintry light fell straight into his eyes. The 
 most skilful of the emperor's inquisitors, Eusebius, 
 a small, wrinkled, and suave old man, began to 
 question him in the low, furtive voice of a con- 
 fessor, all the time rubbing his hands from the 
 cold. Gallus felt a deadly weariness; he said every- 
 thing that Eusebius wished. But at the words 
 "high treason," Gallus grew pale, and jumped up. 
 
 "It was not I, not I," he stuttered, foolishly and 
 im potently, "that was Constantina, only Constan- 
 tina! I did nothing without her. She demanded 
 the death of Theophilus, Domitian, Clematius, 
 Montius, and others. God sees that it was not I! 
 She said nothing to me. I did not even know." 
 
 Eusebius looked at him with a quiet and suave 
 smile: 
 
 "Very well," he said, "I shall tell the emperor
 
 110 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 that his own sister, the consort of the former 
 Cassar, is guilty of everything. The examination 
 is ended. Take him away," he commanded the 
 legionaries. 
 
 The sentence of death was soon received from 
 Constantius, who considered the inculpation of his 
 sister in all the murders committed at the court 
 of Antioch, a direct insult, offered to his own 
 house. 
 
 When they read the sentence to Gallus he 
 fainted, and fell at the soldiers' feet. The poor 
 wretch had hoped for mercy, until the last mo- 
 ment. And now he still hoped that they would 
 at least give him a few days, a few hours, to pre- 
 pare for death. But rumors were heard that the 
 soldiers of the Thehan legion were mutinying, and 
 intended to set Gallus free. He was led to execu- 
 tion at once. 
 
 It was early morning. Snow had fallen in the 
 night, and covered the black, sticky mud. And 
 now, a cold, dead sun glittered on the snow. The 
 dazzling brightness fell on the stuccoed walls of 
 the great barrack hall, whither they brought 
 Gallus. 
 
 They did not trust the soldiers, who nearly all 
 loved and pitied him. They chose a butcher for 
 an executioner who had already put to death some 
 Istrian robbers and thieves in the square of Pola. 
 The barbarian did not know how to handle tho 
 Roman sword, and so brought a broad axe for the 
 execution; 'it was more like the double-edged 
 hatchet, with which he killed swine and sheep, 
 in the slaughter-house. The butcher's face was 
 dull, handsome, and sleepy. He was of Slavonic 
 race. They did not tell him that the condemned
 
 Gallus a Prisoner. Ill 
 
 man was Caesar, and the executioner thought that 
 he was to kill a robber. 
 
 In the face of death, Gallus had become timid 
 and docile. He allowed them to do whatever they 
 pleased with him, smiling a senseless smile. It 
 seemed to him that he was a little child restored 
 to infancy; he had also cried and struggled when 
 by force he was put in the hot bath and washed, 
 but afterward, resigning himself, he found it was 
 pleasant. 
 
 But seeing the butcher draw the broad blade 
 of the axe backward and forward on a whet-stone, 
 he trembled in every limb. 
 
 They took him into the next room. There a 
 barber carefully cropped his curly, golden hair, 
 close to the skin, the beauty and pride of the 
 young CaGsar. Eeturning from the barber's room, 
 he met the tribune Scudilo for a moment face to 
 face in the corridor. Caesar unexpectedly fell at the 
 feet of his bitterest foe: 
 
 "Save me, Scudilo; I know you can! Last night 
 I received a letter from the soldiers of the Theban 
 legion. Let me speak to them. They will set me 
 free. In the treasury of the Misian cathedral are 
 thirty talents of my own. No one knows of it. I 
 will give it to you. I will give you more. The 
 soldiers are devoted to me. I will make you nry 
 friend, my brother, my co-ruler, a Caesar!" 
 
 He clasped the man's knees, maddened by hope, 
 and Scudilo shuddered, feeling Caesar's lips touch 
 his hand. The tribune made no answer, but slowly 
 drew away his hand, and looked in his face with a 
 smile. 
 
 They ordered Gallus to take off his tunic. Ho 
 did not wish to unfasten his sandals; his feet were
 
 112 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 dirty. When he was almost naked the butcher 
 began to tie his hands behind his back with a rope, 
 as he had always done with the robbers. Scudilo 
 sprang forward to help him. But at the contact 
 of his fingers, a madness came upon Gallus. He 
 tore himself from the executioner's hands, seized 
 the tribune by the throat with both hands, and 
 tried to throttle him. Tall, naked, he looked like 
 some strong and terrible young beast, not like a 
 human being. He was caught from behind and 
 dragged away from the tribune; his hands and feet 
 were tied. 
 
 At the same time, below, in the barrack-yard, 
 the soldiers of the Theban legion shouted: "Long 
 live Cassar Gallus." 
 
 The murderers hastened with their work. They 
 brought a great wooden log. They set Gallus on 
 his knees. Barbation, Bainobeudes, and Apode- 
 mus held him by the arms, the feet, and the 
 shoulders. Scudilo pressed his head down on the 
 wooden block. With a smile of satisfaction on his 
 pale lips, he pressed down, with both his hands, 
 that helpless, yet resisting head; his fingers, cold 
 with exultation, touched the smooth, recently- 
 shaven skin, still damp from the barber's soap; 
 he looked with delight at the plump, soft neck, 
 which was as white as a girl's. 
 
 The butcher was an unskilled executioner. 
 Swinging the axe, he grazed the neck, but the 
 blow was uncertain; then he raised the axe a 
 second time, shouting to Scudilo: 
 
 "That is not right! Straighter! Hold his head 
 straighter! 
 
 Gallus shivered, and cried out in his terror, 
 with a prolonged, inhuman cry, the cry of a
 
 Gallus a Prisoner. 113 
 
 slaughtered ox, which the first blow had failed to 
 bring down. 
 
 The cries of the soldiers sounded nearer and 
 clearer: 
 
 "Long live CaBsar Gallus!" 
 
 The butcher raised his axe high into the air 
 and struck. The hot blood spurted over Scudilo's 
 hand. The head fell, and struck against the stone 
 floor. 
 
 At that moment the legionaries burst in. 
 
 Barbation, Apodemus, and the tribune of the 
 shield-bearers ran toward the opposite door. 
 
 The executioner stood undecided, but Scudilo 
 had time to whisper to him to take away the head 
 of the slain Caesar: the legionaries would not know 
 who the headless trunk belonged to, for otherwise 
 they might tear them all to pieces. 
 
 "So he was no robber?" stammered the aston- 
 ished butcher. 
 
 There was nothing to catch the smooth-shaven 
 head by. The butcher first tucked it under his 
 arm. But this felt awkward. Then he pushed 
 his fingers into the mouth, and thus hooking it on 
 carried away the head whose one nod had only 
 recently made so many other heads to bow. 
 
 Julian, hearing of his brother's death, thought: 
 "Now my turn has come."
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 DIANA THE HUNTRESS. 
 
 In Athens, Julian was to take the angelic rank, 
 the monastic tonsure. 
 
 It was an early morning in spring. The sun 
 had not yet risen. Julian had been at the morn- 
 ing service in the church, and immediately after- 
 ward had gone several stadia along the bank of the 
 Ilissus, overgrown with plane trees and wild vines. 
 
 He was fond of walking alone along the bank of 
 the stream. Through the mist, he could see the 
 ruddy cliffs of the Acropolis, and the outline of 
 the Parthenon, just touched by the light of dawn. 
 
 Julian took off his sandals, and with bare feet 
 entered the shallow water of the Ilissus. There 
 was a scent of muscat grapes just about to blos- 
 som. In this scent there was already a foretaste 
 of wine; as in the first thoughts of childhood there 
 is a foretaste of love. 
 
 Julian sat down at the root of a plane tree, with- 
 out taking his feet from the water. 
 
 He opened the Phaedrus, and began to read. In 
 the dialogue, Socrates says to Phaedrus: 
 
 "Let us turn hither. Let us follow the course 
 of the Ilissus. We shall choose a lonely place to 
 sit down. 
 
 "Phccdrus: It is well that I came forth to-day 
 without sandals. And thou, Socrates, goest ever 
 unshod. We can go by the bed of the stream itself, 
 washing our feet. Look how the water here seems 
 to laugh. It is so pure and transparent. 
 114
 
 Diana the Huntress. 115 
 
 "Socrates: I swear by Pallas, what a perfect 
 nook! It must be consecrated to the nymphs, and 
 the river-god, Achelous, to judge by these little 
 statues. Does it not seem to thee Phaedrus, that 
 the breeze here is softer and more scented than 
 elsewhere? Here, even in the singing of the 
 cicadas, there is something languorous, that speaks 
 of summer. But what most pleases me, is the long, 
 rich grass: there may we lay our heads to rest." 
 
 Julian looked around with a smile. All was as 
 it had been eight centuries ago. The cicadas 
 began their carol in the grass. 
 
 "This soil has been touched by the feet of Soc- 
 rates! he thought; and burying his face in the 
 soft, thick grass, he kissed the venerable earth. 
 
 "Hail, Julian. You have chosen a charming 
 corner for your reading. May I take a seat beside 
 you?" 
 
 "Be seated. I am very glad. Poets do not 
 break the solitude." 
 
 Julian looked up at a lean individual, in an 
 immoderately long cloak, the poet Publius Opta- 
 tianus Porphyrius, and thought with an involun- 
 tary smile: "He is so small, so bloodless, so lank, 
 that one might well believe he will soon turn into 
 a cicada, as it is recounted in Plato's myth of the 
 poets." 
 
 Publius, like the cicadas, could live almost with- 
 out food, but the gods had not given him the 
 power of not feeling hunger and thirst. His face, 
 earthy in color, long, unshaven, and his bloodless 
 lips, preserved the stamp of the pains of hunger. 
 
 "Publius, why do you wear such a long cloak?" 
 asked Julian. 
 
 "It is not mine," answered the poet, with philo-
 
 116 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 sophical equanimity; "that is, it is mine tem- 
 porarily. You see, I rent a room with a young 
 fellow, Hephestion, who is learning oratory in 
 Athens. He will be a splendid advocate some day. 
 Meanwhile, he is poor, poor as I myself, poor as 
 a lyric poet, does not that say everything? We 
 have pawned our clothes, our furniture, every- 
 thing, even the ink-bottle. Nothing is left but 
 this cloak for us both. In the morning I go out, 
 and Hephestion studies Demosthenes; in the 
 evening he dons the garment, and I write verses 
 at home. Unfortunately, Hephestion is tall, while 
 I am of diminutive stature. But there is no help 
 for it. I go long-clad, like the ancient Trojans." 
 
 Publius Optatianus burst out laughing, and his 
 earthy face recalled the face of a funeral mourner, 
 who had thought of a jest. 
 
 "You see, Julian," continued the poet, "I am 
 counting on the death of a rich Eoman publican's 
 widow. The happy heirs will order an epitaph 
 from me, and pay me well for it. Unfortunately, 
 the widow is obstinate and healthy: in spite of the 
 efforts of doctors and heirs she won't die. Other- 
 wise I would long ago have bought myself a cloak. 
 Listen, Julian, come with me at once." 
 
 "Whither?" 
 
 "Trust to me! You will be grateful." 
 
 "What is this secrecy about?" 
 
 "Don't be lazy; ask no questions; get up and 
 come. A poet will not do ill to a friend of the 
 poets. You will see a goddess." 
 
 "What goddess?" 
 
 "Artemis the Huntress." 
 
 "A picture? A statue?" 
 
 "Better than a picture or a statue. If you are
 
 Diana the Huntress. 117 
 
 a lover of beauty, take up your cloak and follow 
 me." 
 
 And the verse-maker assumed so humorously 
 mysterious a look that Julian felt curious and, 
 rising, put his cloak on, and followed him. 
 
 "A bargain, say nothing, and express no 
 astonishment. Otherwise the charm will vanish. 
 In the name of Calliope and Erato, trust me! It 
 is only a step or two from here. To keep you 
 from wearying on the way, I will read you the 
 beginning of my publicaness' epitaph." 
 
 They went out on the dusty road. In the first 
 rays of the sun, the bronze shield of Athene Pro- 
 machos flashed lightning over the blushing Acro- 
 polis, the point of her slender spear shone bright 
 against the azure, like a candle. 
 
 The cicadas along the stone boundary-walls, 
 beyond which murmured rivulets under fig groves, 
 sang their piercing song, as though rivaling the 
 hoarse voice of the poet, who read the epitaph. 
 
 Publius Optatianus Porphyrius was a man not 
 devoid of talent. But his life had fallen out 
 oddly. A few years ago he had had a pretty little 
 house, "a regular temple of Hermes," in Constan- 
 tinople, not far from the Chalcedonian suburb. 
 His father, a trader in olive-oil, left him a mod- 
 erate competence, that would have permitted him 
 to live fairly well. But his blood boiled within 
 him. This worshipper of ancient Hellas was 
 vexed at what he called "the triumph of Christian 
 slavery." Once he wrote a poem in praise of free- 
 dom, which displeased the Emperor Constantius. 
 
 Constantius would have considered the poem 
 mere poetic nonsense. But it contained an allu- 
 sion to the person of the emperor. And that he
 
 118 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 could not forgive. Chastisement descended upon 
 the composer. His pretty little house and his 
 property were confiscated, and he himself was 
 exiled to a wild isle of the Archipelago. On the 
 island there was nothing but rocks, goats, and 
 fever. Optatianus did not withstand the trial; he 
 cursed all dreams of freedom, and resolved, at 
 whatever cost, to expiate his sin. 
 
 During the sleepless nights when the fever tor- 
 mented him in his island prison, he composed a 
 poem in praise of the emperor, in centones from 
 Virgil: separate verses of the old poet were so put 
 together as to form a new production. This head- 
 splitting task found favor at court. Optatianus 
 had hit the spirit of the age. 
 
 Then he went on to still greater achievements. 
 He wrote a dithyramb to Constantius, in verses of 
 different lengths, so that the verses made complete 
 figures; for example, a many-stemmed shepherd's 
 pipe, a hydraulic organ, a sacrificial altar, in which 
 the smoke was represented by several short, un- 
 even lines above the altar. The triumphs of his 
 ingenuity were square poems consisting of twenty 
 or forty hexameters. Certain letters were repeated 
 in red ink; when united, the red letters repre- 
 sented now the monogram of the Christ, now a 
 flower, now an arabesque, and then came new 
 lines with new compliments. Finally, the last four 
 lines of the book could be read in eighteen dif- 
 ferent ways, from the end, from the beginning, 
 sidewise, from above, from below, and so on. And, 
 however read, they were always in the emperor's 
 praise. 
 
 The poet almost went mad over this super- 
 human task. But then his triumph was complete.
 
 Diana the Huntress. 119 
 
 Constantius was in ecstasies. It seemed to him 
 that Optatianus had surpassed the poets of anti- 
 quity. The emperor wrote him a letter with his 
 own hand, assuring him that he was ever ready 
 to encourage poetry. 
 
 "In our century," he wrote, rather pompously, 
 "my notice follows every writer of verse, like the 
 soft blowing of a zephyr." Nevertheless, they did 
 not restore his confiscated property. He only 
 received a small sum of money, and permission to 
 leave the accursed island for Athens. 
 
 Here he led a mournful life. The assistant of 
 the junior stable-hoy in the circus led a life of 
 luxury in comparison with him. The poet had to 
 wait whole days in the ante-chamber of vain, half- 
 literate dignitaries, in the company of coffin- 
 makers, Jewish merchants and managers of wed- 
 ding processions, to get orders for epithalamia, 
 epitaphs, or a verse love letter. They paid him 
 miserably. But Porphyrius did not despond, ho- 
 ping some day to treat the emperor to a trick poem 
 of such unheard of skill that it would procure him 
 his final pardon. 
 
 Julian felt that, in spite of Porphyry's degrada- 
 tion, the love of Hellas was not extinct in him. 
 He was a discerning judge of Greek poetry. 
 Julian willingly conversed with him. 
 
 They turned aside from the main road, and 
 approached the high stone wall of the palaestra. 
 
 All around the place looked deserted. Two 
 black lambs were cropping the grass. At tho 
 closed doors, where poppies and dandelions grew 
 in the crevices of the flags, stood a chariot, yoked 
 with two white horses. Their manes were clipped, 
 like the horses in the bas-reliefs.
 
 120 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 A slave was watching them, an old man, with 
 a shaky bald head, that looked like an egg, with 
 white down over it. 
 
 The old man turned out to be deaf and dumb, 
 but benevolent. He recognized Optatianus, and 
 nodded to him kindly, pointing to the closed doors 
 of the palaestra. 
 
 "Lend me your purse for a moment; I will take 
 a denarius or two for the old man to buy wine/' 
 said Optatlanus to his companion. 
 
 He tossed him a coin, and the mute opened the 
 door for them, with servile grimaces and mutter- 
 ings. 
 
 They entered a long peristyle. 
 
 Between the columns were seen the so-called 
 xisti, the galleries set apart for the exercises of the 
 athletes. There was no sand in the xisti; they 
 were overgrown with grass. The friends entered 
 a wide, inner portico. 
 
 Julian's curiosity was awakened by all this 
 mystery. Optatianus led him by the hand, with- 
 out uttering a word. 
 
 On the second portico opened the doors of the 
 exhedra, closed marble halls that had once served 
 as the auditoriums of Athenian sages and orators. 
 Field cicadas shrilled where the speeches of 
 famous men had once been heard. Bees mur- 
 mured over grasses that might have grown on 
 tombs, so rich were they. Silence and sadness 
 reigned there. Suddenly a woman's voice was 
 heard somewhere, then the sound of a bronze disk 
 on the marble, then laughter. 
 
 Stealing along like thieves, they hid in the dark- 
 ness of the columns, in the eleothesion, where the
 
 Diana the Huntress. 121 
 
 athletes of old used to anoint themselves with oil 
 during the gymnastic contests. 
 
 From between the columns they could see a 
 long, four-cornered ephebeon, under the open sky, 
 destined for games of ball, and for casting the 
 disk. It had evidently been recently strewed with 
 fine sand. 
 
 Julian looked, and involuntarily stepped back- 
 ward. 
 
 Twenty paces from him stood a young girl, per- 
 fectly naked. He saw her beautiful and perfect 
 body, from head to foot. She was holding a bronze 
 disk in her hand. 
 
 Julian made a quick movement to go away, but 
 in the innocent eyes of Optatianus, in his pale, 
 lean face, there was so much reverence that Julian 
 understood why the worshipper of Hellas had 
 brought him thither, and felt that not a single 
 sinful thought found room in the poet's soul. His 
 ecstasy was holy. Optatianus whispered in his 
 companion's ear, seizing him by the hand : 
 
 "Look, Julian; we are now in ancient Laconia, 
 nine centuries back. You remember the verses of 
 Propertius: Ludi Laconnm. 
 
 "Oh, Sparta, we wonder at many laws of thy 
 gymnastic games, but most of all at the palaestra 
 of the maidens: for thy nude virgins, among con- 
 tending heroes, take part in not inglorious games." 
 
 "Who is she?" asked Julian. 
 
 "I know not, nor wish to know." 
 
 "Very well. Hush." 
 
 Now he looked directly and hungrily at the 
 disk-thrower, no longer ashamed, and feeling that 
 it would not be right or wise to be ashamed. 
 
 She stepped backward several paces, bent down,
 
 122 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 and setting her left foot forward, raised herself 
 with a powerful motion of her whole body, and 
 threw the bronze disk so high that it glittered in 
 the rising sun, and falling, struck with a ringing 
 sound against the pedestal of a distant column. 
 It seemed to Julian that an antique statue of 
 Phidias was before him. 
 
 "That was the best stroke," said a little girl of 
 twelve, dressed in a brilliant tunic, who stood 
 near the column. 
 
 "Myra, give me the disk," said the disk-thrower. 
 "I can throw it still higher, you shall see. 
 Meroe, go aside, or I shall hurt you, as Apollo 
 wounded Hyacinthus." 
 
 Meroe, an old slave-woman, an Egyptian, to 
 judge by her motley garments and dusky face, was 
 preparing perfumes for the bath, in an alabaster 
 amphora. Julian understood that the dumb slave 
 and the chariot with the white horses belonged to 
 these two lovers of Spartan games. 
 
 When she had finished throwing the disk, the 
 girl took a bent bow from the pale, dark-eyed 
 Myra, and drew a long feathered arrow from a 
 quiver. The girl aimed at a black circle, serving 
 as a target, at the opposite end of the ephebeon. 
 The bow-string twanged. The arrow whistled 
 through the air and struck the mark; then a 
 second, and a third. 
 
 "Artemis the Huntress!" murmured Opta- 
 tianus. 
 
 Suddenly a soft, rosy ray of the rising sun, slip- 
 ping between the columns, fell on the girl's face 
 and almost childish breast. 
 
 Throwing down her arrows and bow, she cov- 
 ered her face with her hands, blinded with the light.
 
 Diana the Huntress. 123 
 
 The twittering swallows flashed above the pales- 
 tra and vanished in the blue sky. 
 
 She uncovered her face, throwing her arms 
 above her head. Her hair at the ends was pale 
 gold, like sunlit yellow honey, with a darker, 
 ruddy shade at the roots. Her lips were half- 
 opened with a smile of childish joy. The sunlight 
 spread lower and lower over her naked body. She 
 stood there pure, and wrapped in light and beauty, 
 the most perfect of all garments. 
 
 "Myra," the girl said thoughtfully and slowly, 
 "look what a sky! I would willingly throw myself 
 into it, and be drowned in it, with a cry like the 
 swallows. You remember, we said that we cannot 
 be happy without wings. When you watch the 
 birds, you envy them. You must be light, alto- 
 gether naked, Myra, as I am now, and gaze deep, 
 deep into the sky, and feel that it lasts forever, 
 that there is not, and cannot be, anything but the 
 sun and sky, around your light, free, naked body." 
 
 Straightening herself, and raising her hand 
 towards the sky, she sighed deeply and sadly, as 
 people sigh for something that is lost forever. 
 
 The sunlight fell lower and lower. It had 
 already reached her hips, with a red caress. Then 
 the girl shuddered, as though she had grown 
 ashamed, as though something living and passion- 
 ate had seen her. She covered her breast with one 
 hand, her loins with the other, in the everlasting 
 movement of shame of the Cnidian Aphrodite. 
 
 "Meroe, quick, my garment!" she exclaimed, 
 looking round with large, frightened eyes. 
 
 Julian did not remember how he left the palaes- 
 tra. His heart glowed. The poet's face was ex- 
 alted and sad, like the face of one leaving a temple.
 
 124 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "You are not angry?" he asked Julian. 
 
 "Oh no, why?" 
 
 "Perhaps for a Christian, it is a crime?" 
 
 "There was no crime. Do you not understand?" 
 
 "Yes, yes I thought so." 
 
 They went forth again to the dusty and now hot 
 road, and took the direction of Athens. 
 
 Optatianus continued to speak, softly, as if to 
 himself: 
 
 "How shamefaced we have become, and how 
 ugly. We fear the harsh and pitiful nakedness of 
 our bodies, and hide, because we feel that we are 
 uncouth and unclean. But formerly! For all 
 that was once, Julian! the Spartan virgins came 
 forth to the palaestra naked and proud before all 
 the people. And no one feared temptation. The 
 pure looked on the pure. They were like children, 
 like gods. And to know that this can never be 
 again, that that freedom and purity can never 
 return to the earth, all that life and joy ! never !" 
 
 Optatianus' head sank on his breast, and he 
 sighed deeply. They entered the street of the tri- 
 pods. Not far from the acropolis, the friends part- 
 ed in silence. 
 
 Julian entered the shade of the Propylasum. 
 He passed the Stoa Poikile, with the pictures of 
 Parrhasius, representing the battles of Marathon 
 and Salamis; then, past the little temple of Wing- 
 less Victory, he drew near to the Parthenon. 
 
 He had only to shut his eyes to see the naked, 
 beautiful body of Artemis the Huntress. When he 
 opened them, the marble Parthenon in the sun- 
 light seemed living and golden, like the body of 
 the goddess. 
 
 And openly before all men, fearing no death, he
 
 Diana the Huntress. 125 
 
 desired to embrace the sun-warmed marble with 
 his arms and to kiss it, as a holy thing. 
 
 Not far from him stood two youths in dark gar- 
 ments, with pale, stern faces, Gregory of Nazian- 
 zen, and Basil of Cesarea. The Hellenes feared 
 them, as their most powerful foes. The Christians 
 hoped that the two friends would become mighty 
 teachers of the Church. They looked at Julian. 
 
 ''What is the matter with him to-day?" said 
 Gregory. "Is that a monk? What movements ! 
 How he closes his eyes ! What a smile ! Can you 
 really believe in his piety, Basil?" 
 
 'I have seen him praying in the church. He 
 was weeping." 
 
 "Hypocrisy ! " 
 
 "Why does he come to us, and seek our friend- 
 ship? Why does he discuss the Scriptures?" 
 
 "He mocks us, or else he wishes to deceive us. 
 Do not trust him. He is a tempter. Remember, 
 my brother, in that youth the Roman Empire is 
 nourishing a mighty evil. He is an enemy." 
 
 The friends passed, with downcast eyes. Neither 
 the severe Caryatid-maidens of the Erectheum, nor 
 the white temple of Nike Apteros, smiling in the 
 azure, nor the Propylae, nor the Parthenon, the 
 most perfect beauty in the world, allured them. 
 They wished one thing only, to destroy it all as 
 a snare of Satan. 
 
 The sun cast the shadows of the two monks, 
 Gregory of Nazianzen, and Basil of Cesarea, two 
 long black shadows, against the marble of the 
 Parthenon. 
 
 "I want to see her," thought Julian, "I must 
 know who she is!"
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 NIGHTS AND SUPPERS OF THE GODS. 
 
 "The gods sent mortals into the world, that 
 they might speak beautifully." 
 
 "Wonderful! wonderfully said, Mamertinus! 
 Eepeat it, before you forget it : I will write it down, 
 along with your other sayings." Thus was ad- 
 dressed Mamertinus, a fashionable lawyer of Ath- 
 ens by his friend and adoring worshipper Lamp- 
 ridius, teacher of Khetoric. He drew from his 
 pocket a folding wax tablet and a sharp steel 
 stylus and got ready to write. 
 
 "I say," said Mamertinus, looking at his com- 
 panion with a coquettish smile, as they sat at sup- 
 per, "I say, that people were sent by the gods ' 
 
 "No, no, you did not say it like that, Mamerti- 
 nus;" Lampridius interrupted him; "you said 
 it much better: the gods sent mortals." 
 
 "Oh yes. I said : the gods sent mortals into the 
 world, only that they might speak beautifully." 
 
 "You have added the word 'only/ now. It is 
 still better like that. 'Only that they might'-' 
 
 And Lampridius adoringly wrote down the ad- 
 vocate's words, as though they were an oracle. 
 
 It was a literary supper of friends, given not far 
 from Pira3us, by the old and worthy Koman sena- 
 tor Hortensius at the villa of his young and rich 
 ward, Arsinoe. 
 
 That same day Mamertinus had pronounced his 
 famous oration in defence of the banker, Barnabas. 
 126
 
 Nights and Suppers of the Gods. 127 
 
 No one doubted that the Jew Barnabas was a ras- 
 cal. But, to say nothing of the invincible elo- 
 quence of the orator, he had such a voice that one 
 of the innumerable throng of his fair worshippers 
 said: "I never listened to Mamertinus' words, and 
 I never need know what he is talking about. I am 
 intoxicated by the mere sound of his voice. Es- 
 pecially when it dies away at the end of a phrase 
 it is something marvelous ! It is not the voice of a 
 man, but divine nectar, the strains of an seolian 
 harp!" Though simple coarse people call Barna- 
 bas, the usurer, "a drinker of blood, eating up 
 the portions of the widows and the fatherless," the 
 Athenians were of course enthusiastic in exoner- 
 ating the client of Mamertinus. The lawyer re- 
 ceived fifty thousand sesterces from the Jew, and 
 was now in excellent spirits, at the distinguished 
 little festival which Hortensius was giving in his 
 honor. But he had a habit of pretending to be ill, 
 and making perpetual demands for indulgence. 
 
 "Oh, my friends, I am so tired to-day," he said, 
 in a plaintive voice, "I am quite ill. Where is 
 Arsinoe?" 
 
 "She will come in a moment. Arsinoe has just 
 received a new scientific apparatus from the Alex- 
 andrian Museum: she is quite taken with it. But 
 I will have her called," concluded Hortensius. 
 
 "No, pray do not ! " said the lawyer, carelessly. 
 "Pray do not. But what nonsense. A girl, and 
 physics! What can there be in common between 
 them? Aristophanes and Euripides laughed at 
 learned women and they were right! your Arsinoe 
 is capricious, Hortensius! If she was not so 
 charming, really with her sculpture and mathe- 
 matics, she would be "
 
 128 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 He did not finish his sentence, and looked 
 towards the open window. 
 
 "What am I to do? answered Hortensius, "a 
 spoiled child an orphan, neither father nor 
 mother I am only her guardian, and do not wish 
 to limit her in anything." 
 
 "Yes yes " 
 
 The lawyer was no longer listening. He was 
 thinking of himself. 
 
 "My friends, I feel" 
 
 "What is it?" asked several voices, with concern. 
 
 "I feel it seems to me there is a draught." 
 
 "Shall we have the shutters closed?" asked 
 the host. 
 
 "No, it is not necessary. It would be too close. 
 But I tired my voice so, to-day. And the day after 
 to-morrow, I have another case. Give me my chest 
 protector, and a carpet for my feet. I am afraid 
 of getting hoarse, from the damp night air." 
 
 Young Hephestion, the same who lived with the 
 poet Optatianus and was a pupil of Lampridius, 
 and Lampridius himself both sprang up in haste 
 to get Mamertinus his wrap. 
 
 The chest protector was a handsomely embroid- 
 ered scarf of feathery, white wool, which the 
 lawyer never parted from, so that at the slightest 
 danger of a chill, he might encircle his precious 
 throat with it. 
 
 Mamertinus took all the care of himself a lover 
 takes of a spoiled mistress. All were accustomed 
 to this. He loved himself with such a naive grace, 
 with such touching tenderness, that he compelled 
 other people also to love him. 
 
 "The matron Fabiola embroidered that wrap for 
 me," he informed them, with a smile.
 
 Nights and Suppers of the Gods. 129 
 
 "The Roman senator's wife?" asked Horten- 
 sius. 
 
 "Yes. I will tell you a story about her. Once 
 I wrote a little note, elegant enough, it is true, 
 but of course, a trifle, five lines in Greek, to 
 another lady, also an admirer of mine, who sent 
 me a basket of magnificent cherries. I wrote Ji 
 jesting reply, imitating Pliny's style. But imag- 
 ine, my friends! Fabiola was in such a hurry to 
 read my letter, and copy it into her collection, that 
 she posted two of her slaves on the road, to waylay 
 my messenger. And so they fell on him by night, 
 in a lonely ravine: he thought they were robbers, 
 but they did him no harm, but gave him money 
 and took the letter away, and so Fabiola was the 
 first to read it, and even learned it by heart!" 
 
 "Why certainly, I know, I know she is a re- 
 markable woman," said Lampridius, catching at 
 the conversation, "I saw myself that she keeps 
 your letters in a carved cabinet of lemon wood, 
 like treasures. She learns them by heart, and 
 assured me that they are better than any verse. 
 Fabiola reasons justly, in my opinion : 'if Alexan- 
 der the great kept Homer's poems in a cedar-wood 
 box, why should not I keep Mamertinus' letters in 
 a valuable cabinet ?'" 
 
 "My friends, this goose-liver with saffron sauce 
 is a miracle of perfection ! I advise you to try it. 
 Who prepared it, Hortensius?" 
 
 "The senior cook, Dedalus." 
 
 "Honor to him. Your cook, Dedalus, is a true 
 poet." 
 
 "You are fascinated by the goose-liver, worthy 
 Gargilianus. Rut can a cook be called a poet?'* 
 asked the teacher of rhetoric, with a pedantic
 
 130 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 smile, "do you not thereby insult the divine 
 Muses, our protectrices?" 
 
 "The Muses should be flattered, Lampridius. 
 I affirm, and shall always affirm, that gastronomy 
 is as high an art as any of the others. It is time 
 to bid farewell to prejudice." 
 
 Gargilianus, a Eoman official from the prefect's 
 office, was a plump, well-fed person, with a triple 
 chin. He was carefully shaved and perfumed. 
 His grey hair was close-cut and through it gleamed 
 red folds of fat. He had a wise and well-born 
 face. For many years, he had been considered an 
 indispensable guest at every elegant literary assem- 
 bly in Athens. Gargilianus loved only two things 
 in life: good food, and good style. Gastronomy 
 and literature were blended for him in a single 
 pleasure. 
 
 "Let us say that I take an oyster," he declaimed, 
 raising a shell-fish to his mouth, in his fat, well- 
 formed fingers, covered with huge amethysts and 
 rubies. 
 
 "I take an oyster, and swallow it : " 
 
 He swallowed it, half-closing his eyes, and 
 smacked his upper lip gently. His lip had a pecu- 
 liar gluttonous and even ravenous expression. 
 Protruding, sharp, curved, it looked something 
 like a little proboscis. In appraising the melodi- 
 ous verse of Anacreon or Moschus, he smacked 
 this gluttonous lip as sensuously as when at supper 
 he regaled himself on a sauce of nightingales' 
 tongues. 
 
 "I swallow it, and at once I feel" continued 
 Gargilianus seriously, "I feel that the oyster is 
 from the shores of Britain, and not at all, my 
 friends, from Ostium or Tarentum. If you wish,
 
 Nights and Suppers of the Gods. 131 
 
 I will close my eyes, and tell at once from what sea 
 an oyster or fish comes." 
 
 "But what has that to do with poetry?" Mam- 
 ertinus interrupted him, somewhat impatiently. 
 He never liked to have anyone else listened to, 
 when he was present. 
 
 "Imagine, my friends," continued the gastron- 
 omist, undisturbed, "that it is long since I have 
 been on the shore of the ocean, and that I love it, 
 and long for it. I can assure you that a good 
 oyster has the fresh, salt smell of the sea, so that 
 to swallow it is enough to imagine one's self on 
 the shores of the ocean. I shut my eyes, and see 
 waves, I see cliffs, and hear the murmuring of the 
 'misty sea,' as Homer calls it. No, tell me, on youi 
 conscience, what verse of the Odyssey awakens the 
 poetry of the sea so vividly as the savor of a fresh 
 oyster? Or, suppose I cut a peach, and taste its 
 perfumed juice. Tell me, why is the scent of vio- 
 lets and roses more poetical than the taste of a 
 peach ? The poets describe forms, colors, sounds. 
 Why should not a taste be as beautiful as a color, 
 a sound, or a form ? Prejudice, my friends, preju- 
 dice! Taste is the greatest, and still uncompre- 
 hended gift of the gods. The combination of 
 tastes forms a high and delicate harmony, like the 
 combination of sounds. I repeat that there is a 
 tenth Muse, the Muse of Gastronomy." 
 
 "Well, peaches, oysters, may be " replied the 
 teacher of oratory, "But what harmony can there 
 be in a goose-liver with saffron sauce?" 
 
 "Is there not beauty for you, Lampridius, not 
 only in the 'Idyls' of Theocritus, but also in the 
 coarsest comic verses of Plautus? in the market- 
 place jests of his slaves?"
 
 132 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "Well, I suppose there is." 
 
 "You see, my friend, and for me there is a 
 special gastronomic poetry in goose-liver. I am 
 really as ready to crown Dedalus with a wreath of 
 bays for it, as Pindar for his Olympic Ode." 
 
 Two new guests appeared in the doorway. They 
 were Julian, and Publius, the poet. Hortensius 
 yielded the place of honor to Julian. Publius' 
 "hungry eyes lit up, at the sight of the numerous 
 dainty dishes. The poet was in a new cloak, which 
 had come to him just in time. Probably the pub- 
 lican's wife had died, and he had received his hon- 
 orarium for her epitaph. 
 
 The conversation continued. 
 
 The teacher of rhetoric, Lampridius was relat- 
 ing that once, from curiosity, he had gone to hear 
 a Christian preacher in Rome, inveighing against 
 "the heathen scholars." "The scholars," affirmed 
 the preacher, "honor men not for their good 
 ^eeds, but for their good style. They think it is 
 less criminal to kill a man, than to pronounce the 
 word 'homo,' with a wrong accent." Lampridius 
 Avas vexed at these jests. He asserted that the 
 Christians were so hostile to the good style of the 
 rhetoricians because they knew that their own 
 style was barbarous. They destroyed the antique 
 eloquence, and confused illiteracy with good mor- 
 ris. Everyone who could speak correctly was sus- 
 pect for them. According to the opinion of 
 Lampridius, the day that eloquence perished, 
 Hellas and Eome would also perish and men would 
 return to inarticulate beasts. And the Christian 
 preachers with their barbarous style did every- 
 thing in their power to bring about that misfor- 
 tune.
 
 Nights and Suppers of the Gods. 133 
 
 "Who knows," remarked Mamertinus, thought- 
 fully, "perhaps good style is more important than 
 good deeds. Slaves, and barbarians, and ignorant 
 people are also good!" 
 
 Hephestion explained to his companion, Junius 
 Mauricius, the precise meaning of Cicero's words : 
 "causam mcndacinncnlis adspcrgcre." 
 
 "'Mcndaciuncidis' means 'little lies/ Cicero 
 allows, and even advises, so to speak, that a speech 
 should he sown or sprinkled with inventions, 
 'mendariuncttlis.' He admits a lie, if it adorns the 
 orator's style." 
 
 Then began a general heated discussion as to 
 whether an orator should begin a speech with an 
 anapaest or a dactyl. 
 Julian grew weary. 
 
 All turned to him, asking his opinion about the 
 dactyl and the anapaest. 
 
 He candidly admitted that he had never thought 
 of it, and that he held that an orator had better 
 concern himself with the wise contents of his 
 speech than with such insignificant details of ex- 
 ternal style. , 
 
 Mamertinus, Lampridius, and Hephestion were 
 dissatisfied. In their opinion, the subject of an 
 oration was indifferent. It should be all the same 
 to an orator whether he spoke for or against. Not 
 only had its purport small importance, but even 
 the connection of the words was a matter of sec- 
 ondary importance, while the sounds, the melody 
 of the words, and new combinations of letters were 
 the main matter. A barbarian, who did not know 
 a word of Greek, ought to be able to feel the ora- 
 tor's charm. 
 
 "I shall quote two verses from Propertius," said
 
 134 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Gargilianus, "and you will see what sound in poet- 
 ry means, and how subordinate sense is. Listen: 
 
 "Et Veneris dominae wlvtres, mea turbae, columbae 
 Tmguunt Gorgoneo punica rostra lacu." 
 
 "And lady Venus' birds, my fluttering doves, 
 Tinge their pink beaks in the Gorgonean lake." 
 
 "What a charm! Every letter sings! What 
 have I to do with the meaning ? The whole heauty 
 is in the sounds, in the choice of vowels and conso- 
 nants ! For these sounds, I would give all Juve- 
 nal's civic virtue, and Lucretius' philosophy. No ! 
 just hear! what sweetness there is in their mur- 
 murous sounds: 
 
 "Et Veneris dominae, mea turbae, columbae" 
 
 And he smacked his upper lip, with sensuous 
 delight. 
 
 All repeated the two verses of Propertius, drink- 
 ing in their charm. They kindled each other to 
 a literary orgy. 
 
 "Only listen," murmured Mamertinus, in his 
 soft, die away voice, like an -ZEolian harp: " 'tin- 
 guunt Gorgoneo'" 
 
 "'Tinguunt Gorgoneo,'" repeated the prefect's 
 official, "I swear by Pallas, it is pleasant even to 
 the palate; as if you were swallowing a thick, 
 warm draught of wine, mixed with Attic honey: 
 
 'Tinguunt Gorgoneo' 
 
 "Note how often the letter c g' is repeated, it is 
 like the cooing of turtle-doves. And further on: 
 
 'Punica rostra lacu.' " 
 
 "Wonderful! inimitable!" murmured Lampri- 
 dius, closing his eyes in rapture.
 
 Xiirhts and Suppers of the Gods. 135 
 
 Julian felt both ashamed and amused, in watch- 
 ing this sensual intoxication on sounds. 
 
 "The words must be somewhat devoid of mean- 
 ing," concluded Lampridius, loftily; "they must 
 flow and murmur and sing, not arresting either 
 hearing or feeling, then only is the full, enjoyment 
 of beauty possible." 
 
 In the doorway, at which Julian had been look- 
 ing all the time, as if expecting someone, unheard 
 and unnoticed by anyone, appeared an upright 
 form, white as a ghost. 
 
 The shutters were wide open. The clear moon- 
 light fell into the room and mingled with the red 
 glow of the lamps on the mosaic floor, bright as a 
 mirror, and on the walls with their frescoes, repre- 
 senting sleeping Endymion under the caresses of 
 the moon. 
 
 The white apparition was motionless. An an- 
 cient Athenian peplum, of soft, silvery wool, fell 
 in long straight folds, caught up under her breast 
 by a slender belt. The moonlight lit up tho 
 peplum. The face remained in the shadow. The 
 newcomer looked at Julian, and Julian looked at 
 her. They smiled at each other, knowing that that 
 smile was noticed by no one. She laid her finger 
 on her lips, and listened to what was being said 
 at the table. 
 
 Suddenly Mamertinus, who was engaged in a 
 lively discussion with Lampridius as to the gram- 
 matical differences between the first and second 
 aorist, exclaimed: 
 
 "Arsinoe! At last! You have decided to leave 
 your physical apparatus and statues for our sakes."' 
 
 She entered, and greeted all with a simple smile. 
 It was the disk-thrower, whom Julian had seen in
 
 136 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 the deserted palaestra a month ago. The poet Pub- 
 lius Optatianus, who knew everything and every- 
 body in Athens, had become acquainted with Hor- 
 tensius and Arsinoe, and had brought Julian to 
 their house. 
 
 Arsinoe's father, the old Eoman senator, Helvi- 
 dius Priscus, had died in the last year of Constan- 
 tino the Great's reign. His two daughters by a 
 German captive, Arsinoe and Myra, Helvidius had 
 entrusted, at his death, to the guardianship of his 
 old friend the Senator Quintus Hortensius, whom 
 he respected for his love of ancient Eome, and his 
 hatred of Christianity. A distant relation of 
 Arsinoe's, the owner of a great factory of purple 
 in Sidon, had left her incalculable wealth. 
 
 A crowd of admirers surrounded her. From her 
 garments, head-dress, her irreproachable simplic- 
 ity of behavior, she might have been taken for a 
 pure Greek of the ancient type, few of whom were 
 left. But the new German blood was visible in 
 the irregular lines of her face. 
 
 Christian virtues and the patriarchal family 
 morals of ancient Rome seemed to her equally 
 hateful. The images of such free women as 
 Aspasia, Cleopatra, and Sappho had captivated 
 her from childhood. Once, to Hortensius' no 
 small horror, she had affirmed in all simplicity 
 that she would sooner consent to become a hetera, 
 beautiful and free, than a mother of a family; the 
 slave of a husband, "like all the rest." These 
 words "like all the rest," overwhelmed her with 
 weariness and aversion. 
 
 At one time, Arsinoe had a passion for the 
 natural sciences, and worked in the Alexandrian 
 museum, under renowned teachers. The atomic
 
 Nights and Suppers of the Gods. 137 
 
 theories of Epicuris, Democritus, and Lucretius 
 captivated her, she liked the teaching which freed 
 her "from fear of the gods." She afterward de- 
 voted herself to sculpture, with the same impa- 
 tient, almost morbid passion. 
 
 She had come to Athens to study the best 
 models of Phidias, Scopas, and Praxiteles. 
 
 "Oh, you are at grammar again," she said, with 
 a mocking smile, entering the banquet hall. "Do 
 not be shy, go on! I will not dispute; I am 
 hungry. I have been working all day. Boy, pour 
 me some wine!" 
 
 "My friends," continued Arsinoe, "you are un- 
 happy people, with all your quotations from 
 Demosthenes, and rales of Quintilian. Take care! 
 Rhetoric will destroy you. I would fain see a 
 man, at last, who has nothing to do with Homer 
 or Cicero; who speaks without thinking of accents, 
 syntax, and combinations of letters. Julian, come 
 to the sea after supper; to-day I do not wish to 
 hear quarrels about dactyls and anapassts." 
 
 "You have guessed my thought," murmured 
 Gargilianus, for whom the goose-liver with saffron 
 sauce was proving to have been too much. Almost 
 always, at the very end of a supper, along with a 
 heaviness in the pit of his stomach, he felt a revolt 
 against literature. 
 
 "Litterarum intemperantia laboramus," as 
 Nero's teacher, the clever Seneca, expressed it. 
 "Yes, yes, that is our trouble! We suffer from 
 literary intemperance. We poison ourselves." 
 
 And falling into meditation, he produced a 
 toothpick of mastic-wood. His fat, wise face 
 expressed disgust and weariness.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 JULIAN AND ARSINOE. 
 
 They descended the cypress alley to the sea. 
 The silver pathway of the moon spread out to the 
 horizon. The breakers murmured among the 
 limestone boulders on the beach. A semi-circular 
 bench stood near. 
 
 Above it, Artemis the Huntress, in a short 
 tunic, with a crescent moon in her hair, with a 
 bow and quiver, and with two sharp-nosed dogs, 
 seemed alive in the shining moonlight. They sat 
 down. 
 
 Arsinoe directed Julian's eyes to the hill of the 
 Acropolis, with the faintly gleaming columns of 
 the Parthenon, and renewed the conversation 
 which they had more than once taken up in previ- 
 ous meetings. 
 
 "See how beautiful it is. And you would destroy 
 it, Julian?" 
 
 Without answering, he lowered his eyes. 
 
 "I have thought much of what we said last time, 
 and what you told me about your humility," con- 
 tinued Arsinoe, in a low voice, as if to herself. 
 "Was Alexander of Macedon humble? And yet 
 was he not great and beautiful?" 
 
 Julian remained silent. 
 
 "And Brutus, Brutus who slew Caesar! If 
 
 Brutus had turned the left cheek, when they 
 
 struck him on the right, do you think he would 
 
 have been grander? Or do you Galileans count 
 
 138
 
 Julian and Arsinoe. 139 
 
 him an evil-doer? Why does it seem to me at 
 times that you are dissembling? that you are 
 weary of that black robe?" 
 
 She suddenly turned her lovely face toward him, 
 bright in the moonlight, and gazed straight into 
 his eyes, with a steady glance. 
 
 "What do you want, Arsinoe?" he asked, grow- 
 ing pale. 
 
 "I want you to be my open foe!" exclaimed the 
 girl, passionately. "You cannot pass by like that, 
 without saying who you are. Do you know, I 
 sometimes think it were better if Athens and 
 Rome were in ruins. Better to burn the corpse, 
 than to leave it unburied. And all those friends 
 of ours, the grammarians, the rhetoricians, the 
 verse-makers, the writers of panegyrics to the 
 emperor, are the rotting body of Hellas and 
 Rome. They frighten me, like the dead. Yes, 
 you may exult, Galileans! Soon nought will 
 remain on the earth but dead bodies and ruins. 
 And you, Julian. No, No! It cannot be. I do 
 not believe that you are with them, against me, 
 against Hellas!" 
 
 Julian stood before her pale and silent. He 
 wished to go away. She caught him by the arm: 
 
 "Say, say that you are my enemy," she cried 
 with defiance and despair in her voice. 
 
 "Arsinoe! why?" 
 
 "Tell all! I wish to know. Do you not feel 
 how near we are to each other? Or are you 
 afraid?" 
 
 "In two days I leave Athens," whispered Julian. 
 "Farewell." 
 
 "You leave Athens? Why? Whither?" 
 
 "A letter from Constantius. The emperor sum-
 
 140 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 mons me to the court, perhaps to death. I think 
 I now see you for the last time." 
 
 "Julian, you do not believe in Him?" exclaimed 
 Arsinoe, trying to catch the monk's glance. 
 
 "Hush! hush! What are you asking?" 
 
 He sprang up from the bench, went hack, step- 
 ping softly, peering on all sides along the pathway 
 flooded with moonlight, at the black shadows of 
 the bushes, even at the sea, as if the emperor's 
 spies might be lurking everywhere. 
 
 Then he returned, sat down again, still ill at 
 ease. Eesting his arm on the marble, he bent 
 down to her ear, so that she felt his hot breath, 
 and whispered quickly, like a man delirious: 
 
 "Yes, yes, am I likely to believe in Him? 
 Listen, girl, I will tell you now what I have not 
 even dared to tell myself. I hate the Galilean! 
 But I have lied ever since I can remember. The 
 lie has entered into my soul, and has clung there, 
 as this black robe clings to my body: you remem- 
 ber the poisoned shirt of Nessus? Heracles tried 
 to tear it off, with pieces of his flesh and blood, but 
 could not; and so perished. So shall I perish in 
 the Galilean lie!" 
 
 He uttered every word with a heavy stress. 
 Arsinoe looked up at him. His face, strained with 
 suffering and hate, seemed strange to her. 
 
 "Calm yourself, friend," she murmured, "tell 
 me all; I shall understand you better than any 
 one." 
 
 "I wish to tell, but do not know how," he 
 laughed bitterly. "I have kept silent too long. 
 You see, Arsinoe, that onct you have fallen into 
 his clutches, it is finished, the meek and lowly 
 one will disfigure you so, teaching you to lie and
 
 Julian and A: since. 141 
 
 crawl, that you will never become straight, or 
 raise your head again." 
 
 All the blood flowed to his face, the veins stood 
 out on his forehead, and gnashing his teeth in 
 impotent rage, he whispered: 
 
 "Baseness! baseness! true Galileans, baseness, 
 to hate my enemy as I now hate Constantius, and 
 to forgive him and crawl like a serpent at his feet 
 according to the humble habit of the Christians, 
 begging for mercy. Just a year more, one little 
 year of life, for thy wretched slave, the monk 
 Julian, then, as may be pleasing to thee and thy 
 eunuch counsellors, oh favorite of God!" What 
 cowardice!" 
 
 "N"o, Julian," exclaimed Arsinoe, "you will con- 
 quer! To dissemble is your strength. You re- 
 member, in ^Esop's fable, the ass in the lion's 
 skin? Here is the opposite, the lion in the skin 
 of the ass, the hero in the monkish robe!" 
 
 She burst out laughing: 
 
 "And how frightened they will be, the fools, 
 when you suddenly show your lion's claws. What 
 a rejoicing and panic there will be! Tell me that 
 you long for power?" 
 
 "Power!" He struck his hands together, drink- 
 ing in the sound of the word, and breathing a 
 deep breath of the cool night air: 
 
 "Power! Oh, if for one year, a few months^ a 
 few days, I had power, I would teach these 
 humble, crawling, venomous creatures who call 
 themselves Christians, the meaning of that wise 
 word of the Teacher, 'unto Caesar the things that 
 are Ca?sarV yes, I swear by the god of the sun, 
 they would render to me, as Caesar, what is 
 Caesar's."
 
 142 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 He raised his head, his eyes flashing with pride 
 and wrath, his face lit up, as though he had sud- 
 denly grown younger. Arsinoe watched him with 
 a smile. 
 
 But soon his head sank down again. Glancing 
 round fearfully, he sat down on the bench. Invol- 
 untarily, he folded his arms on his breast, after 
 the manner of the monks, and murmured: 
 
 "No, no, why should I deceive myself? That 
 will never be. I shall perish. Wrath will kill me. 
 Listen: every night, after a day spent on my knees 
 in the church among the relics, I return home, 
 worn out and weary, and throw myself down on 
 my bed, and, burying my face in the pillow, I cry 
 out, and gnaw it, to smother the sound of my pain 
 and wrath. Oh, you know little of the terror and 
 taint of the Galilean, Arsinoe! I have been dying 
 in it twenty years, and am not dead, because we 
 Christians are as full of life as serpents; cut us in 
 two, we grow together again. Formerly, I sought 
 comfort among the theurgians and the sages. In 
 vain. I am neither a worker of righteousness nor 
 a sage. I am evil, and I wish to be yet more evil, 
 to be strong and terrible, like the devil, my only 
 brother! But why, why can I not forget that there 
 is something more, that there is beauty; why have 
 you appeared to me, merciless one?" 
 
 With a sudden movement, opening her beau- 
 tiful, bare arms, Arsinoe clasped him round the 
 neck, and drew him to her so strongly, so close, 
 that he felt the innocent freshness of her body, 
 and whispered: 
 
 "What if I came to you, youth, as an inspiring 
 Sibyl, to foretell your glory? You alone are liv- 
 ing amongst the dead. You are glorious! What
 
 Julian and Arsinoe. 143 
 
 is it to me that you have not white swans' wings, 
 but wings terrible and black, curved, cruel claws, 
 like a wild beast? I love all who do not submit, 
 and are recusant; Julian, I love lonely and proud 
 eagles more than white swans. Be more glorious, 
 more evil! Dare to be evil to the end. Lie with- 
 out shame. Better lie than submit. Do not fear 
 hatred: it is the strong vigor of your wings. Will 
 you make a compact with me? you shall give me 
 power; I shall give you beauty. Will you, Julian?" 
 
 Through the light folds of her antique peplum, 
 once again, as formerly in the palestra, he saw the 
 clear outlines of Arsinoe's naked body, Artemis 
 the Huntress, as it seemed to him to glow, soft and 
 golden, through the airy drapery. 
 
 His head grew confused. In the moonlit twi- 
 light that surrounded them, he saw bold, laughing 
 lips draw near his lips. 
 
 For the last time, he thought: 
 
 "I must go; she does not love me, and will never 
 love me; she desires power only. It is deceit.'* 
 
 But he immediately added, with a helpless 
 smile: 
 
 "Well, let it be deceit!" 
 
 And the cold of her strange, unsatisfying kiss 
 pierced to the depths of his heart, like the chill of 
 death. 
 
 It seemed to him that virgin Artemis herself, 
 through the transparent moonlight, had descended 
 and kissed him with a deceptive kiss, like the cold, 
 soft moonlight. 
 
 On the next morning, the two friends, Basil of 
 Cesarea, and Gregory of Nazianzan, met Julian in 
 an Athenian basilica.
 
 144 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 He was kneeling before an image, praying. The 
 friends looked at him in wonder. They had never 
 seen in his features such humility, such clearness. 
 
 "Brother," whispered Basil in his -friend's ear, 
 "we have sinned against him; we have condemned 
 the just in our hearts." 
 
 Gregory nodded his head: 
 
 "May God forgive me if I was wrong," he re- 
 plied, slowly, without taking his deep, penetrating 
 eyes from Julian, "but remember, brother Basil, 
 how often the Devil himself, the father of lies, has 
 appeared to me in the form of an angel of light." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 THE COURT OF CONSTANTIUS. 
 
 On a lamp pedestal, in the form of a dolphin, 
 was placed a pair of curling-tongues. The flame 
 looked pale, because the morning rays, striking 
 straight on the curtains, filled the dressing-room 
 with a dense, ruddy-violet radiance. The silk of 
 the curtains was dyed with the most costly of all 
 purples, the so-called oxyblatta, hyacinth-colored, 
 from Tyre, dyed thrice. 
 
 "Hypostasis? What is the divine Hypostasis of 
 the Trinity? No mortal can apprehend it. I lay 
 awake all night long and thought, for I have a 
 great passion for thinking. But my thoughts 
 attained nothing, except a headache. Boy, give 
 me the towel, and soap." 
 
 The speaker had a majestic appearance, and 
 wore a mitre on his head, like a high-priest, or an
 
 The Court of Constantius. 145 
 
 Asian prince. He was the senior barber and wig- 
 maker to the sacred person of the emperor. Shav- 
 ing, in his skilled and almost magical hands, pro- 
 ceeded with inimitable grace and ease. The 
 barber, as it were, performed a mystery, a sacred 
 rite. On either hand, besides the Dignitary of the 
 Most August Bedchamber, Eusebius the most 
 powerful man in the empire, besides innumerable 
 bed-makers, "cubicularii," with different ves- 
 sels, unguents, towels and basins, stood two boys 
 with fans. During the whole mystery of the shav- 
 ing, they fanned the emperor with broad, fine fans, 
 in the form of silver six-winged seraphs, like the 
 sacramental fans with which the deacons drive 
 away flies from the holy elements, during the 
 sacrament. The barber had just finished the em- 
 peror's right cheek, and was proceeding to the 
 left, lathering it sedulously with soap scented with 
 Arabian essences, called the foam of Aphrodite. 
 He whispered, bending to Constantius' ear, so that 
 no one else could hear: 
 
 "Oh, god-loving emperor, thy all-embracing 
 mind alone can decide what are the three Hypo- 
 stases, of the Father, the Son, and the Holy 
 Ghost. Do not listen to the bishops. It is not 
 as pleases them, but as pleases you. Athanasius, 
 the Alexandrian patriarch, should be put to death 
 for an obstinate and blasphemous rebel. God the 
 Creator himself will reveal to your Sanctity what 
 and how your slaves should believe. As I appre- 
 hend, Arius is right in affirming that there was a 
 time when, the Son was not. And so concerning 
 unity of substance." 
 
 But at this point Concfantius glanced at the 
 huge mirror of polished silver, and feeling the
 
 146 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 freshly-shaven silky surface of his right cheek 
 with his hand, interrupted the barber: 
 
 "It does not seem quite smooth. Eh? You 
 may go over it once more. What were you saying 
 about unity of substance?" 
 
 The barber, who had received a talent of gold 
 from the Court bishops, Ursacius and Valens, to 
 prepare the emperor for the new Confession of 
 Faith, quickly and stealthily whispered in Con- 
 stantius' ear, with marvelous softness carrying on 
 the shaving, as though caressing his neck. But at 
 this moment the notary Paulus approached the 
 emperor. He bore the nickname of Catena, the 
 chain, because he wove the unbreaking links of 
 evidence so skilfully round the necks of his des- 
 tined victims. Paulus' face was effeminate, beard- 
 less and handsome. Judging by his outward 
 person, angelic mildness might have been attrib- 
 uted to him. His eyes were dull, black, veiled. 
 He walked inaudibly, with a swaying grace in his 
 soft movements. On his upper cloak, the penula, 
 across the notary's shoulder was thrown a wide 
 dark blue ribbon or scarf of service, a special mark 
 of the emperor's favor. Paulus Catena pushed 
 aside the senior barber with a soft and haughty 
 gesture, and bending over, spoke in Constantius' 
 ear: 
 
 "A letter of Julian's. I seized it last night. 
 Does it please you to have it unsealed?" 
 
 Constantius hungrily tore the letter from Pau- 
 lus' hand, opened it, and began to read. But he 
 was soon disillusioned: 
 
 "Nonsense," he said, "an exercise in rhetoric. 
 He sends a present of a hundred grapes to some
 
 The Court of Constantius. 147 
 
 sophist, and writes praises of grapes, and of the 
 number one hundred." 
 
 "Oh, that is craftiness," remarked Catena. 
 
 "Is it possible," asked Constantius, "that there 
 is no evidence?" 
 
 "None at all." 
 
 "He is either artful, or " 
 
 "What did your Eternity wish to say?" 
 
 "Or innocent." 
 
 "As may please you," whispered Paulus. 
 
 "As may please me? I wish to be just, only 
 just; do you not know that? I need proofs." 
 
 "Wait. There will be proofs." 
 
 Another spy appeared, a young Persian, Mer- 
 curious by name, and by vocation, the court cup- 
 bearer, almost a boy, yellow-faced, and black-eyed. 
 He was not less feared than Paulus Catena, and was 
 jestingly called the Dignitary of Dreams and Vis- 
 ions. If a prophetic dream could have a meaning 
 ominous for the person of the emperor, Mercurius, 
 hearing of it, hastened to inform the emperor. 
 Many paid with their property and court career for 
 having been careless enough to dream what they 
 should not have dreamed. The crafty courtiers 
 began to assert that they suffered from incurable 
 insomnia, and they envied the inhabitants of the 
 fabulous Atlantis, who slept, as Plato tells, with- 
 out beholding dreams. 
 
 Two Ethiopian eunuchs were tying the strings 
 on the emperor's shoes, embroidered with golden 
 eagles, and made of bright green leather, a color 
 consecrated to the foot-wear of the emperor alone. 
 The Persian pushed the eunuchs aside and em- 
 braced his protector's feet, kissed them, and looked
 
 148 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 up in his eyes, as a dog looks up in the eyes of its 
 master fawning and wagging its tail. 
 
 "May your Eternity pardon me," murmured the 
 little Mercurius, with a childlike and innocent 
 affection, "I could not endure it, and ran to you 
 as quick as I could. Gaudentius has had a bad 
 dream. You appeared to him, in a torn garment, 
 and in a crown of empty wheat-ears, pointing 
 downward." 
 
 "What does that mean?" 
 
 "The empty wheat-ears mean hunger, and the 
 torn purple, I dare not say." 
 
 "Sickness?" 
 
 "Worse, perhaps. Gaudentius' wife admitted to 
 me that he had consulted the fortune-tellers. God 
 knows what he heard from them." 
 
 "Good; we will talk of it later. Come in the 
 evening." 
 
 "No; now. Order the torture, the lighter one, 
 without fire. And there is the matter of the table- 
 cloths." 
 
 "What table-cloths?" 
 
 "Have you forgotten? At a feast in Aquitania, 
 the table was covered with two table-cloths, with 
 such wide purple borders that they almost looked 
 like imperial cloaks." 
 
 "More than two fingers wide? I allowed bor- 
 ders two fingers wide by law." 
 
 "Oh, far wider. As I say, a regular imperial 
 cloak. Think of it, such a sacred decoration on 
 a table-cloth!" 
 
 Mercurius had not time to tell all the tales he 
 had gathered. 
 
 "A monster was born in Daphne," he muttered, 
 hastily, and hesitatingly, "four ears, four eyes, two
 
 The Court of Constantius. 149 
 
 tusks, and all covered with hair. The soothsayers 
 say it is a bad sign, of the division of the Holy 
 Empire." 
 
 "Let us see. Write it all down, in order, and 
 present it." 
 
 The emperor finished his morning toilet. He 
 looked once more in the mirror, and with a fine 
 brush took a little rouge from a silver holder, of 
 filagree work, in the shape of a little shrine, with 
 a cross on the top. Constantius was pious. Innu- 
 merable crosses and monograms of the Christ were 
 seen in all corners, on all sorts of trifles. A special 
 kind of very precious rouge, called purpurissima, 
 was prepared from the rosy foam which they 
 skimmed from the boiling juice of purple shells. 
 Constantius artistically applied a brush dipped in 
 this rouge to his hard, dusky cheeks. From the 
 room called the Porphyria, where the imperial 
 robes were kept in a special five-storied wardrobe, 
 the eunuchs brought the emperor's Dalmatian 
 cloak, stiff, almost unpliable, heavy with precious 
 stones and gold, with winged-lions and dragons 
 embroidered on the amethyst-colored purple. That 
 day, in the chief hall of the palace of Mediolanum, 
 there was to be held a council of the Arian bishops. 
 
 The emperor went thither, along the transverse 
 gallery of marble. The court-guards, the Pala- 
 tines, stood in two rows silent as statues, with 
 upraised spears fourteen cubits long. The stand- 
 ard, brought in by the Dignitary of Most Holy 
 Bounties (Comes Sacrarum Largitionum) the 
 golden Labarum of Constantino with the mono- 
 gram of Christ, glittered and gleamed. The 
 speechless guards (silentarii), ran in front, and 
 with gestures admonished all to reverent stillness.
 
 150 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 In the gallery the emperor met his consort, 
 Eusebia Aurelia. She was a woman no longer 
 young, with a pale and weary face, with refined 
 and noble features. Sometimes malicious mockery 
 flashed in her penetrating eyes. The empress 
 placed her hands on the omoformm, shining with 
 rubies and sapphires, cut in the form of a heart, 
 and bowed her head, giving the customary morn- 
 ing greeting. 
 
 "I have come to be favored with the light of 
 your countenance, my consort favored by God. 
 How did your Holiness deign to pass the night?" 
 
 Then in obedience to a sign from her, two ladies 
 of the court, Euphrosyne and Theophane, who 
 were supporting her arms, went a little distance 
 away, and she said in a low voice to her husband, 
 with a more sincere and simple accent : 
 
 "Julian is to be presented to you to-day. Be 
 gracious to him. Do not believe the spies. He is 
 an unhappy and guiltless boy. God will be graci- 
 ous to you, if you are gracious to him, sire!" 
 
 "You ask favor for him?" 
 
 Wife and husband interchanged a swift glance. 
 
 "I know." she said, "that you always trust me. 
 Trust me this time also. Julian is a faithful ser- 
 vant. Do not refuse. Be gracious to him." 
 
 And she bestowed one of those smiles on him, 
 which still had power over the emperor's heart. 
 
 In the portico, separated from the main hall by 
 a tapestry curtain, .behind which the emperor 
 liked to listen to what was going on at the sittings 
 of the bishops, a monk with a cruciform tonsure 
 approached him. He wore a tunic with a hood, 
 of coarse, dark stuff. It was Julian.
 
 ThS- Court of Constantius. 151 
 
 He bowed the knee before Constantius, and 
 kissed the border of the emperor's Dalmatian robe. 
 
 "I greet my benefactor, the victorious and 
 mighty emperor Augustus Constantius. May 
 your Holiness be gracious to me/' he said. 
 
 "We are glad to see you, our son." 
 
 Julian's cousin graciously stretched his hand 
 out almost to his lips. Julian kissed that hand, 
 on which was the blood of his father, of his 
 brother, of all his kindred. 
 
 The monk arose, pale, with glowing eyes bent 
 on his enemy. He gripped the handle of a keen 
 dagger, hidden under his robe. The small, leaden- 
 grey eyes of the emperor gleamed with vanity, and 
 only rarely did a crafty cunning break forth in 
 them. He was of small stature, a head shorter 
 than Julian, but broad-shouldered, evidently 
 strong and vigorous. His legs were ugly and bent, 
 like those of old warriors who have long been 
 accustomed to riding on horseback. The dusky 
 skin on his temples and cheekbones was disagree- 
 ably glossy. His thin lips were tightly pressed 
 together, as are the lips of people who love exacti- 
 tude and order more than anything else in the 
 world. Old pedantic teachers have this expression. 
 
 To Julian, all this seemed detestable: he felt a 
 blind, bestial madness overcoming him. Unable 
 to pronounce a word, he lowered his eyes, and 
 breathed heavily. 
 
 Constantius smiled, thinking that the youth 
 could not endure his kingly presence, and was 
 bewildered at the more than earthly majesty of the 
 Roman emperor. Pompously, but graciously, he 
 said: 
 
 "Fear not, youth! Go in peace. Our benevo-
 
 152 Julian the Apostate..- 
 
 lence accounts no evil to you, and will not hence- 
 forth desert your orphaned estate, or fail to 
 guard it." 
 
 Julian entered the council hall, and the em- 
 peror took his stand beside the tapestry; he laid 
 his ear to it and, with an expression of cunning 
 mockery, began to listen. 
 
 He recognized the voice of the chief superin- 
 tendent of the imperial post, Gaudentius, who had 
 seen the bad dream: 
 
 "Assembly after assembly," Gaudentius was 
 complaining to some magnate or other, "now in 
 Sirmiam, now in Sardis, now in Antioch, now in 
 Constantinople. They quarrel and cannot come 
 to an agreement about unity of substance. But 
 they should have some pity on the post-horses. 
 They gallop along at breakneck speed along the 
 royal post -roads. Now forward, now backward, 
 now from the east, now from the west. And with 
 them whole clouds of presbyters, deacons, church 
 servants, clerks. It means ruin! Out of ten 
 horses in the post-stables, you will hardly find one 
 that the bishops have not ridden to death. Five 
 more Councils, and all my steeds will be used up, 
 and the wheels will be off all the imperial car- 
 riages. Perfectly true! And observe that in spite 
 of it all the bishops do not come to an agreement 
 about the Hypostases and consubstantiality!" 
 
 "Why, most honorable Gaudentius, do you not 
 report this to the emperor?" 
 
 "I am afraid. He will not believe me, and will 
 hold me guilty of godlessness, of disrespect for the 
 needs of the Church." 
 
 In the enormous round hall, with cupola and 
 columns of greenish-veined Phrygian marble, the
 
 The Court of Constantius. 153 
 
 air was close. Slanting rays fell from the window 
 under the arches. The noise of voices recalled 
 the hum of a beehive. 
 
 This was the Arian Council. 
 
 On a raised dais a throne for the emperor was 
 prepared, a sella aurea, with lion's feet of ivory, 
 crossed like the folding curule chairs of the old 
 Roman consuls. 
 
 Near the throne, the presbyter Paphnytius, with 
 a simple-minded but heated face, was affirming: 
 
 "I, Paphnytius, as I heard from my fathers, so 
 have I held in my thoughts. According to the 
 creed of our holy father Athanasius, patriarch of 
 Alexandria, we must give our adherence to the 
 Unity in Trinity, and the Trinity in Unity. The 
 Father is God, the Son is God, the Holy Ghost is 
 God. But there are not three Gods, but one God!" 
 
 And as if overwhelming an unseen enemy, with 
 all his might he struck the great fist of his right 
 hand on the palm of the left, and turned a trium- 
 phant gaze on all: 
 
 "As I have received it, so shall I believe/' 
 
 "Eh? What is it? What does he say?" asked 
 Otius, a centenarian contemporary of the great 
 Nicene Council. "Where is my ear-horn?" 
 
 Helpless bewilderment was revealed in his face. 
 He was deaf, almost blind, and wore a long, grey 
 beard. The deacon handed him the ear-horn, and 
 the old man raised it to his ear. 
 
 A pale, lean, fasting monk caught Paphnytius 
 by the surplice, with a look of entreaty: 
 
 "Oh, father Paphnytius," he tried to shout him 
 down, "what is this? For one word, all for one 
 word, 'of like substance' or f of one substance!' " 
 
 And the monk, grasping Paphnytius' garment,
 
 154 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 told him of the terrible things which he had seen 
 in Alexandria and Constantinople. 
 
 The Arians opened the mouths of those who 
 were unwilling to receive the Holy Sacrament in 
 heretical churches, with a wooden implement of 
 two pieces of wood like a stake, and forced the 
 holy elements down their throats. They tortured 
 children. They crushed women in vises, or burned 
 their breasts with hot irons. In the church of the 
 holy Apostles there was such a fight between th-; 
 Arians and the Orthodox, that the blood filled the 
 rain-cistern, and poured out on the square from 
 the porch-steps. In Alexandria, the Governor 
 Sebastian whipped the orthodox virgins with 
 thorny palm-leaves, so that many of them died, 
 and the dishonored, unburied bodies lay before 
 the city gates. And all this, not merely for one 
 word, but for one letter, for an iota, distinguishing 
 the Greek word "homoousios," "of one sub- 
 stance," from "homoiousios," "of like sub- 
 stance." 
 
 "Oh, father Paphnytius," repeated the humble, 
 pale monk, "for a single iota! And most of all, 
 tbe word 'substance' is not found at all in the 
 Holy Scriptures. Whv then do we quarrel, and 
 torment each other? Think, father, how terrible 
 is our sin!" 
 
 "What then?" Paphnytius interrupted him: 
 "are we to make peace with cursed blasphemers, 
 dogs, who vomit up from their unclean hearts that 
 there was a time when the Holy Son of God was 
 not?" 
 
 "One shepherd, one flock," timidly replied the 
 monk, defending himself. "Let us submit!" 
 
 The inexorable Paphnytius would not hear him;
 
 The Court of Constantius. 155 
 
 he shouted till the veins of his neck strained, and 
 the sweat stood on his temples. 
 
 "Let the enemies of God keep silence! Let not 
 this thing be! I anathematize the foul Arian 
 heresy! As I have received from my fathers so I 
 maintain in my heart!" he concluded in a voice of 
 thunder. 
 
 The centenarian Otius helplessly nodded his 
 grey head in assent. 
 
 "Why are you silent, abbot Dorotheus? You 
 contend little to-day, or are you weary of it?" 
 Phoebus, a tall, handsome presbyter, with waving 
 hair as black as pitch and uncommonly long, said 
 to a bilious, fiery old man: 
 
 "I am hoarse, father Phoebus. I want to speak, 
 but I have no voice. I strained my throat the 
 other day, when they were overthrowing the 
 damned heretics in the Council, and for two days 
 now I am hoarse." 
 
 "You should gargle your throat with a raw egg, 
 father, it does a great deal of good." 
 
 In another group, ^tius the deacon of Antioch, 
 was quarreling. He was the most extreme and 
 daring follower of Arius; they called him a god- 
 less atheist, for his rude and scoffing treatment 
 of the Holy Trinity. His face was gay and mock- 
 ing. The life of ^tius was marked by wonderful 
 variety. He had been in turns a slave, a copper- 
 smith, a day-laborer, a rhetorician, a doctor, a 
 teacher of philosophy in Alexandria, and finally a 
 deacon. 
 
 "God the Father is in substance different from 
 His Son," preached -^tius, with a smile enjoying 
 the terror of his hearers, "the persons of the Trin- 
 ity differ in glory according to Hypostasis. God
 
 156 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 is ineffable for His Son because it is not declared 
 what He is, as to Himself. Even the Son does 
 not know His substance, because it is impossible 
 for that which has a beginning to represent or 
 comprehend the Beginningless." 
 
 "Do not blaspheme!" wrathfully exclaimed 
 Theon, bishop of Marmora. "How far, my broth- 
 ers, will the satanic insolence of the heretics 
 extend?" 
 
 "Take care," dictatorially added Sophronius, 
 bishop of Pompeopolis, "do not let the eloquence 
 of your words lead astray the hearts of the simple." 
 
 "Show me some philosophic demonstration, and 
 I will agree, but cries and abuse demonstrate only 
 impotence," quietly replied ^Etius. 
 
 "In the Scripture, it is said " Sophronius was 
 beginning. 
 
 "What have I to do with the Scripture? God 
 gave men reason, to know Him. I believe in dia- 
 lectics, and not in texts. Reason with me support- 
 ing yourselves with syllogisms, after the categories 
 of Aristotle." 
 
 And he cynically wrapped himself in his dea- 
 con's surplice, like Diogenes in his philosophic 
 gown. 
 
 In another group, the bishops were gradually 
 coming to a common understanding, mutually 
 yielding to each other, when suddenly the Arian 
 Narcissus of Neroniades interposed in the discus- 
 sion. He was a mighty master of all Council 
 rules, creeds, and canons, a man who was not loved, 
 who was even accused of carnal lusts and usury, 
 but who was nevertheless respected for his theo- 
 logical knowledge.
 
 The Court of Constantius. 157 
 
 "Heresy," he exclaimed to the bishops, shortly 
 and peremptorily. 
 
 "How, heresy? Why heresy?" enquired several 
 voices. 
 
 "This was declared heresy at the council of 
 Paphlagonia." 
 
 Narcissus had small, crooked eyes, glittering 
 with an evil light, and an equally crooked and evil 
 smile on his venomous lips. His hair, stiff and 
 touched with grey, was like bristles. All his fea- 
 tures seemed to be twisted with malice. 
 
 "In the council of Paphlagonia!" repeated the 
 bishops, in despair, "we had even forgotten there 
 was such a council. What are we to do, brothers?" 
 
 Narcissus triumphed, glancing from one to the 
 other with his crooked eyes. 
 
 "May God have mercy on as sinners!" cried the 
 gentle and simple-hearted bishop Eusoius, "I 
 understand nothing of it all! I am altogether 
 bewildered! My head turns round. Homoousios, 
 homoiousios, consubstantial, inconsubstantial, 
 similitude, hypostasis, my ears are ringing with 
 these hard names. I walk as in a mist, and T 
 myself do not know what I believe, and what I do 
 not believe, what is heresy, what is not. Jesus 
 Christ, King of Heaven, help us. We are perish- 
 ing in the nets of Satan!" 
 
 At that moment, the noise and angry cries 
 ceased, and bishop Ursacius of Singidon, one of 
 the court favorites of the emperor, mounted the 
 pulpit. In his hands he held a long parchment 
 roll. Two shorthand writers were preparing to 
 record the doings of the Council in their books, 
 and were sharpening their calami of slender Egyp-
 
 158 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 tian reeds. Ursacius read the ordinance of the 
 emperor, addressed to the bishops: 
 
 "Constantius, the Victorious, the Triumphant, 
 the worthy and everliving Augustus, to all the 
 bishops assembled in Mediolanum." 
 
 The emperor demanded of the bishops the re- 
 nunciation of Athanasius, the patriarch of Alex- 
 andria, in coarse and undignified expressions, call- 
 ing the holy and universally respected old man 
 "the basest of mortals, a traitor, the fellow of the 
 insurgent and abominable Maxentius." 
 
 The court flatterers, Valens, Ensebius and Axen- 
 tius, were the first to sign the roll of deposition. 
 But a murmur was heard: 
 
 "All that is the accursed machination, the 
 subtle circumvention of the Arian deniers of the 
 Christ. "We will not give over the bishop to 
 infamy." 
 
 "The emperor calls himself 'everlasting.' None 
 is everlasting but God! Blasphemy!" 
 
 Constantius heard the last words clearly, stand- 
 ing behind the curtain. He pulled the tapestry 
 aside, and unexpectedly entered the hall of the 
 Council. The spearsmen surrounded him. The 
 emperor's face was wroth. Silence reigned. 
 
 "What is it? what is it?" repeated the aged 
 Otius, and bewilderment and dismay were on his 
 face. 
 
 "Fathers," began the emperor, restraining his 
 anger, "permit me, the servant of the Most Holy, 
 under His Providence, to bring my zeal to a con- 
 clusion. Athanasius, the rebel, the first disturber 
 of the peace of the world." 
 
 Again was heard a hoarse murmur.
 
 The Court of Constantius. 159 
 
 Constantius became silent, and turned his eyes 
 on the bishops with astonishment. 
 
 A voice in the crowd spoke: 
 
 "We anathematize the abominable Arian 
 heresy!" 
 
 "The faith," exclaimed the emperor, "which 
 you attack, is my faith. If it is heretical, why 
 does the Lord, who upholds all, give me the vic- 
 tory over all my enemies, Constans, Vetranion, 
 Gallus, the insurgent and abominable Maxentius? 
 Why has God placed in our keeping in our sacred 
 right hand, the scepter of the world?" 
 
 The Fathers kept silence. Then the court flat- 
 terer Valens bowed down with servile humility: 
 
 "God opens the truth to thy wisdom, oh ruler, 
 favored of heaven. That which thou believest, 
 cannot be heresy. Not in vain did Cyril of Jeru- 
 salem behold a miraculous sign in the heavens, 
 the day of thy victory over Maxentius, a cross, 
 surrounded by a rainbow." 
 
 "I will it so," interrupted Constantius, rising 
 from the throne, "Athanasius shall be deposed by 
 the power given me of God. Pray that at last all 
 contentions and disputes of words may cease, that 
 the ill-famed and murderous heresy of the Sabel- 
 lians, the followers of the infamous Athanasius, 
 may be annihilated; that the truth may shine 
 abroad in all hearts." 
 
 Suddenly the emperor's face grew pale. His 
 words died on his lips. 
 
 "What is this? How did they let him in?" 
 
 He pointed to a tall old man, with a stern and 
 majestic face. It was the persecuted and deposed 
 bishop Hilary, one of the greatest enemies of the 
 emperor's Arianism. He had come voluntarily to
 
 160 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 the assembly of bishops, expecting torture and 
 death. The old man raised his hand toward 
 heaven, as if calling down a curse on the head of 
 the emperor, and his strong voice resounded 
 throughout the stillness of the hall: 
 
 "Brothers! Now Christ cometh, for Antichrist 
 has already conquered. Constantius is Antichrist. 
 He strikes, us not on the neck, but fawns upon our 
 flesh; he casts us not into prison, but flatters us 
 in kings' houses. Emperor, hear: I say to thee 
 what I would have said to Nero, to Decius, to 
 Maximian, the fierce persecutors of the Church. 
 Thou art a murderer, not of men, but of the love 
 of God itself. Nero, Decius and Maximian served 
 the true God more than thou dost. In their days 
 we overcame the devil; in their days flowed the 
 blood of the martyrs, purifying the earth; and 
 their dead bones worked wonders. And thou, 
 cruelest of men, slayest us, but givest us not the 
 glory of death. Oh Lord, send us an open per- 
 secutor, not a dissembling foe, one like unto Nero 
 and Decius,, that the beneficent and terrible 
 weapon of Thy wrath may restore the Church, 
 rotted by the Judas kiss of Constantius!" 
 
 The emperor sprang from the throne: 
 
 "Seize him! seize him! The rebel, and all 
 rebels!" he cried, breathing hard, and pointing his 
 finger at Hilary. The palatines and shield-bearers 
 threw themselves on the bishop. An inexpressible 
 tumult arose. Swords flashed. 
 
 The Eoman soldiers bore down Hilary, with 
 coarse insults, tearing the omophorion, stole, and 
 chasuble from him. 
 
 Many struggled in terror toward the entrance 
 doors, fell, and crushed and trod on each other.
 
 The Court of Constantius. 161 
 
 One of the young shorthand writers sprang to a 
 window, but a soldier caught him by his long robe, 
 and did not let him escape. The table with the 
 ink-bottles was overturned, and the red ink flowed 
 across the blue jasper floor: at sight of the red 
 pools many cried out: 
 
 "Blood! blood! flee!" 
 
 Others shrieked: "Death to the foes of the sub- 
 lime Augustus!" 
 
 Paphnytius, dragged along by two court guards, 
 cried out in a voice of thunder: 
 
 "I recognize the Nicene Council, I anathema- 
 tize the Arian heresy!" 
 
 Many continued to shout: 
 
 "Consubstantiality !" 
 
 Others: 
 
 "Let it not be! Likeness of substance!" 
 
 Yet others: 
 
 "Silence, enemies of God! Anathema! Let 
 him be outcast! The Nicene Council! The Sar- 
 dian Council! The Paphlagonian Council! Ana- 
 thema!" 
 
 Blind Otius sat unmoved, forgotten by all, on 
 his episcopal chair. He murmured, in a hardly 
 audible voice: 
 
 "Oh Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on 
 us! What have we come to, brothers?" 
 
 But he wrung his feeble hands in vain, stretch- 
 ing them forth toward the tumultuous and mad- 
 dened crowd; in vain he repeated in despair: 
 ''Brothers, what are we doing?" No one saw or 
 heard him. And pitiable, helpless tears streamed 
 down his centenarian wrinkles. 
 
 Julian watched with a contemptuous smile, and 
 triumphed in silence.
 
 162 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Late in the evening of the same day, in the 
 silence of the desert among the hills to the east of 
 Mediolanum, two monks, anchorites from Meso- 
 potamia, sent to the Council hy the distant bishops 
 of Syria, were hastening from the city. 
 
 They had barely escaped from the hands of the 
 court guards, and were now hastening on their 
 way to Eavenna, to get on board ship and return 
 to their deserts as quickly as possible. Weariness 
 and indignation were expressed on their faces. 
 One of them, Ephraim, was an old man; the other 
 Pimenius was a youth. Ephraim addressed Pime- 
 nius: 
 
 "Time for us to go to the desert, my brother. 
 Better to hear the howling of jackals and lions, 
 than what we heard to-days in kings' houses. Oh 
 my sweet child, blessed are the silent. Blessed 
 are they who surround themselves with a fence of 
 quietness, that the wrangling of the contentious 
 may not come near them. Blessed are they who 
 comprehend the nothingness of words, and who 
 dispute not. Blessed is he who does not enquire 
 into the mysteries of the Highest, but sings before 
 Thy face, oh God, like a harp. Blessed is he who 
 has understood how hard it is to know Thee, oh 
 God, but how sweet to love Thee!" 
 
 Ephraim was silent, and Pimenius responded: 
 "Amen!" 
 
 The mighty silence of night enwrapped them, 
 and under the stars, they hastened toward the 
 East rejoicing in the quiet of the wilderness
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 JULIAN IN THE PURPLE. 
 
 Through all the streets of the city of Medio- 
 lanum, in the sunshine of the morning, streamed 
 crowds of people, all going to the great square. 
 
 There arose a shout of greeting, as the emperor 
 appeared in a triumphal chariot drawn by a whole- 
 herd of swan-white horses. 
 
 He stood at such a height that people below 
 looked up at him with bent necks. His garments, 
 powdered with precious stones, gleamed with a 
 blinding brightness. In his right hand he held a 
 scepter, in the left, an image of the world crowned 
 with a cross. 
 
 Immovable as a statue, heavily rouged and pow- 
 dered, he looked straight before him without turn- 
 ing his head, as if it were held in a vise. Through- 
 out the whole length of the way, in spite of the 
 jarring and trembling of the carriage, the emperor 
 did not make a movement, did not stir a finger; 
 he did not even cough, or wink his wide-opened 
 eyes. This petrified immobility Constantius had 
 acquired by many years of effort; he was proud of 
 it, and considered it an indispensable condition of 
 divine majesty, befitting the behavior of an em- 
 peror. At such moments, he would sooner have 
 died in torture than show his mortal nature, by 
 wiping the sweat from his face, or sneezing. 
 
 Crooked-legged, of small stature, he seemed to 
 himself a giant. When the chariot passed under 
 
 163
 
 164 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 the Triumphal arch, not far from the boundary 
 stone of Maximianus Hercules, the emperor bent 
 his head, as if it might have struck the gigantic 
 gateway, through which a Cyclops might have 
 passed with ease. 
 
 The palatines stood at either side of the way. 
 They had golden shields and golden breast-plates; 
 the two lines of noble guards shone in the sun like 
 two lightning flashes. 
 
 Bound the emperor's chariot were raised wide 
 standards in the form of dragons: the purple cloth, 
 fluttering in the wind from the open maws of the 
 dragons, gave forth a piercing sound, like the 
 angry hissing of snakes, and the great red tails of 
 the monsters swayed in the wind. 
 
 On the square were assembled all the legions 
 stationed in Mediolanum. 
 
 A thunder of shouts met the emperor. Con- 
 stantius was content. The very sounds of this 
 greeting, neither too low nor too loud, were settled 
 beforehand with the strictest etiquette. Soldiers 
 and citizens were taught the art of expressing their 
 joy in a decorous and reverential manner. 
 
 Constantius descended from the chariot, taking 
 care that his every movement, every step was full 
 of pompous and pedantic majesty, and walked up 
 the tribunal, which was erected in the square, and 
 hung from summit to base with the victorious rags 
 of old standards and bronze eagles. 
 
 The sound of trumpets broke forth again, the 
 military signal to indicate that the commander 
 wished to speak with the army, and silence spread 
 over the square. 
 
 "Optimi reipublicae defensores! Most excellent 
 defenders of the State," began Constantius.
 
 Julian in the Purple. 165 
 
 His speech was watery, and full of scholastic 
 flowers of rhetoric. 
 
 Julian, in the dress of a courtier, approached 
 the steps of the tribunal, and the fratricide robed 
 the last descendant of Constantius Chloms in the 
 sacred purple of the Ca?sars. The rays of the sun 
 pierced the light silk, when the emperor raised the 
 purple to invest the kneeling Julian, and a blood- 
 colored stain fell on the face of the new Caesar, 
 overspread with a deathlike paleness. In thought 
 he repeated a verse of the Iliad, which seemed to 
 him prophetic: 
 
 "Purple Death overtook him, and potent Fate." 
 
 And meanwhile Constantius was greeting him: 
 
 "While yet a youth, thou receivest'the splendid 
 flower of thy royal birth, best beloved of all my 
 brothers!" 
 
 Then arose a cry of joy through all the legions. 
 Constantius was slightly displeased. This cry sur- 
 passed the measure set by etiquette. Evidently 
 Julian pleased the soldiers. 
 
 "Long life to Caesar Julian!" they cried, ever 
 louder and louder, and would not be silenced. 
 
 The new Ca?sar replied to the plaudits of the 
 soldiers with a kindly smile. 
 
 The legionaries struck their bronze shields 
 against their knee, in sign of gladness. 
 
 It seemed to Julian that not the emperor's will 
 
 but the will of the gods themselves exalted him. 
 ********* 
 
 Constantius had the habit of consecrating a 
 quarter of an hour every evening to cleaning and 
 polishing his nails. This was the only luxury he 
 allowed himself. He was unimaginative, re-
 
 166 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 strained, and coarse, rather than refined, in his 
 other habits. 
 
 Subbing his nails with a fine file, smoothing 
 them with a little brush, he merrily asked his 
 favorite eunuch, Eusebius, the Dignitary of the 
 Most August Bedchamber, on the evening of the 
 same day: 
 
 "What do you think? will Julian soon conquer 
 the Gauls?" ' 
 
 "I think," said Eusebius, "that we shall soon 
 hear the news of the youth's defeat and death!" 
 
 "Is that so? I would greatly regret it. But I 
 have done what I could: he can blame himself 
 alone." 
 
 Constantius smiled, and bending his head on 
 one side, he looked at his polished nails: 
 
 "You conquered Maxentius," whispered the 
 eunuch, "you conquered Vetranion, Constans, and 
 Gallus; you will conquer Julian also. Then there 
 will be one flock and one shepherd. God and 
 thou!" 
 
 "Yes, yes, but besides Julian, there is Athana- 
 sius. I cannot find peace, until alive or dead, he 
 is in my hands." 
 
 "Julian is more to be feared than Athanasius, 
 and you invested him to-day with the purple of 
 death. Oh wisdom of divine Providence! How 
 by invisible ways it removes all the enemies of thy 
 Eternity! Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, 
 and to the Holy Ghost, now and forever, world 
 without end." 
 
 "Amen!" concluded the emperor, finishing his 
 nails, and throwing down the last brush. 
 
 He approached the ancient standard of Con- 
 stantine, the Labarum, which always stood in his
 
 Arsinoe and the Christians. 167 
 
 bed-chamber, fell on his knees, and looking at the 
 monogram of the Christ shining in the rays of 
 a perpetually burning lamp, began to pray. 
 
 With pedantic exactitude, he repeated the set 
 prayers, made the fixed number of obeisances and 
 signs of the cross. He turned to God with unques- 
 tioning faith, as people who never doubt their 
 benefactor. 
 
 When the three quarter hour set apart for the 
 evening prayer were over, Constantius rose with 
 a light heart. 
 
 The eunuchs undressed him. He lay down in 
 his splendid couch supported by the outstretched 
 wings of silver Cherubim. 
 
 The emperor went to sleep with a smile on his 
 lips, like an innocent child. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 ARSINOE AND THE CHRISTIANS. 
 
 In one of the many porticoes of Athens, 
 Arsinoe's statue: "Octavius, the Victor, with the 
 head of Brutus,' 7 was exhibited to the people. The 
 Athenians greeted the senator's daughter as a 
 restorer of the art of the best periods. 
 
 Special civil servants, whose duty it was secretly 
 to watch the political dispositions of people's 
 minds throughout the empire, and who bore the 
 strange name of "the Curious," reported in the 
 proper quarter that the statue might awaken a 
 desire of liberty in the minds of the people. 
 
 In the dead head of Brutus, they found a like-
 
 168 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 ness to Julian, and saw in this a criminal allusion 
 to the death of Gallus. In Octavius they tried to 
 find a likeness to Constantius. 
 
 The matter grew into an investigation for high 
 treason, and came near falling into the hands of 
 Paulus Catena. Happily, the court sent a per- 
 emptory order not only to remove the ill-omened 
 statue from the portico, but even to destroy it in 
 the presence of the servants of the emperor. 
 
 Arsinoe wished to hide it. Hortensius was in 
 such terror that he threatened to give up his ward 
 to the spies with his own hands. 
 
 Arsinoe was overcome with contempt for the 
 human race. She let her works suffer. Stone- 
 masons broke the statue in pieces. 
 
 Arsinoe quickly left Athens. Her guardian per- 
 suaded her to accompany him to Borne, where his 
 friends had long promised him a lucrative post at 
 the court of the emperor, the post of imperial 
 quasstor. 
 
 He settled not far from the Palatine Hill. The 
 days passed in idleness. The artist understood 
 that the great free art of old could exist no longer. 
 
 Arsinoe remembered her conversation with 
 Julian in Athens. It was the one thing that 
 bound her to life-. TQ wait in inactivity seemed 
 impossible to her. fat moments of despair she 
 wished to end the matter at once, to set forth 
 straightway for Gaul, to the young Caesar, and 
 with him to gain power or perish. 
 
 But at that time she fell grievously ill. During 
 the long quiet days of her convalescence, she was 
 calmed and soothed by Anatolius, the truest and 
 most faithful of her adorers. He was the cen-
 
 Arsinoe and the Christians. 169 
 
 turion of the court shield-bearers, and the son of a 
 rich merchant of Rhodes. 
 
 He was a Eoman centurion, as he himself ex- 
 pressed it, only "through a misunderstanding." 
 He entered military service, in obedience to a vain 
 wish of his father's, who counted it the height of 
 happiness to see his son in the golden accoutre- 
 ments of a court shield-bearer. Escaping disci- 
 pline by heavy bribes, Anatolius passed his life in 
 elegant idleness, amongst rare products of art and 
 books, in festivals, in leisurely and luxurious jour- 
 neys. He had not that deep serenity of soul which 
 belonged to the Epicureans of old. He complained 
 to his friends: 
 
 "I am sick of a mortal illness." 
 
 "What is it?" they asked him, with a smile of 
 disbelief. 
 
 "What you call my wit; but what seems to me 
 at times my sad and strange witlessness." 
 
 In his soft effeminate features were expressed 
 weariness and lack of energy. 
 
 Sometimes he seemed to waken up: now, during 
 a storm, he took a uselessly dangerous cruise in 
 the open sea with the fishermen; now he went 
 away to the impenetrable forests of Calabria to 
 hunt wild boar and bears, or meditated taking a 
 part in a plot on the emperor's life, or accomplish- 
 ing prodigies of valor in the field, or sought ini- 
 tiation in the strange rites of Mithra or Adonai. 
 At such moments, he astonished even people who 
 did not know his ordinary life, by his untiring 
 strength and daring. 
 
 But his excitement soon passed, and he sank 
 back into idleness even more indolent and dreamy 
 than before, even more melancholy and sarcastic.
 
 170 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "One can do nothing, with you, Anatolius,'' 
 Arsinoe said to him reproachfully, "you are so 
 soft, as if you had no bones." 
 
 But she felt a Hellenic grace in the character of 
 this last of the Epicureans. She loved the melan- 
 choly mockery in his sad eyes at everything in life 
 and at himself, when he said: 
 
 "The sage can find a drop of sweetness even in 
 his saddest thoughts; so the Hymettan bees suck 
 the sweetest honey from bitter herbs." 
 
 His quiet talks soothed and lulled her. She 
 jestingly called him her healer. 
 
 Arsinoe grew well again, but did not return to 
 her work-room. The very sight of the marble 
 splinters called forth a feeling of oppression in 
 her. 
 
 At this time, Hortensius, in honor of his stay 
 in Eome, was arranging a series of games for the 
 people in the Flavian amphitheater. They were 
 to be of unheard-of magnificence. He was con- 
 stantly hurrying hither and thither, receiving 
 animals daily from the four corners of the earth, 
 dogs from Scotland, crocodiles, fearless hunters, 
 skilled drivers, comedians, choice gladiators. 
 
 The days of preparation grew to a close, and the 
 lions were not yet brought from Tarentum, where 
 they had been landed. The bears arrived thin, 
 starving, and tame as sheep. Hortensius could not 
 sleep at night for anxiety. 
 
 Two days before the festival, the Saxon cap- 
 tives, the gladiators, proud and fearless men, for 
 whom he had paid an immense sum, strangled 
 each other in the prison by night, to the great dis- 
 gust of the senator; they considered it a disgrace 
 to serve as a gazing-stock for the Roman multi-
 
 Arsinoc and the Christians. 171 
 
 tude. Hortensius almost swooned away, when he 
 heard this unexpected news. 
 
 Now all his hopes were centered on the croco- 
 diles. These animals aroused the curiosity of the 
 Roman populace. 
 
 "Have you tried feeding them with the fresh 
 flesh of a sucking pig?" the senator asked a slave, 
 who was appointed to the care of the precious 
 crocodiles. 
 
 "I gave it to them, but they would not eat it." 
 
 "And raw veal?" 
 
 "They won't eat veal, either." 
 
 "And wheaten bread, soaked in cream?" 
 
 "They won't even smell at it. They turn their 
 snouts away, and sleep. They must be sick, or 
 very tired. We even opened their mouths with 
 stakes, and pushed the food in. They spat it out 
 again." 
 
 "Oh, I swear by Jupiter, these cursed beasts will 
 kill themselves and me. Send them into the arena 
 on the first day, or they will go and die of starva- 
 tion!" groaned poor Hortensius, falling back into 
 an armchair, 
 
 Arsinoe looked at him with a certain envy. He, 
 at any rate, was free from lassitude. 
 
 She went to a room, whose windows opened out 
 on the garden. Here, in the quiet moonlight her 
 younger sister Myra, a slender, graceful girl, was 
 touching the strings of a lyre. In the stillness of 
 the moonlight night, the sounds fell like tears. 
 Arsinoe silently embraced Myra, who answered her 
 with a smile, without ceasing to play. 
 
 A whistle was heard across the garden wall. 
 
 "It is he!" said Myra, rising and listening, "let 
 us go quick."
 
 172 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 She clasped Arsinoe's hand tightly with her 
 small, strong hand. 
 
 The girls threw dark cloaks over them, and went 
 out. The wind was chasing the clouds; the moon 
 now looked forth, now hid herself behind them. 
 
 Arsinoe opened the small wicket in the garden 
 fence. 
 
 A youth met them, wrapped in a black monkish 
 robe. 
 
 "We are not late, Juventinus?" asked Myra. "I 
 was so afraid you would not come." 
 
 They walked long, first by a narrow and dark 
 by-street, afterward through a vineyard, and en- 
 tered a melancholy unfruitful field, the beginning 
 of the Roman Campania. The dry grass rustled. 
 On the bright moonlit horizon appeared the open- 
 ings between the arches of an aqueduct of the 
 times of Servius Tullius. 
 
 Juventinus looked round and said: 
 
 "Someone is following us." 
 
 The two girls also looked round; the moonlight 
 fell on their faces, and the man who was following 
 them cried out joyfully: 
 
 "Arsinoe, Myra, at last I have found you! where 
 are you hurrying to?" 
 
 "To the Christians," answered Arsinoe, "come 
 with us, Anatolius. You will see many strange 
 things." 
 
 "To the Christians? What do I hear? I thought 
 you were always such an enemy!" wondered the 
 centurion. 
 
 "With years, my friend, you grow kinder and 
 more indifferent to everything," answered the girl, 
 with a sad smile. "This superstition is no worse 
 nor better than any other. And besides what will
 
 Arsinoe and the Christians. 1Y3 
 
 you not do, for weariness? I go to them for 
 Myra's sake. It pleases her/' 
 
 "Where is the church? We seem to be in the 
 open plain," asked Anatolius. 
 
 "The churches are denied or destroyed by their 
 own Arian brothers, who believe in the Christ in 
 a different way from them. At court you must 
 have heard of unity of substance and likeness of 
 substance. Now the opponents of the Arians pray 
 secretly in the catacombs, as in the days of the 
 first persecutions," 
 
 Myra and Juventinus fell a little behind, so that 
 Arsinoe and Anatolius could speak as if they were 
 alone. 
 
 "Who is that?" asked the centurion, indicating 
 Juventinus. 
 
 "A descendant of the old patrician race of the 
 Furii," answered" Arsinoe. "His mother wants to 
 make him a consul, and he meditates going away 
 against her will, to pray to God in the desert. He 
 loves his mother, and hides from her, as from an 
 enemy." 
 
 "The descendants of the Furii, monks? a 
 degenerate age," sighed the Epicurean. 
 
 By this time they had reached the arenarium, 
 the old quarry of tufa, and descended by narrow 
 steps to the very bottom of the excavation. The 
 moon lighted up the blocks of reddish volcanic 
 earth. Juventinus took a little clay lamp from a 
 dark niche in the wall, struck a flame, and lit it. 
 A long sharp flame flared up in the throat of the 
 lamp, where the wick was floating. They plunged 
 deeper into one of the side entrances of the arena- 
 rium. Cut by the ancient Romans, very wide and 
 roomy, it descended into the depths by a steep
 
 174 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 incline. They passed other side passages, which 
 had served the workmen for carrying the tufa. 
 
 Juventinus led his companions through a reg- 
 ular labyrinth. At last they came to a stop before 
 a well, and he removed its wooden cover. A damp 
 wind came up from it. They descended the steep 
 steps carefully. 
 
 At the very bottom was a small door. Juven- 
 tinus knocked. 
 
 The door opened, and a monk doorkeeper ad- 
 mitted them into a narrow and high corridor, cut 
 in the granular tufa, porous enough to make the 
 cutting of galleries easy. 
 
 Both walls were covered from the floor to the 
 ceiling ^vith marble tablets, or flat thin tiles, be- 
 hind which were innumerable "loculi," the tombs 
 of buried Christians. 
 
 They met many people with lamps. In their 
 flickering light, Anatolius, stopping for a moment, 
 curiously read the inscription cut on one of the 
 slabs: "Dorotheus, son of Felix, rests in this cool 
 abode, this bright and peaceful abode." On 
 another slab: "Brothers! disturb not my sweet 
 slumbers!" 
 
 The tone of these inscriptions was tender and 
 joyful. "Sophronia," said one, "dearest, thou 
 livest for ever in God!" And a little further: 
 "Sophronia, thou livest!" as if the writer had 
 understood once for all that there is no death. 
 
 Nowhere in the inscriptions was it said: "he 
 is buried," but only "he is laid here, for a time" 
 ("depositus"). It seemed that millions of people, 
 generation after generation, lay there, not dead 
 but fallen into a gentle sleep, filled with secret 
 expectation.
 
 Arsiuoe and the Christians. 175 
 
 Lamps stood in niches, burning with a long 
 steady flame in the unmoving air, and beautiful 
 anaphoras with perfumes stood beside them. Only 
 the smell of the rotting bones in the recesses of 
 the graves recalled death. 
 
 The corridors ran at several levels, descending 
 deeper and deeper. Here and there were seen the 
 wide openings of the air-shafts, leading to the 
 Campania. 
 
 Sometimes a faint ray of moonlight, slipping 
 down one of the air-shafts, lit up a marble tablet 
 with an inscription. 
 
 At the end of one corridor they saw a grave- 
 digger at work: with a gay face, and singing, he 
 struck his iron chisel into the granular tufa, which 
 curved up like a vault above his head. 
 
 Beside the chief superintendent of the grave- 
 diggers, the "fossor," a richly-dressed man, with 
 a shrewd fat face, stood several Christians. The 
 fossor had inherited a whole row of catacombs, and 
 had the right to rent "loculi," that is, places for 
 burial, in the division belonging to him. The 
 division was very profitable, because the relics of 
 Saint Lawrence were buried here. The grave- 
 digger had a very prosperous time of it. He was 
 now bargaining with a rich and niggardly leather- 
 seller, Simon. Arsinoe stopped for a moment, to 
 listen to their conversation: 
 
 "And will my coffin be far from the relics?" 
 asked Simon, suspiciously, thinking of the enor- 
 mous sum which the fossor demanded. 
 
 "Not far: six cubits/' 
 
 "Above them, or below them?" the purchaser 
 could not refrain from asking. 
 
 "To the right, to the right, obliquely. I tell you
 
 176 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 the place is a fine one. I am not taking too much. 
 No matter how much you sin, it will all slide oft' 
 you. You will go straight into the kingdom of 
 heaven along with the saints." 
 
 And the fossor deftly began to take his measure 
 for the tomb, as a tailor takes it for a garment. 
 The leather-seller entreated him to make the tomb 
 as wide as he could, so as not to crowd him, when 
 he lay in it. 
 
 At that moment, a poorly-dressed old woman 
 came up to the grave-digger. 
 
 "What do you want, grandmother?" 
 
 "I brought the extra money." 
 
 "What extra money?" 
 
 "For a straight tomb." 
 
 "I remember. You don't want to go into a 
 crooked one?" 
 
 "No, good sir, my old bones would ache." 
 
 In the catacombs, especially near the relics of 
 the saints, every free corner was so sought after 
 that it was necessary to make the tombs slightly 
 crooked, where the direction of the walls did not 
 permit of a different construction. Only poor 
 people consented to buy the crooked tombs. 
 
 "God knows, I thought to myself, how long I 
 shall have to lie before the Resurrection," ex- 
 plained the old woman; "and if you get into a 
 crooked one, it won't matter at first, but when 
 you have lain a while and get tired, it would be 
 bad." 
 
 Anatolius listened in delight: . 
 
 "It is far more curious than the mysteries of 
 Mithra," he assured Arsinoe, with a light smile. 
 "I am sorry I did not know of it before. I never 
 saw a gayer cemetery."
 
 Arsinoe and the Christians. 177 
 
 They entered a chamber of considerable size, 
 the so-called cubiculum. Here numberless lamps 
 were burning; the presbyter was performing the 
 service: the upper slab of a martyr's tomb served 
 him as an altar; it stood under a bow-shaped vault, 
 called the "arcosolium." 
 
 There were many worshippers in long white 
 dresses. All their faces seemed happy. 
 
 Myra knelt down. She looked with tears of 
 childlike love at the image of the Good Shepherd 
 on the wall of the chamber. 
 
 Here, in the catacombs, a custom, which began 
 long ago, in the days of the early Christians, was 
 renewed: at the end of the service, the brothers 
 and sisters greeted each other "with a holy kiss." 
 Arsinoe, following the general example, kissed 
 Anatolius with a smile. 
 
 Then all four of them went from the lower to 
 the higher levels, whence was an outlet to Juven- 
 tinus' secret hiding-place, a deserted heathen 
 burying place, a "columbarium" beside the Appian 
 Way. 
 
 While waiting for the ship which was to take 
 him away from Egypt, he hid here from his 
 mother, who had laid information with the offi- 
 cials of the prefect. The youth lived with Didy- 
 mus, a pious old man, from the lower Thebaid. 
 Juventinus obeyed all his commands reverently. 
 
 Didymus, seated on his haunches in the colum- 
 barium, was weaving baskets of osiers. The light 
 of the moon, falling through the narrow air-shaft, 
 illumined his grey, curly locks and long beard. 
 
 From roof to ceiling there were rows of holes in 
 the wall of the chamber, like the nests in a dove-
 
 178 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 cote. In each of these nests stood an urn with the 
 ashes of one of the departed. 
 
 Myra, whom the old man loved dearly, devoutly 
 kissed his wrinkled hand, and asked him to tell 
 them about the hermit-fathers. 
 
 She liked nothing better than the fearful and 
 wonderful tales that Didymus told her. 
 
 With the gentle smile of age, he softly stroked 
 Myra's hair. 
 
 All took places round the old man. 
 
 He related legends of the great hermits of the 
 Thebaid, Mtria, and Mesopotamia. 
 
 Myra watched him with burning eyes, pressing 
 her thin fingers against her heaving breast. The 
 blind man's smile was mysterious and full of pro- 
 found kindness, and the soft silky grey locks sur- 
 rounded his head like a halo. 
 
 All kept silent. The unceasing murmur of dis- 
 tant Rome was heard in the stillness. 
 
 Suddenly at the inner door of the columbarium 
 leading to the catacombs, a gentle knock was 
 heard. 
 
 Juventinus rose, went to the door, and asked 
 before opening: "who is there?" 
 
 He received no answer. The knock was re- 
 peated even more gently, as if entreatingly. 
 
 He opened the door cautiously, shuddered, and 
 stepped back. A tall woman entered the colum- 
 barium. 
 
 A long white robe wrapped her from head to 
 foot and covered her face. She moved as if she 
 was old or very ill. All gazed silently at the new- 
 comer. 
 With a single movement of her hand, the woman
 
 Arsinoe and the Christians. 179 
 
 threw aside the long folds which hid her face, and 
 Juventinus cried out: 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
 Didymus rose to his full height. His face was 
 stern. 
 
 The woman fell at her son's feet, and embraced 
 them. 
 
 The tresses of her grey hair, breaking loose, fell 
 on her thin, pale face, which still retained the 
 traces of the proud race of ancient Rome. 
 
 Juventinus embraced his mother's head, and 
 kissed her. 
 
 "Juventinus!" called the old man. 
 
 The youth did not answer. 
 
 His mother spoke to him in a quick joyful 
 whisper, as if they were alone: 
 
 "I thought I would never see you again, my 
 son! I was going to journey to Alexandria to find 
 you. Oh, I would not have found you there, in 
 the desert. But now all is over, is it not? Tell 
 me that you will not go away. Wait till I die. 
 Afterward, whatever you wish." 
 
 The old man spoke: 
 
 "Juventinus, do you hear me?" 
 
 "Old man," said the Roman lady, glancing up 
 at the blind man, "you will not rob a mother of 
 her son? Listen, if need be, I will renounce the 
 faith of my fathers, I will believe in the Cruci- 
 fied One. I will become a nun." 
 
 Heathen woman, you do not understand the law 
 of Christ! A mother cannot be a nun; a nun can- 
 not be a mother." 
 
 "I bore him in travail: he is mine!" 
 
 "You love not his soul, but his body."
 
 180 Julian tlio Apostate. 
 
 The patrician woman cast a glance full of end- 
 less detestation at Didymus: 
 
 "Be accursed with your cunning, lying 
 speeches," she exclaimed, "be accursed, you who 
 take children from their mothers, who delude the 
 innocent, you in black garments who fear the 
 light of Heaven; servants of the Crucified, who 
 hate life and destroy all that is great and joyful 
 in the world!" 
 
 Her face was distorted. She pressed her trem- 
 bling body still closer to her son's feet, and said, 
 breathing hard: 
 
 ''My child, I know you will not go away. You 
 cannot." 
 
 The old man Didymus stood with a crosier in 
 his hand, at an inner door of the columbarium, 
 which led into the catacombs. Majestically he 
 pronounced these words: 
 
 "Now, for the last time, in the name of the liv- 
 ing God, I order you my son to leave her and come 
 with me." 
 
 Then the Roman matron herself let Juventinus 
 go, and whispered almost inaudibly: 
 
 "'Very well. Leave me if you can." 
 
 The tears ceased to stream from her eyes: her 
 hands fell helplessly on her knees. 
 
 She waited. All remained silent. 
 
 "Help me, oh Lord," prayed Juventinus, in 
 mortal agony. 
 
 "If any man come to me, and hate not his 
 father, and mother, and wife, and children, and 
 brethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, 
 he cannot be my disciple," pronounced Didymus, 
 and feeling his way to the door, he turned for the 
 last time to Juventinus:
 
 Arsiiiue and the Christians. 181 
 
 "Kemain in the world. You have renounced 
 the Christ. Be accursed in this world, and in the 
 world to come!" 
 
 "No, no, do not cast me away, father! I will 
 follow you. Lord, I follow you!" cried Juven- 
 tinus, and walked after his teacher. 
 
 She made no movement to stop him; not a fea- 
 ture moved. 
 
 But when his steps died away, a cry burst forth 
 from her breast. She fell on the ground like one 
 dead. 
 
 "Open, in the name of the August Emperor 
 Constantius, open!" 
 
 It was the soldiers who were sent by the Roman 
 prefect on the information of Juventinus' mother 
 to seek the "insubordinate Sabellians," the adher- 
 ents of consubstantiality, the emperor's foes hiding 
 in the ancient catacombs. 
 
 The soldiers bent an iron ram against the door 
 of the columbarium. The fabric shook. The 
 glass and silver urns with the dust of the dead rang 
 pitifully. The soldiers tore down half the door. 
 
 Anatolius, Myra, and Arsinoe threw themselves 
 into the inner galleries of the catacombs. The 
 Christians ran through the narrow subterranean 
 corridors like ants in an upset ant-hill, straggling 
 toward the secret outlets and stairs which com- 
 municated with the quarries. But Arsinoe and 
 Myra did not know the exact disposition of the 
 galleries. They lost their way in the labyrinth, 
 and reached the lowest level, fifty cubits beneath 
 the earth. It was hard to breath there, and 
 marshy water splashed beneath their feet. The 
 lamp went out for lack of air. Ill odors polluted
 
 182 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 the atmosphere. Myra's head grew dizzy, and she 
 lost consciousness. 
 
 Anatolius took her in his arms. Every moment 
 they were in danger of meeting the soldiers. The 
 outlets might fall in, and they would be buried 
 alive. 
 
 Finally Juventinus called to them: 
 
 "This way, this way!" 
 
 Bending over, he was carrying old Didymus on 
 his shoulders. 
 
 After a few minutes, they gained a secret en- 
 trance to the quarries, and thence to the Cam- 
 pania. 4 
 
 Beaching home, Arsinoe hastily undressed Myra 
 and put her to bed, still unconscious. In the first 
 flush of the dawn, the elder sister, kneeling beside 
 her, kissed the girl's thin hands, yellow as wax. 
 A heavy presentiment oppressed her heart. 
 
 There was a strange expression on the sleeping 
 girl's face; it had never before breathed such stain- 
 less purity. Her whole body seemed childish, 
 transparent and frail, like the transparently thin 
 sides of an alabaster vase, illumined by an inner 
 light. This light was to go out, but only with 
 Myra's life. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 JULIAN IN BATTLE. 
 
 Late in the evening, in a gloomy, marshy forest 
 not far from the Rhine, between the military fort- 
 ress "Tres Tabernse" and the Roman city of AT-
 
 Julian in Battle. 183 
 
 gentoratum, recently conquered by the Alamans, 
 were wandering two soldiers who had lost their 
 way. One was an awkward giant, with fiery red 
 hair and a face of childlike simplicity, a Sarmatian 
 in the service of Home. His name was Aragarius. 
 The other was Strombicus, a lean, wrinkled, sun- 
 burnt Syrian. 
 
 Amongst the tree-stems, covered with moss and 
 mushroom-growths, the darkness was gathering. 
 A silent rain fell through the warm air. There 
 was a smell of the fresh leaves of the birch, and 
 wet pine-needles. A cuckoo was calling somewhere 
 in the distance. At every rustle or cracking of a 
 dry branch, Strombicus shuddered in terror and 
 seized his companion by the hand. 
 
 "Uncle, oh uncle!" 
 
 He called Aragarius uncle, not from kinship, 
 but from friendship. They had been taken into 
 the Roman army from opposite corners of the 
 world. The voracious but chaste barbarian of the 
 north despised the cowardly Syrian, with his sen- 
 suality and fine taste in food and drink. But while 
 mocking at him, he pitied him like a child. 
 
 "Uncle!" sobbed Strombicus, still more plain- 
 tively. 
 
 "What are you howling about? Stop!" 
 
 "Are there bears in this wood? what do you i 
 think, uncle?" 
 
 "There are," answered Aragarius grimly. 
 
 "And what if we come across one? Eli?" 
 
 "We'll kill it, take the skin, sell it, and drink 
 the price." 
 
 "But what if we don't kill it, but it kills us?" 
 
 "What a little coward! you can see at once that 
 he is a Christian."
 
 184 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "Why must a Christian be a coward?" said 
 Strombicus, offended. 
 
 "Why you told me yourself that it is said in 
 your books: if any one strikes you on the left 
 cheek, turn the right cheek also." 
 
 "That is true." 
 
 "There, you see. And if that is so, then I think 
 you ought not to fight either. Your enemy strikes 
 you on one cheek: you turn the other to him. 
 You are all cowards: that is what it is." 
 
 "Ca3sar Julian is a Christian, and he is no cow- 
 ard," Strombicus defended himself. 
 
 "I know, nephew," continued Aragarius, "that 
 you can forgive your enemies, when it is a question 
 of fighting. Eh, you draggled chickens ! your whole 
 belly is not bigger than my fist. You eat an onion 
 and you are happy for a whole day. And that is 
 why your blood is like ditch water." 
 
 "Oh, uncle, uncle," said Strombicus, reproach- 
 fully, "why do you remind me of eating? I feel 
 the cramps coming on again. Dear, give me a 
 head of garlic! t know you have one left in your 
 knapsack." 
 
 "If I give you the last, to-morrow we'll both die 
 of starvation in this forest." 
 
 "Oh, I feel sick; I feel faint! If you don't give 
 it to me at once, I'll get weak and fall down, and 
 you will have to carry me on your shoulders." 
 
 "Take it and gnaw it, you dogF 
 
 "And bread, bread!" begged Strombicus. 
 
 Aragarius gave his friend the last piece of bread, 
 with a curse. The evening before, he had eaten 
 enough lard and bean porridge to last him for two 
 -days at least. 
 
 "Hush!" he said, stopping.. "A trumpet! We
 
 Julian in Battle. 185 
 
 are not far from the camp. We must keep to the 
 north. I am not afraid of bears/' continued Ara- 
 garius thoughtfully, after a moment's silence, "but 
 of the centurion." 
 
 This detested centurion was called by the sol- 
 diers "Cede-Alteram," ("Give me another") be- 
 cause every time he had to punish a culprit among 
 the soldiers, and the rod broke, he cried out joy- 
 fully: "Cede-Alteram!" The two words became a 
 nickname. 
 
 "I am sure," said the barbarian, "that Cede- 
 Alteram will do to my skin what the tanner does 
 to the hides. It's a bad business, nephew, a bad 
 business!" 
 
 They had fallen behind the army, because Ara- 
 garius according to his habit had drunk himself 
 senseless when they took a village, and Strombi- 
 cus was worn out. The little Syrian had made an 
 unsuccessful attempt to obtain forcible possession 
 of a fair Frankish girl. The sixteen-year-old 
 beauty, daughter of a slain barbarian, had given 
 him two boxes on the ears so vigorous, that he had 
 fallen head over heels. And then she kicked him 
 with her white, firm feet. "It was not a girl, but a 
 devil," related Strombicus, "I only pinched her, 
 and she nearly broke all my ribs." 
 
 The sound of the trumpet grew clearer. 
 
 Aragarius, sniffing at the air, like a blood-hound, 
 noticed that it smelt of smoke. The camp fires 
 could not be far off. 
 
 It grew so dark that they could hardly make out 
 the road. The path disappeared in the marsh. 
 They jumped from tussock to tussock. Suddenly, 
 from a huge silver-fir whose boughs were hung 
 with moss like the locks of an old man's beard,
 
 186 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 something burst forth with cries and noise. Strom 
 bicus sat down from fright. It was a black-cock. 
 They lost themselves completely. 
 Strombicus climbed up a tree. 
 "Campfires to the north. Not far off. There is 
 a big river there." 
 
 "The Rhine, the Rhine!" exclaimed Aragarius. 
 "Come quick!" 
 
 They began to make their way through secular 
 birches and aspens. 
 
 "Uncle, I am drowning!" sobbed Strombicus, 
 "somebody is pulling me by the foot. Where are 
 you?" 
 
 With great difficulty Aragarius pulled him 
 forth, scolded him, and set him on his shoulder. 
 The Sarmatian's feet knocked against the old rot- 
 ting remains of a wattle breast-work built by the 
 .Romans. 
 
 The wattle-work guided them to the main road, 
 not long since cut through the woods by the sol- 
 diers of Julian's general, Severus. 
 
 The barbarians, in order to cut off the road, had 
 hewn huge trees across it, as was their wont. 
 
 The two wanderers had to get over them. These 
 enormous stems fallen in disorder, rotten, covered 
 with moss, and breaking away under their feet; 
 or sound, soaked with the rain, and slippery, hin- 
 dered them at every step. And along such a road, 
 in constant fear of an attack, the thirty thousand 
 men of Julian's army had to advance, after all the 
 leaders except Severus had treacherously deserted 
 him. 
 
 Strombicus began to complain and abuse his 
 companion. 
 
 "I'll go no further, you heathen! I'll lie down
 
 Julian in Battle. 187 
 
 in the dry leaves and die, and at least I won't see 
 your cursed face. Ugh, you pagan! It is easy to 
 see that you have no cross. Is it a Christian's 
 business to tumble along roads like this, especially 
 at night? And where, I ask you, are we going? 
 Straight under the rod of that centurion the 
 enemy of God. Fall, if you like; I won't go any 
 further." 
 
 Aragarius dragged him along by force, and as 
 soon as the road grew evener, put his whimsical 
 companion on his shoulders once more, in spite of 
 his opposition, cries, and pinches. 
 
 But after a little while, Strombicus fell into a 
 deep sleep on the "heathen's" back. 
 
 At midnight they reached the gates of the 
 Roman camp. All was still. The draw-bridge 
 over the deep moat had long been raised. 
 
 The two friends had to pass the night near the 
 rear gate, the so-called decuman gate. 
 
 At dawn the trumpet sounded. In the misty 
 forest, that smelt of burning wood, a nightingale 
 was singing. He became suddenly silent, startled 
 by the martial sound. Aragarius, waking, smelt 
 the odor of the hot soldiers' pottage, and wakened 
 Strombicus. They were both so hungry that in 
 spite of the twisted rod with which the detested 
 centurion Cede-Alteram had had time to arm him- 
 self, they entered the camp, and. sat down beside 
 the common cooking-pot. 
 
 Julian was awake in the chief tent, beside the 
 Pretorian gate. 
 
 From the day when he was made Caesar in Me- 
 diolanum, thanks to the protection of the Empress 
 Eusebia, Julian had applied himself zealously to 
 the arts of war. Not only did he learn the higher
 
 188 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 branches of generalship under the guidance of Se- 
 verus, but he desired to know also what made up 
 the trade of the simple soldier. At the sound of 
 the bronze trumpet, in the gloomy barracks on the 
 Campus Martius, along with the recruits, he 
 learned to march for whole days, to shoot with the 
 bow, to run under the burden of a complete outfit, 
 to leap over barriers and obstacles, to box. Over- 
 coming the monk's dissembling, the blood of the 
 race of Constantine wakened in the youth, the 
 blood of a whole line of stern, stubborn warriors. 
 
 "Alas, divine lamblichus and Plato; if you saw 
 what had become of your pupil," he exclaimed 
 sometimes, wiping the sweat from his face, and 
 pointing to the heavy bronze accoutrements, he 
 said to his teacher: 
 
 "Is it not true, Severus, that armor is as little 
 suited to me, a peaceful pupil of the philosophers, 
 as a war-saddle to a lazy ox?" 
 
 Severus smiled cunningly, without answering. 
 He knew that these sighs and complaints were in- 
 sincere. In reality the Caesar himself rejoiced at 
 his rapid success in military science. 
 
 In a few months he had changed so much, had 
 grown so manly, that many people had difficulty 
 in recognizing the lean "little Greek" as he had 
 once been called in mockery, at Constantins' 
 court. Only his eyes burned with the same strange, 
 over-keen, almost feverish fire which made them 
 memorable for all, even after a moment's ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 Every day Julian felt himself stronger and 
 stronger, not only in body but in mind. For the 
 first time in his life, he experienced the simple 
 love of simple folk. To begin with, the legionaries
 
 Julian in Battle. 189 
 
 were pleased that the Caesar himself, the cousin of 
 Augustus, learned the trade of war in the bar- 
 racks, not ashamed of the soldier's rough life. The 
 stern faces of the veteran warriors lit up with a ten- 
 der smile, as they watched the Caesar's growing 
 skill, remembering their own youth, and wonder- 
 ing at his rapid success. He came up and talked 
 to them, listening to their stories of strange cam- 
 paigns, their advice how to fasten a breast-plate 
 so that it should gall him least, or how to set his 
 foot down so as not to grow tired on a long march. 
 A rumor spread that the Emperor Constantius was 
 sending the inexperienced youth to Gaul "to the 
 slaughter," to meet death at the hands of the bar- 
 barians, in order to get rid of a rival; that the gen- 
 erals, under the directions of the court eunuchs, 
 were to betray the Caesar. This kindled the love 
 of the soldiers to Julian even more strongly. 
 
 With the watchful stealth, and skill in winning 
 good opinions which his monastic education had 
 bestowed upon him, he did all that was possible 
 to strengthen their love for himself and their ha- 
 tred for the emperor. He spoke before the sol- 
 diers of his brother Constantius, dropping his eyes 
 with an enigmatic and crafty humility, and taking 
 the airs of a victim. 
 
 It was the easier for him to win the love of the 
 soldiers by his daring, as death in battle seemed to 
 him to be enviable in comparison with the inglo- 
 rious execution which had overtaken his brother, 
 and which Augustus was probably preparing for 
 him. 
 
 Julian ordered his life according to the example 
 of the great generals of old. The stoic education
 
 190 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 of the Scythian pedagogue, Mardonius, had accus- 
 tomed him to do without luxury from his youth. 
 
 He slept less than the common soldiers, and 
 then not in a bed, but on a rough skin, with long 
 wool, which the common people called in Greek: 
 "suburra." The first part of the night, the Caesar 
 consecrated to rest; the second, to imperial and 
 military business; the third, to the Muses. 
 
 His favorite books did not leave him even on 
 the march. He read at night, and drew inspira- 
 tion from Marcus Aurelius, or Plutarch, or Sueto- 
 nius, or Cato the Censor. By day he tried to carry 
 out in action what he had thought, over his books, 
 at night. 
 
 On that memorable morning, before the battle 
 of Argentoratum, hearing the trumpet-call, Julian 
 hastily put on his full armor, and ordered his 
 horse to be brought. 
 
 While waiting, he retired to the loneliest, most 
 hidden part of his tent. Here was a small, elegant 
 statue of Mercury, with his caduceus, the god of 
 motion, success, and joy, winged as if for flight. 
 Julian bowed down, and threw a grain of incense 
 on a small tripod. By the direction of the smoke, 
 the Cffisar, proud of his knowledge of the augur's 
 art, tried to discern whether the day would be 
 favorable for him. That night, he had heard a 
 raven croak thrice on the right side, and this was 
 an evil omen. 
 
 Julian was so convinced that his unexpected 
 successes in war in this Gallic campaign were not 
 the work of human hands, that every day he be- 
 came more superstitious. 
 
 Leaving his pavilion, he stumbled against the 
 wooden slab on the threshold. The Ca?sar's face
 
 Julian in Battle. 191 
 
 grew overshadowed. All the omens were unfavor- 
 able. He secretly decided to put off the battle till 
 the next day. 
 
 The army started. The way through the forest 
 was difficult; heaps of fallen trees barred their 
 passage all the time. 
 
 The day promised to be hot. The army had 
 only crossed half the distance, and to the camp of 
 the barbarians pitched on the left bank of the 
 Khine, on a great level plain near the city of Ar- 
 gentoratum, there still remained twenty-one thou- 
 sand paces, when midday came. 
 
 The soldiers were growing tired. 
 
 As they were leaving the forest for the plain, 
 Julian called them round him, and set them in 
 circles, like the spectators in an amphitheatre, so 
 that he himself was in the center of the circles, 
 and the centuries and cohorts spread out from 
 him like expanding rays. This was the wonted 
 order in Eoman armies, arranged so that the 
 greatest number of men could hear the general's 
 speech. 
 
 He explained to them, in short simple words, 
 that the hour was late; that their weariness might 
 hinder their success; that it would be wiser to 
 pitch their camp on the ground they occupied; to 
 rest, and on the following morning to fall on the 
 barbarians with fresh strength. 
 
 A murmur arose through the ranks. The sol- 
 diers struck their spears against their shields, in 
 sign of impatience. With cries thev demanded 
 that Julian should lead them to battle without 
 delay. The Cassar looked around, and by the ex- 
 pression of their faces understood that he should 
 not oppose them. He felt that terrible tremor
 
 192 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 through the crowd already familiar to him which 
 is indispensable for victory, and which the slight- 
 est carelessness may turn into anger. 
 
 Julian leaped on his horse, and gave the sign for 
 the soldiers to continue on their march. A cry of 
 joy arose, and the army set forth. 
 
 When the afternoon sun began to descend, they 
 had reached the plain of Argentoratum. Amongst 
 low hills shone the Rhine. The forest-clad moun- 
 tains of Vogesus darkened the south. 
 
 Swallows were skimming over the surface of the 
 mighty and lonely German stream. Willows bent 
 their silvery boughs over it. 
 
 Suddenly three horsemen appeared on a neigh- 
 boring hill. They were the barbarians. 
 
 The Romans stopped, and began to form in bat- 
 tle array. Julian, surrounded by six hundred 
 horsemen, clad in iron, led the cavalry on the 
 right wing; on the left, the infantry was led by 
 the old and experienced general Severus, whose 
 advice the young Ca?sar listened to in every- 
 thing. Against Julian, the barbarians ranged their 
 cavalry: at their head was Cnodomar, the Alaman 
 king himself; against Severus, Cnodomar's young- 
 nephew, Agenaric, with the infantry. 
 
 The war-trumpets of bronze, horns, and curved 
 buccinae thundered. The standards and flags, 
 with the numbers of the cohorts, the purple drag- 
 ons and bronze Roman eagles at the head of the 
 legionaries, moved forwards. In front, with calm 
 and stern faces, stepping with measured, heavy 
 tread, under which the earth trembled and re- 
 sounded, marched the axe-bearers and primopil- 
 arii, accustomed to victory. 
 
 Suddenly the infantry under Severus on the left
 
 Julian in Battle. 193 
 
 flank halted. The barbarians, who had been hid- 
 den in a ditch, suddenly leaped forth from their 
 ambuscade and fell on the Romans. Julian saw 
 the conf usio'n from afar, and hastened to their as- 
 sistance. He tried to calm the soldiers, and turned 
 now to one cohort, now to another, imitating the 
 terse and vigorous style of Julius Caesar. When 
 he pronounced the words: "exsurgamus, viri for- 
 tissimi," or "advenit, socii, justum pugnandi tern- 
 pus," this twenty-six-year-old youth thought with 
 pride: "Now I am like this or another comman- 
 der." And even in the dust of battle, he was in 
 thought surrounded with books, and was rejoicing 
 that all happened just as Livy, Plutarch, or Sal- 
 lust had described it. The experienced Severus 
 moderated his fire with wise counsels, and the ex- 
 ample of his own calm, and whilst giving Julian a 
 certain freedom, did not let the main guidance of 
 the army out of his own hands. 
 
 Arrows whistled, the spears of the barbarians, 
 thrown with long thongs, and huge stones from 
 the military machines, sang through the air. 
 
 Finally, the Romans saw the strange and terri- 
 ble men of the north face to face, the inhabitants 
 of the dreaming forests across the Rhine, of whom 
 so many marvelous tales were told. Here were 
 wonderful weapons also; and some had huge, bare 
 backs, covered with bear-skins, instead of clothes, 
 find instead of helmets on their shaggy heads, were 
 the open mouths of beasts of prey with white 
 tusks. Others wore the horns of stags and buffa- 
 loes above their casques. The Alamans despised 
 death so much that they threw themselves into the 
 battle perfectly naked, with only a sword and a 
 spear. Their red hair was tied in a knot on the
 
 194 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 tops of their heads, and behind fell in huge plaits 
 like a horse's mane. Their fair mustaches, stand- 
 ing out against their ruddy faces, hung down long 
 on either side. Many of them were so wild that 
 they did not know the use of iron, lighting with 
 spears of fish-bone smeared with a deadly poison, 
 which made them more dangerous than iron: the 
 slightest scratch was enough to bring a slow and 
 painful death. From head to foot, instead of mail, 
 they wore coats of thin plates of horn, made from 
 horses' hoofs, and sewn strongly on linen cloths: 
 in this array the unfamiliar barbarians seemed 
 strange monsters covered with birds' feathers and 
 fishes' scales. The Saxon was there, with his light 
 blue eyes: the sea daunted him not, but he feared 
 the earth on which he stood; and the old Sicam- 
 brian was there: he cut his hair off, after the bat- 
 tle, in sign of mourning, and had now let it grow 
 again; and Heruli, with eyes of clouded green, 
 almost the color of the waters of the ocean, on 
 that distant gulf which they inhabited; and the 
 Burgundian and Batavian, and wild Sarmatian, 
 and many more, nameless, half -beasts half -men, 
 whose dread faces the Eomans only saw when 
 death was coming upon them. 
 
 The primopilarii, uniting their shields, made a 
 smooth wall of bronze, proof against all attack, 
 and advanced at a slow pace. The Alamans threw 
 themselves upon them with cries like the roaring 
 of bears. A hand-to-hand fight began, breast to 
 breast, shield to shield. The dust spread over the 
 plain, concealing the sun. 
 
 At that moment on the right wing of the army, 
 the iron-mailed Clibanarian cavalry wavered and
 
 Julian in Battle. 195 
 
 turned in flight. It seemed about to crush the 
 legions in the rear. 
 
 . Across a cloud of arrows and spears against the 
 dust-veiled sun shone the flaming circlet that 
 bound the kingly brow of Cnodomar. 
 
 Julian sprang on his black horse in time. He 
 understood the stratagem. The barbarian infan- 
 try, intentionally mingling with the ranks of their 
 own horsemen, slipped under the feet of the 
 Roman horse and gashed their bellies with their 
 short swords. The horses fell, and carried their 
 iron-mailed riders with them, no longer able to 
 rise from the great weight of their armor. 
 
 Julian barred the way. He determined either 
 to stop the fleeing horse or be trodden under foot. 
 The horse of the fleeing tribune of the Clibana- 
 rians dashed up against the Caesar's horse. He 
 recognized Julian, and stopped, pale with shame 
 and fear. All the blood flowed to Julian's face, 
 he suddenly forgot his classic authors, bent over, 
 seized the fugitive by the throat, and cried out 
 "Coward !" in a voice that seemed wild and strange 
 even to himself. 
 
 And the Ca?sar turned his face towards the 
 enemy. 
 
 Then all the fugitives halted, recognizing the 
 Caesar's purple standard, torn in the conflict, and 
 were ashamed. In a single moment, the iron tor- 
 rent turned roaring backwards, and strained back 
 again against the barbarians. 
 
 All was in confusion. A spear struck Julian on 
 the breast. His breast-plate saved him. An arrow 
 whistled past his ear, so close that the feathers 
 brushed his cheek. 
 
 At the same moment, Severus sent the terrible
 
 196 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 legions of Cornuti and Braccati, half-savage allies 
 of the Romans, to help the wavering cavalry. 
 Their habit was to chant their battle hymn only 
 in last deadly danger and delirium of battle. 
 
 The Cornuti and Braccati began their chant in 
 a low and melancholy tone: the first sounds were 
 soft as the nightly murmur of the leaves; then 
 little by little the wild music rose louder, more 
 inajestic and terrible, and finally broke out into a 
 furious and deafening roar, like the roar of the 
 storm-lashed waves of the ocean crashing against 
 the cliffs. This chant intoxicated them till they 
 utterly forgot themselves. 
 
 Julian no longer saw or understood what was 
 going on round him. He felt only a consuming 
 thirst, and a weariness in his right hand, which 
 held his sword. Time did not exist for him. But 
 Severus did not lose his presence of mind, and 
 wisely directed the combat. 
 
 With bewilderment and despair Csesar noticed 
 the orange circlet of dark Cnodomar in the very 
 middle, among the ranks of his army. The bar- 
 barian cavalry had cut into them like a wedge. 
 Julian thought: "It is finished; all is lost." He re- 
 membered the evil omens of the morning, and 
 turned with a final prayer to the Olympian gods: 
 
 "Help! for if I fall, there is none who will re- 
 store your power on earth." 
 
 In the heart of the army were the old veterans 
 of the legion of the Petulantes, "the fiery," called 
 so from their daring. Severus counted on them 
 and reckoned not in vain. One of the Petulantes 
 cried out: 
 
 "Oh bravest of men! We shall not betray Eome 
 and our Caesar. Let us die for Julian!"
 
 Julian in Battle. 197 
 
 "Long live Julian Caesar! For Rome! For 
 Koine!" strong voices answered him. 
 
 And the old men, who had grown grey beneath 
 their standards, once more went forth to death, 
 stern and full of peace. 
 
 The inspiration of everlasting Eome was 
 breathed out over the soldiers. 
 
 Julian, with tears of ecstasy, threw himself 
 among the veterans, ready to die with them. And 
 once more he felt the power of simple love, the 
 love of the people, raising him as on wings and 
 bearing him to victory. 
 
 Then terror descended on the hordes of the bar- 
 barians. They shuddered, wavered, and fled. 
 
 And the bronze eagles of the legions, with their 
 cruel beaks and their wide-spread wings gleamed 
 terribly in the sun amid the dust, soaring once 
 again, and foretelling to the fleeing tribes the vic- 
 tory of the Eternal City. 
 
 The Alamans and Franks were falling, fighting 
 to their latest breath. 
 
 Kneeling on one knee in a pool of blood, a bar- 
 barian still raised his blunted sword, or broken 
 spear, with trembling hand. In his eyes already 
 veiled by death, there was no fear, but only the 
 thirst of revenge, and contempt for the victor. 
 
 Even those whom they took for dead, raised 
 themselves from the ground, half hacked to pieces, 
 and caught the enemies' feet in their teeth, and 
 bit into them so fiercely that the Romans dragged 
 them along the ground. 
 
 Six thousand northern men fell on the field of 
 battle, or were drowned in the Rhine. 
 
 That evening, when Julian Caesar stood on a 
 hillock, surrounded by the rays of the setting sun,
 
 198 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 as by an oreole, they brought King Cnodomar,who 
 had been captured on the right bank of the river. 
 He breathed heavily, sombre, sweat-covered and 
 pale. His hands were bound behind his back. He 
 knelt before his conqueror, and the twenty-six- 
 year-old youth laid his small hand on the dishev- 
 eled mane of the barbarian king. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 THE PASSING OF MYRA. 
 
 It was the time of the gathering of the grapes. 
 All day long, songs resounded along the gay shores 
 of the bay of Naples. 
 
 In Baii, the favorite resort of the Eomans be- 
 yond the city, Baii, famous for its healing sul- 
 phur baths, of which the poets of the Augustan 
 age used to say: "Nullus in orbe locus Baiis prelu- 
 cet amoenis" idlers were delighting in nature, 
 more delicate and sensuous even than themselves. 
 
 Here was an inviolable nook of that refined and 
 comfortable world which filled the imaginations 
 of Horace, Propertius, and Tibullus. 
 
 Not even a single shadow of the monastic age 
 yet lay on the sunny shore between Vesuvius and 
 the. cape of Misenum. Here, men did not oppose 
 Christianity, but kept away from it, with light- 
 minded jests. Here the harlots had not yet re- 
 pented, but rather honest women were ashamed of 
 their goodness, as a worn-out fashion. When 
 rumors came, of the Sybilline prophecies threat- 
 ening the worn-out world with destruction, of the
 
 The Passing of Myra. - 199 
 
 evil deeds and dark bigotry of the Emperor Con- 
 stantius, of the Persians advancing from the east, 
 of the clouds of barbarians gathering in the north,, 
 of the hermits who had lost all semblance of hu- 
 manity in the deserts of the Thebait!, the happy 
 inhabitants of those regions closed their eyes, in- 
 haling the delicious savor of Falernian clusters, 
 just crushed in the wine-presses, and consoled 
 themselves with an epigram. To forget the sor- 
 rows of Rome, or the forebodings of the end of 
 the world, a few witty verses, which they sent to 
 each other as presents, sufficed: 
 
 Calet unda, friget aethra 
 Simid innalat chords 
 Amalhusium renidens, 
 Sails arbitra et vaporia 
 Flos siderum Dione ! 
 
 There was something senile and at the same 
 time childish on the faces of the last of the Epicu- 
 reans. Neither the fresh sea water of the salt 
 baths, nor the sulphur vapor of the Baiian springs 
 could bring perfect health to the decrepit and 
 over-sensitive bodies of the young men, bald at 
 twenty, grown old not even from their own im- 
 morality but from the immorality of their ances- 
 tors, sated with letters and learning and women, 
 witty and impotent, in whose veins was the thin, 
 cold blood of belated generations. 
 
 In one of the most comfortable and flowery cor- 
 ners, between Baii and Puteoli, among the flat 
 black summits of the Italian pines, gleamed the 
 white walls of a villa. 
 
 At a wide-open window, looking straight out to 
 sea, so that nothing was visible from the windows 
 but sky and sea, Myra lay on a couch.
 
 200 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 The doctors did not understand her illness. Ar- 
 sinoe saw her sister waste and lose strength from 
 day to day. She carried her away from Rome to 
 the sea-side. 
 
 Myra, in spite of her sickness, imitated the nuns 
 and hermits, doing her room herself, bringing 
 water herself, and even trying to wash the linen, 
 and cook the food. For a long time, as long as it 
 was at all possible, she would not consent to re- 
 main on her couch, and spent her nights in prayer 
 and reading. Once, to her horror, Arsinoe found 
 a hair-shirt on her sister's tender body. Myra or- 
 dered all articles of luxury to be taken from her 
 little bedroom, all tapestries and furniture, leav- 
 ing only one couch, with a simple wooden 
 cross at its head. The room, with its bare walls, 
 grew to look like a monastic cell. Myra observed 
 a strict fast. Arsinoe had great difficulty in con- 
 tending with her obstinate and quiet will. 
 
 Weariness had left Arsinoe's life, without leav- 
 ing a trace. She was constantly passing from the 
 hope that Myra would grow well, to despair, and 
 although she did not love her more than before, 
 she only now understood her love, in the fear of 
 everlasting separation. 
 
 Sometimes Arsinoe gazed with motherly tender- 
 ness at the thin, delicate face, breathing an un- 
 earthly charm, at the little body, burning with a 
 too vehement inner fire. When the invalid obsti- 
 nately refused wine and food prescribed by the 
 doctor, Arsinoe said sorrowfully: 
 
 "Myra, do you think I do not understand? You 
 are seeking death. What are you doing with your- 
 self?" 
 
 "Is it not all the same whether we live or die?"
 
 The Passing of Myra. 201 
 
 answered the girl with such serenity that Arsinoe 
 knew not what to reply. 
 
 "You do not love me." 
 
 But Myra drew near to her caressingly, and as- 
 sured her: 
 
 "Dearest, you know how I love you. Oh, if you 
 could only 
 
 The sick girl never completed the sentence, or 
 asked her sister whether she believed. But some- 
 times she looked at Arsinoe with great, sad eyes, 
 as if she wished to say something to her, and dared 
 not. Arsinoe felt a dumb reproach in that long 
 gaze. Yet she did not talk to her of her faith, and 
 had not the heart to communicate her doubts to 
 her, and perhaps to take away from her an unrea- 
 soning hope for the miracle of immortality. 
 
 Myra grew weaker with every day, wasting away 
 like the wax of a burning candle, but the weaker 
 she grew, the more joyful and full of peace she 
 became. 
 
 Juventinus came to them in the evenings; he 
 was in Naples fleeing from Rome, fearing his 
 mother's persecutions, and was awaiting the de- 
 parture of the ship for Alexandria, with Didymus 
 the elder. 
 
 He read the Gospel and related legends of the 
 hermit fathers. 
 
 He told Myra of the three women who had not 
 seen a human face for many decades, and had 
 lived, naked as in paradise, at the bottom of an 
 abyss, under the impenetrable shadow of green 
 trees beside an icy spring. Ever joyful, day and 
 night they praised the blessed Trinity, living on 
 fruit brought by the birds of the air, and fearing 
 neither the winter's cold, nor the summer's heat,
 
 202 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 for God sheltered them, and warmed them with 
 His blessing. 
 
 With childish joy, she listened to the story of 
 the incomparable Gerasimus, who made friends 
 with a lion, and lived in the same cave with him. 
 The lion led his ass to the watering place, and 
 watched the saint kindly with his bright kingly 
 eyes, when Gerasimus stroked his formidable mane. 
 After the saint's death, the lion wandered long 
 through the desert, uttering mournful roars. And 
 when brought to the saint's tomb, the lion began 
 to sniff at it, and refusing food, remained there 
 until he died of starvation. 
 
 She was touched by the tale of another hermit, 
 who cured a hyena's whelps of blindness, when 
 their mother brought them in her mouth to the 
 saint's feet. 
 
 How Myra longed to go there, to the dark, silent 
 caverns, to those great and mysterious people! 
 The wilderness appeared to her neither mournful 
 nor fruitless, but green and full of flowers, an 
 earthly paradise, full of wonders, and lit up by a 
 noonday radiance such as is nowhere' on earth. 
 She felt the air close and oppressive, under a 
 roofed house. 
 
 Sometimes, in fever, in periods of suffering, 
 overcome by her thirst for the desert, she gazed 
 at the ships' white sails, vanishing over the sea, 
 and stretched her thin white arms after them. 
 Oh, if she could only fly after them, and breathe 
 the sweet air of the desert, full of silence, free 
 from passion! Sometimes she tried to rise, assur- 
 ing them that she was better, that now she would 
 soon be well, and secretly hoping that they would
 
 The Passing of Myra. 203 
 
 let her go with Didymus and Juventinus when the 
 Alexandrian ship arrived. 
 
 At that time the centurion Anatolius, the un- 
 changing friend and worshipper of Arsinoe, was 
 living in Baii. 
 
 The young Epicurean arranged charming excur- 
 sions on gilded barques from the Avernian lake to 
 the bay, with gay companions and beautiful 
 women. He delighted in the appearance of the 
 purple sharp-pointed sails, on the surface of the 
 sleeping sea, the soft mingling of sunset colors on 
 the cliffs of Capri and vapor-clad Ischia, that 
 looked like great, transparent amethysts. He re- 
 joiced at his friends' mocking at all belief in the 
 gods, at the odor of the wine, and at the heartless, 
 yet intoxicating kisses of the harlots. 
 
 But every time he entered Myra's silent monas- 
 tic cell, he felt that another side of life was open 
 to him. The perfect charm of her pale face 
 touched him. He wished to believe in all that she 
 believed, in the gentle Galilean, and in the miracle 
 of immortality. He listened to Juventinus' stories, 
 about the great hermits, and their life seemed 
 grand to him. 
 
 Anatolius noted with wonder that for him there 
 was truth in the one and in the other; in enjoy- 
 ment of life, and in renunciation of life; in the 
 flesh triumphant and in the spirit triumphant; in 
 perfection, and in passion. 
 
 His thought remained clear. He felt no gnaw- 
 ings of conscience. 
 
 Doubt even pleased him, like a new game: those 
 soft deep waves of life, the passages from Chris- 
 tianity to heathenism, did not torment him, but 
 rather soothed and caressed him.
 
 20-i Julian the Apostate. 
 
 One evening Myra went to sleep before the open 
 window. When she awoke, she said to Juventinus, 
 with a glad smile: 
 
 "I had a strange dream." 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 "I do not remember. Only I feel happy. What 
 do you think, will all be saved?" 
 
 "All the just; and the wicked will be punished." 
 
 "The just! the wicked! I think differently," an- 
 swered Myra, still with the same glad and thought- 
 ful smile, as if trying to remember her dream. 
 "Juventinus, do you know I think that all, all will 
 be saved, that God will not leave one to perish!" 
 
 "So thought the great teacher, Origen; he said: 
 'My Saviour cannot rejoice, while I remain in 
 iniquity/ But that is heresy." 
 
 Myra did not listen, but continued: 
 
 "Yes, yes, it must be so! I understand now: all 
 will be saved, to the last one: God will not permit 
 any of his creatures to perish." 
 
 "I also wished to believe that, at times," said 
 Juventinus; "but I was afraid." 
 
 "You ought not to be afraid. If love is, there is 
 no fear. I am afraid of nothing." 
 
 "And how of him?" asked Juventinus, timidly. 
 
 "Of whom?" 
 
 "He whom we should not name, the Adver- 
 sary." 
 
 "He also, he also," exclaimed Myra, with fear- 
 less faith, "while there remains even a single soul 
 which has not attained salvation, no being can 
 enjoy perfect blessedness. If there are no limits 
 to love, how could it be otherwise? All things will 
 be in God, and God will be all things. Dearest, 
 what a joy is life; only understand what a joy it is!
 
 The Passing of Myra. 205 
 
 We have not yet learned to estimate it aright. But 
 we must bless all things, do you feel, my brother, 
 what it means to bless all things?" 
 
 "Evil also?" 
 
 "There is no evil, if there is no death." 
 
 The joyful Bacchanalian songs of Anatolius' 
 companions floated in through the window, from 
 the festal barque, bright with purple, its sharp- 
 pointed sails marked clear against the dark blue 
 of the sunset sea. 
 
 Myra pointed to them: 
 
 "That also is beautiful, and we must bless that 
 too," she murmured softly, as if to herself." 
 
 "The sinful songs?" asked Juventinus, fear- 
 fully. 
 
 Myra shook her head: 
 
 "N"o, no! all is good; all is clean. Beauty is 
 God's light. What do you fear, dearest? Oh what 
 liberty we need, to love. Love Him, and fear not. 
 You do not know yet what a .joy life is." 
 
 "And sighing deeply, as if in expectation of a 
 great rest, she added: 
 
 "And what a happiness is death." 
 
 That was her last talk. She lay for several days, 
 silent and motionless, without opening her eyes. 
 Perhaps she suffered greatly, for her finely marked 
 brows sometimes contracted tremulously, but im- 
 mediately the same weak, gentle smile returned, 
 and not a groan, not a complaint, passed her lips. 
 
 Once, in the middle of the night, she called 
 Arsinoe in an almost inaudible voice. Arsinoe was 
 sitting beside her. The sick girl could hardly 
 speak. She asked, without raising her eyelids: 
 
 "Is it day?"
 
 206 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "No, it is still night," answered Arsinoe, "but 
 it will soon be morning." 
 
 "I do not hear. Who are you?" said Myra, still 
 lower. 
 
 "It is I, Arsinoe." 
 
 The sick girl suddenly opened her great bright 
 eyes, and looked steadily at her sister. 
 
 "It seemed to me," murmured Myra with a 
 great effort, "that you were not there; that I was 
 alone." 
 
 Then very slowly, with great pains, and hardly 
 moving, she laid her thin, transparently pale 
 hands palm to palm, with a look of gentle entreaty. 
 Her lips trembled, and her brows were raised. 
 
 "Do not leave me! When I die, do not think 
 that I am no more!" 
 
 Her sister bent down. The sick girl was too 
 weak to throw her arms around her neck; she tried 
 to, and could not. Then Arsinoe laid her cheek 
 near Myra's eyes, and the girl softly caressed her 
 face with her long, downy lashes, lowering and 
 raising them, as if she was stroking her. This was 
 a habitual caress with them, invented by Myra in 
 her childhood. It felt as a butterfly's fine, soft 
 wings were fluttering against her cheek. 
 
 And that last childish caress reminded Arsinoe 
 of all their life together, and all their love. She 
 knelt down, for the first time in many years burst- 
 ing into uncontrollable tears. It seemed to her 
 that her heart melted and flowed in those tears. 
 
 "No, no, Myra," she said, "I will not leave you. 
 I will be with you, always." 
 
 Myra's eyes glistened joyfully. She whispered: 
 
 "it means that you?" ' 
 
 "Yes, I want to believe, and I shall!" exclaimed
 
 The Passing of Myra. 207 
 
 Arsinoe, and was immediately astonished at these 
 unexpected words; they seemed to her a miracle, 
 but not a cheat, and she did not wish to take them 
 back. 
 
 "I shall go to the desert, Myra, instead of you," 
 she continued with an almost delirious burst of 
 love, "and if God is, He must make death cease to 
 exist, so that we may be together always!" 
 
 Myra closed her eyes, listening to her sister with 
 a smile of endless peace, and added: 
 
 "Now I shall go to sleep. I need nothing more. 
 I am well." 
 
 After that she did not open her eyes, nor speak. 
 Her face seemed as peaceful and quiet as the faces 
 of the dead, but she breathed for several days 
 more. 
 
 When they brought a cup of wine to her parted 
 lips, she drank several drops. 
 
 If her breathing became uneven and heavy, Ju- 
 ventinus, bending down, sang some prayer or 
 church hymn in a low voice, and then Myra began 
 to breathe softly and evenly again, as if she had 
 "been lulled by a lullaby. 
 
 One bright evening, when the sun was turning 
 Ischia and Capri into great transparent amethysts, 
 when the quiet sea was mingled with the sky, and 
 the first star had not yet shone out, but was only 
 divined in the immeasurable dome, Juventinus 
 softly sang the sweet evening hymn over the dying 
 girl: 
 
 Oh God, that didst all things create. 
 Oh heavenly king that too hast clothed 
 The day in light roost beautiful, 
 The night in sleep most bountiful
 
 208 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Sleep to restore the weary ones, 
 And after labor to give rest, 
 The fainting spirit to refresh, 
 To drive away all pain and fear. 
 
 Perhaps while the words of this triumphant 
 hymn were still resounding, Myra breathed her 
 last sigh. None noted when her breathing ceased. 
 Death and life were one for her, because her life 
 was mingled with the eternal, as the warmth of a 
 clear evening mingles with the freshness of the 
 night. 
 
 Arsinoe buried her sister in the ancient cata- 
 combs, and with her own hands traced on the mar- 
 ble slab the words "Myra, vivis, Myra, thou 
 livest!" 
 
 She hardly wept at all. In her soul was a great 
 quietness, a contempt for the world, and a decision 
 akin to despair, if she did not believe in God, at 
 least to do all she could to believe in Him. 
 
 She wished to distribute her wealth among the 
 poor, and go to the desert. 
 
 The same day that Arsinoe, to her guardian's 
 boundless astonishment and- chagrin, had in- 
 formed Hortensius of her decision, she received a 
 brief and enigmatic letter from Julian, from Gaul: 
 
 "Julian to the most noble Arsinoe, greeting! 
 
 "Do you remember what we said, in Athens, be- 
 fore the statue of Artemis? Do you remember our 
 alliance? Great is my hatred; still greater my 
 love. It may be that the lion will soon cast aside 
 the ass's skin, and meanwhile, let us be harmless as 
 doves, and wise as serpents, according to the words 
 of Jesus of Nazareth."
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 THE ARMY DECLARES FOR JULIAN. 
 
 More than a year had passed since the battle of 
 Argentoratum. Julian had freed Gaul from the 
 barbarians. Early in the spring, in his winter- 
 quarters in Lutetia, the Caesar received an import- 
 ant letter from the emperor, brought by Decentius 
 the tribune of the notarii. 
 
 Every victory in Gaul had offended Constan- 
 tius, as a new blow to his vanity. That boy, that 
 "chattering jay," that "monkey in the purple," 
 "the ridiculous victorling," to the disgust of the 
 court jesters, had turned into a real menacing 
 victor. 
 
 Constantius burned with envy. At this same 
 time he himself was suffering defeat after defeat 
 from the Persians in the Asiatic provinces. 
 
 He grew thin, and lost his sleep; his appetite 
 dwindled, and twice he had suffusions of bile. 
 The court physicians were in dismay. 
 
 Sometimes, during sleepless nights the emperor 
 lay with wide-open eyes on his splendid couch, 
 under Constantine the Great's sacred ensign, the 
 Labarum, and thought: 
 
 "Eusebia deceived me. But for her, I would 
 have carried out the wise counsels of Paul and 
 Mereurius and smothered the boy somewhere in a 
 dark corner, and rid myself of this young serpent 
 of the Flavian nest. Fool! I let him slip through 
 my fingers. And who knows? perhaps she was his 
 mistress. 
 
 209
 
 210 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Belated jealousy made his envy even more 
 fierce. He could not punish the Empress Eusebia, 
 she had long been in the tomb. His second con- 
 sort, Faustina, was a pretty, foolish girl, whom he 
 
 Constantius clutched his thin hair, in the dark- 
 ness of the night, his hair that was so carefully 
 curled every morning by the hair-dresser, and 
 wept cold, bitter tears. 
 
 Was it not he who had protected the Church? 
 who had striven to put down every heresy? Was 
 it not he who had founded and adorned cathe- 
 drals? Who every morning and evening per- 
 formed the ordained number of prostrations? 
 And now what reward had he? For the first time 
 in his life, the ruler of the earth felt wrath against 
 the Heavenly Father. Bitter prayers died away 
 on his lips. 
 
 To allay his envy even a little, he had recourse 
 to an extraordinary expedient: through all the 
 great cities were distributed so-called triumphal 
 letters, wreathed with laurels, proclaiming the vic- 
 tories which God's grace had vouchsafed to Con- 
 stantius. These letters were read in the squares. 
 In them it was declared that it was not Julian who 
 had four times crossed the Rhine, but Constantius, 
 who in reality had been losing armies at the other 
 end of the world at that very time; that it was not 
 Julian who had been surrounded with clouds of 
 arrows, at Argentoratum, but Constantius; that 
 not Julian, but Constantius was wounded; that it 
 was not Julian who had passed through morasses 
 and gloomy forests, cutting roads, besieging for- 
 tresses, enduring hunger, thirst and heat, toiling 
 more and sleeping less than the simple soldiers,
 
 The Army Declares for Julian. 211 
 
 but again Constantius. Julian's name was not 
 even mentioned in the bay-wreathed letters, as if 
 the Caesar had not existed at all. The people 
 hailed Constantius as the conqueror of Gaul, and 
 in all the churches, the presbyters, bishops and 
 patriarchs offered up solemn prayers, asking long 
 life for the emperor, and thanking God for the 
 victories over the barbarians vouchsafed to Con- 
 stantius. 
 
 When Julian heard of this, he answered his 
 enemy with a quiet smile. 
 
 But the envy which gnawed the emperor's heart 
 was not assuaged. He planned to take away from 
 Julian the flower of his best legions, imperceptibly 
 and gradually, to weaken him as he had formerly 
 weakened Gallus; to draw him gently within his 
 nets, and then to strike a final blow at him, when 
 he was unarmed. 
 
 With this end in view, a skilful official, Decen- 
 tius, the tribune of the notaries, was sent to Lute- 
 tia, with a letter: he was to lose no time in 
 drafting all the best and most efficient troops 
 out of Julian's army, the Heruli, the Batavians, 
 the Petulantes, and the Celts, and sending them 
 to Asia to the emperor. Besides this, the official 
 was commissioned to choose up to three hundred 
 of the bravest men in each legion, and Sintula, 
 the Caesarean tribune of the horse, received orders 
 to unite soldiers, selected from the shield-bearers 
 and gentiles, to stand at their head, and lead them 
 to the East to the emperor. 
 
 Julian warned Decentius, pointing out the im- 
 mediate danger of revolt among the barbarian 
 legions, who would sooner consent to die than to 
 leave their native land. The stubborn official paid
 
 21^ Julian tlie Apostate. 
 
 no attention to the warning, retaining an imper- 
 turbable departmental haughtiness on his shaven 
 and cunning face. 
 
 Near one of the old bridges, uniting the island 
 of Lutetia with the bank, was extended the long 
 row of barracks. 
 
 Since morning, the soldiers had been in a state 
 of disquiet. Only the strict and wise discipline 
 introduced by Julian restrained them. 
 
 The first cohorts of Petulantes and Heruli set 
 out at nightfall. Their brothers, the Celts and 
 Batavians, were getting ready to march. Sintula 
 gave his orders in a confident voice. Murmurs 
 were heard. One insubordinate soldier had already 
 been whipped with rods till he was half dead. 
 Decentius bustled about everywhere. 
 
 In the courtyard, and on the road, under the 
 dusky evening sky, stood canvas-covered wagons 
 with huge wheels, for the soldiers' wives and chil- 
 dren. The women added their voices, bidding 
 farewell to their native land; others stretched 
 forth their hands to the dreamy forests and wild 
 ravines on the horizon; others fell on the earth 
 and kissed it with sad cries, calling it their mother, 
 and lamenting that their bones would rot in for- 
 eign lands. Some of them tied a handful of earth 
 in a cloth, as a memento, in silent grief. A lean 
 dog, with ribs that stuck out from thinness, was 
 licking the axle of the wagon, smeared with tallow; 
 suddenly going to a little distance, and burying 
 its muzzle in the dust, it began to howl. All 
 turned and shuddered. A legionary kicked it 
 angrily. With its tail between its legs, the dog 
 ran away yelping into the plain, and then stopped, 
 and howled louder and more lugubriously than
 
 The Army Declares for Julian. 213 
 
 before. And that prolonged wail was terrible, in 
 the close stillness of the dusky evening. 
 
 The Sarmatian Aragarius belonged to the num- 
 ber of those who were to leave the north. He was 
 bidding farewell to his faithful comrade Strom- 
 bicus. 
 
 "Uncle, dear, what are you leaving me for?" 
 sobbed Strombicus, eating his military broth: 
 Aragarius had given it up to him, for he could not 
 swallow a single mouthful from grief. Strom- 
 bicus' tears fell into the soup, but still he ate with 
 pleasure. 
 
 "Well, well, shut up, you fool!" said Aragarius, 
 consolingly scolding him as was his wont, con- 
 temptuously, and at the same time kindly. "There 
 is enough woman's howling, without you. Better 
 tell me plainly, you come from those parts, 
 what sort of forest is there in those parts, is there 
 more oak or birch?" 
 
 "What are you talking about, uncle? Lord help 
 you! There is no forest there, only sand and 
 stones." 
 
 "And what do people shelter from the sun 
 under?" objected Aragarius, distrustfully. 
 
 "In one word, it is a desert, as hot, you may say, 
 as if you were on the kitchen hearth. And there 
 is no water." 
 
 "How, no water? but there is beer?" 
 
 "How should there be beer? they never heard 
 of beer." 
 
 "You are a liar!" 
 
 "May my eyes burst, uncle, if throughout the 
 whole of Asia, Mesopotamia, and Syria, you could 
 find a single keg of beer or mead." 
 
 "Well, brother, that's bad enough. Hot as an
 
 214 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 oven, and no water, no beer, and no mead. They 
 are driving us off to the ends of the earth, like 
 oxen to the slaughter." 
 
 "To the devil's horn, uncle; right to the devil's 
 horn." 
 
 And Strombicus sobbed still more pitiably. 
 
 At this moment was heard the distant hum and 
 murmur of voices. The two friends ran out of 
 the barracks. A crowd of soldiers came running 
 across the wooden bridge, to the island of Lutetia. 
 The cries came nearer. The disorder spread to 
 the barracks. The soldiers came out to the cause- 
 way, gathered in knots, and shouted, in spite of 
 the orders, threats, and even blows of the cen- 
 turions. 
 
 "What has happened?" asked a veteran who was 
 bringing a bundle of brushwood to the barrack 
 kitchen. 
 
 "They say they have flogged twenty more men." 
 
 "Twenty? you mean a hundred." 
 
 "They will all be flogged in turn. That is the 
 order." 
 
 Suddenly a soldier in a torn garment, with a 
 wild distraught face, ran in amongst the crowd, 
 shouting: 
 
 "Brothers, run, run to the palace! They have 
 murdered Julian." 
 
 These words fell like a spark on dry straw. The 
 long-smoldering flame burst out uncontrollably. 
 Faces became savage, like wild beasts. No one 
 listened to anything; no one heard anything. All 
 shouted at once: 
 
 "Where are the villains?" 
 
 "Beat the rascals!" 
 
 "Who is to be beaten?"
 
 The Army Declares for Julian. 215 
 
 "The emperor's messengers." . 
 
 "Down with the emperor!" 
 
 "Oh you calves! what a leader they have given 
 us!" 
 
 They knocked down the two first centurions 
 they came upon, and who were wholly innocent, 
 kicking them, and ready -to tear them in pieces. 
 Blood flowed, and at the sight of it the soldiers 
 grew still more furious. 
 
 The crowd, thronging across the bridge, ap- 
 proached the barrack building, and suddenly a 
 deafening cry rose clear above everything. 
 
 "Long live the Emperor Julian. Long live 
 Julian Augustus!" 
 
 "They have slain him!" 
 
 "Silence, you fool! I have just seen him." 
 
 "The Caesar is alive?" 
 
 "He is not the Caesar, he is emperor!" 
 
 "Who said they had killed him?" 
 
 "Where is the knave?" 
 
 "They tried to kill him!" 
 
 "Who tried?" 
 
 "Constantius!" 
 
 "Down with Constantius! Down with the 
 damned eunuchs!" 
 
 Someone on horseback hurried through the 
 gloom so speedily that they hardly had time to 
 recognize him. 
 
 "Decentius! Decentius! Stop the villain!" 
 
 Decentius disappeared, accompanied by jeering 
 and shouts. The crowd increased. In the darkness 
 of evening, the mutinous army swayed and seethed 
 menacingly. Anger alternated with childish de- 
 light, when they saw that the legions of Heruli 
 and Petulantes, who had been sent off in the morn-
 
 216 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 ing, were coming back, having also mutined. 
 Many embraced their fellow-countrymen, their 
 wives and children, as if after a long separation. 
 Others wept for joy. Others shouted, and struck 
 their swords against their shields. The camp-fires 
 were lit. Orators appeared. Strombicus, who had 
 been a circus clown in his youth in Antioch, felt 
 a stream of inspiration. His comrades lifted him 
 on their shoulders, and with a theatrical gesture, 
 he began: "Nos quidem ad orbis terrarum ex- 
 trema ut noxii pellimur aut damnati, They are 
 sending us to the ends of the earth, like men con- 
 demned, and evil-doers. Our families whom we 
 have redeemed from slavery at the cost of our 
 blood, will fall anew under the Alamans!" 
 
 He had not time to finish, when a piercing 
 sound, like the cry of a slaughtered pig, was 
 heard issuing from the barracks, and, at the same 
 time, the familiar sound of the rod on a naked 
 body. The soldiers were flogging the detested 
 centurion, "Cede-Alteram." A soldier, beating his 
 superior, thew away a blood-stained rod, and 
 amidst the general laughter, cried out "Cede- 
 Alteram," Give me another! mimicking the 
 centurion's voice. 
 
 "To the palace! to the palace!" cried the crowd, 
 "let us proclaim Julian Augustus, let us crown 
 him with the diadem!" 
 
 They all rushed forth, throwing the half-dead 
 centurion into the courtyard, where he lay in a 
 pool of blood. 
 
 The gates, doors and shutters of the palace were 
 closely fastened. The building seemed unin- 
 habited. 
 
 Foreseeing a mutiny, Julian had not gone out,
 
 The Army Declares for Julian. 217 
 
 and had abstained from, appearing to the soldiers. 
 He had been casting lots, and seeking omens. For 
 two days and nights, he had been waiting for a 
 sign. In the long white robe of the Pythagoreans, 
 he was ascending the narrow stairs to the highest 
 tower of the palace, with a lamp in his hands. A 
 Persian magician was standing there already, an 
 assistant of Maximus of Ephesus, the same 
 Nogodares who once foretold Scudilo the tribune's 
 fortune, in the tavern of Syrophenix, at the foot 
 of the Argian hills. 
 
 "Well?" asked Julian, hesitatingly, gazing at 
 the dark vault of heaven. 
 
 "I can see nothing," answered Nogodares, "the 
 clouds prevent me." 
 
 Julian made a gesture of impatience. 
 
 "Not a single sign! As if the heavens and earth 
 were in league together." 
 
 A bat fluttered past. 
 
 "Watch, watch, perhaps you can tell something 
 from its flight." 
 
 It almost touched Julian's face, with its cold, 
 mysterious wings, and disappeared. 
 
 "'The soul of someone near to you," murmured 
 Xogodares. "Remember, to-night a mighty event 
 is to take place." 
 
 They heard the indistinct cries of the soldiers. 
 The wind carried them away. 
 
 "If you learn anything, come to me," said 
 Julian, and descended to the library. He began 
 to walk up and down through the huge room, 
 from corner to corner, with quick, uneven steps. 
 Sometimes he stopped to listen. He imagined 
 that someone was following him, and a strange, 
 supernatural cold blew down hie neck, in the dark-
 
 218 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 ness. He turned quickly, there was no one. 
 Only the heavily-throbbing blood pulsed in his 
 temples. He began to walk up and down again, 
 and again it seemed to him that someone was 
 whispering words which he had not time to catch, 
 in his ear. 
 
 A servant came to announce that an old man 
 who had come from Athens on very important 
 business wished to see him. Julian, crying out 
 with joy, hastened to meet him, hoping that it was 
 Maximus. It was the grand hierophant of the 
 Eleusinian mysteries, whom also he was expecting 
 with the utmost impatience. 
 
 "Father," he cried, "save me! I must know the 
 will of the gods. Come quick!" 
 
 At that moment, the deafening cries of the 
 mutinous army rang through the palace. The old 
 brick walls trembled. 
 
 A tribune of the household shield-bearers ran 
 in, pale with terror: 
 
 "Mutiny! The soldiers are breaking the doors!" 
 
 Julian gave a sign of command with his hand. 
 
 "Do not fear! Later, later let no one come to 
 me." 
 
 And seizing the Eleusinian hierophant by the 
 hand, he dragged him into a dark vault, and shut 
 the heavy, iron door after him. 
 
 Everything was ready in the vault. The flames 
 of the torches were reflected on a silver image of 
 Helios-Mithra, the sun-god. The censers and 
 sacred vessels of water were standing beside it, and 
 also vessels of wine and honey, for the oblation, 
 with flour and salt, to sprinkle on the victims. In 
 cages were different birds, for the auguries, ducks,
 
 The Army Declares for Julian. 219 
 
 doves, fowls, geese, even an eagle, and a little 
 white lamb, tied, and bleating pitifully. 
 
 "Quicker, quicker! I must know the will of the 
 gods," Julian hurried the hierophant, giving him 
 a sharp-edged knife. 
 
 The old man, breathing heavily, rapidly pro- 
 nounced the necessary prayers, and performed the 
 libations. 
 
 He transfixed the lamb, and laid a part of the 
 flesh and fat on the embers of the altar, with mys- 
 tic incantations, and began to examine the en- 
 trails. He drew forth the bleeding liver, heart 
 and lungs with skilful hands, and examined them 
 on all sides. 
 
 "There will be a mighty downfall, and a terrible 
 death," said the hierophant, pointing to the lamb's 
 still warm heart. 
 
 "Who? who is it? I or he?" asked Julian. 
 
 "I know not." 
 
 "You do not know?" 
 
 "Caesar," said the old man, " do not hurry! Do 
 not decide on anything to-night. Wait till morn- 
 ing. The forecasts are doubtful even " 
 
 He did not finish, and took other victims, first 
 the goose, and then the eagle. The noise of the 
 crowd resounded overhead, like the roar of an in- 
 undation. Blows of a lever rang on the iron gates. 
 Julian heard nothing. He watched the bleeding 
 entrails with hungry curiosity. They decided to 
 test the secrets of the gods, with the gizzard of the 
 chicken. The old priest killed it; then shook his 
 head and said: 
 
 "Decide on nothing to-night. The gods are 
 silent."
 
 220 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "What does that mean?" cried Julian, angrily; 
 "they have chosen a fit time to keep silent!" 
 
 Nogodares entered, with a look of triumph: 
 
 "Julian, rejoice! This night will decide your 
 fate! Hasten, otherwise it will be too late!" 
 
 The magian looked at the hierophant; the 
 hierophant, at the magian. 
 
 "Wait!" pronounced the Eleusinian priest, knit- 
 ting his brows. 
 
 "Dare!" said Nogodares. 
 
 Julian stood between them in uncertainty, look- 
 ing first at the one, then at the other. The faces 
 of both augurs were impenetrable. They were evi- 
 dently jealous of each other. 
 
 "What am I to do?" whispered Julian. Sud- 
 denly he remembered something, and his face 
 cleared. "Wait, I have an ancient Sibylline book 
 in the library, "On Contradictions in the Augu- 
 ries." We shall come to a decision." 
 
 He ran up to the library and began to search 
 among the dusty rolls. Suddenly it seemed to 
 him that someone's voice whispered clearly in his 
 ear: "Dare! dare! dare!" 
 
 "Maximus! is that you?" cried Julian, and 
 turned. 
 
 There was no one in the dark room. His heart 
 beat so rapidly that he pressed his hand against it. 
 A cold sweat stood on his brow. 
 
 "That is what I was waiting for," murmured 
 Julian, "that was His voice. All is finished now. 
 I go!" 
 
 The iron gates fell down with a deafening noise. 
 The soldiers broke into the atrium of the building. 
 The walls of the palace trembled under their 
 cries. The red light of the torches flickered
 
 The Army Declares for Julian. 221 
 
 through the boards of the shutters, like the red- 
 ness of dawn. It was impossible to wait, even for 
 a moment. Julian cast aside his Pythagorean 
 gown, and put on his armor, the Caesar's paluda- 
 inentum, and his helmet, and buckling on his 
 sword, he hurried down the great staircase to the 
 entrance doors. He nung them open, and ap- 
 peared before the army with a majestic and quiet 
 face. All his doubts had vanished. His will did 
 not hesitate in action. He had never in his life 
 felt such an inner force, such lucidity of spirit 
 and self-mastery. The crowd felt that instantly. 
 His pale face looked kinglike and terrible. He 
 made a sign with his hand. All became silent. 
 
 Julian spoke: he persuaded the soldiers to be- 
 come quiet, assuring them that he would not 
 desert them, nor allow them to be carried away to 
 foreign lands. He would beg his worthy cousin 
 Constantius >: 
 
 "Down with Constantius!" the soldiers inter- 
 rupted him in friendly shouts, ''down with the 
 fratricide! You are emperor, glory to Julian 
 Augustus, the Unconquerable!" 
 
 He artfully played the role of a man who is 
 astonished, even frightened. He cast his eyes 
 down, turned his face aside, and held forth his 
 hands, with outstretched palms, as if pushing 
 away the culpable gift, and defending himself 
 from it. The cries redoubled. 
 
 ''What are you doing?" cried Julian, with 
 feigned terror, "do not ruin yourselves and me. 
 Can you think that I would betray the noble em- 
 peror?" 
 
 "The murderer of your father! the murderer of 
 Gallus!" cried the soldiers.
 
 222 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "Be silent! Be silent!" He waved his hand 
 toward them, and descended the steps of the stair, 
 among the crowd. "Do you not know? We swore 
 before the face of God himself/' 
 
 Julian's every movement was crafty and pro- 
 found acting. The soldiers surrounded him. He 
 drew his sword from its sheath, raised it, and 
 pointed it against his own breast: 
 
 "Valiant men! Better that the Caesar should 
 die than betray." 
 
 They caught him by the arm, and took the 
 sword away by force. Many fell at his feet, em- 
 bracing them with tears, and pressed their sharp 
 sword-points against their own breasts. 
 
 "We will die!" they cried, "we will die for you!" 
 
 Others stretched out their hands to him, with 
 pitiful cries: 
 
 "Have mercy on us! Father, have mercy on 
 us!" 
 
 Grey veterans fell on their knees, seizing the 
 leader's hands as if to kiss them, and placed his 
 fingers in their mouths, making him feel their 
 toothless gums. They spoke of the untold toils, 
 the intolerable hardships they had endured during 
 their long military service. Many stripped off 
 their garments, and showed him their naked old 
 bodies, their backs with terrible weals from the 
 rods of the centurions, and their wounds. 
 
 "Have pity on us! Be our emperor!" 
 
 Julian's heart was moved. He loved those rude 
 faces, the familiar air of the barracks, the general 
 riotous ecstasy, in which he felt his own force. He 
 noted that the mutiny was dangerous, by the fol- 
 lowing sign: the soldiers did not interrupt eacli 
 other, but cried all at once, as if they had agreed
 
 The Army Declares for Julian. 223 
 
 beforehand, and then they grew silent, with the 
 same friendly unanimity. Now a deafening cry 
 arose, now perfect stillness followed it. 
 
 Finally Julian, as if unwillingly, as if overcome 
 by force, spoke in a low voice: 
 
 "Children! Beloved companions! You see that 
 I am yours in life and death. I can refuse you 
 nothing." 
 
 "Crown him. Crown him with a diadem!" they 
 cried triumphantly. 
 
 "Let Augustus order a pearl necklace to be 
 brought!" 
 
 Julian objected that a woman's adornment was 
 unbecoming, and would be a bad augury for the 
 beginning of his rule. 
 
 The soldiers would not yield. They were deter- 
 mined to see the bright sign of royalty on the brow 
 of their elect, to feel sure that he was emperor. 
 
 A coarse legionary tore the breast-piece of 
 bronze off a war horse, the "falera," as it was 
 called, and proffered it to Julian. 
 
 This was displeasing to the soldiers. It smelt 
 of horse's sweat, from the leather of the breast- 
 piece. 
 
 All began impatiently to seek for another deco- 
 ration. Then the standard-bearer of the legion of 
 the Petulantes, the Sarmatian Aragarius, took a 
 bronze chain from his neck, the sign of his rank. 
 Julian twisted it twice around his head. That 
 chain made him Koman emperor. 
 
 "On the shield! On the shield!" cried the sol- 
 diers. 
 
 Aragarius handed him a round shield, and hun- 
 dreds of hands raised the emperor in the air. He
 
 224 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 saw a sea of heads in bronze helmets, and heard 
 triumphant thundering shouts: 
 
 "Long live Julian, the godlike Augustus!" 
 
 It seemed to him that the will of destiny was 
 being accomplished. 
 
 The torches nickered. Streaks of white ap- 
 peared on the horizon. The clumsy brick towers 
 of the palace stood out black and grim. 
 
 With the dawn, the worn-out soldiers dispersed, 
 and Julian withdrew into the palace. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 THE DEATH OF CONSTANTIUS. 
 
 The Emperor Constantius had passed sad days 
 in Antioch. All were expecting evil. 
 
 By night, he dreamed terrible dreams; in his 
 bedchamber, six lamps burned until dawn, yet he 
 still feared the darkness. Long hours he sat alone, 
 in motionless meditation, turning and trembling 
 at the slightest noise. 
 
 Once he dreamed of his father, Constantine the 
 Great, who held a child in his hands, strong and 
 menacing. Constantius, taking the child from 
 'him, set it at his right hand, trying to hold up a 
 great ball of crystal with his left. The evil child 
 struck the sphere, so that it fell and broke, and 
 the needle-like fragments of the glass pierced Con- 
 stantius, with intolerable pain, his body, his 
 brain, his eyes, his heart; flashing, ringing, pier- 
 cing and burning. 
 
 The emperor woke in terror, bathed in cold 
 sweat.
 
 The Death of Coiistantius. 225 
 
 He began to take counsel with, soothsayers, fa- 
 mous wizards, and interpreters of dreams. 
 
 In Antioch, an army was assembled, and prep- 
 arations were being made for an expedition against 
 Julian. Sometimes the emperor was overcome by 
 a thirst for action after a long period of immo- 
 bility. Many courtiers held his haste to be irra- 
 tional. In whispers, they confided to each other 
 rumors of the emperor's doubtful mental condi- 
 tion. 
 
 It was late autumn when he left Antioch. 
 
 At midday on the road at three thousand paces 
 from the city, close to a village called Hippocepha- 
 lus, the emperor saw the shapeless corpse of an un- 
 known man. The body, turned towards the west, 
 lay on the right hand of Constantius, who was on 
 horseback; the head was separated from the trunk. 
 He turned pale, and looked away. None of those 
 who were near him said anything, but all knew 
 that it was an evil omen. 
 
 In the city of Cilician Tarsus, he felt a slight 
 chill and weakness, but paid no attention to it, and 
 did not even take counsel of his physicians, hoping 
 that riding along the rough mountain road, in the 
 heat of the sun, would make him perspire and do 
 him good. 
 
 He directed his course to a small town, Mopsy- 
 crene, at the foot of the Taurus mountains, the 
 last stage before leaving Cilicia. 
 
 While on the road, he had several times had 
 severe fits of dizziness: finally he had to dismount 
 and get into a litter. Later on, the eunuch Euse- 
 bius related that while lying in the litter the em- 
 peror drew forth from under his cloak a precious
 
 226 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 stone, with the profile of the Empress Eusebius 
 Aurelia, and kissed it tenderly. 
 
 At one of the cross-roads he asked whither the 
 other road went, and they answered him that it 
 was the road to Macellum, the deserted palace of 
 the Cappadocian kings. 
 
 At this name Constantius' face grew gloomy. 
 
 They arrived at Mopsycrene in the evening. He 
 was worn out and silent. 
 
 He had just entered the room prepared for him, 
 when one of the courtiers uncautiously, and in 
 spite of the prohibition of Eusebius, informed him 
 that two couriers from the western provinces 
 awaited the emperor. 
 
 Constantius ordered to have them brought in. 
 
 Eusebius begged him to put the matter off till 
 the morning. But the emperor said that he felt 
 much better, that the chill had left him, and that 
 he felt only a light pain in his elbow. 
 
 They admitted the first messenger. He was 
 trembling and pale. 
 
 "Speak at once!" exclaimed Constantius, fright- 
 ened by the expression of his face. 
 
 The courier told of the insolence of Julian; the 
 Caesar had torn the emperor's letter in pieces be- 
 fore the army. Gaul, Pannonia, Aquitania, had 
 gone over to Julian. Traitors turned against Con- 
 stantius in all the legions, stationed in these coun- 
 tries. 
 
 The emperor, his face livid with anger, sprang 
 on the courier, and seized him by the throat: 
 
 "You lie, knave, you lie! There is a God in 
 heaven, the protector of the kings of the earth. 
 The Lord of Heaven will not allow, hear all ye 
 fools, will not allow."
 
 The Death of Constantius. 227 
 
 Suddenly he grew faint, and covered his eyes 
 with his hands. The courier, half dead with 
 fright, managed to slip out of the room. 
 
 "To-morrow," muttered Constantius, indis- 
 tinctly and disconnectedly, "to-morrow, on the 
 march, straight across the mountains, by forced 
 marches, to Constantinople!" 
 
 Eusebius approached him, bowing servilely: 
 
 "Oh blessed Augustus, the Lord God ever gave 
 you the power to set your enemies at naught; you 
 conquered the rebellious and foolish Maxentius, 
 Constans, Vetranion, Gallus. You will conquer 
 also the enemy of God." 
 
 But Constantius was not listening; he muttered, 
 shaking his head with a meaningless smile: 
 
 "It means that He does not exist. If all this is 
 true, it means that he is not; I am alone. Let any 
 one dare to say He is, when such things are done 
 upon earth. I have thought that for a long time, 
 now/' 
 
 lie turned towards them all, with inquiring eyes, 
 and said: 
 
 "Call the other." 
 
 The physician, a court dandy, with a shaven and 
 impudent rosy face and cold lynx-eyes, a Jew, pre- 
 tending to be a Roman aristocrat, approached him: 
 he observed to the emperor, in servile tones, that 
 excessive emotion might be dangerous to him, that 
 rest was indispensable. Constantius only waved 
 him aside, like a troublesome fly. 
 
 They brought in the other messenger. He was 
 Sintula, a tribune of the Cesar's stables, who had 
 fled from Lutetia. He brought still more fearful 
 news: the gates of the city of Sirmium had been 
 opened before Julian, and its inhabitants had joy-
 
 228 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 fully welcomed him, as the savior of the father- 
 land. In two days, they were to set out on the 
 great Koman road for Constantinople. 
 
 The emperor seemed not to hear the courier's 
 last words. But his face became strangely set. He 
 made a sign that all should go away. Eusebius, 
 with whom he wished to discuss matters, remained. 
 
 After a short time, feeling weary, he ordered 
 them to carry him to the bed-chamber, and took 
 several steps towards it. Suddenly a low groan 
 broke from his lips. He raised both hands to his 
 neck, as if he felt a strong momentary pain, and 
 staggered. The court attendants had just time to 
 catch him. 
 
 The emperor had evidently not lost conscious- 
 ness. From his face, from all his movements, from 
 the veins which stood out on his forehead, it was 
 clear that he was making enormous efforts to 
 speak. Finally, he slowly uttered these words, 
 every one of which seemed to choke him, in a 
 half -audible whisper: 
 
 "I wish to speak but I cannot." 
 
 These were his last words. His speech failed 
 him. A paralytic stroke had deadened all the 
 right side of his body. His right arm and leg 
 hung motionless. 
 
 They laid him on the bed. 
 
 In his eyes was anxiety, and an obstinate, recur- 
 ring thought. He made efforts to say something, 
 to give some important order, perhaps, but only 
 indistinct sounds came from his lips, like a weak, 
 unbroken mewing. No one could understand what 
 he wished, and the sick man turned his eyes be- 
 seechingly on all in turn. The eunuchs, courtiers, 
 generals and slaves crowded round the dying man,
 
 The Death of Constantius. 229 1 
 
 wishing to serve him for the last time, but not 
 knowing how. 
 
 At times anger flashed into his intelligent^ 
 steady eyes: then the mewing seemed angry. 
 
 Finally Eusebius guessed, and brought him his 
 writing tablet. Joy shone in the emperor's face; 
 he seized the bronze stylus firmly, but awkwardly 
 in his left hand, like a little child. After long 
 efforts he succeeded in making certain scribbles on 
 the soft surface of the yellow wax. The courtiers 
 with difficulty read the word: "Baptise." 
 
 He bent a beseeching glance on Eusebius. All 
 were astonished that they had not understood 
 sooner. The emperor wished to be christened be- 
 fore his death, as, following the example of his 
 father, Constantino, he had put off the great mys- 
 tery to the last moment, believing that it would 
 miraculously cleanse his soul from all sin, and 
 "wash it whiter than snow." 
 
 They ran to bring a bishop. It turned out that 
 there was no bishop in Mopsycrene. They sent for 
 the Aryan presbyter of the poor city basilica. He 
 was a very shy, insignificant person, with a bird- 
 like face, a sharp red nose, like a beak, and a goat's 
 beard, with provincial manners. When they came 
 for him, Father Nymphidianus was beginning his 
 tenth cup of cheap red wine, and seemed over 
 merry. They could not explain to him at all what 
 the matter was; he grew angry, thinking that they 
 were laughing at him. But when they convinced 
 him that he was to baptize the emperor, he almost 
 lost his reason. 
 
 The presbyter entered the sick man's room. The 
 emperor looked up at the pale, bewildered and 
 trembling Father Nymphidianus with a glad hum-
 
 230 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Me glance, such as he had never turned on a 
 human being in all his life. They understood that 
 he was afraid of dying, and wished to hasten the 
 rite. 
 
 Throughout the city, they sought a gold font, 
 or at least a silver one, but could not find one. It 
 is true that there was a splendid vase, with pre- 
 cious stones, but it was believed to have served in 
 the Bacchic mysteries of the god Dionysus. They 
 preferred an old, bronze font, which was undoubt- 
 edly Christian, with coarse, bent edges. 
 
 They brought the font close to the bed. They 
 poured warm water into it, and the Hebrew physi- 
 cian wished to try it with his hand. The emperor 
 made an angry movement, and mewed: he feared 
 that the Jew's touch would pollute the water. 
 
 They stripped the dying man of his lower tunic. 
 "Vigorous young shield-bearers lifted him light as a 
 child in their arms, and plunged him in the water. 
 
 Now the dying man showed not the slightest 
 emotion, and looked with a drowsy lifeless face, his 
 wide-open eyes unmoving at the brightly gleam- 
 ing cross on the Labarum, the golden standard of 
 Constantine. It was a fixed and meaningless stare, 
 like the gaze of infants whose eyes are fascinated 
 by some bright object, so that they cannot turn 
 them away. 
 
 Evidently the rite had not brought peace to the 
 sick man. He seemed to have forgotten about it. 
 For the last time his will flashed forth in his eyes, 
 when Eusebius again gave him the tablet and sty- 
 lus. But Constantius could not write he simply 
 traced the first letters of the name "Julian." What 
 did it mean? Did he wish to forgive his enemy, 
 or to command revenge against him?
 
 The Death of Constantius. 231 
 
 He was in torture for three days. The courtiers 
 whispered to each other that he wanted to die, 
 Lut could not; that it was a special affliction from 
 God. Still, from old habit, they spoke of the 
 dying man as the "blessed Augustus," "His Holi- 
 ness," "His Eternity." 
 
 He must have suffered. The mewing was pro- 
 longed into a moaning that ceased neither day nor 
 night. The sounds were so even, so uninterrupted 
 that it seemed they could not come from a human 
 throat. 
 
 The courtiers came and departed as quickly as 
 possible, awaiting the end. 
 
 Only the eunuch Eusebius did not leave the 
 dying man, night or day. 
 
 The Dignitary of the Most August Bedchamber, 
 in person and character resembled a querulous, 
 crafty, evil-natured old woman. On his conscience 
 were many sins. All the tangled threads of secret 
 information, spyings and church quarrels, went 
 through his hands. 
 
 But perhaps he alone of all the court loved his 
 protector like a faithful slave. 
 
 By night, when all slept, or had departed, worn 
 out by the sight of so much protracted suffering, 
 Eusebius did not quit the bed. He straightened 
 the pillow, and refreshed the sick man's dry lips 
 with iced drinks. At times he knelt beside the 
 emperor's feet, and probably prayed. When no one 
 was looking, Eusebius gently turned back the end 
 of the purple coverlet, and, with tears, kissed the 
 poor, white, numb feet of the dying man. 
 
 Once it even seemed to him that Constantius 
 felt his caress, and responded to it with a look.
 
 232 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Something brotherly and gentle passed between 
 these two wicked, unhappy and lonely people. 
 
 Eusebius closed the emperor's eyes, and saw the 
 real majesty of death spread on his face, which had 
 so long expressed the mock majesty of power. 
 
 Above him too were to sound the words which, 
 according to custom, the Church pronounced be- 
 fore the remains of the Roman emperors were laid 
 into the tomb: 
 
 "Arise, oh king of the earth! Answer the sum- 
 mons of the King of kings, who shall judge thee." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 JULIAN AND THE CROSS. 
 
 Not far from the mountain fastnesses of Syccos, 
 on the frontier between Illyria and Thrace, two 
 men walked by night in a beech-wood, beside the 
 narrow road. They were Julian and the magician 
 Maximus. 
 
 The full moon shone in a clear sky, and lit up 
 the autumn gold and the purple of the leaves. 
 From time to time, a yellow leaf fell with a soft 
 rustle. There was a peculiar dampness, a smell 
 of late autumn, inexpressibly sweet, fresh, and at 
 the same time mournful, recalling death. The 
 soft, dry leaves rustled under the feet of the way- 
 farers. All around, in the still forest reigned a 
 sumptuous funereal splendor. 
 
 "Teacher?" said Julian, "why have I not the 
 divine lightness of life, that gladness, which 
 makes so lovely the muses of Hellas?"
 
 Julian and the Cross. 233 
 
 "You are not a Hellenist." 
 
 Julian sighed. 
 
 "Alas! our ancestors were wild barbarian?, 
 Medians. In my veins flows heavy, bad blood. 
 I am not a son of Hellas." 
 
 "My friend, Hellas never existed," pronounced 
 Maximus, with his ever fascinating smile. 
 
 "What does that mean?" asked Julian. 
 
 "There never was the Hellas that you love." 
 
 "Is my faith in vain?" 
 
 "You can have faith," answered Maximus, "only 
 in what is not, but is to be. Your Hellas will 
 exist, there will be a kingdom of demigods, auda- 
 cious, fearing nothing." 
 
 "Fearing nothing? Teacher, you are master of 
 mighty charms! Free my soul from fear." 
 
 "Of what?" 
 
 "I know not. I cannot tell. But I have feared 
 ever since childhood, life, death, myself, mys- 
 teries that are everywhere, darkness. I had an old 
 nurse Labda, who was like one of the Fates. She 
 related to me the terrible traditions of the house 
 of the Flavii. Silly old women's tales still echo in 
 my ears, by night, when I am alone. I long to be 
 full of joy, like the old heroes of Hellas, and can- 
 not. Sometimes I think that I am a coward. 
 Teacher! Teacher! save me. Free me from this 
 everlasting shadow of fear!" 
 
 "Come, I know what you need," pronounced 
 Maximus, majestically. "I will cleanse you from 
 the Galilean stain, and the shadow of Golgotha, in 
 the radiance of Mithra; I will warm you from the 
 chill waters of baptism in the hot blood of the 
 sun-god! Oh my son, rejoice, I will give you
 
 234 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 mighty liberty and joy such as no man has ever yet 
 had on earth!" 
 
 They left the wood and entered a narrow stony 
 pathway, cut in the cliff above a precipice. Below 
 murmured a rivulet. Sometimes a stone rolled 
 from beneath their feet, and awakening an angry 
 sleepy echo, fell into the abyss. Snow gleamed 
 white on the summit of Khodope. 
 
 Julian and Maximus entered a cave. It was a 
 temple of Mithra, the sun-god, where were accom- , 
 plished the mysteries, forbidden by the Roman 
 laws. There was no luxury here. On the bare 
 walls were only drawn the symbolic signs of the 
 Zoroastrian wisdom, triangles, constellations, 
 winged creatures, interlaced circles. Torches 
 burned dully, and hierophants in long strang" 
 robes moved like shadows. 
 
 Julian also was robed in an "Olympian gar- 
 ment," a robe embroidered with Indian dragons, 
 stars, suns, and hyperborean gryphons. A torch 
 was put in his right hand. Maximus had already 
 prepared his mind, and taught him the sentences 
 of the initiatory rite, the sacramental answers to 
 the questions of the hierophant. Julian had pre- 
 pared himself for the mysteries, learning the an- 
 swers by heart, though their meaning would only 
 be revealed to him in the mysteries themselves. 
 
 He advanced with Maximus up some earthen 
 steps, through a long cavern. In it, the air was 
 damp and close. Above, the cavern was covered 
 with a strong framework of wood, with many 
 openings, like a network. 
 
 There was a sound of hoofs on the wood. The 
 priests were placing on the platform three black 
 calves, three white, and one fiery red, with gilded
 
 Julian and the Cross. 235 
 
 hoofs and horns. The hierophants sang a hymn. 
 It was accompanied by the sad lowing of the 
 beasts, struck by a two-edged axe. They fell on 
 their knees, struggled, and the platform trembled 
 under their weight. The passages of the cave 
 echoed to the lowing of the fire-colored ox, whom 
 the priests called the God Mithra. 
 
 The blood dripping through the spaces of the 
 wooden network fell on Julian in a red warm 
 stream. 
 
 This was the greatest of the heathen mysteries, 
 the so-called "Taurobolia," the immolation of 
 oxen, consecrated to the sun. 
 
 Julian cast aside his upper robe, exposed his 
 white undertunic, his head, arms, face and breast 
 and all his limbs to the flowing blood, to the drops 
 of the terrible red life rain. 
 
 Then Maximus the high priest, brandishing his 
 torch, pronounced these words: 
 
 "'Thy soul is washed in the expiating blood of 
 the Sun-god, the cleansing blood of the ever re- 
 joicing Sun-god, the evening and morning shining 
 of the Sun-god. Fearest thou yet aught, oh 
 mortal?" 
 
 "I fear!" answered Julian. 
 
 "Thy soul is set free," continued Maximus, 
 "from every shadow, from every fear, from every 
 slavery, in the wine of divine joy, the purple wine 
 of the exultant joy of Mithra-Dionysus. Fearest 
 thou yet aught, oh mortal?" 
 
 "I fear," repeated the newly-consecrated one. 
 
 "Thy soul becomes a part of the Sun-god," cried 
 the hierophant, "Mithra, the invisible and incom- 
 prehensible, takes thee for his son, blood of
 
 236 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 blood, flesh of flesh, spirit of spirit, light of light. 
 Fearest thou yet aught, oh mortal?" 
 
 "I fear naught more on earth," answered 
 Julian, blood-stained from head to foot, "I am as 
 He is." 
 
 "Beceive the crown of joy!" and Maximus, with 
 a sharp sword, cast over his head an acanthus 
 crown. 
 
 "The Sun alone is my crown," answered Julian, 
 taking the wreath from his head. 
 
 He cast it on the ground, and repeated: 
 
 "The Sun alone is my crown." 
 
 Then he stamped it under foot, and a third 
 time, raising his hands to heaven, he exclaimed: 
 
 "Now and until death, the Sun alone is my 
 crown." 
 
 The mystery was accomplished. Maximus em- 
 braced the initiate, and on the old man's lips 
 flashed the same enigmatical smile. 
 
 When they were returning along the pathway 
 through the forest, the emperor turned to the 
 magician: 
 
 "Maximus, it seems to me that as to the greatest 
 matter, you keep silent." 
 
 He turned to the old man his white face, from 
 which, according to custom, he had not wiped the 
 sacrificial blood. 
 
 "What would you know, Julian?" 
 
 "What will befall me?" 
 
 "You will conquer." 
 
 "And Constantius?" ^ 
 
 "Constantius is no more." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Wait, the sun will rise on your glory."
 
 Julian and the Cross. 237 
 
 Julian did not dare to ask more. They returned 
 silently to the camp. 
 
 In Julian's tent a courier from Asia Minor was 
 waiting. It was the tribune Sintula. 
 
 He knelt and kissed the hem of the imperial 
 robe. 
 
 "Glory to Augustus Julian, the blessed!" 
 
 "Are you from Constantius, Sintula?" 
 
 "Constantius is no more." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 Julian shuddered, and looked toward Maximus, 
 who retained an immovable calm. 
 
 "By the permission of divine Providence," con- 
 tinued Sintula, "your enemy passed away in the 
 town of Mopsycrene, not far from Macellum." 
 
 That evening the, army was assembled on the 
 plain. They already knew of the death of Con- 
 stantius. 
 
 Augustus Claudius Flavins Julianus ascended a 
 small steep cliff, so that all the army might see 
 him. He was without crown, without sword or 
 armor, from head to foot clothed in purple. To 
 hide the traces of the blood, which he must not 
 wash off, the purple was drawn over his head also, 
 falling on his forehead. In this garment he re- 
 sembled a priest of the Eastern mysteries, rather 
 than an emperor. 
 
 Behind him gleamed the red autumn woods, on 
 the slopes of Hema, beginning from the cliff, 
 where Julian stood. Over the very head of the 
 emperor, a yellowish maple rustled and gleamed 
 against the blue sky, like a golden standard. 
 
 The Thracian plain stretched to the horizon. 
 The old Roman road crossed it, laid with broad
 
 238 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 slabs of white marble. A triumph of evenness, it 
 extended to the very waves of the Propontis. 
 
 Julian looked at the army. When the legions 
 moved forward, the red lightning of the setting 
 sun flashed on the bronze helmets, the breast- 
 plates and the eagles. The ends of the spears 
 glowed over the cohorts, like torches. 
 
 Beside Julian stood Maximus. Bending to 
 Julian's ear, he whispered to him: 
 
 "Behold, what glory! Thy hour has come. 
 Delay not!" 
 
 The magician pointed to the Christian standard, 
 the Labarum, the sacred standard with the mono- 
 gram of Christ, made for the Koman army accord- 
 ing to the likeness of that miraculous fiery stand- 
 ard with the inscription, "In hoc signo vinces!" 
 which Constantino the Great *saw in the heavens. 
 
 The trumpets were silent. Julian spoke in a 
 loud, majestic voice: 
 
 "My children, our labors are ended. We enter 
 Constantinople. Thanks to the Olympians, who 
 have given us the victory!" 
 
 These words were heard only by the first ranks 
 of the soldiers, where were many Christians. Be- 
 wilderment spread among them. 
 
 "God have mercy! what is that?" said one sol- 
 dier. 
 
 "Do you see the old fellow with the grey beard ?" 
 said his companion. 
 
 "I see him." 
 
 "That is the Devil himself, in the shape of 
 Maximus the Wizard: he is deluding the. emperor." 
 
 But the isolated voices of the Christian soldiers 
 were only a murmur. From the distant cohorts,
 
 Julian and the Cross. 239 
 
 standing behind, who did not hear Julian's words, 
 a cry of triumph arose: 
 
 "Glory to the Blessed Augustus! Glory! 
 Glory!" 
 
 And ever louder and louder from the four cor- 
 ners of the plain covered by the legions, rose the 
 cry: 
 
 "Glory! Glory!" 
 
 The hills, the earth, the air, the forest, shook 
 with the voices of the host. 
 
 "Look, look! they are pulling down the Laba- 
 rum!" said the Christians, in horror. 
 
 "What is this? what is this?" 
 
 And in truth they were lowering the ancient 
 war standard, made sacred by Constantine. 
 
 From the forest came an armorer, with a port- 
 able forge, pinchers, and a pot of lead, for solder- 
 ing metal. All this had been prepared before- 
 hand, with a definite object. 
 
 The Emperor, pale in spite of the sheen of the 
 purple and the sun, tore the golden cross and the 
 monogram of precious stones from the pole of the 
 Labarum. The army was thunderstruck. Pearls, 
 emeralds and rubies were strewn on the ground, 
 and the fine filigree cross struck into the soft 
 ground, was crushed under the sandal of the 
 Cassar. 
 
 Maximus drew forth a small silver image of the 
 god of the sun, Mithra-Helios, wrapped in blue 
 silk brocade, from a splendid case. 
 
 The armorer approached, and in a few moments 
 skilfully straightened the hooks in the pole of the 
 Labarum, and soldered the image of Mithra to 
 them. 
 
 Before the army could come to itself, for a 'ton-
 
 240 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 ishment, the Sacred Standard of Constantine was 
 rustling and waving over the head of the Em- 
 peror, crowned with an idol of Apollo. 
 
 An old soldier, a pious Christian, turned away, 
 and, not to look on this iniquity, covered his eyes 
 with his hand. 
 
 "Blasphemy," he murmured, turning pale. 
 
 "Woe, woe!" whispered another, in his compan- 
 ion's ear, "the devil has deluded the Emperor." 
 
 Julian knelt before the Standard, and raising 
 his hands toward the silver statue, exclaimed: 
 
 "Glory to the invincible Sun, ruler of all the 
 gods! Augustus henceforth bows before the eter- 
 nal Helios, the god of light, the god of reason, the 
 god of beauty and of joy." 
 
 The last rays of the sun were reflected on the 
 pitiless, haughtily beautiful face of the Delphic 
 deity. His head was surrounded with silver rays. 
 The "Far-Darter" smiled triumphantly. 
 
 The legions were dumb. A silence came over 
 them, so deep that the rustling of the dead leaves 
 was heard, as they fell in the forest. 
 
 In the blood-red radiance of the sunset, in the 
 scarlet of the last high priest, and in the purple 
 of the dying forest, there was a gloomy funereal 
 splendor, the majesty of death. 
 
 One of the soldiers in the front ranks, pro- 
 nounced one word so clearly that Julian heard it 
 and shuddered: 
 
 "Antichrist!"
 
 PART II. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 IN THE HIPPODROME. 
 
 Beside the stables, in the hippodrome of Con- 
 stantinople, were chambers and dressing-rooms for 
 the grooms, the riders, the mimes, and the char- 
 ioteers. Here even in daytime hanging lamps fas- 
 tened to the vaults, sent up their smoky flames. 
 The close air, heavy with the smell of manure, was 
 full of the heat of the stables. 
 
 When the curtain in the doorway was drawn 
 aside, the blinding light of the morning burst in. 
 In the sunny distance were seen the empty seats 
 for the spectators, the magnificent stairway, which 
 communicated between the emperor's box and the 
 inner rooms of the palace, the stone columns of 
 Egyptian obelisks, and in the midst of the smooth, 
 yellow sand, a giant altar of three intertwined 
 bronze serpents: their flattened heads supported a 
 Delphic tripod of splendid workmanship. 
 
 Sometimes the cracking of whips and the cries 
 of the riders floated in from the arena, with the 
 snorting of horses, and the rushing wheels on the 
 soft sand, like the rustling of wings. 
 
 This was not a chariot race, but only the prep- 
 arations for the real games, which were to be held 
 in the hippodrome, in a few days. 
 
 241
 
 242 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 In one corner of the stable, a naked athlete an- 
 ointed with olive oil, and covered with the dust 
 used by the gymnasts,, a leather belt around his 
 loins, was exercising with iron weights. Throwing 
 back his close-cropped head, he strained his back 
 till the bones creaked in his joints, his face grew 
 blue, and the veins stood out on his thick neck like 
 the veins of an ox. 
 
 A young Byzantine lady, accompanied by her 
 slaves, came to see him; she wore an elegant morn- 
 ing stole, drawn over her head, and falling in folds 
 on her fine aristocratic face, which had lost its first 
 freshness. She was a zealous Christian, beloved by 
 all the priests and monks for her munificent gifts 
 to the monasteries and her lavish charities; she 
 was the widow of a Eoman senator, and had come 
 from Alexandria. At first she concealed her visits, 
 but soon saw that to unite love for the Church 
 with love for the circus was accepted as the very 
 latest fashion. Every one knew that Stratonica 
 detested the Constantinople fops, curled and 
 rouged, as nervous and capricious as she herself. 
 Such was her nature: she mingled the costliest 
 odors of Araby with the close smell of the stables 
 and the circus. After hot tears of repentance, 
 after the painful absolutions of artful priests, this 
 little woman, as fragile and delicate as a plaything 
 carved out of ivory, came back again to the coarse 
 embraces of the famous circus-rider. 
 
 Stratonica watched the athlete's exercises with 
 the eye of a connoisseur. With dull pride on his 
 ox-like face, the gymnast affected not to notice her 
 existence. She whispered something in her slave's 
 ear, and with simple admiration gazed at his 
 mighty back, and watched the Herculean muscles
 
 In the Hippodrome. 243 
 
 moving under the stiff, red-brown skin on his huge 
 shoulders, when he bent, and slowly filling his 
 lungs with air, like a blacksmith's bellows, raised 
 the iron weights above his animal-like, stupid, 
 handsome head. 
 
 The curtains were drawn aside, the crowd of 
 spectators divided, and two young Cappadocian 
 mares, one white, the other black, cantered into 
 the stable with a young equestrienne, who sprang 
 deftly from the back of one horse to the other, 
 with a strange guttural cry. She turned in the air 
 for the last time, and leaped to the ground. Her 
 whole person was as strong, healthy, and gay as 
 her young mares. Little drops of sweat stood on 
 her naked body. A young sub-deacon of the 
 Church of the Holy Apostles, daintily dressed, 
 sprang up to her, smiling. He was Zephyrinus, a 
 great lover of the circus, a connoisseur of horses 
 and an enthusiastic sportsman, laying enormous 
 sums on the "blues" against the "greens." He 
 wore creaking shoes of Morocco leather, with red 
 heels. With colyrium-marked eyes, powdered face, 
 and carefully curled hair, Zephyrinus looked more 
 like a girl than a Church functionary. Behind 
 him stood a slave, loaded with all kinds of stuffs, 
 bundles, boxes, and purchases from the fashion- 
 shops. 
 
 "Crocala, here is the perfume you asked me for 
 the day before yesterday." 
 
 With a graceful bow, the suj>deacon handed the 
 equestrienne a little box, sealed with pale blue 
 wax. 
 
 "I have been hunting through the shops all the 
 morning. I could only find it in one. It is pure 
 spikenard! It came from Apamea only yesterday.'*
 
 .244 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "And what else have you bought?" asked Cro- 
 cala, curiously. 
 
 '"Some silk with fashionable drawings, and 
 all sorts of ladies' trifles." 
 
 "All for your?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, all for my honorable sister, all for the 
 devout matron Blesilla. We must help our neigh- 
 bors. She depends on my taste, in buying stuffs. 
 Since sunrise, I have been running errands for her. 
 I am off my feet altogether. But I do not com- 
 plain, no, no, I do not complain. Blesilla is really 
 so good, so a saintly woman, one may call her." 
 
 "Yes, yes, but unfortunately old," laughed Cro- 
 ala. "Ho! Boy! Quick! Rub down the sweat off 
 the black mare with fresh fig-leaves." 
 
 "Old age also has its indubitable advantages!" 
 replied the sub-deacon, self-satisfiedly rubbing his 
 white, pampered hands, with their costly rings. 
 Then he whispered in Crocala's ear: 
 
 "This evening?" 
 
 "I do not know, really. Perhaps. Are you 
 going to bring me something?" 
 
 "Fear not, Crocala. I shall not come with empty 
 hands. There is a piece of stuff. What a pattern 
 it is, if you only knew!" 
 
 He raised two fingers to his lips, half-closed his 
 eyes, and murmured: 
 
 "A perfect treasure." 
 
 "Where did you get it?" 
 
 "In Sirmicus' shop, at the baths of Constantine, 
 of course. What do you take me for? You can 
 make a long tarantinidion of it. Just imagine 
 what is embroidered on the skirt! What do you 
 think it is?" 
 
 "I do not know flowers? animals?"
 
 In the Hippodrome. 245 
 
 "Neither flowers nor animals, but the whole 
 story of the cynic Diogenes, the beggar-sage, who 
 lived in a tub, done in gold, and many-colored 
 silks!" 
 
 "It must be beautiful!" cried the equestrienne. 
 "Come, come, without fail. I shall expect you." 
 
 Zephyrinus glanced at the water-clock, the clep- 
 sydra, standing in a recess of the wall, and began 
 to hurry away. 
 
 "I am late, I am quite late. I have to go to the 
 usurer on some other business for the good ma- 
 tron, then to the jeweler, then to the Patriarch, 
 and after that to church, for service. Good-by, 
 Crocala." 
 
 "See that you do not fail," she cried after him, 
 and held up a threatening finger, "you gay rogue!'*' 
 
 The sub-deacon disappeared, his Morocco shoes 
 creaking and his slave carrying the bundles after 
 him. 
 
 A crowd of grooms, horsemen, dancers, gym- 
 nasts, boxers and wild-beast-tamers, ran in. Mir- 
 millon the gladiator, in a wire mask, was heating a 
 thick iron bar in a furnace. He was taming a re- 
 cently arrived African lion. The beast's roaring 
 was heard, through the wall. 
 
 Then another voice: 
 
 "You will bring me to the grave, granddaugh- 
 ter, and yourself to eternal perdition. Oh ho 
 ho. My sides ache. I am at the end of my 
 strength!" 
 
 "Oh, it is you. Grandfather Gniphon; what are 
 you wailing about?" cried Crocala, annoyed. 
 
 Gniphon was an old man, with crafty, rheumy 
 eyes, twinkling under grey brows, that kept mov- 
 ing like two white mice, and a nose deep purple
 
 246 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 from drink. He wore a pair of patched Lydian 
 drawers, and on his head wabbled a Phrygian felt 
 hat, like a night-cap, with its sharp top bent for- 
 wards, and two flaps for the ears. 
 
 "You have come for money," cried Crocala an- 
 grily, "you are drunk again!" 
 
 "It is a sin for you to say it, granddaughter. 
 You answer for my soul before God. Think what 
 you have brought me to. I live now in the Fig- 
 tree quarter, and hire a cheap little room on the 
 ground floor, from a certain sculptor, that is to 
 say, a maker of idols. Every day I see how he 
 carves accursed images God forgive me out of 
 marble. Do you think that is nice, for a good 
 Christian? What? You haven't opened your eyes 
 in the morning, when you hear tap, tap, tap, the 
 master is busy at the stones with his hammer, and 
 foul white devils come out, one after another, 
 damned gods, that seem to laugh at me, and wrin- 
 kle up their shameless faces. How can I keep 
 from sin, and not creep down to the tavern out of 
 shame, and take a dram? Oh ho ho, the Lord 
 have mercy upon sinful men! I wallow in heathen 
 wickedness like a sow in the mire. And I know 
 that all will be required of us, even to the utter- 
 most farthing. And who, you may ask, is to 
 blame? You are! The chickens could not pick 
 up all your money, granddaughter, and for an old 
 man." 
 
 "You are a liar, Gniphon," answered the girl, 
 "you are not poor at all, you skinflint! You have 
 a jug under your bed." 
 
 Gniphon held up his hands in terror: 
 "Hush, hush!" 1 ' 
 
 To change the conversation, he added:
 
 In the Hippodrome. 247 
 
 "Do you know where I am going?" 
 
 "Probably back to the tavern." 
 
 "Not to the tavern, but to something rather like 
 it. I am going to the shrine of Dionysus himself! 
 Since the times of the blessed Constantine, the 
 shrine has been buried in -rubbish. But to-mor- 
 row, by the august order of Ca3sar Julian, it is to 
 be opened again. And I have hired myself to 
 clean it. I know that I am losing my soul, and 
 that I shall burn in Gehenna for it. But still I 
 yielded to temptation. Because I am naked, and 
 poor and hungered, I receive no support from my 
 own granddaughter. That is what I have come 
 to!" 
 
 "Get away, Gniphon, I am tired of you. Here, 
 take this and go! Don't dare to come to me 
 drunk again!" 
 
 She threw a few small silver coins to him, and 
 then jumped on a brown, half-wild Illyrian stal- 
 lion, and standing on its back and cracking her 
 long whip, flew through the hippodrome. 
 
 Gniphon clucked his tongue with pleasure and 
 cried out proudly: 
 
 "I reared her with my own hands!" 
 
 And the old man pointed after her triumph- 
 antly. Her firm naked body flashed in the morn- 
 ing sun, p.nd her loose red hair was of the same 
 color as the coat of the Illyrian stallion. 
 
 "Ho, Zoticus!" cried Gniphon, to an old slave, 
 who was sweeping manure into a wicker basket, 
 "come with me and clean the shrine of Dionysus. 
 You are a master at that sort of thing. I'll give 
 you three oboli." 
 
 "I'll come, and thank you," answered Zoticus, 
 "only wait till I fix the lamp before the goddess/*
 
 248 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 The goddess was Hippona, patroness of char- 
 ioteers, stables, and manure. Koughly hewn out 
 of wood, smoke-begrimed, looking like a log, Hip- 
 pona stood in a damp, dark niche of the wall, but 
 the slave Zoticus, who had grown up among 
 horses, held her sacred, prayed to her with tears of 
 humility, decorated her coarse black feet with 
 fresh violets, and believed that she would heal all 
 his sorrows, and guard him in life and death. 
 
 Gniphon and Zoticus went out to the market- 
 place, the so-called Forum of Constantine, a circle, 
 with double colonnades and triumphal arches. A 
 gigantic pillar of porphyry stood in the middle of 
 the square, on a marble pedestal. At its summit, 
 at a height of more than a hundred and twenty cu- 
 bits, shone a bronze statue of Apollo, the work of 
 Phidias, stolen from a city of Phrygia. The head 
 of the old Sun God had been broken off, and with 
 barbarous lack of taste, to the trunk of the Helle- 
 nic image had been added the head of the Chris- 
 tian emperor Constantine, the equal of the Apos- 
 tles. His brow was girt with a crown of golden 
 rays; in his right hand, Apollo-Constantine held a 
 scepter; in his left a globe. A little Christian 
 chapel, like the Palladium, nestled under the ped- 
 estal of the colossus. Divine service had been held 
 here up till quite recently, even in Constantius' 
 time. The Christians justified themselves by say- 
 ing that in the bronze trunk of Apollo in the 
 breast-plate of the Sun God, was enclosed a talis- 
 man, a piece of the Holy Cross, brought by Helena 
 from Jerusalem. The emperor Julian closed the 
 chapel. 
 
 Gniphon and Zoticus entered a long, narrow 
 street, which led straight to the Chalcedonian
 
 In the Hippodrome. 249 
 
 Stairs, not far from the port. Many buildings 
 were still being erected, others were being re- 
 stored, because they had been raised with such ill- 
 considered haste, to gratify Constantine, that they 
 were tumbling to pieces. Below, people were pass- 
 ing up and down, and purchasers in the shops, 
 porters, and slaves were gathered in crowds, and 
 wagons were rumbling past. And above, on the 
 wooden scaffoldings, hammers sounded, pulleys 
 creaked, sharp saws grated through the hard, 
 white stone, and workmen were raising huge 
 beams, or four-cornered blocks of Proconnesian 
 marble, gleaming against the blue. There was a 
 smell of the dampness of new houses, of still wet 
 mortar. A fine white dust fell on the heads of the 
 passers-by. In places, between the dazzlingly 
 white w r alls, just newly stuccoed and flooded with 
 bright sunshine, the fairy-blue waves of the Pro- 
 pontis laughing in the sunlight, sparkled far off, 
 dotted with sails like sea-gulls' wings. 
 
 Gniphon passing by heard a fragment of a con- 
 versation between two workmen spattered from 
 head to foot with alabaster paste, which they were 
 mixing in a big basin. 
 
 "Why did you accept the faith of the Gali- 
 leans?" asked one. 
 
 "Judge yourself," answered his companion, "the 
 Christians have not twice, but five times as many 
 holidays as the Hellenes. No one is his own 
 enemy. I advise you to join them too. With the 
 Christians, there is far more leisure." 
 
 At a crossing, the crowd crushed Gniphon and 
 Zoticus up against the wall. Wagons were blocked 
 together in the midst of the street, so that neither 
 carriages nor pedestrians could pass; and the air
 
 250 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 was full of cries, the cracking of whips, and the 
 shouts of drivers. Twenty pairs of strong oxen, 
 bending their heads under the yoke, were drag- 
 ging a column of jasper on a huge wagon with 
 heavy stone wheels like mill-stones. The ground 
 trembled under the weight of the wheels. 
 
 "Where are you taking it to?" asked Gniphon. 
 
 "From the basilica of St. Paul to the temple of 
 the goddess Hera. The Christians took this column 
 away for their church. Now it is being taken back 
 to its old place." 
 
 Gniphon glanced at the dirty wall beside which 
 he was standing. The heathen street boys had 
 decorated it with the usual sacrilegious caricature 
 against the Christians, in charcoal. 
 
 Gniphon spat in disgust. Near a thronged mar- 
 ket, he noticed a picture of Julian, with all the at- 
 tributes of imperial power. The winged god 
 Hermes, with his caduceus, was descending on Ju- 
 lian, from the clouds. The picture was new. The 
 colors had hardly had time to dry. 
 
 According to the Roman law, every one who 
 passed the sacred image of Augustus, had to salute 
 it with bowed head. 
 
 The market watchman, the agoranome, had 
 stopped an old woman with a basket of beets and 
 cabbages. 
 
 "I cannot worship the gods," cried the old 
 woman, "my father and mother were Christians 
 before me." 
 
 "You are to bow before the Roman Emperor, 
 not before the gods," answered the watchman. 
 
 "But the emperor and the god are together. 
 How can I bow before him?"
 
 In the Hippodrome. 251 
 
 "What do I care about that? I tell you to bow! 
 Don't argue!" 
 
 Gniphon dragged Zoticus away as quickly as 
 possible. 
 
 "Devilish cunning!" growled the old man. 
 "Either bow to the accursed Hermes, or be guilty 
 of high treason. Neither the one thing, nor the 
 other. Oh ho ho, the time of Antichrist is 
 come! The devil is arousing a storm of fierce per- 
 secution. Wherever you look, you are sure to sin. 
 When I look at you, Zoticus, I am full of envy. 
 You live with your manure god, Hippona, and all 
 goes well with you." 
 
 They reached the shrine of Dionysus. Beside 
 the temple, there was a community of Christian 
 monks. The doors and windows were fastened 
 with iron bars and locks, as if an invasion of some 
 enemy were expected. The heathen accused the 
 pious monks of having stolen many treasures from 
 the temple. 
 
 When Gniphon and Zoticus entered, they saw 
 locksmiths, carpenters, and stone-masons, busy 
 cleaning and repairing the damaged parts of the 
 temple. 
 
 They broke away the half-rotten planks which 
 covered a hole in the roof. The rays of the sun 
 lit up the darkness. 
 
 "Cobwebs, look, what a lot of cobwebs!" 
 
 Among the capitols of the columns hung whole 
 nets of light, dusty grey webs. They fastened 
 brooms to long sticks, and began to brush the spi- 
 ders' webs away. A disturbed bat fluttered out of 
 a dark corner, and not knowing where to hide 
 from the light, flew hither and thither, rustling its 
 soft featherless wings.
 
 252 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Zoticus gathered up fragments of rubbish from 
 the floor and carried them away in his plaited 
 basket. 
 
 "See what a lot of filth they have accumulated, 
 the beasts!" muttered the old man to himself. 
 
 They brought a bunch of heavy rusty keys, and 
 opened the treasure-chest. The monks had plun- 
 dered everything of value. The precious stones 
 had been torn from the votive cups, and the gold 
 and purple embroideries were ripped off the hang- 
 ings. When they drew forth a splendid priestly 
 chasuble, a cloud of straw-colored moths fluttered 
 out of the folds. At the bottom of an iron censor, 
 Gniphon found a heap of ashes, the remnant of 
 the myrrh burned before the last priest gave way 
 before the tide of Christianity. From all these sa- 
 cred utensils, from these poor rags and broken ves- 
 sels, came an odor of death, of mildew, and a soft 
 sad perfume, the incense of the dishonored gods. 
 A sweet melancholy penetrated Gniphon's heart. 
 He remembered something, and smiled. Perhaps 
 he was thinking of his childhood, of the tasty bar- 
 ley cakes with honey and thyme, of the white field- 
 daisies, and yellow dandelions which he and his 
 mother had brought to the modest altar of the vil- 
 lage goddess; and he remembered lisping child ish 
 prayers, not to the far-off God of heaven, but to 
 the little earthly Penates, glossy from the touch 
 of human hands, carved out of simple beechwood. 
 And he felt full of pity for the dead gods, and 
 sighed deeply. But immediately he came to him- 
 self, and whispered: "Promptings of the devil." 
 
 The workmen brought a heavy marble slab, an 
 old bas-relief stolen many years ago, and found in 
 the neighboring hovel of a Jewish shoemaker. The
 
 In the Hippodrome. 253 
 
 bas-relief, lying among the bricks, held the shoe- 
 maker's tumble-down stove together. Old Philu- 
 mena, the wife of a neighboring clothier and a de- 
 vout Christian, detested the shoemaker's wife. The 
 accursed Jewess kept letting her ass loose in the 
 clothier's wife's cabbage-garden. War had been 
 waged between the neighbors for many years. 
 Finally the Christian conquered. On her informa- 
 tion, the workmen entered the shoemaker's house, 
 and took away the slab of bas-relief. But in doing 
 so they had to pull his stove to pieces. This was a 
 terrible blow to the shoemaker's wife. The poor 
 thrifty housewife, brandishing an oven-fork, called 
 down the curse of Jehovah on the unclean, tore 
 her hair and wailed pitifully over her upset 
 saucepans and dilapidated stove. The little Jews 
 squealed like young birds in a ruined nest. But 
 the bas-relief was taken to its former place, in 
 Bpite of everything. 
 
 Fhilumena was getting ready to wash it. The 
 bas-relief was blackened by the ill-smelling smoke. 
 Greasy streaks of Jewish soup stained the marble. 
 The clothier's wife industriously rubbed the soft 
 stone with a wet cloth, and little by little the se- 
 vere, godlike lines of the ancient sculpture ap- 
 peared from under the fetid kitchen soot. Dio- 
 nysus, young, naked and beautiful, reclined, with 
 one hand withdrawn from his goblet, as if over- 
 come with Bacchanalian frenzy. A panther was 
 lapping the remains of the wine. And the god, 
 who gave joy to all that lives, with a wise and gra- 
 cious smile watched how the strength of the wine 
 added a new and sacred beauty to the strength of 
 the wild beast.
 
 254 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 The stone-masons began to lift the bas-relief 
 on ropes, to fasten it once more in its old place. 
 
 Before the image of Dionysus, on a wooden 
 folding ladder stood a goldsmith, setting two mag- 
 nificent sapphires of the deepest transparent blue 
 in the dark empty cavities in the face of the god. 
 They were the eyes of Dionysus. 
 
 "What are those?" asked Gniphon, with timid 
 curiosity. 
 
 "Can you not see? eyes." 
 
 "That is so, that is so. And where did the stones 
 come from?" 
 
 "From the monastery." 
 
 "How did the monks allow it?" 
 
 "How could they help it? The blessed Augus- 
 tus Julian himself ordered it. The god's bright 
 eyes adorned the garment of the Crucified. That 
 is what it is. They talk about mercy and justice, 
 and they themselves are always the first to plun- 
 der. See how well the stones fit into their old 
 place!" 
 
 The god, restored to sight, gazed at Gniphon 
 with his sapphire eyes. The old man stepped 
 back and crossed himself, seized with superstitious 
 fear. "Lord have mercy! what a horror!" he cried. 
 Repentance tormented him. While wiping away 
 the dust, he talked to himself, according to an old 
 habit: 
 
 "Gniphon, Gniphon, you are a poor creature, 
 you may say straight out, a worthless dog! What 
 have you done with yourself in your old age, what 
 have you lost your soul for? The Adversary has 
 ensnared you with cursed pay. And you will go 
 to the everlasting fire, and there will be no salva- 
 tion for you. You have polluted your soul, Gni-
 
 In tlic Hippodrome. 255 
 
 phon, with idolatrous filth. Better for you, if you 
 had never been born!" 
 
 "What are you grumbling about, grandfather?" 
 asked the clothier's wife, Philumena. 
 
 "My heart grieves, oh my heart grieves!" 
 
 "Are you a Christian?" ' 
 
 "What sort of a Christian am I? Worse than 
 any Jew; I am not a Christian, but a betrayer of 
 the Christ!" 
 
 Still he continued zealously brushing away the 
 dust. 
 
 "Well, would you like me to take your sin away, 
 and not have any of the idolatrous evil stick to 
 you? I am a Christian myself. And I am not 
 afraid. Do you think I would go into bad work 
 like this, if I did not know how to cleanse my- 
 self?" 
 
 Gniphon looked at her suspiciously. 
 
 The clothier's wife looked round to see that no 
 one was watching them. She whispered, with a 
 look of mystery: 
 
 "There is a way. Yes. I must tell you that a 
 holy elder gave me a piece of an Egyptian tree, 
 called Persis. This tree grows in Hermopolis of 
 the Thebaid. When the infant Jesus and the 
 Blessed Virgin entered the gates of the city on the 
 ass, the Persis bent to the ground before them, 
 and from that time forth it has worked miracles, 
 and healed the sick. And I have a chip of that 
 very tree, and I will split a splinter off it for you. 
 There is such virtue in it, such virtue, that if you 
 put the smallest piece of it in a large vessel of 
 water over night, the whole of the water will be 
 consecrated by morning. And there will be an 
 unspeakable power in it! If you wash yourself
 
 256 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 from head to foot with that water, the idolatrous 
 pollution will go away altogether. You will feel a 
 lightness and cleanness in all your members. And 
 in the Scriptures it is written: "Wash in this water, 
 and thou shalt be whiter than snow." 
 
 "Oh my benefactress!" cried Gniphon," save me, 
 who am accursed! Give me a piece of your blessed 
 wood!" 
 
 "Only you know it is dear. Well, what- 
 ever may come of it, I'll let you have it for a 
 drachma." 
 
 "What are you saying, mother dear? the Lord 
 have mercy! I have not owned a drachma from 
 the day of my birth. Will you give it to me for 
 five oboli?" 
 
 "Oh you miser!" cried the clothier's wife, in dis- 
 gust, "you begrudge a drachma! Is your whole 
 soul not worth a drachma?" 
 
 "That is all very well, but would it cleanse 
 me?" Gniphon began to doubt. "Perhaps the 
 pollution has stuck so fast that it won't wash off." 
 
 "It will cleanse yon," said the clothier's wife, 
 with unshakable confidence. "Now you are like a 
 mangy dog. But if you sprinkle yourself with holy 
 water you will feel the scurf falling off your soul, 
 and it will shine with the whiteness of a dove." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ANTICHRIST. 
 
 Julian instituted a Bacchic procession in Con- 
 stantinople. He sat in a chariot drawn by white
 
 Antichrist. 257 
 
 mules. He held a golden thyrsus in his right 
 hand, crowned with a cedar-cone, the symbol of 
 fertility, and in the other a cup, entwined with 
 ivy. The sun's rays falling on its crystal sides 
 were reflected with blinding whiteness, and it 
 seemed that the cup was full of sunlight up to the 
 brim. Tame panthers, sent to him from the island 
 of Serendib, walked beside the chariot. Bac- 
 chantes sang, clanging their cymbals, and waving 
 lighted torches, and through the smoke could be 
 seen youths with fauns' horns fastened to their 
 foreheads, pouring wine into cups from a flagon. 
 They jostled each other, laughing, and often the 
 purple stream fell past the cup on the naked, 
 round shoulder of a Bacchante, and was scattered 
 in spray. A fat-paunched old man riding an ass, 
 the court treasurer, a great rogue and bribe- 
 taker, represented Silenus splendidly. 
 
 The Bacchanals sang, pointing to the young 
 emperor: 
 
 Bacchus, thon sittest surrounded 
 
 With clouds eternally shining! 
 
 A thousand voices caught up the song from the 
 Antigone of Sophocles: 
 
 Come to us, oh child of Zeus! 
 (tome to us, oh'god that leadest 
 Forth tho choral dances flaming, 
 Of the stars at midnight shining ! 
 With gla I noise and songs and cries, 
 And the maddened throng of women, 
 Full of thy ecstatic gladness. 
 Joining in the dance of Bacchus, 
 Come to us, oh god of joy. 
 
 Suddenly Julian heard laughter, a woman's 
 shriek, and an old man's cracked voice:
 
 258 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "Oh my little duck!" 
 
 It was the priest, a roguish old man, who had 
 pinched the naked white elbow of one of the 
 Bacchanals. Julian frowned and called the old 
 buffon to him. The old man ran up to him, dan- 
 cing, and limping. 
 
 "My friend," whispered Julian in his ear, "pre- 
 serve a becoming dignity, befitting your age and 
 rank." 
 
 But the priest looked at him with eyes so devoid 
 of expression, that Julian involuntarily became 
 silent. 
 
 "I am a simple and unlearned man, I venture 
 to say to your majesty, I understand very little 
 about philosophy. But I honor the gods. Ask 
 whomever you please. In the days of frightful 
 Christian persecutions, I remained true to the 
 gods. But all the same, ha-ha-ha! whenever I see 
 a pretty girl, I cannot help it, all my blood begins 
 to jump. I am only an old " 
 
 Seeing the displeasure in the emperor's face, he 
 suddenly stopped, took on an air of great dignity, 
 and looked only foolisher than before. 
 
 "Who is that girl?" asked Julian. 
 
 "The one with the basket of consecrated vessels 
 on her head?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "A hetera, from the Chalcedonian suburb." 
 
 "What? is it possible that you allowed a pros- 
 titute to touch the sacred utensils of the gods with 
 her unclean hands?" 
 
 "But you yourself, most gracious Augustus, 
 ordered the procession to be arranged. Whom 
 were we to take? All the respectable ladies are
 
 Antichrist. 259 
 
 Galileans. And then none of them would consent 
 to go half naked in a game like this." 
 
 "You mean that they are all?" 
 
 "No, no, how would that be possible? There 
 are pretty dancing girls here, and actresses, and 
 riders from the hippodrome. Look how gay they 
 are, and not a bit ashamed. The people like 
 that. You can trust an old man like me! That 
 is just what they want. And that one is a respect- 
 able lady." 
 
 He pointed to one of the Bacchanals. She was 
 a Christian, an old maid in search of a husband. 
 She had a helmet-like wig made of the then fash- 
 ionable German hair sprinkled with gold dust. 
 She was all hung with precious stones like an 
 Oriental idol, and had a tiger-skin drawn over her 
 withered breast, which was thickly powdered. She 
 smiled continually. 
 
 Julian began to examine the faces of the people 
 with disgust. 
 
 Tight-rope dancers, drunken legionaries, public 
 women, grooms from the circus, acrobats, boxers, 
 and mimes surged round him. 
 
 The procession entered a side-street. On the 
 way, one of the Bacchanals ran into a low eating- 
 house, whence came a heavy smell of fish fried in 
 rancid butter. The Bacchanal brought three oboli 
 worth of greasy cakes from the shop, and began to 
 eat them ravenously, licking her lips. Afterward, 
 when she had finished, she wiped her hands on her 
 purple silk dress, which had been given out from 
 the imperial treasury for the festival. 
 
 The chorus of Sophocles soon lost interest. 
 Hoarse voices began to break forth in street songs.
 
 260 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 The whole thing seemed to Julian a bad and silly 
 dream. 
 
 A drunken Celt tripped and fell. His compan- 
 ions stopped to pick him up. In the crowd they 
 caught two pickpockets, who were admirably play- 
 ing the parts of antique fauns. The thieves de- 
 fended themselves. A fight began. The panthers 
 behaved best, and were most beautiful. Finally 
 the procession approached the temple. 
 
 Julian descended from his chariot. "Can I," 
 he thought, "stand before the altar of Dionysus 
 with all this rabble?" 
 
 A cold shudder of disgust ran over his body. 
 He looked at the animal faces, savage, worn out 
 with debauchery, looking dead through their 
 rouge and powder; at the pitiful nakedness of the 
 human bodies, shapeless through anemia, fasts, 
 fear of the Christian Hell, and scrofula. The air 
 of the stews and taverns surrounded him. The 
 breath of the mob reached him, through the scent 
 of aromatics, mixed with a smell of stale mackerel, 
 and sour wine. The papyrus rolls of petitioners 
 were stretched out to him from all sides. 
 
 "I was promised a place as groom; 1 renounced 
 Christ; and did not get it." 
 
 "Do not forsake us, gracious Csesar, protect us, 
 have mercy on us! We gave up the faith of our 
 fathers to please you. If you give us up, what is 
 to become of us?" 
 
 "We have fallen into the clutches of the Devil!" 
 cried some one, in despair." 
 
 "Be quiet, you fool! whose throat are you 
 clutching?" 
 
 Single voices were drowned in the chorus:
 
 Antichrist. 261 
 
 And the maddened throng of women, 
 Full of thy ecstatic gladness, 
 Joining in the dance of Bacchus, 
 Come to us, oh god of joy 1 
 
 Julian entered the temple, and looked up at the 
 marble statue of Dionysus. His eyes were re- 
 freshed after the sight of human ugliness, by the 
 proud, pure lines of the godlike body. 
 
 He no longer noticed the crowd. It seemed to 
 him that he was alone, a man fallen amongst a 
 herd of animals. 
 
 The emperor proceeded to offer the sacrifice. The 
 people watched, wondering at seeing the Roman 
 Caesar, as Pontif ex Maximus, doing zealously what 
 should have been done by servants and slaves, 
 cutting wood, carrying a bundle of fuel on his 
 shoulder, bringing water from the fountain, cleans- 
 ing the altar, removing the ashes, blowing the fire. 
 
 A tight-rope dancer remarked in a whisper to 
 his neighbor: 
 
 "Watch how busy he is! He seems to love his 
 
 'He does indeed!" remarked a boxer. "Many a 
 one is not so fond of his father and mother as he 
 is of the gods." 
 
 "See how he puffs his cheeks out!" softly 
 laughed another. "Blow away, dear, nothing will 
 come of it. It is too late, your uncle Constantino 
 put the fire out!" 
 
 The flame flared up and illumined the emperor's 
 face. Dipping a consecrated sprinkler of horse- 
 hair in a flat silver bowl, he sprinkled the crowd 
 with holy water. Many of them winked, others 
 shivered as they felt the cold drops on their faces.
 
 262 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 When all the preparations were ended, he re- 
 membered that he had prepared a philosophical 
 sermon for the people. 
 
 "People/' he began, "the god Dionysus is the 
 great principle of freedom in your hearts. Diony- 
 sus casts away all the bonds of the earth, laughs at 
 the strong, sets the slaves free." 
 
 But the high priest saw such bewilderment on 
 all their faces, and such a look of weariness, that 
 the words died on his lips. A deadly sickness and 
 disgust at the people arose in his heart. 
 
 He gave a sign for the shield-bearers to draw 
 round him. The crowd gave way, dissatisfied and 
 disappointed. 
 
 "I'll go straight to church and confess! Per- 
 haps I'll get absolution," said one of the fauns, 
 wrathfully tearing off his false beard and horns. 
 
 "It was not worth damning my soul for!" mut- 
 tered a prostitute, discontentedly. 
 
 "Who wants your soul? They would not give 
 three oboli for it!" 
 
 They have deceived us," cried a drunkard, "they 
 have made our mouths water in vain. The ac- 
 cursed devils!" 
 
 Entering the treasure-room of the temple, the 
 emperor washed his face and hands, took off the 
 splendid robe of Dionysus, and put on a simple 
 Pythagorean tunic, fresh and white as snow. 
 
 The sun set. He waited for darkness to come 
 on, to return to the palace unobserved. 
 
 Julian passed through the back doors of the 
 temple, to the consecrated grove of Dionysus. 
 Here silence reigned. Bees were humming, and 
 he could hear the murmuring of a thin stream of 
 clear spring water.
 
 Antichrist. 263 
 
 He heard someone walking. Julian turned. It 
 was his friend, the young Alexandrian physician 
 Oribasius, one of the favorite disciples of Maxi- 
 mus. 
 
 They walked together along the grass-grown 
 path. The sunbeams darted between the broad, 
 golden leaves of a vine. 
 
 "Look," said Julian, with a smile, "great Pan 
 is still alive here." 
 
 Then he added in a lower voice, with drooping 
 head: 
 
 "Oribasius, did you see?" 
 
 "Yes," answered the physician, "but perhaps 
 you were to blame yourself, Julian. What did you 
 want to do?" 
 
 The emperor did not reply. 
 
 They came to a ruin overgrown with ivy. It 
 was probably a little shrine of Silenus. Frag- 
 ments of stone lay among the weeds. Only one 
 column stood straight and unbroken, with its deli- 
 cate capital, like a white lily. A ray of the setting 
 sun gleamed upon it. 
 
 They sat down on a slab of marble. There was 
 a sweet smell of mint, southernwood and thyme. 
 Julian pushed the grass aside, and pointed to a 
 broken antique bas-relief: 
 
 "Oribasius, that is what I wanted to do!" 
 
 An ancient Hellenic "theoria" was represented 
 on the bas-relief, the sacred festal procession of 
 the Athenians. 
 
 "That is what I wanted, this beauty! Why do 
 men become uglier from day to day? Where are 
 they where are those godlike old men, stern 
 heroes, proud youths, pure women, in white flow- 
 ing garments? Where is all this strength? Where
 
 264 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 is all this joy? Galileans! Galileans what have 
 you done?" 
 
 His eyes full of endless sadness and love, he 
 gazed at the bas-relief, pushing the long grass 
 aside. 
 
 "Julian," asked Oribasius in a low voice, "do 
 you believe in Maximus?" 
 
 "I do believe in him." 
 
 "Altogether?" 
 
 ''What do you mean?" 
 
 Julian looked up at him in astonishment. 
 
 "I have always thought, Julian, that you are 
 suffering from the same sickness as your Galilean 
 enemies." 
 
 "What sickness?" 
 
 "Faith in miracles." 
 
 Julian shook his head: 
 
 "If there are no miracles and no gods, all my 
 life is madness. No, let us not speak of that. But 
 do not judge me too severely for my love of the 
 ceremonies and auguries of antiquity. I know not 
 how to explain it to you. The foolish old songs 
 touch me to tears. I love evening better than 
 noon, autumn better than spring. I love all that 
 is passing away! I love all dying colors. What 
 can I do, my friend? The gods created me so! 
 I need this sweet sadness, this magical, golden twi- 
 light. There, in distant antiquity, there is some- 
 thing unspeakably beautiful and lovely, something 
 which I can find nowhere else. There is the radi- 
 ance of the evening sun, on marble yellow, with 
 age. Do not rob me of my mad love for something 
 that is not. It is more beautiful than anything 
 that is! Memory has a greater power over my soul 
 than hope."
 
 Antichrist. 265 
 
 He grew silent and thoughtful, and gazed into 
 the distance with a gentle smile, leaning his head 
 against the unbroken column with its delicate cap- 
 ital, that looked like a sad white lily. The bright- 
 ness of the setting sun had already died away 
 from it. 
 
 "You speak like a poet," replied Oribasius, "but 
 a poet's dreams are dangerous when the power of 
 the whole world is in his hands. Must not he who 
 rules over men be something more than a poet?" 
 
 "What can be greater?" 
 
 "A creator of new life." 
 
 "The new, the new," exclaimed Julian. "In 
 truth, I sometimes fear your new. It seems to me 
 cold and cruel as death. I tell you my heart is 
 with the old! The Galileans are also ever in search 
 of something new, treading the old sanctities 
 under foot. Believe me, the new is only in the old, 
 that grows not old; in the dead that is immortal, 
 in the despised, in the beautiful!" 
 
 And he rose to his full height, with pale and 
 proud face and glowing eyes: 
 
 "They think that Hellas is dead! From every 
 corner of the earth black monks, like crows, alight 
 on the white marble body of Hellas and hungrily 
 peck at it like offal, and croak in their gladness: 
 'Hellas is dead!' but Hellas is not dead, and will 
 never die! Hellas is here, in our hearts! Hellas 
 is man's godlike beauty on earth. Hellas will 
 awake, and then, woe to the Galilean crows!" 
 
 "Julian," replied Oribasius, "I am afraid for 
 you. You wish to accomplish the impossible. 
 Crows do not peck at a living body, and the dead 
 do not rise again. Caesar, what if the miracle is 
 not accomplished?"
 
 266 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "I fear nothing. My destruction will be my 
 triumph," exclaimed the emperor, with such 
 radiant gladness on his young face that Oribasius 
 started involuntarily, as if a miracle were about to 
 take place: "Honor to the Rejected, honor to the 
 Vanquished!" 
 
 "But before perishing," he added, with a 
 haughty smile, "we shall struggle! I would that 
 my enemies were worthy of my hate, not merely 
 of my contempt. In truth, I love my enemies, 
 because I can conquer them, and feel my strength 
 through them. The joy of Dionysus is in my 
 heart! Now the Titan of old arises and bursts his 
 chains, and once more the fire of Prometheus is 
 lit upon the earth. The Titan against the Gali- 
 lean! I come to give men liberty and joy such as 
 they have never dared to think of. Galilean, thy 
 kingdom vanishes like a shadow! Rejoice, peoples 
 and nations of the earth; I am the messenger of 
 life, I am the liberator, I am. Antichrist!" 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IN THE MONASTERY. 
 
 In the neighboring monastery with its closely 
 shut windows and doors, the monks were offering 
 solemn prayers. From afar was wafted among 
 them the noise of Bacchanalian revelry. To drown 
 it, the monks united their voices in a melancholy 
 wail: 
 
 "0 God, why hast thou cast us off forever? Why
 
 Iii the Monastery. 267 
 
 doth thine anger flame against the sheep of thy 
 pasture. 
 
 "We are become a reproach to our neighbors, a 
 scorn and derision to them that are round about 
 us." 
 
 The ancient words of the prophet Daniel: ^Oh 
 Lord thou has given us up to the king of the 
 heathen; more crafty than all the earth/' took on 
 a new and unexpected meaning. 
 
 Late at night, when all was silent in the streets, 
 the monks dispersed to their cells. 
 
 Brother Parthenius could not sleep. He had a 
 pale, mild face. In his large eyes, pure as a mai- 
 den's, there was an expression of sorrowful bewil- 
 derment whenever he spoke to any one. And he 
 spoke very little and indistinctly, as if with a great 
 effort, and always said something so childlike and 
 unexpected that no one could listen to him with- 
 out smiling. Sometimes he burst out laughing, 
 without any apparent reason. The stern monks 
 asked: "What are you showing your teeth about? 
 Are you making sport for the devil?" Then he 
 modestly explained that he was laughing "at his 
 own thoughts." This convinced the monks still 
 more that Parthenius was demented. 
 
 But he was master of a valuable art: he could 
 illuminate the title pages and capital letters of the 
 manuscripts with cunning patterns. The art of 
 Brother Parthenius brought not only money but 
 also consideration and honor to the monastery, 
 even from distant lands. To be sure, he did not 
 suspect this, and if he could have understood what 
 human fame was, he would have been frightened 
 rather than gratified. 
 
 His artistic work which sometimes cost him im-
 
 268 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 moderate pains, as he brought the smallest details 
 to the utmost limit of perfection, he considered to 
 be play, rather than work; he did not say: "1 am 
 going to work," but always asked the chief elder 
 Pamphilus, who loved him tenderly: "Father, give 
 me your blessing, 1 am going to play." 
 
 When he had finished some detail, some subtle 
 and delicate tracery, he clapped his hands and 
 praised himself. 
 
 Brother Parthenius was so fond of solitude and 
 the stillness of night, that he learned to work even 
 by lamp-light. The colors came out unexpectedly, 
 but that did not do any harm to his fanciful de- 
 signs. 
 
 In a little cell with overhanging walls, Parthe- 
 nius lit his lamp, and set it on a board beside his 
 little jars, his fine brushes, his boxes with colors, 
 cinnabar, and liquid silver and gold. He crossed 
 himself, wet a brush carefully, and began to draw 
 the tails of two peacocks, at the bottom of a title 
 page. Golden peacocks on a green ground were 
 drinking at a sapphire spring. They were raising 
 their beaks and stretching their necks, as birds do, 
 when they drink. 
 
 Other parchment-rolls lay around him, with 
 half-finished patterns. 
 
 It was a whole world, supernatural and fascina- 
 ting. Airy creations of fabulous architecture were 
 woven round the text: trees, clusters, and fantastic 
 animals. Parthenius thought of nothing while he 
 was doing them, but a bright and joyful light suf- 
 fused his pale face. Hellas, Assyria, Persia, India, 
 the refinements of later Byzantium and the dim 
 inspirations of the coming world, all peoples and 
 centuries were mingled in all simplicity, in this
 
 In the Monastery. 26D 
 
 monastic paradise glowing with the changing col- 
 ors of precious stones, round the capital letters of 
 the Holy Scriptures. 
 
 Here was a representation of the Baptism. John 
 the Baptist was pouring water on the head of 
 Jesus Christ. And beside them the heathen river- 
 god Jordan, with an inclined amphora from which 
 water streamed, was graciously holding a towel, 
 like an Eastern host, ready, to offer it to the Sa- 
 viour after the Baptism. 
 
 Brother Parthenius had no fear of the antique 
 gods. They pleased him, and in the simplicity of 
 his soul he held that they had long ago been con- 
 verted to Christianity. On the summits of moun- 
 tains, he invariably placed a mountain-god, in the 
 form of a naked youth. 
 
 When the artist drew the passage of the Chil- 
 dren of Israel across the Red Sea, a woman with an 
 oar in her hand represented the Sea, while a nude 
 male figure, with the inscription "Bythos," was to 
 indicate the Abyss, which swallowed up Pharaoh; 
 on the bank sat Desert, in the form of a sad 
 woman, in a tunic of sand color. 
 
 Here and there, on a horse's bent neck, in the 
 fold of a long robe, or in the pose of an Oread, re- 
 clining on her elbow, or the god Jordan, offering 
 Jesus the towel, the true Hellenic grace, the 
 beauty of the naked body, suddenly shone 
 through. 
 
 That night his "play" did not hold the artist. 
 
 His ever unwearying fingers trembled. The 
 wonted quiet smile was absent from his lips. He 
 listened a moment, then opened a box on his cy- 
 press bench, drew forth a sharp awl for book-bind- 
 ing, crossed himself, and shading the flame of his
 
 270 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 lamp with his transparent, pink hand, softly left 
 the cell. 
 
 It was quiet and close in the corridor. The 
 humming of flies caught in spiders' webs was the 
 only sound. 
 
 Parthenius entered the chapel. A single lamp 
 was nickering before an antique diptych, a two- 
 leaved image of ivory. Two great oblong sapphires 
 in the aureole of the Infant Jesus whom the 
 Blessed Virgin held in her arms, had been 
 wrenched out by the heathens and restored to their 
 former place in the temple of Dionysus. 
 
 The ugly black hollows in the ivory, which age 
 had lightly touched with yellow, seemed to the 
 artist Parthenius like wounds in the living body. 
 "No, I cannot!" he whispered, and approached his 
 lips to the Infant Jesus' little hand, "I cannot; 
 better that I should die!" The sacrilegious wounds 
 in the ivory tortured him terribly, and aroused 
 him more than any assault on a living body. 
 
 In a corner of the church, he found a rope lad- 
 der. The monks used it to light the lamps in the 
 dome of their church. 
 
 With this ladder, he went to the dark narrow 
 passage which ended at the outer door. 
 
 The red-cheeked brother Choricius who kept 
 the keys was snoring in the straw. 
 
 Parthenius slipped past him like a shadow. The 
 lock on the door opened with a metallic click. 
 Choricius half-raised himself, blinked, and then 
 sank back again on the straw. 
 
 Parthenins climbed over the low fence. The 
 street in that out-of-the-way quarter was deserted. 
 A full moon was shining in the sky. The sea mur- 
 mured.
 
 In the Monastery. 271 
 
 He went round to that side of the temple of 
 Dionysus which lay in the shadow, and threw his 
 rope ladder so that one end of it caught in the 
 bronze acrotere at the corner of the roof. The 
 ladder hung from the upraised paw of a Sphinx. 
 The monk climbed up on the roof. 
 
 Somewhere in the distance the cocks were be- 
 ginning to crow. A dog barked. 
 
 Then again silence; only the murmur of the sea. 
 
 He drew up the ladder, and descended to the 
 interior of the temple. 
 
 A majestic stillness reigned there. The eyes of 
 the god, two great oblong sapphires, shone with a 
 strange life in the moonlight, gazing straight at 
 the monk. 
 
 Parthenius shuddered and crossed himself. 
 
 He climbed on the altar. It was not long since 
 the high priest Julian had blown its embers into 
 flame. Parthenius felt the warmth of the ashes 
 under his feet. The monk drew the awl from his 
 bosom. The god's eyes gleamed close to his face. 
 The artist saw the careless smile of Dionysus, and 
 his marble body 'flooded with moonlight, and he 
 thrilled with delight at the beauty of the antique 
 god. 
 
 Then he set to work, trying to take out the sap- 
 phyres with the point of his awl. Often his hand 
 strove almost against his desire to spare the en- 
 chanting marble. 
 
 Finally the work was finished. The blinded 
 Dionysus looked threateningly at the monk out 
 of the black hollows of his eyes. 
 
 Then terror overcame Parthenius. It seemed 
 to him that some one was watching him. He 
 leaped down from the altar, ran to his rope-ladder,
 
 272 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 climbed hastily up, and lowered it on the other 
 side, not even fastening it properly, so that when 
 he was near the bottom it slipped and fell. Pale, 
 disheveled, with stained garments, but still clasp- 
 ing the sapphires firmly in his hand, he stole across 
 the street into the monastery like a thief. 
 
 The doorkeeper did not awake. Parthenius, 
 opening the door, slipped through and entered the 
 chapel. Looking at the image, he felt calmer. He 
 tried to fit the sapphire eyes of Dionysus into the 
 dark hollows. They slipped back into their old 
 places in the most perfect way, and once more 
 glowed with a warm light in the aureole of the 
 Infant Jesus. 
 
 Parthenius returned to his cell, put his lamp 
 out, and threw himself down on his couch. Sud- 
 denly, in the darkness, shrinking together, and 
 covering his face with his hands, he laughed a 
 noiseless laugh, like a child who has played some 
 prank, and is glad to have played it, but is also 
 afraid that he will be found out. He went to sleep 
 with that laugh in his heart. 
 
 The morning waves of the* Propontis were 
 sparkling beyond the trellis of his little window 
 when Parthenius awoke. 
 
 The doves were cooing on his window-sill and 
 rustling their soft blue-grey wings. 
 
 The laughter still remained in his heart. He 
 ran to his work-table, and looked with delight at 
 the unfinished arabesques. 
 
 It was a picture of paradise. Adam and Eve 
 were sitting in a meadow. 
 
 A ray of the rising sun fell through the window, 
 straight on his arabesques, and they shone with a 
 heavenly brightness, all gold and purple and azure.
 
 The Conversion of Hecebolus. 273 
 
 Parthenius, as he worked, never noticed that he 
 was giving the naked body of Adam all the antique 
 Olympian beauty of glad Bacchus Dionysus. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 THE CONVERSION OF HECEBOLUS. 
 
 The famous sophist Hecebolus, the court 
 teacher of rhetoric, had begun to ascend the lad- 
 der of imperial preferment at the lowest round. 
 First he was a servant in the temple of Astarte at 
 Hieropolis. At sixteen, he stole some of the treas- 
 ures of the temple and ran away to Constantino- 
 ple. He passed through all the knaveries and 
 filth of the metropolis, walked in the highway with 
 devout pilgrims and with the lawless herd of Din- 
 dymene's worshippers, the many-breasted god- 
 dess whom the rabble delighted in, when she was 
 carried through the villages on an ass. 
 
 Finally he stumbled into the school of the rhet- 
 orician Proeresias, and soon became a teacher of 
 oratory himself. 
 
 In the last years of Constantine the Great, when 
 the Christian religion became the fashion at court, 
 Hecebolus was converted to Christianity. People 
 of a spiritual calling felt a special leaning towards 
 him. He paid them in the same way. 
 
 Hecebolus had often changed his creed, accord- 
 ing as the wind blew, but always exactly at the 
 right time. From Arianism, he became Orthodox, 
 and returned again from Orthodoxy to Arianism, 
 and each change was a step on the ladder of pre-
 
 27i Julian the Apostate. 
 
 ferment. Persons of a spiritual vocation helped 
 him up quietly, and he in turn aided them to 
 climb. 
 
 His hair was beginning to be touched with 
 grey, his obesity was becoming more and more a 
 comforting presence, his wise words grew even 
 more insinuating and suave, and his cheeks were 
 bright with the freshness of vigorous old-age. His 
 eyes were caressing, and somewhat lachrymose, but 
 now and then there flashed up in them a piercing 
 and evil mockery, a cold and daring soul. Then 
 he swiftly lowered his lids and the spark died out 
 again. 
 
 The whole exterior of the famous sophist wore 
 a cloak of ecclesiastical unction. 
 
 He fasted scrupulously, but at the same time 
 was a fine gastronomist. The delicate fast dishes 
 on his table were more carefully planned than the 
 dishes of a festal banquet, just as Hecebolus' mo- 
 nastic jests were sometimes keener and more 
 pointed than the mockery of open heathenism. At 
 his table was served a famous cooling drink made 
 of beetroot juice and spices: many people said that 
 it was better than wine. For fast days, instead of 
 ordinary wheaten bread, he ate a kind of cake 
 made from a grain of the desert, on which, tradi- 
 tion alleged, Saint Pachomius had lived in Egypt. 
 
 Evil tongues whispered that Hecebolus was a 
 lover of women. In Constantinople they told the 
 following anecdote. A young wife acknowledged 
 to her confessor that she was unfaithful to her 
 husband. "That is a great sin but who my 
 daughter?" "Hecebolus, Father!" The priest's 
 face cleared: "Hecebolus. Ah! Well, he is a holy
 
 The Conversion of Hecebolus. 275 
 
 man, and devoted to the Church. Repent, my 
 daughter! God will forgive you!" 
 
 Of course these stories were mere gossip. Nev- 
 ertheless, in the clean-shaven dignified face of the 
 official, his thick red lips looked somewhat out of 
 place, even though he pressed them together with 
 an expression of monastic modesty. 
 
 Women were devoted to him. 
 
 Sometimes Hecebolus disappeared suddenly for 
 several days. No one, or almost no one knew any- 
 thing of that side of his life. He knew how to 
 hide his trail. Neither his servants nor his slaves 
 accompanied him in those enigmatic journeys. The 
 secret was preserved inviolably. 
 
 After a few days, he returned as if nothing had 
 happened, refreshed and calm. Only his wise 
 speeches became even more insinuating, his grey 
 hair more venerable, his monastic unction more 
 majestic. 
 
 Under the emperor Constantius, he received the 
 position of court orator, with a splendid salary, a 
 senatorial lateclave, and a blue sash of honor, the 
 distinctive mark of superior rank. 
 
 He aimed yet higher. 
 
 But at the very moment when Hecebolus was 
 preparing to take the final step, an unexpected 
 blow overtook him. Constantius died, and Julian, 
 the enemy of the Church, ascended the throne. 
 Hecebolus did not lose his presence of mind. He 
 did what all the rest did, but more cleverly than 
 the rest, and neither too soon nor too late. 
 
 Once, in the first days of his power, Julian ar- 
 ranged a theological discussion at the palace. Cse- 
 sarius of Cappadocia, a young philosopher and 
 physician, who was esteemed by all for his probity
 
 276 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 and nobility, and brother of Basil, the famous 
 Father of the Church, was to defend the Christian 
 faith against the emperor. Julian allowed the ut- 
 most liberty in these controversies, and even pre- 
 ferred to be answered with heat and passion, in 
 defiance of court etiquette. 
 
 The discussion grew very heated, and hosts of 
 sophists, sages, rhetoricians, priests, and Church 
 teachers were present. 
 
 Generally the contest had to give way and yield, 
 if not before the logic of the Greek philosopher, at 
 least before the majesty of the Roman Emperor. 
 
 This time things went otherwise. Csesarius 
 would not yield. He was a youth with a girlish 
 grace in his movements, with silky locks, and with 
 a steady lucidity in his eyes. He called the philos- 
 ophy of Plato "the subtle wisdom of the serpent," 
 and opposed to him the celestial wisdom of the 
 Gospel. Julian knitted his brows, moved in his 
 seat, bit his lips, and could hardly restrain him- 
 self. 
 
 Like all sincere discussions, the discussion led 
 to no result. 
 
 The Emperor left the assembly, mastering his 
 feelings with a philosophic jest, assumed a gentle 
 look, with a faint shade of all-forgiving sadness, 
 but in reality with resentment in his heart. 
 
 And just at that moment, the court orator He- 
 cebolus, came up to him. Julian considered him 
 an enemy. He asked: 
 
 "What do you want?" 
 
 Hecebolus fell on his knees and began a confes- 
 sion of repentance. He had long been wavering, 
 but the logic of the emperor had finally convinced 
 him. He abjured the dark Galilean superstition,
 
 The Conversion of llecebolus. 277 
 
 and his heart returned to the memories of child- 
 hood, to the bright Olympian gods. 
 
 The emperor lifted the old man to his feet, and 
 in his emotion could not speak, but only clasped 
 him to his breast with all his strength, and kissed 
 his plump, smooth-shaven cheeks and thick red 
 lips. 
 
 His eyes sought Caesarius, to enjoy his discom- 
 fiture. 
 
 For several days, Julian kept Hecebolus close to 
 him, and told of his marvelous conversion in season 
 and out of season. He rejoiced over him, like a 
 priest over a well-fed victim, like a child over a 
 new toy, like a youth over his first love. 
 
 The emperor wished to give the new convert a 
 considerable post at court. Hecebolus flatly re- 
 fused, esteeming himself unworthy of that honor. 
 He preferred to prepare his soul for Hellenic piety 
 by long trials and penances, to wash himself clean 
 of the pollution of the Galileans by service in some 
 of the ancient Olympian temples. Then Julian 
 appointed him high priest of Bithynia and Paph- 
 lagonia. Those who filled this office were called by 
 the heathen "archpriest." 
 
 The Archpriest Hecebolus governed two popu- 
 lous Asiatic provinces, and setting out on his new. 
 path, he walked along it with his habitual success. 
 He took part in the conversion of many Galileans 
 to Hellenism. 
 
 Hecebolus became the chief priest in the temple 
 of the Phoenician goddess Astarte-Atagartis whom 
 he had served in his childhood. The temple was 
 half way between Chalcedon and Nicomedia, on an 
 eminence which overlooked the waves of the Pro- 
 pontis. The village was called Gargaria. Pilgrims
 
 278 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 came hither from the ends of the earth, suppliants 
 to Aphrodite-Astarte the goddess of love and 
 death. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 THE VESSEL OF CLAY. 
 
 In one of the wide halls of the palace of Con- 
 stantinople, Julian was occupied with the affairs 
 of the empire. 
 
 Between the porphyry columns on the terrace 
 which looked out over the Bosphorus, shone the 
 pale blue sea. The young emperor was seated 
 before a round marble table heaped with papyrus 
 and parchment rolls. Shorthand writers, bending 
 their heads, wrote rapidly with their creaking 
 Egyptian calami. Some of the officials looked 
 sleepy. They were not used to such early rising. 
 At a little distance among the columns, Hecebolus 
 and the official Junius Mauricus were exchanging 
 remarks; the lean official had a wise but bilious 
 face, with disagreeable folds round his thin lips. 
 
 In the midst of universal superstition, this 
 sceptic and court dandy was one of the last follow- 
 ers of the great Lucian, the satirist of Samos, the 
 author of biting dialogues in wbich he makes such 
 pitiless sport of all the holy things of Olympus 
 and Golgotha, of all the traditions of Kome and 
 Hellas. 
 
 In an even voice Julian was dictating an epistle 
 to Arsacius, high priest of Galatia: 
 
 "Do not permit the priests to visit the theaters,
 
 The Vessel of Clay. 279 
 
 to drink in taverns, to engage in degrading trades. 
 Honor the obedient; chastise the disobedient. 
 Establish houses of refuge in every city, where 
 travelers may profit by our benevolence, not only 
 people of the Hellenic faith, but all who have 
 need of help. We assign for yearly distribution in 
 Galatia thirty thousand measures of wheat, and 
 sixteen thousand csesti of wine. Distribute the 
 fifth part of these supplies among the poor who 
 live near the temples, and the rest among pilgrims 
 and beggars. It is shameful that the Hellenes 
 should want, when there is not a single beggar 
 amongst the Jews, and when the godless Galileans 
 feed their own people and ours as well. They 
 begin like people who entice children with sweet- 
 meats; they begin with hospitality and acts of 
 mercy, with invitations to their love-feasts, which 
 they call 'Agapae,' and little by little inveigling 
 those who trust them into their godless communi- 
 ties, they end with fasts, castigations, mortification 
 of the flesh, the pains of hell, madness, and a ter- 
 rible death in torments. This is the habitual path 
 of those haters of humanity who call themselves 
 Christians and lovers of their neighbors. Con- 
 quer them by acts of mercy, in the name of the 
 eternal Olympian gods. Announce throughout 
 all cities and villages that this is my heartfelt con- 
 cern. If I learn that you have so acted, I shall 
 continue to reward you. Make it clear to all our 
 citizens that I am ready to help them in all things, 
 at any hour. But if they wish to gain my especial 
 favor, let them bow to Dindymene, the Mother of 
 the Gods, and let all nations and people do honor 
 to her, for ever and ever." 
 
 The last words, he wrote with his own hand.
 
 280 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 At this point they brought breakfast, barley 
 bread, fresh olives and light white wine. He ate 
 and drank without leaving his work. But sud- 
 denly he turned, and pointing to a golden vessel 
 containing olives, he asked a favorite old slave, 
 whom he had brought from Gaul, and who always 
 served the emperor at table: 
 
 "Why this gold? Where is the old earthen 
 one?" 
 
 "Forgive me, master, it is broken." 
 
 "In pieces?" 
 
 "No; only the edge of the rim." 
 
 "Bring it, then." 
 
 The slave ran to bring the clay vessel, with the 
 broken rim. 
 
 "That is nothing!" said Julian, "it will serve a 
 long time yet!" 
 
 He smiled: 
 
 "My friends, I have observed that things that 
 have been broken serve longer and better than 
 new ones. I admit that it is a weakness of mine, 
 that I get wonderfully accustomed to old things. 
 They have a special charm for me, like old friends. 
 I am afraid of novelty, and I detest changes. I 
 am always sorry for the old, even if it is bad. The 
 old is comfortable and pleasant." 
 
 Julian laughed gaily at his own words: 
 
 "See what philosophic thoughts are sometimes 
 inspired by a broken plate!" 
 
 Junius Mauricus twitched the hem of Hece- 
 bolus' garment: 
 
 "Did you hear? His whole nature is expressed 
 in that. He cares as much for his broken plates as 
 for his half -dead gods. That is to decide the fate 
 of the world."
 
 The Vessel of Clay. 281 
 
 Julian grew enthusiastic. From edicts and 
 laws, he passed on to thoughts of the future. 
 
 In all the cities of the empire he proposed to 
 found schools and professorships for the promul- 
 gation and explanation of the Hellenic dogmas, 
 to establish forms of prayers, epithemes, philo- 
 sophical discourses, resorts for lovers of the per- 
 fect, and for those who gave themselves up to 
 meditation. 
 
 "What next?" whispered Junius Mauricus to 
 Hecebolus, "monasteries in honor of Aphrodite 
 and Apollo. From hour to hour, it is getting 
 worse!" 
 
 "And all this, my friends, we shall accomplish 
 with the help of the gods," concluded the Em- 
 peror. "The Galileans wish to assure the world 
 that mercy is their peculiar heritage. But mercy 
 belongs to all philosophers, whatever gods they 
 may worship. I have come to preach a new love 
 to the world, not slavish and superstitious, but 
 free and joyful as the heaven of the Olympians!" 
 
 Julian embraced all who were present in one 
 inquiring glance. He did not find what he sought, 
 on the faces of the officials. 
 
 A deputation of Christian teachers of rhetoric 
 ; and philosophy entered the hall. 
 
 !N"ot long before, an edict forbidding Galilean 
 teachers to lecture on ancient Greek oratory had 
 been promulgated. The Christian orators had 
 either to renounce their faith or close their schools 
 
 One of their representatives approached Au- 
 gustus with a scroll in his hand. He was a lean, 
 absent-minded man, the image of a bald old 
 parrot; he was accompanied by two awkward rosy- 
 cheeked pupils.
 
 282 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "Have mercy on us, beloved of the gods!" 
 
 "What is your name?" asked the Emperor. 
 
 "Papirianus, a Roman citizen." 
 
 "Well, understand me, good Papirianus. I wish 
 you no ill. On the contrary, remain Galileans." 
 
 The old man fell at the Emperor's feet, and 
 embraced them. 
 
 "I have been teaching grammar for forty years. 
 I know Homer and Hesiod as well as anybody." 
 
 "What is your petition?" asked Julian, froM'n- 
 ing. 
 
 "I have six children, your majesty, small, 
 smaller, smallest. Do not take away the last piece 
 of bread from them! My pupils love me. Ask 
 them! Have I done anything wrong?" 
 
 Papirianus could not proceed from emotion, 
 but pointed to his two pupils, who were trying 
 hard to hide their hands. They stood staring, 
 their faces growing redder and redder. 
 
 "No, my friends," the Emperor interrupted, in 
 a low, firm voice. "The law is just. I find it 
 absurd that the Christian teachers of rhetoric, in 
 explaining Homer, should deny the very gods 
 whom Homer honored. If you think that our 
 sages did no more than weave clever tales, then 
 you had better go to your churches and explain 
 Matthew and Luke! Observe, Galileans, that I 
 do this for your own well-being." 
 
 Someone in the crowd of rhetoricians, muttered 
 half audibly: 
 
 "For our own good, you starve us to death!" 
 
 "You fear to defile yourselves by touching meat 
 or water that has been offered in sacrifice, Chris- 
 tian teachers," continued the Emperor unmoved, 
 "why do you not fear to defile yourselves with what
 
 The Vessel of Clay. 283 
 
 is far more dangerous than meat or water? the 
 false wisdom of the heathen? You say: 'Blessed 
 are the poor in spirit!' Then be poor in spirit! 
 Or do you think that I do not know your teach- 
 ings? I know them better than any of you! I 
 see in the Galilean commandments depths that 
 you never dreamed of. But to everyone his own. 
 Leave us our vain wisdom, our poor science of 
 words. What have you to do with these tainted 
 springs? You have a higher wisdom. Our king- 
 dom is of earth. You have a heavenly kingdom. 
 Think: a heavenly kingdom! That is not a little 
 for such humble and disinterested people as you 
 are! Dialectics can only awaken a taste for free- 
 thinking and heresy. Better be simple as chil- 
 dren. Is not the blessed ignorance of the fisher- 
 men of Capernaum higher than all the Platonic 
 dialogues? All the wisdom of the Galileans con- 
 sists in the one thing: 'Believe.' If you were 
 true Christians, you would bless our law, rhetori- 
 cians. And it is the flesh, not the spirit, which 
 now rises up in you, the flesh for which sin is 
 sweet. That is all that I have to say to you, and 
 I hope that you will justify me, and admit that 
 the Koman emperor takes more care for the salva- 
 tion of your souls than you do yourselves!" 
 
 Julian passed through the crowd of unhappy 
 rhetoricians, calm and satisfied with his speech. 
 
 Papirianus falling on his knees as before, tore 
 his thin grey locks. 
 
 "Wherefore? Oh Queen of heaven, wherefore 
 such a punishment?" 
 
 "The two pupils, seeing their teacher's sorrow, 
 nibbed their bulging eyes with their red, awkward 
 hands.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MARANATHA. 
 
 Julian remembered the endless disputes of the 
 Arians and the Orthodox, under Constantius. He 
 bethought himself to take advantage of their en- 
 mity, and decided to summon a Church Council, 
 after the manner of Constantine and Constantius, 
 his predecessors. 
 
 Once, in conversation, he announced to his 
 astonished friends that instead of employing force 
 and persecution, he wished to give the Galileans 
 full religious liberty, and to recall the Donatists, 
 the Semiarians, the Marcionites, the Montanists, 
 the Cecilians, and other heretical sects, exiled by 
 order of the Councils under Constantine and Con- 
 stantius. He was convinced that there was no 
 better method of destroying the Christians. 
 
 "You will see, my friends," said the Emperor, 
 "that when they all return to their former places, 
 such hatreds will spring up among the followers 
 of brotherly love that they will tear each other like 
 wild beasts let loose from their cages into the 
 arena, and that they will bring the name of their 
 Teacher into dishonor sooner than I could, even 
 by the most savage persecutions and punish- 
 ments." 
 
 Julian sent edicts and letters to every corner of 
 
 the Eoman Empire, inviting the exiled sectarians 
 
 to return without fear. The completest freedom 
 
 of faith was announced. At the same time, the 
 
 284
 
 Maranatha. 285 
 
 wisest teachers from among the Galileans were in- 
 vited to the Emperor's court at Constantinople to 
 deliberate on ecclesiastical matters. The greater 
 part of those who were invited knew nothing of 
 the purpose, constitution and powers of the assem- 
 bly, since all this was set forth in the Emperor's 
 letters with skilful ambiguity. Many of them, 
 suspecting some wile of the Apostate, failed on the 
 plea of sickness or distance to appear in answer to 
 the invitation. 
 
 The azure of the morning seemed dark and 
 sombre in comparison with the blinding bright- 
 ness of the double colonnade of white marble, 
 which surrounded the great court, the so-called 
 Atrium of Constantine. White doves disappeared 
 in the blue like flakes of snow, with a glad flutter- 
 ing of their silky wings. Aphrodite Calipyge stood 
 in the center of the court, in the bright spray of a 
 fountain. The wet marble shone in the sun, like a 
 living body. The monks, passing by her, turned 
 away and tried not to look, but she was in their 
 midst, crafty and tender. 
 
 Julian had not chosen this strange meeting- 
 place for the Galileans without a hidden purpose. 
 
 The dark robes of the monks seemed even darker 
 here, the bitter faces of the heretics, drawn with 
 suffering, seemed even more gloomy. They glided 
 among the sunlit marble pillars, casting formless 
 shades of blackness as they went. 
 
 They all felt constrained. And each of them 
 tried to assume an air of equanimity, even confi- 
 dence, pretending not to recognize in his neighbor 
 an enemy, who had ruined his life, or whose life he 
 had ruined; hut at the same time they cast curious 
 malignant glances at each other.
 
 286 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "Holy Mother of God! What is that? Where 
 are we?" cried the plump old Sebastian bishop 
 Eustathius in dismay; "Let me depart, soldiers!" 
 
 "Gently, gently, my friend," said the chief of 
 the shield-bearers persuasively, politely barring 
 him from the door. 
 
 "I cannot breathe in this sink of heresy! Let 
 me go! let me go!" 
 
 "According to Caesar's command, all who have 
 entered the Council must remain," continued the 
 barbarian Dagalaiphus, the chief of the shield- 
 bearers, restraining him with gentle insistence. 
 
 "This is no Council!" cried Eustathius, in anger, 
 "it is a den of thieves!" 
 
 A few wits were to be found among the Gali- 
 leans, who made sport of the provincial exterior, 
 asthmatic speech, and strong Armenian accent of 
 Eustathius. He lost his head completely, lapsed 
 into silence and shrunk away into a corner, repeat- 
 ing in despair: 
 
 "Oh Lord, why am I here? Oh Lord, why am I 
 here?" 
 
 Evander of Nicomedia also repented that he had 
 come and brought Juventinus the disciple of Didy- 
 mus, who had just arrived in Constantinople. 
 
 Evander was one of the greatest dogmatists of 
 his time, a man of penetrating and profound intel- 
 lect. He had ruined his health and grown old be- 
 fore his time over his books; his sight had grown 
 weak, and in his kind, short-sighted eyes, there 
 dwelt an expression of perpetual weariness. End- 
 less heresies occupied his mind, and gave him no 
 rest. They tormented him in his waking hours, 
 and haunted him in his dreams, but at the same 
 time they fascinated him by their subtilty and re-
 
 Maranatha. 287 
 
 fmements. Evander had collected them for many 
 years, in a huge manuscript, entitled: "Against 
 Heresies," with as much zeal as some amateurs col- 
 lect marvels of art. He traced them out with hun- 
 gry delight, even inventing non-existent ones, and 
 the more he attacked them, the deeper he became 
 involved in them. He often prayed desperately to 
 God to give him simple faith, but God had given 
 him no simplicity. 
 
 In his everyday life, he was modest, confiding 
 and helpless as a child. It cost the unscrupulous 
 no trouble to deceive Evander. Mockers recounted 
 innumerable anecdotes of his absent-mindedness. 
 Plunged in his theological dreams, the bishop was 
 perpetually finding himself in impossible situa- 
 tions. 
 
 And it was through absent-mindedness that he 
 had wandered into this awkward assembly, with- 
 out due thought as to whither and why he was 
 going, in part allured by the hope of finding some 
 new heresy. 
 
 And now he kept frowning in dismay, and shad- 
 ing his weak eyes with his weak hand against the 
 intense brightness of the sun on the marble. He 
 felt ill at ease, and his one desire was to get away 
 as quickly as possible to his half -darkened room, 
 to his books and manuscripts. 
 
 Evander kept Juventinus close to him, and 
 guarded him against delusion by attacks on the 
 various heresies. 
 
 Through the midst of the hall passed a short 
 powerful man, with high cheek-bones and an au- 
 reole of downy grey hair round his head. 
 
 He was the septuagenarian bishop Purpurius,
 
 288 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 an African Donatist whom Julian had recalled 
 from exile. 
 
 Neither Constantine nor Constantius had been 
 able to crush the Donatist heresy. Eivers of blood 
 had been shed because some fifty years before Do- 
 natus had been irregularly consecrated instead of 
 Cecilianus, or Cecilianus instead of Donatus, no 
 one was quite certain which. But the Donatists 
 and Cecilians massacred each other, and no one 
 could foresee any end to this fratricidal quarrel 
 which had arisen not even from a difference of 
 opinion but only from a difference of names. 
 
 Juventinus noticed that in passing Purpurius, a 
 Cecilian bishop brushed the Donatist's garment 
 with the hem of his chasuble. The latter started 
 aside with an exclamation, and lifting his robe 
 with two fingers, with an expression of disgust, 
 shook it several times in such a way as to attract 
 general attention, to rid himself of the polluting 
 touch of the Cecilian bishop. 
 
 Evander told Juventinus that when a Cecilian 
 inadvertently entered a Donatist church, they 
 drove him out again, and afterwards carefully 
 washed the flagstones on which he had stood with 
 salt water. 
 
 An African of huge stature followed in Purpu- 
 rius' footsteps, with a dog's fidelity. He was the 
 bishop's body-guard, dusky and repellent, with 
 squat nose, and thick lips, and a club in his mus- 
 cular hands. This African deacon, Leo, belonged 
 to the sect of the Self -torturers, who inhabited the 
 villages of Gaetulia. They were called the Cir- 
 cumcelliones. Roaming about armed, they offered 
 money to the people they met on the high roads, 
 with the threat: "Kill us, or we will kill you!" The
 
 Maranatha. 289 
 
 Circumcelliones wounded and burned themselves, 
 and threw themselves into the sea, in the name of 
 Christ. But they never hanged themselves, be- 
 cause Judas Iscariot was hanged. Sometimes whole 
 crowds of them cast themselves over a precipice, 
 singing psalms the while. They affirmed that sui- 
 cide for the glory of God cleansed the soul from 
 all sins. The common people honored them as 
 martyrs. Before dying, they gave themselves up 
 to debauchery, eating, drinking and the lusts of 
 the flesh. Many of them would not use swords be- 
 cause Christ forbade the use of the sword, but then 
 they used great clubs, according to the Scripture, 
 against heretics and the heathen, with a quiet con- 
 science. When they shed blood, they cried out: 
 "Glory to God!" The peaceable inhabitants of the 
 African cities and villages feared this pious cry 
 more than the war-trumpets of their enemies or 
 the roaring of lions. 
 
 The Donatists considered the Circumcelliones 
 as their soldiers and guards. And as the Gaetulian 
 peasants did not understand much of their theo- 
 logical quarrels, the Donatists carefully pointed 
 out to them whom they should slay "according to 
 the Scripture." 
 
 Evander called Juventinus' attention to a hand- 
 some youth with a tender and innocent face, like a 
 girl's. He was a Cainite. 
 
 "Blessed are our proud and unsubdued brothers, 
 Cain, Ham and the dwellers in Sodom and Go- 
 morra!" thus preached the Cainites, "they were of 
 the family of the higher Sophia, the Hidden Wis- 
 dom. Come unto us, all ye who are persecuted, all 
 ye who revolt, all ye who have been overcome. 
 Blessed is Judas! He alone of the Apostles was in-
 
 290 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 itiated into the Higher Knowledge, the Gnosis. 
 He sold Christ, that Christ might die and rise 
 again, because Judas knew that the death of Christ 
 would save the world. Those who are initiated in 
 our wisdom should break-through all limits, should 
 dare all, despise property, and trample all desire 
 for it under foot, and giving themselves up to all 
 sins and all the lusts of the flesh, they should at- 
 tain a blessed loathing of the flesh and the highest 
 spiritual purity!" 
 
 "Look, Juventinus, there is a man who consid- 
 ers himself incomparably higher than the archan- 
 gels and seraphim," said Evander, pointing to a 
 well-formed young Egyptian, who stood apart 
 from all the rest, with a smile of high intelligence 
 and irony on his thin lips, which were rouged like 
 a prostitute's. He was dressed in the very latest 
 Byzantine fashion. On his white, delicate hands 
 were costly rings. He was Cassiodorus, the Valen- 
 tinian. 
 
 "The Orthodox, the Psychics," affirmed the 
 haughty Valentinian, "have a soul (psyche) like 
 the rest of mankind, but they have no spirit 
 (pneuma), as we have. We alone the initiates in 
 the Gnosis and the Godlike Pleroma, are worthy 
 to call ourselves men. All the rest are swine, or 
 dogs." 
 
 Cassiodorus instructed his pupils with a fasci- 
 nating smile: 
 
 "You must know all, but none must know you. 
 Deny the Gnosis in the presence of the profane. 
 Keep silent and despise all proofs. Despise con- 
 fessions of faith and martyrdom. Love silence and 
 secrecy. Be intangible and incomprehensible for 
 your enemies, like the disembodied powers. The
 
 Maranatha. 201 
 
 common Christians, the Psychics, need good works 
 for their salvation. He who has the higher wis- 
 dom, the Gnosis, has no need of good works. We 
 are the children of light. They are the children 
 of darkness. We fear no sin, for we know that 
 to the body belong the things of the body, and 
 to the spirit the things of the spirit. We are at 
 such a height that we cannot fall, whatever sins 
 we may commit. Our hearts remain sinless in the 
 midst of sensual indulgence, as pure gold loses not 
 its lustre, even in the dirt!" 
 
 Here also Juventinus saw a suspicious-looking, 
 squint-eyed old man, with the face of a sensual 
 faun. He was Prodicus the Adamite, who affirmed 
 that his teaching restored the primitive innocence 
 of Adam. The naked Adamites celebrated their 
 mysteries in heated churches, which they called 
 Edens. Like our first parents before the fall, they 
 were not ashamed of their nakedness, affirming 
 that all men and women among them possessed 
 the highest spiritual perfection. But the purity 
 of these paradisiacal assemblies was doubted. 
 
 Close to the Adamite Prodicus, a pale, grey- 
 haired woman sat on the ground; she wore a 
 bishop's gown, and had a stern handsome face; her 
 eyelids were half-closed from weariness. She was 
 the prophetess of the Montatists. Yellow-faced, 
 lean eunuchs guarded her. They watched her 
 with devoted eyes, and called her the Heavenly 
 Dove. Amongst the hot ruins of Phrygia, near 
 the deserted city of Pepusa, they sat in crowds 
 with their eyes fixed on a point of the horizon 
 where the Saviour should appear. On misty even- 
 ings, they saw the glory of God and the New Jeru-
 
 292 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 salem descending to the earth, in the red and gold 
 of sunset among the clouds above the grey plain. 
 
 And so year after year passed, and they died in 
 the hope that the Kingdom of Heaven would at 
 last descend on the burned ruins of Pepusa. 
 
 Sometimes raising her weary lids, and straining 
 her dim gaze into the distance, the prophetess 
 muttered in Syrian: 
 
 "Maranatha, Maranatha! the Lord cometh, 
 the Lord cometh!" 
 
 And the pale eunuchs bowed over her, listening. 
 
 Juventinus listened to Evander's explanations, 
 and thought that it was all like some strange, 
 painful dream. His heart was wrung by bitter 
 impotent pity. 
 
 All became silent. Their eyes turned in one di- 
 rection. At the other end of the Atrium, the em- 
 peror Julian stood on a marble platform. 
 
 His face was full of self-confidence. He wished 
 to give it an impassive expression, but at times a 
 flash of malicious triumph blazed up in his eyes. 
 He wore the simple white robe of an ancient phil- 
 osopher. 
 
 "Elders and teachers!" he began, turning to- 
 wards the assembly; "We have thought good to ex- 
 tend all possible tolerance and mercy to our subjects 
 who confess the faith of the Crucified Galilean. We 
 must feel pity for those who have gone astray, and 
 bring the wayward to the truth not by blows and 
 bodily punishments but by persuasions. And so 
 desiring to establish peace throughout all lands 
 which have been disturbed by the quarrels of the 
 Church, we have called you together, wise men of 
 the Galileans. We hope that under our patronage 
 and protection you will show an example of those
 
 Maranatha. 293 
 
 high virtues which are befitting to your spiritual 
 rank and wisdom." 
 
 His speech had been prepared beforehand, and 
 he spoke with graceful, flowing gestures, like a 
 practised orator before a popular assembly. But 
 through his words, full of benignant expressions, 
 hidden suggestions of malice now and then ap- 
 peared. Amongst other things, he showed that he 
 had not yet forgotten the foolish and degrading 
 quarrels of the Galileans, in the famous Council 
 of Milan, under Constantius. And it was with bit- 
 ter mockery that he further spoke of certain law- 
 less people who, regretting that they no longer had 
 the power to persecute, torture and slay their 
 brothers, now stirred up and inflamed the 
 rabble, pouring oil on the flames and filling the 
 world with fratricidal hate. They were the ene- 
 mies of the human race, the authors of the worst 
 disorder and anarchy. And he concluded his ora- 
 tion with these unexpected words, whose irony 
 was felt by all: 
 
 "We have recalled your exiled brothers who 
 were banished under Constantine and Constantius, 
 wishing to assure liberty to all the citizens of the 
 Roman Empire. Live in peace, Galileans, accord- 
 ing to the commandment of your Teacher. And 
 for the perfect restoration of amity, we charge you, 
 wise teachers, forgetting all enmities, and uniting 
 in brotherly love, to come to an ecclesiastical 
 unity, and to establish one general confession of 
 faith for all the Galileans. And to this end we 
 have summoned you hither, to our residence, ac- 
 cording to the example of our predecessors Con- 
 stantine and Constantius. Judge and decide, in 
 virtue of the power vested in you by the Church.
 
 294 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 \Ve shall withdraw, to leave you fuller liberty, and 
 shall await your wise decision." 
 
 Before the members of the assembly had time 
 to come to themselves, or to dispute this strange 
 oration, Julian, accompanied by his friends the 
 philosophers, left the Atrium and disappeared. 
 
 All kept silent. Some one sighed heavily. In 
 the stillness was heard only the joyful fluttering 
 of the doves' silky wings in the sky, and the splash- 
 ing of the fountain on the marble. 
 
 Suddenly on the platform from which the em- 
 peror had spoken appeared the good-natured old 
 man with the provincial exterior and Armenian 
 accent, at whom everybody had been laiighing. 
 The emperor's speech had offended the old Sebas- 
 tian bishop. His face was red and there was a wild 
 light in his eyes. Eustathius stood up before the 
 assembly full of spiritual zeal and forgetting his 
 former timidity: 
 
 "Fathers and brothers!" he exclaimed, and in 
 his voice there was so much decision that no one 
 now thought of laughing; 
 
 "Let us separate in peace! He who has sum- 
 moned us hither to insult and delude us, knows 
 neither the canons of the Church nor the ordi- 
 nances of the Councils. He detests the name of 
 Christ! Let us not make sport for our enemies; 
 let us refrain from angry words. I adjure you in 
 the name of the Most High God, let us depart in 
 silence!" 
 
 He pronounced these words in a loud, clear 
 voice, raising his eyes to an upper gallery, shaded 
 from the sun by purple curtains. There, in the 
 background between the columns, appeared the 
 emperor and his suite. A murmur of astonish-
 
 Maranatha. 295 
 
 ment and fear passed through the crowd. Julian 
 looked straight in Eustathius' face. The old man 
 met his gaze, and did not give way. The emperor 
 grew pale. 
 
 At the same moment, the Donatist Purpurius. 
 roughly pushed the bishop aside, and took his 
 place on the dais. 
 
 "Do not listen to him," cried Purpurius, "do 
 not depart, and do not traverse Cassar's will! The 
 Cecilians are wroth that he, our deliverer " 
 
 "No, no, brothers!" interrupted Eustathius, in a 
 voice of entreaty. 
 
 "We are not your brothers! Depart, accursed! 
 We are the clean wheat of God, you are the chaff,, 
 ordained by God for the burning." 
 
 And pointing to the Emperor, the Apostate, 
 Purpurius continued in a triumphant, resonant 
 voice, as if offering him the praises of the Church: 
 
 "Behold, there is our Savior! Look upon him I 
 Glory, glory to the blessed and all-wise Augustus I 
 He has set his foot on the asp and the basilisk, and 
 trodden under foot the lion and the serpent, and 
 the angels are commanded to keep him in all his 
 ways. Glory to Julian!" 
 
 Then the assembly began to seethe with com- 
 motion. Some maintained that they should follow 
 the counsel of Eustathius, and disperse, while oth- 
 ers wished to speak, eager to take advantage of 
 the one chance of their lives to address a Church 
 assembly. Their faces began to glow, and their 
 voices were raised angrily. 
 
 "Let one of the Cecilian bishops look into our 
 church now," continued Purpurius, triumphantly, 
 "and we will lay our hand on his head, not to con- 
 secrate a pastor, but to break his skull!"
 
 296 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Many quite forgot the purpose of the assembly, 
 and entered into abstruse theological discussions. 
 They gathered audiences around them, and tried 
 to draw them away from others and win over the 
 unexperienced. Triphon, a follower of Basilides, 
 who had come from Egypt, was surrounded by a 
 crowd of curious auditors, to whom he was show- 
 ing an amulet of transparent chrysolite, with the 
 inscription: "Abraxes." 
 
 "He who understands the word 'Abraxes,' " said 
 Triphon: "will receive the highest liberty; he will 
 become immortal and will remain unstained by 
 sin, even though indulging in all sins. Abraxes 
 expresses in letters the numbers of the celestial 
 spheres, 365. Above the three hundred and sixty- 
 fifth sphere, above the hierarchies of Eons, angels 
 and archangels, there is a certain Nameless Dark- 
 ness, more lovely than all lights, motionless, un- 
 born." 
 
 "There is a nameless and motionless darkness in 
 your ignorant head !" cried an angry Arian bishop, 
 coming near Triphon. 
 
 The Gnostic, according to his habit, immedi- 
 ately became silent, compressing his lips with a 
 contemptuous smile, half-closing his eyes and rais- 
 ing a warning finger: 
 
 "Wisdom, wisdom," he murmured half-audibly, 
 and disappeared as if he had slipped through the 
 Arian's fingers. 
 
 The prophetess of Pepusa with her adoring eu- 
 nuchs supporting her arms, raised herself lo her 
 full height, terrible, pale, disheveled, with dazed, 
 half-mad eyes, and cried out in an inspired voice, 
 seeing and hearing nothing:
 
 Maranatlia. 297 
 
 "Maranatha! Maranatha! The Lord cometh! 
 The Lord cometh!" 
 
 The pupils of the youth Epiphanias, who was 
 half heathen demigod, half Christian martyr, dei- 
 lied in the prayer meetings of Cephalonia, cried 
 out: 
 
 "Koinonia, kai isotes! Brotherhood and equal- 
 ity! There are no other laws. Destroy, destroy 
 everything! Let property and women be held in 
 common for all, like the grass, the water, the air, 
 and the sun!" 
 
 The serpent-worshipping Ophites raised up their 
 bronze cross, entwined with a tame little snake of 
 the Nile. ..! 
 
 "The wisdom of the serpent," they said, "gives 
 men the knowledge of good and evil. This is the 
 Savior, Ophiomorphos, in the form of the Serpent. 
 Fear not but hear Him, and taste of the forbidden 
 fruit, and ye shall be as gods in very deed!" 
 
 A Marcosian, a scented dandy and seducer, rais- 
 ing with the skill of a juggler, a transparent glass 
 cup filled with water, invited the curious: 
 
 "Look, look! A miracle! The water will boil, 
 and become blood!" 
 
 The Colarbasians were quickly counting on 
 their fingers, and proving that all the Pythagorean 
 numbers, all the secrets of heaven and earth, were 
 included in the letters of the Greek alphabet: 
 
 "Alpha, Omega, the beginning and the end. 
 And between them the Trinity, beta, gama, delta, 
 the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. See how 
 simple it is!" 
 
 The Fabionites, the Carpocratian gluttons, the 
 debauched Barbelonites, preached such disgusting 
 doctrines that devout folk spat, and stopped their
 
 298 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 ears. Many acted on their hearers through that 
 unintelligible force of attraction which is exer- 
 cised on the imagination by anything miraculous 
 and insane. 
 
 Every one of them was convinced that he was 
 right. And each was against all the rest. 
 
 Even the insignificant sect of the Eogatians, 
 who were lost in an out-of-the-way corner of Af- 
 rica, asserted that when Christ returned to the 
 earth, He would find the true Gospel among them 
 alone; in a few villages of Cassarean Mauritania, 
 and nowhere else, throughout all the world. 
 
 Evander of Nicomedia, forgetting all about Ju- 
 ventinus, had hardly time to note the new and 
 hitherto unrecorded shades of heresy which he dis- 
 covered, on his wax tablets, with all the passion of 
 a collector of curios. 
 
 At the same time, his eyes full of deep and sat- 
 isfied malice, the young emperor, surrounded by 
 sages in the white robes of old, looked down from 
 the marble gallery at the maddened throng. Here 
 were his friends: Proclus the Pythagorean, Nym- 
 phidianus, Eugenius Priscus, Edesias, his old 
 teacher lamblichus, the godlike and the worthy 
 Hecebolus, archpriest of Dindymene. They neither 
 laughed nor jested. Their faces were impassive. 
 They behaved like worthy men of wisdom. Only 
 from time to time smiles of pity appeared on their 
 closely compressed lips. It was the triumph of 
 Hellenic wisdom. They looked down, as the gods 
 look down on struggling mortals, and as the lovers 
 of the circus look down at the arena, where wild 
 beasts fight and slay each other. 
 
 They were cool and comfortable in the shadow 
 of the purple curtains.
 
 Maranatha. 299 
 
 But below, the Galileans, covered with sweat, 
 anathematized and preached. 
 
 In the midst of the uproar, the effeminate young 
 Cainite, with his handsome, soft face, and sad, 
 childishly bright eyes, managed to mount thj plat- 
 form, and to exclaim with a voice so full of unc- 
 tion, that all turned, grew silent, and listened to 
 his blasphemy: 
 
 "Blessed are those who bow not down before 
 God! Blessed are Cain, Ham, Judas, and the 
 dwellers in Sodom and Gomorra! Blessed be their 
 Father, the angel of Darkness and the Abyss!" 
 
 The furious African, Purpurius, who had been 
 trying to make himself heard for an hour, and to 
 utter what was in his heart, rushed at the Cainite, 
 and raised a hairy, muscular hand, "to close his 
 impious mouth." 
 
 They held him back, and tried to bring him to 
 reason: 
 
 "Father, this is unworthy of you!" 
 
 "Loose me! Loose me!" cried Purpurius, break- 
 ing away from them, "I will not endure his filth! 
 Take that, brood of Cain!" 
 
 And the Donatist spat in the Cainite's face. 
 
 All became confusion. A fight would have 
 begun, if the Roman shield-bearers had not has- 
 tened to them. Separating the Galileans, the sol- 
 diers reproved them: 
 
 "Here in the palace, is no place for this! Or 
 have you not churches enough to fight in?" 
 
 They lifted Purpurius, and would have removed 
 him. 
 
 He cried out: 
 
 "Leo, deacon Leo!" 
 
 His body-guard pushed the soldiers aside,
 
 300 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 knocked two of them down, set Purpurius free, 
 whirling the terrible Circumcellian club in the air, 
 above the heads of the heresiarchs. 
 
 "Glory to God!" howled the African, marking a 
 victim for his wrath. Suddenly the club fell help- 
 lessly from his hands. All were turned to stone. 
 In the silence resounded the piercing cry of a 
 crazy eunuch of the Pepusan prophetess. He fell 
 on his knees, and with a face drawn with terror, 
 pointed to the platform: 
 
 "The devil! the devil! look, the devil himself!" 
 On the raised marble platform, above the crowd 
 of the Galileans, with his arms crossed on his 
 breast, calm and majestic in the white robe of an 
 ancient philosopher, stood the Emperor Julian. 
 His eyes shone with an unconcealed and terrible 
 joy. At that moment, the Apostate appeared to 
 many as terrible, crafty and strong, as the Ad- 
 versary. 
 
 "It is thus, Galileans, that you fulfill the law of 
 love!" he spoke, addressing the assembly, cowed 
 with terror. "I see, I see now, what means your 
 loving kindness and tender mercy! In very truth, 
 wild beasts are more pitiful than you, oh teachers 
 of brotherly love. To speak in the words of your 
 own Teacher: 'Woe unto you, lawyers! for ye have 
 taken away the key of knowledge; ye entered not 
 in yourselves and them that were entering in ye 
 hindered. Woe unto you, Scribes and Pharisees!'"
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 CHRIST AND THE OLYMPIANS. 
 
 When Julian left the Atrium of Constantine 
 and descended the steps of the broad staircase, he 
 turned to offer sacrifice into a little temple of For- 
 tune near the palace; Maris, the grey-haired 
 bishop of Chalcedon,bent with old age, approached 
 him. Maris' old eyes trickled with rheum. A boy 
 led the blind man by the hand. The stair led to 
 the square of the Augusteum. A crowd gathered 
 below. The bishop stopped the Emperor, with a 
 majestic gesture, and addressed him in a firm, 
 clear voice: 
 
 "Give ear, all ye peoples, tribes, tongues, men of 
 all ages, all, as many as are and shall be upon the 
 earth! Give ear, ye higher Powers, ye angels, by 
 whom will soon be accomplished the overthrow of 
 the torturer! Not the king of the Amorites shall 
 be laid low, nor Og, the king of Bashan, but the 
 Serpent, the Apostate, the great Mind, the rebel- 
 lious Assyrian, the common enemy and foe, accom- 
 plishing many lies and threats upon the earth, and 
 setting himself up on high. Hear, oh ye heavens, 
 and inspire the earth! And do thou Caesar, give 
 ear to my prophecy, for God Himself speaketh by 
 my lips. His word enkindles my heart, and I can- 
 not keep silent. Thy days are numbered. N"ot 
 many days, and thou shaft perish and pass away. 
 Like dust, scattered by the wind, like dew, like the 
 hissing of an arrow, like the noise of thunder, like 
 
 301
 
 302 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 the lightning flash, thou shalt vanish. The Cas- 
 talian spring shall be dried up for ever, and men 
 shall come and make a mock of it. Apollo shall 
 become once more a voiceless idol, Daphne a tree, 
 lamented in a fable, and the grass of the tomb 
 shall grow over the ruins of the temples. Oh pol- 
 lution of Sennacherib! Thus we make it known, 
 we, Galileans, men despised, worshipping One Cru- 
 cified, disciples of the fishermen of Capernaum, 
 and ourselves fools. Worn out by long fasting, 
 half-dead, we keep watch in vain, and speak 
 empty words at the times of our sacred vigils, and 
 yet we overcome you: ' Where are your books? 
 where are your catechisms?' I borrow this song 
 of victory from one of our men of little wisdom. 
 Give hither thy royal and sophistic speech, thy 
 irrefutable syllogisms and forms of logic! Let us 
 see how our unlearned fishermen speak! And let 
 David sing once more with courage, he who laid 
 low the mighty Goliath with his sacred stones, 
 and overcame many by his meekness, and by the 
 sweetness of his harping healed Saul, tormented 
 by the evil spirit. We thank Thee, oh Lord, for 
 now Thy Church is purified by persecution. The 
 Bridegroom cometh! The wise virgins shall light 
 their lamps. Don the priest's mighty and unpol- 
 luted robe, the Christ, our righteousness!" 
 
 The blind man pronounced the last words in a 
 chanting voice, like the words of a solemn service. 
 The crowd answered him with a murmur of appro- 
 bation. Some cried out: 
 
 "Amen!" 
 
 "Have you finished ?" asked Julian, quietly. 
 
 The Emperor heard the long harangue to the 
 end with imperturbable coolness, as if the matter
 
 Christ and the Olympians. 303 
 
 did not concern him at all. Only at the corners 
 of his mouth a fine smile sometimes flickered. 
 
 "Here are my hands, persecutor! Bind me! lead 
 me away to death! Lord, I accept the crown!" 
 
 The bishop raised his dim, blind eyes to the sky. 
 
 "Do not think, good man, that I am giving you 
 over to death," said Julian; "you are mistaken! I 
 send you away in peace. In my heart there is no 
 anger against you." 
 
 "What is it? what is it? what does he say?" 
 they asked, in the crowd. 
 
 "Delude me not. I will not renounce the 
 Christ! Depart, enemy of mankind! Execution- 
 ers, lead me to death. I am ready!" 
 
 "There are no executioners, my friend. Here 
 are people as simple and kind as you are. Calm 
 yourself! Life is more irksome and commonplace 
 than you think. I have listened to you with in- 
 terest, as an admirer of all eloquence, even Gali- 
 lean. And there was something of everything in 
 it, the pollution of Sennacherib, and the king of 
 the Amorites, and the stones of David, and Go- 
 liath! There is no simplicity in your speeches. 
 Bead our Demosthenes and Plato, and most of all 
 Homer. They are really simple as children or 
 gods. And learn from them mighty peace, Gali- 
 leans. God is not in the whirlwind, but in the 
 stillness. That is all my lesson, that is all my re- 
 venge, since you yourself demanded punish- 
 ment." 
 
 "May the Lord strike you down, Blasphemer!" 
 Maris was beginning again. 
 
 "God in His wrath will not make me blind, or 
 make you see!" answered Augustus. 
 
 "I thank my God for my blindness," cried the
 
 304 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 old man, "it keeps my eyes from beholding the ac- 
 cursed face of the Apostate." 
 
 "What bitterness, what bitterness in such an 
 outworn body! You speak ever of humility and 
 love, Galileans, but what hatred there is in your 
 every word. I have just come forth from a Coun- 
 , cil, where the brethren were ready to tear each 
 other's limbs, like wild beasts, in the name of 
 God, and here you are also, with your untram- 
 meled speech. Why are you full of such hatred? 
 Am I not your brother? If you could know how 
 calm and benevolent is my heart, even now. I 
 wish you all good, I pray the Olympians to soften 
 your cruel, dark, and suffering soul, blind man! 
 Go in peace, and remember that not Galileans 
 alone can forgive!" 
 
 "Do not believe him, brothers! this is the craft 
 of the Adversary, the Serpent. Behold, oh Lord, 
 how this Apostate speaks evil of Thee, God of Is- 
 rael, and keep not silent!" 
 
 Then paying no more attention to the old man's 
 curses, Julian went forth among the people, in his 
 simple white dress, sun-lit, peaceful and wise, like 
 one of the philosophers of old. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 ARSINOE IN THE CLOISTER. 
 
 It was a stormy night. At long intervals the 
 moonbeams broke through the rapidly drifting 
 clouds, and mingled strangely with the flashing 
 of the lightning. A warm wind, full of the salt
 
 Arsinoe in the Cloister. 305 
 
 smell of rotten reeds, swept the rain in oblique 
 lines. 
 
 On the banks of the Bosphorus, a horseman was 
 approaching a lonely ruin. In immemorial days, 
 when the warlike Trojans lived here, this fortress 
 was a watch-tower. Only wind-worn stones were 
 now left of it, and half-dilapidated walls. In the 
 base of the tower was a tiny chamber, a refuge for 
 wandering shepherds and tramps in foul weather. 
 
 Tying up his horse under the shelter of a half- 
 fallen shed, and pulling a prickly burdock aside, 
 the horseman knocked at the low door: 
 
 "It is I, Meroe, open!" 
 
 An Egyptian woman opened the door, and ad- 
 mitted him to the interior of the tower. 
 
 The horseman went close to a dimly burning 
 torch. The light fell on his face. It was the Em- 
 peror Julian. 
 
 They went out. The old woman, who knew the 
 place well, led him by the hand. 
 
 Pushing aside the stiff stems of a dead thistle, 
 she sought the low entrance into a cleft between 
 the cliffs. They descended a stairway. The sea 
 was near. The thunder of the breakers shook the 
 ground. But the wall of rock sheltered them from 
 the wind. The Egyptian struck a light. 
 
 "Here, my master, a torch and the key. Turn 
 it twice. The door into the monastery is open. 
 If you meet the door-keeper, do not fear; I have 
 bribed him. Only be careful not to make a mis- 
 take on the upper corridor, the thirteenth cell 
 on the left." 
 
 Julian opened the door, and for a long time 
 continued to descend a steep broad stair of time- 
 worn stone slabs. Soon the covered passage
 
 30G Julian the Apostate. 
 
 changed into a defile so narrow that two men 
 meeting each other could not pass. This secret 
 passage once connected the watch-tower with the 
 other side of the Bosphorus, now it connected 
 the deserted ruin with a new Christian monastery. 
 
 Julian came out high above the wave-tossed sea, 
 between sharp cliffs, eaten away by the breakers, 
 and began to ascend a narrow stairway cut in the 
 face of the cliff. Reaching the top, he saw a brick 
 wall. It was uneven; many bricks were missing, 
 or stuck out. Eesting his foot in the inequalities, 
 and grasping the rough ends of the bricks, he suc- 
 ceeded in climbing over into the tiny monastery 
 garden. 
 
 He entered a neat courtyard. Here all breathed 
 tranquillity. The walls were covered with tea- 
 roses. In the warm stormy air, the scent of the 
 flowers was strong and overpowering. 
 
 The shutters on one of the lower windows were 
 not fastened from within. Julian opened them 
 gently, and climbed through the window. 
 
 The close air of the nunnery surrounded him. 
 It smelt of damp and incense, mice, medicinal 
 herbs and fresh apples, which the careful nuns 
 kept in the cellars. 
 
 The Emperor entered a long corridor. There 
 was a row of doors on either side. 
 
 He counted to the thirteenth door on the left, 
 and softly opened it. The cell was dimly lighted 
 "by an alabaster night-lamp. There was an atmos- 
 phere of dreamy warmth. He held his breath. 
 
 On a low couch, with snow-white coverlet, lay a 
 girl in a nun's robe. She must have gone to sleep 
 during the prayer time, without undressing. The 
 shadow of her eye-lashes fell on her pale cheeks.
 
 Arsinoe in the Cloister. 307 
 
 Her brows were set sternly and majestically, like 
 the brows of the dead. 
 
 He recognized Arsinoe. 
 
 She was greatly changed. Only her hair re- 
 mained the same: at the roots, dark golden, at the 
 ends, pale yellow, like honey in the rays of the sun. 
 
 Her eyelids trembled. She shuddered. 
 
 Before his eyes flashed the proud body of the 
 Amazon bathed in the sunlight and blinding, like 
 the gold-tinged marble of the Parthenon. And, 
 stretching out his hand to the nun, who slept, 
 under the shadow of the black cross, Julian whis- 
 pered, in tones of uncontrollable love: 
 
 "Arsinoe!" 
 
 The girl opened her eyes and looked at him qui- 
 etly, without astonishment or fear, as if she had 
 known that he was coming. But coming to her- 
 self, she shuddered, and raised her hand to her 
 face. 
 
 He came closer to her: 
 
 "Fear not. Say the word, and I go." 
 
 "Why have you come?" 
 
 "I wanted to know whether it was true." 
 
 "Julian, it is all the same. We shall not under- 
 stand each other." 
 
 "Arsinoe, is it true that you believe in Him?" 
 
 With downcast eyes, she made no answer. 
 
 "Do you remember that night in Athens," con- 
 tinued the Emperor, "do you remember how you 
 tempted me, a Galilean monk, as I now tempt 
 you? The pride and strength of old are in your 
 face, Arsinoe, and not the slavish humility of the 
 Galileans! Why do you lie? The heart cannot 
 change. Tell me the truth!" 
 
 "I desire power," she murmured.
 
 SOS Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "Power? So you remember our compact?" he 
 cried joyously. 
 
 She shook her head, with a mournful smile: 
 
 "Oh no! not over people, it is not worth while. 
 You know that, yourself. I desire power over my- 
 self!" 
 
 "And for it, you go into the desert?" 
 
 "Yes, and also for freedom." 
 
 "Arsinoe, as of old vou love yourself, and your- 
 self alone." 
 
 "I would gladly love myself and others, as He 
 commanded. But I cannot. I hate mvself and 
 others." 
 
 "Better not live at all!" exclaimed Julian. 
 
 "I must overcome myself," she said slowly. "I 
 must conquer myself, and conquer in myself not 
 only my detestation of death, but also my detesta- 
 tion of life. And this is far harder, because such 
 a life as mine is more terrible than death. But if 
 you conquer yourself to the end, life and death 
 will be one, and then comes mighty freedom!" 
 
 Her narrow brows we*e drawn with the stub- 
 bornness of an unbending will. 
 
 Julian looked at her in despair. 
 
 "What have they done with you?" he asked gent- 
 ly, "you are all either torturers or tortured. Why 
 do you torment yourselves? Do you not see that 
 there is nothing but hatred and despair in your 
 soul?" 
 
 She looked up at him angrily: 
 
 "Why have you come hither? I did not invite 
 you. Go! What is it to me what you think? I 
 have enough of my own thoughts and torments. 
 Between us there is a gulf fixed, which the living 
 may not cross over. You say that I do not be-
 
 Arsinoe in the Cloister. 309 
 
 lieve. But I hate myself for it. I shall reach God 
 by hatred of myself. I do not believe, but I wish 
 to believe, I will and I shall! I shall force myself 
 to. I shall subdue my flesh; I shall wither it with 
 hunger and thirst. I shall make it more dead to- 
 feeling than the lifeless stones. But most of all, 
 the reason. I must slay it, because it is the Devil. 
 It is more alluring than all desires. I shall cut it 
 away. That will be the last victory, and the 
 mightiest. Then, liberty. ^sThen we shall see 
 whether anything rebels within me, saying: *I do 
 not believe!'" 
 
 She pressed the palms of her hands together, 
 and raised them to heaven, in a desperate prayer: 
 
 "Oh Lord, have mercy upon me. Where art 
 Thou, Lord? Hear me, and have mercy upon 
 me!" 
 
 Julian threw himself on his knees before her,, 
 and clasped her round the waist; he drew her to 
 his breast, and his eyes gleamed triumphantly: 
 
 "Oh, Arsinoe! I see now that you could not de- 
 sert us; that you wanted to, and could not! Come 
 at once, come away with me! And to-morrow you 
 will be the wife of the Roman emperor, the queen 
 of the world. I came hither like a thief, I will 
 go like a lion with my prey. What a victory 
 over the Galileans! Who will hinder us? We 
 shall dare all; we shall be as gods!" 
 
 Arsinoe's face grew mournful and calm. She 
 looked at him compassionately, not thrusting him 
 away: 
 
 "Poor soul! You are to be pitied as much as If 
 You do not know yourself what you seek. And 
 what do your hopes rest on? Your gods are dead. 
 From that infection, from that terrible taint of
 
 310 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 rottenness, I am fleeing to the desert. Leave me. 
 I cannot help you. Go." 
 
 His eyes flashed with anger and passion. 
 
 But she continued calmly, with still greater pity 
 in her tone, so that his heart shuddered and grew 
 cold as from a mortal insult: 
 
 "Why do you deceive yourself? Are you not as 
 full of doubt, as much a castaway as I am? as we 
 all are? Think what your acts of mercy mean, 
 and your refuges fo? strangers, your sermons to 
 the Hellenic priests. All this is an imitation of 
 the Galileans, all this is new, unknown to the 
 great men of old, the heroes of Hellas. Julian, 
 Julian, are your gods the Olympians of old, 
 radiant and pitiless, terrible children of the 
 azure, delighting in the blood of victims and the 
 sufferings of mortals? Blood and the sorrows of 
 men are the nectar and ambrosia of the ancient 
 gods! And yours, ensnared by the faith of the 
 fishermen of Capernaum, are weak, sickly, dying 
 for love of men. Because pity for men is death 
 for the gods!" 
 
 The storm was sinking into silence. Through 
 the window, between the riven clouds, the bottom- 
 less abyss of the sky shone in a green, sad dawn, 
 in which the star of Aphrodite was dying. The 
 emperor felt weary and worn. His face was cov- 
 ered with mortal paleness. He made fearful efforts 
 to appear calm, but every word Arsinoe spoke 
 penetrated into the depths of his heart and "hurt 
 him. 
 
 "Yes," she continued inexorably, "you are 
 sickly; you are too weak for your wisdom. That 
 is your condemnation, belated Hellenes! You 
 have strength neither for good nor for evil! You
 
 The Gods Are Not. 311 
 
 are neither day nor night, neither life nor death. 
 Your heart is here, and also there. You have set 
 forth from one bank, but have not reached the 
 other. You believe, and yet believe not, ever chang- 
 ing, ever hesitating, you will, and you cannot, be- 
 cause you know not how to will. They only are 
 strong who, seeing one truth, are blind to the 
 other. They will conquer you, who are double- 
 minded, wise and weak!" 
 
 Julian raised his head with an effort, as if driv- 
 ing away an evil dream, and spoke: 
 
 "You are mistaken, Arsinoe! My soul knows 
 no fear, my will is undaunted. The powers of 
 Fate lead me. If I am destined to die before my 
 time, I know that my death will be glorious in the 
 eyes of the gods! Farewell. You see that I de- 
 part without anger, mournful and calm, because 
 you are now for me as one dead." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 THE GODS ARE NOT. 
 
 Above the gates of the chief building of the 
 hospital of the Far-darting Apollo, for beggars, 
 wanderers and waifs, a verse of Homer was in- 
 scribed in Greek letters on the marble pediment: 
 
 " Zeus is our father, 
 " We are all wanderers. Little I give, but with love it is given.'* 
 
 The Emperor entered the inner portico. A 
 graceful Ionic colonnade surrounded the court. 
 The hospital had once been a palaestra.
 
 312 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 The evening came on, still and full of quiet joy. 
 The sun was not yet set. 
 
 But from the portico of the hospital and from 
 the inner chamber came a heavy and oppressive 
 odor. 
 
 Here, in a single heap, lay children and old men, 
 Christians and heathens, sick and healthy cripples, 
 the maimed, the halt, the weak, covered with sores, 
 swollen with dropsy, wasted by decline, with the 
 stamp of all sins and all sorrows on their faces. 
 
 A half-naked old woman, with leather-colored 
 skin, like the color of withered leaves, was scratch- 
 ing her back, covered with wounds, against the 
 delicate marble of an Ionic pillar. 
 
 In the midst of a court rose a statue of the 
 Pythian Apollo, with a bow in his hands, and a 
 quiver on his back. 
 
 At the foot of the image sat a wrinkled mon- 
 ster, a mixture of childhood and old age. Clasp- 
 ing his hands round his knees, and resting his chin 
 on them, he swayed slowly from side to side, and 
 chanted an endless melancholy dirge with an ex- 
 pression of dull listlessness: 
 
 "Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy upon us 
 accursed!" 
 
 Finally the chief overseer, Marcus Ausonius, ap- 
 peared, pale and trembling. 
 
 "Most wise and gracious Caesar, will you not be 
 pleased to enter my house? The air here is bad. 
 And moreover, there are dangerous illnesses. The 
 division of the lepers is not far off." 
 
 "Never mind, I am not afraid. Are you the 
 chief overseer?" 
 
 Ausonius bowed low, trying not to breathe, for 
 fear of contagion.
 
 The Gods Are ISTot. 313 
 
 "Are bread and wine distributed daily?" 
 
 "Everything that the gracious Augustus com- 
 manded." 
 
 "What filth!" 
 
 "The Galileans are the cause of it. They count 
 it a sin to wash. You cannot get them into a bath 
 even by force." 
 
 "Order the account-books to be brought," inter- 
 rupted Julian. 
 
 The overseer fell on his knees, and for a long 
 time could not utter a word; finally, gulping and 
 stammering, he said: 
 
 "Master, everything is as it should be; but we 
 had an accident the books were burned." 
 
 The Emperor frowned. 
 
 At that moment, cries arose among the crowd of 
 sick folk: 
 
 "A miracle! A miracle is accomplished! Look, 
 a man smitten with the palsy is standing up!" 
 
 Julian turned, and saw how a man of great stat- 
 ure, his face demented with joy, and his hands 
 stretched out towards him, was rising from his 
 straw pallet with a light of childish faith in his 
 eyes. 
 
 "I believe! I believe!" cried the paralytic, "that 
 you are not a man but a god, descended upon the 
 earth! Your face is like the face of a god! Ap- 
 proach me and heal me, Caesar!" 
 
 "A miracle, a mighty miracle!" cried the sick 
 in triumph. "Glory to the Emperor, glory to 
 Apollo the Healer!" 
 
 "Come to me! Come to me!" cried others, "say 
 only a word! And I shall be healed." 
 
 The setting sun flashed through the open door- 
 way, and lit up the face of the Far-darting Apollo
 
 314 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 with a soft radiance. Julian looked up at the god, 
 and, for the first time, everything in the hospital 
 seemed a sacrilege to him. The eyes of the bright 
 Olympian ought not to look on such ugliness. Ju- 
 lian wished to cleanse the ancient palaestra where 
 mighty athletes had once exercised, of all this 
 Galilean and heathen rabble, all this foul-smelling 
 human ordure. Oh, if the antique god were to 
 awaken, how his eyes would glitter, how his arrows 
 would twang, driving away the halt and maimed, 
 and clearing the air that they had polluted. 
 
 Julian hurriedly and silently left the hospital 
 of Apollo, forgetting Ausonius and his account- 
 books. The Emperor saw that the information he 
 had received was true; that the chief overseer was 
 a pilferer, but such weariness and disgust filled his 
 heart that he had not the courage to look deeper 
 into this knavery and verify it. 
 
 When he returned to the palace, it was late. He 
 ordered no one to be admitted, and went to the 
 terrace that looked over the Bosphorus. He had 
 passed the whole day in wearisome petty affairs, 
 in official details, in the verification of accounts. 
 Many robberies had been discovered. The emperor 
 saw that his best friends deceived him. All these 
 philosophers, rhetoricians, poets and panegyrists, 
 to whom he had entrusted the government of the 
 world, cheated the treasury not less than the 
 Christian eunuchs and bishops of Constant! us' 
 time. The houses of refuge, the retreats for phil- 
 osophers modeled on the monasteries, the hospitals 
 of Apollo and Aphrodite, were the excuse for 
 clever pilfering, the more so that both Galileans 
 and heathens thought them a ridiculous and sac- 
 rilegious caprice.
 
 The Gods Are Not. 315 
 
 Julian felt that his body was being consumed 
 by a great and fruitless fatigue. Extinguishing 
 his lamp, he retired to his sleeping chamber. 
 
 "Let me think it over in silence and quiet," he 
 said to himself, looking out at the evening sky. 
 
 But he did not feel inclined to think. 
 
 A bright star was shining in the darkening 
 abyss of blue ether. Julian closed his eyelids, and 
 a starbeam shone through them, penetrating to 
 his heart like a cold caress. 
 
 He started up and shuddered, feeling that some 
 one had entered the room. The moonlight fell 
 between the columns. A tall old man, with hair 
 as white as the moonlight, with deep, dark wrinkles, 
 in which not suffering was expressed, but the pres- 
 sure of unbending will and thought, stood at his 
 couch. Julian rose, and whispered: 
 
 "Teacher, is it you?" 
 
 "Yes, Julian; I have come to talk to you in pri- 
 vate." 
 
 "I listen." 
 
 "My child, you will perish, because you are not 
 true to yourself." 
 
 "Are you also against me, Maximus?" 
 
 "Remember, Julian, the golden apples of the 
 Hesperides, eternally young. Mercy is the soft- 
 ness and sweetness of overripe, rotting fruit! You 
 fast, you seek perfection, you are full of gloom, 
 you are compassionate, you call yourself the 
 enemy of the Galileans, but you yourself are a Gal- 
 ilean! Tell me, with what weapons do you hope 
 to conquer the Crucified?" 
 
 "The beauty and gladness of the gods," an- 
 swered Julian. 
 
 "Have you strength?"
 
 316 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "I have." 
 
 "To bear the whole truth?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then know that they are not!" 
 
 Julian looked in terror at the teacher's calm, 
 wise eyes. 
 
 "Of whom do you say that they are not?" he 
 asked, trembling. 
 
 "I say that the Olympians are not. You are 
 alone." 
 
 The Emperor made no answer. His head fell 
 helplessly on his breast. 
 
 Then a great tenderness glowed in Maxim us' 
 eyes. He placed his hand on Julian's shoulder: 
 
 "Be comforted. Or have you not understood? 
 I wished to try you. The gods are. See how weak 
 you are. You cannot be alone. The gods are, 
 and they love you. Only remember, you cannot 
 unite the truth of the Titan with the truth of the 
 Galilean, the Crucified. If you wish, I shall de- 
 clare to you what He will be like, who is to come, 
 the Unknown, the Reconciler of the two worlds?" 
 
 Julian was silent, still terror-struck and pale. 
 
 "He shall appear," continued Maximus, "like 
 lightning from the clouds, bringing death and 
 lighting all things. He shall be terrible, and yet 
 without terror, higher than duty and law, higher 
 than good and evil. In Him shall blend good and 
 evil, humility and pride, as light and darkness are 
 mingled in the morning twilight. And men shall 
 bless Him, not only for His mercy, but also for His 
 sternness. In it will dwell a superhuman strength 
 and beauty!" 
 
 "Teacher!" exclaimed the Emperor, "I see it all
 
 The Gods Are Not. ' 31T 
 
 in your eyes. Tell me that you are the Unknown, 
 and I will fall at your feet, and bless you." 
 
 ''No, my son, it is not I. I am light of His light, 
 spirit of His spirit. But I am not yet He. I am 
 hope; I am the foreteller." 
 
 "Maximus, why do you hide yourself from the 
 people? Appear to them, so that they may know 
 you, as I do." 
 
 ''My time has not yet come," answered the hier- 
 ophant. "Many times have I appeared to the 
 .world, and shall appear yet many times. Men fear 
 me, and call me now a great sage, now a deluder, 
 now a wizard: Orpheus, Pythagoras, Maximus of 
 Ephesus. But I am nameless. I pass through the 
 crowd with sealed lips, and covered face. For what 
 can I say to the crowd ? They will not understand 
 my first word. The secrets of my wisdom are more 
 terrible for them than death. They are so far from 
 me that they crucify me not, nor stone me, as 
 they stone their phophets, they see me not. I live 
 in caverns of the earth and talk with the dead, I 
 go forth to the deserted mountain-peaks and talk 
 with the stars, I listen to the growing of the 
 grass, the moaning of the waves of the sea, the 
 beating of the heart of the earth, to see whether 
 my time be yet come. But my time is not yet, 
 and again I depart like a shadow, with sealed lips 
 and covered face." 
 
 "Do not depart, Teacher! do not leave me!" 
 
 "Fear not, Julian: my spirit will not leave you 
 till the end. I love you, because you must perish 
 for me, my beloved son, and there is no salvation 
 for you! And before I enter the world, and re- 
 veal myself to the people, many mighty ones will 
 perish, rejected, revolting against God, their great
 
 318 . Julian the Apostate. 
 
 hearts rent in twain, allured by my wisdom, apos- 
 tates like you. Men shall curse you, but they will 
 never forget you, because my seal is upon you, and 
 you are mine, the child of my wisdom! Men of 
 coming ages will recognize me in you, and my 
 hope in your destruction, my might through your 
 life, like the sun through a cloud!" 
 
 "If you delude me, Teacher, if your words are 
 false, let me die even for that falsehood; for it is 
 more beautiful than truth." 
 
 "Once I blessed you, for life and rule, Emperor 
 Julian; now I bless you for death and immortality. 
 Go, perish for the Unknown, for Him that is to 
 come, for the Eeconciler of the two truths!" 
 
 The old man laid his hands on the head of the 
 Rejected, with a majestic smile, like a patriarch of 
 old, like a father blessing his child, he kissed his 
 brow and said: 
 
 "Once more I disappear in the caverns of the 
 earth, and none shall know me. Let my spirit be 
 upon thee!" 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 IN THE BATHS. 
 
 In Antioch the Great, the capital of Syria, in a 
 side way not far from the main street of Singon, 
 were the Therma3, the magnificent warm baths. 
 
 The baths were fashionable and dear, and many 
 came thither to hear the latest news of the city. 
 
 Between the disrobing room and the cold room 
 was a luxurious hall, paved with many-colored 
 marbles and mosaics, called the sweating-chamber.
 
 In the Baths. 310 
 
 From the neighboring halls was heard the inces- 
 sant falling of water into the echoing baths and 
 huge basins, and the splashing and laughter of the 
 bathers. Dusky slaves, naked bathing-men, ran 
 hither and thither, bustling about and opening 
 jars of perfumes. In Antioch people looked on 
 the baths not as an amusement or a necessity, but 
 as the chief pleasure of life, as a great and compli- 
 cated art. It was not for nothing that the capital 
 of Syria was famed throughout all the empire for 
 the abundance and purity of its water. A bath or 
 a pail full of it seemed empty, so transparent was 
 the water of the Antiochian aqueduct. 
 
 Through a hot milk-white cloud of steam which 
 rose from the spiracles in the sweating-chamber, 
 were seen the red naked bodies of the chief citizens 
 of Antioch. Some were reclining, others were sit- 
 ting, and others were being rubbed with oil by the 
 bath-attendants; they all talked with an air of 
 great dignity, and sweated, giving themselves up 
 with high seriousness to this fashionable and sci- 
 entific art. The beauty of the ancient statues, the 
 Antinoes and Adonises set in niches, accentuated 
 only the more the ugliness of the living bodies. 
 
 A fat old man, of haughty and fantastic exterior 
 came out of the hot bath. He was the merchant 
 Busiriswho held the trade of the Antiochian grain- 
 market in his hands. A well-built young man 
 politely supported him by the arm. Although both 
 were naked, it was easy to see at a glance which 
 was the master, and which the client. 
 
 "Turn on the heat!" said Busiris, in a hoarse 
 voice of command. By the roughness of his tone 
 alone it was easy to guess that the corn-merchant 
 was a master of millions.
 
 320 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Two bronze taps were opened. The hot steam 
 hissed out of the spiracle, and surrounded the old 
 man with a thick cloud. Like a monstrous god in 
 his apotheosis, he stood in a damp white cloud, 
 snorting and grunting with satisfaction, and clap- 
 ping his fat palms on his red, fleshy paunch, that 
 resounded like a drum. 
 
 Close to him Marcus Ausonius the questorian 
 official, and former overseer of the houses of ref- 
 uge and hospitals of Apollo, was sitting on his 
 haunches. Diminutive and lean, he looked like a 
 pinched and frost-bitten chicken beside the fat 
 mountainous merchant. 
 
 The sarcastic Junius Mauricus could not get the 
 sweat to break out on his sinewy body, do what he 
 could. He was as dry as a stick, bony, and bilious. 
 
 Gargilianus was lying, stretched out on the mar- 
 ble floor, fat, sinewless, soft as jelly, and huge as a 
 boar's carcass. A Paphlagonian slave, panting 
 from his exertions, was rubbing his puffy back 
 with a wet cloth. 
 
 The poet Publius Porphyrius Optatianus, who 
 had recently grown rich, looked sadly at his feet, 
 deformed by gout. 
 
 "Do you know, my friends," asked the poet, "do 
 you know the message of the white oxen to the 
 .Roman emperor?" 
 
 "No; tell it to us!" 
 
 "There is only one line: 'If you conquer the Per- 
 sians, we are lost/ " 
 
 "What? is that all?" 
 
 "What more do you want?" 
 
 The white carcass of Gargilianus quivered with 
 laughter: 
 
 "I swear by Pallas, it is short but true! If the
 
 In the Baths. 321 
 
 Emperor returns victorious from Persia, he will 
 offer such a multitude of white oxen to the Olym- 
 pian gods that those animals will become a greater 
 rarity than the Egyptian Apis. Slave, my loins, 
 my loins. Hub harder !" 
 
 And the carcass, turning slowly over, rolled to 
 its other side with the sound of a heap of wet linen 
 falling on the marble floor. 
 
 "Ha-ha-haP laughed Junius, with his thin, 
 crackling, and bilious laugh. "They say that from 
 India and from the island of Taprobane an innu- 
 merable quantity of rare white birds are being 
 brought. And from somewhere in frozen Scythia 
 are coming huge wild swans. And all for the 
 gods. The Koman emperor is feeding up the 
 Olympians. What can we do? The poor things 
 have had time to get hungry since Constantine's 
 time!" 
 
 "The gods are over-eating themselves," cried 
 Gargilianus, "while we starve. For three whole 
 days there has not been one Colchidian pheasant 
 in the market, nor a single decent fish." 
 
 "The 3 r oung puppy!" remarked the corn-mer- 
 chant, abruptly. 
 
 Every one turned and became politely silent. 
 
 "The young puppy!" repeated Busiris, yet more 
 majestically and insistently. "I say that if some- 
 body squeezed your Roman emperor's lips or nose, 
 the milk would flow out of it, as it does from the 
 lips of a calf a fortnight old. He wanted to lower 
 the price of corn, and forbade it to be sold at the 
 price they settled themselves. He sent for 400,000 
 measures of Egyptian corn." 
 
 "Well? did he lower it?" 
 
 "Wait a moment, and you will hear. I spoke to
 
 322 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 the merchants. They shut up the granaries. We 
 thought it would be better to let the wheat rot, 
 rather than give in. They ate up the Egyptian 
 corn. We won't sell ours. He cooked the broth 
 himself; let him eat it!" 
 
 Busiris slapped his belly majestically. 
 
 "That's enough steam pour!" and a handsome 
 young slave with long curls, who looked like An- 
 tinous, opened a fine vase of Arabian perfumes, 
 and poured it over him. The cassia flowed in 
 thick streams over his hot, red body, and Busiris 
 wiped the big drops off with much satisfaction. 
 Then he wiped his fat fingers on the slave's golden 
 curls, as the latter bent down before him. 
 
 "Your grace," began his complaisant parasite 
 and client, "your grace was good enough to remark 
 that the Emperor Julian was nothing but a young 
 calf. Not long ago, he published a pasquinade on 
 the citizens of Antioch, with the title: 'The Beard- 
 hater,' (Misopogon), in which he answers the 
 abuse of the rabble even more abusively, declaring 
 openly that: 'you laugh at my rudeness, at my 
 beard, laugh, as much as you please. I also will 
 laugh at myself. I have no need of judges, spies, 
 prisons, or executioners/ Well, I ask you, is that 
 worthy of the Roman Emperor?" 
 
 "Caesar Constantius of blessed memory," re- 
 marked Busiris in a tone of authority, "was not 
 like Julian. You could see that he was an empe- 
 ror by his dress, by his carriage. But this fellow, 
 God forgive me, is a god-forsaken, short-legged 
 ape, a bow-legged bear who wanders about the 
 streets, unshaven, unbrushed, unwashed, with 
 black marks on his fingers. Books, learning, phil- 
 osophy, wait a little, and we will settle with you
 
 Iii the Baths. 323 
 
 for all this freethinking. You cannot jest like 
 that. The people must be held in; that is how it 
 is! Once you let them go, you cannot get hold of 
 them again." 
 
 Then Marcus Ausonius, who up to that time had 
 kept silent, thoughtfully remarked: 
 
 "We could forgive him everything, but why does 
 he take away the last pleasures that are left to us? 
 the circus and the gladiatorial shows? My 
 friends, the sight of blood affords people the high- 
 est enjoyment, and always will. It is a sacred and 
 mystic delight. Without blood there is no pleas- 
 ure and no greatness upon earth; the smell of 
 blood is the smell of Kome!" 
 
 The face of the last descendant of the Ausonii 
 expressed a strange feeling of weakness. He looked 
 at his auditors inquiringly, with naive, half child- 
 ish, half senile eyes. 
 
 The overfed carcass of Gargilianus quivered on 
 the floor; raising his head, he gazed at Ausonius. 
 
 "That was very well said: 'the smell of blood is 
 .the smell of Rome!' Go on, go on, Marcus, you 
 are in vein to-day." 
 
 "I say what I feel, friends. Blood is so sweet to 
 mankind that even the Christians could not do 
 without it. They want to cleanse the world with 
 blood. Julian is making a mistake. In taking 
 away the circus from the people, he takes away the 
 pleasure of blood. The rabble would forgive every- 
 thing, but it will not forgive that!" 
 
 Marcus pronounced these last words in a ma- 
 jestic voice. Suddenly he passed his hand over his 
 body, and his face beamed. 
 
 "You are sweating?" asked Gargilianus sympa- 
 theticallv.
 
 324 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "Yes/' answered Ausonius, with a soft smile of 
 ecstasy. "Hub, rub, quick, rub my back, before 
 it gets cold." 
 
 He lay down. The bath attendant began to rub 
 his poor bloodless limbs, suffused with a bluish 
 pallor, like a corpse. 
 
 From their niches of porphyry, the proud Helle- 
 nic sculptures of olden days looked contemptu- 
 ously through the clouds of steam at all these 
 shapeless bodies. 
 
 Meanwhile a crowd was collecting in the side- 
 street, at the entrance of the Therma. By night 
 Antioch was brilliant with fires, especially the 
 main street of Singon, which cut straight through 
 the city, for thirty-six stadia, with porticos, dou- 
 ble colonnades and luxurious shops throughout its 
 whole length. 
 
 In front of the bath staircase, illuminating the 
 motley crowd, the street lamps flared, blown about 
 by the wind. The pitchy smoke rolled in clouds 
 from the iron lamp-holders. 
 
 Jests at the emperor were heard all through the 
 crowd. Small boys dived hither and thither, shout- 
 ing satirical anapa3sts. An old charwoman caught 
 one of the young satirists and pulling his shirt 
 over his head, spanked his bare pink body with 
 the sole of her sandal, exclaiming: 
 
 "Take that! take that! You will sing low songs, 
 you little devil!" 
 
 The dusky-faced boy set up a piercing shriek. 
 
 Another, climbing on a companion's back, drew 
 a caricature on the white wall with a piece of char- 
 coal, a long-bearded goat, in an imperial diadem. 
 An older boy, probably a scholar, with a pretty, 
 mischievous 'and knavish face, added an inscrip-
 
 In the Baths. 325 
 
 tion in large letters under the drawing: "This is 
 the godless Julian." 
 
 Trying to make his voice loud and frightful, 
 and hopping from one foot to the other like a hear, 
 he half sang, half shouted: 
 
 The butcher comes, 
 The butcher comes, 
 With a big sharp knife, 
 And his beard hangs down, 
 With its black, black wool, 
 With its long, long wool, 
 Like a he-goat's beard 
 
 An old man, in black clothes, probably a 
 monk, stopped to listen to the boy. He shook his 
 head, raising his eyes to heaven, and turned to a 
 slave porter: 
 
 "It is said that out of the mouths of babes comes 
 the truth. Was it not better for us all under 
 and Ch?" 
 
 "What do you mean by C and Ch?" 
 
 "Do you not understand ? C is the first letter of 
 Constantius, and Ch is the beginning of Christ. I 
 mean that Constantius and Christ did the people 
 of Antioch no harm, not like certain wandering 
 philosophers." 
 
 "That's true, that's true. We got on better 
 with C and Ch." 
 
 A drunken beggar had overheard the witticism, 
 and started to spread it through the streets, with a 
 look of pride. 
 
 "We got on well, under C and Ch!" he cried, 
 "long live C and Ch." 
 
 That jest was destined to spread through all An- 
 tioch, and to delight the rabble with its senseless 
 jingle.
 
 326 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Even greater gayety reigned in the taverns op- 
 posite the baths, which belonged to the Cappado- 
 cian Armenian, Syrophenix. He had long ago 
 transferred his trade from the neighborhood of 
 Cassarea, near Macellum, to Antioch. 
 
 Wine was being carefully decanted from goat- 
 skins and clay amphoras into pewter goblets. Here 
 as everywhere else, people were talking about the 
 emperor. A little Syrian soldier was especially 
 eloquent. It was Strombicus, the same who had 
 taken part in Julian's expedition against the 
 northern barbarians of Gaul. Beside him was his 
 faithful friend and companion, the gigantic Sar- 
 matian Aragarius. 
 
 Strombicus felt like a fish in the water. He 
 loved revolts and disturbances better than any- 
 thing else in the world. 
 
 He was preparing to pronounce a speech. 
 An old woman, by profession a rag-picker, 
 brought a piece of news: 
 
 "We are ruined, we are ruined to the last one. 
 God has deserted us! Yesterday a neighbor told 
 me something that I could not believe at first!" 
 "What was it, old woman? tell us." 
 "It was in Gaza, dears, it happened in the city 
 of Gaza. The heathens attacked a nunnery. They 
 dragged the nuns out, stripped them, fastened 
 them to pillars in the market-place, cut their 
 bodies up, sprinkled them with barley, and threw 
 the pieces to the pigs." 
 
 "I saw," said a young spinner with a pale obsti- 
 nate face; "I saw myself how a heathen ate the 
 raw liver of a murdered deacon, in Heliopolis of 
 Lebanon."
 
 In the Baths. 327 
 
 "What an abomination!" cried a coppersmith, 
 frowning. 
 
 Many of them crossed themselves. 
 
 With Aragarius' help, Strombicus climbed upon 
 the dirty, sticky table, with pools of wine on it, 
 and striking a fine oratorical attitude, turned to 
 the crowd. Aragarius nodding his head approv- 
 ingly, pointed at him with pride. 
 
 "Citizens!" began Strombicus, "how long shall 
 we delay? let us rise in revolt! Do you know that 
 Julian has sworn that when he returns victorious 
 from Persia, he will gather all the holy men to- 
 gether and throw them to the wild beasts in the 
 arena? He will turn the basilicas into granaries, 
 and the churches into stables!" 
 
 At that moment, a hunchbacked old man stag- 
 gered into the tavern, pale with fear. He was a 
 glass-maker, and the husband of the rag-picker. 
 Stopping in despair he struck himself on the 
 thighs with both hands, attracting the eyes of all, 
 and stammered: 
 
 "Have you heard? Listen to what has hap- 
 pened! Two hundred dead bodies in the wells and 
 aqueducts!" 
 
 "When? Where? what dead bodies?" 
 
 "Hush, hush," whispered the glass-blower mys- 
 teriously: "they say that the Apostate has been 
 casting omens from the entrails of living men, 
 all about the war with the Persians and his victory 
 over the Christians!" 
 
 And suffocating with satisfaction, he went on: 
 
 "They found boxes of bones in the vaults under 
 the palace in Antioch. Human bones! And in 
 the city of Carpol, not far from Edessa, the Chris- 
 tians found the body of a pregnant woman, in an
 
 328 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 underground temple. Julian had cut her open, 
 to cast omens, all about the accursed war with the 
 Persians." 
 
 "Ho, Gluturinus! is it true that they found 
 human bones in the cloacae? You ought to know/' 
 said a shoemaker, a great sceptic. 
 
 Gluturinus, a cleaner of sewers, was standing in 
 the doorway, not daring to enter, because of his 
 unsavory odor. When he was questioned, he began 
 to smile timidly, and to blink his swollen lids: 
 
 "No, worthy sir!" he answered modestly, "they 
 found a few babies. And they also found the 
 skeletons of asses and camels. But I don't think 
 they found any human bones." 
 
 When Strombicus began to speak again, the 
 sewer-cleaner watched the orator with awe, and 
 scratching his bare foot against the door-post, lis- 
 tened with inexpressible delight. 
 
 "Men and brothers!" exclaimed the orator with 
 unwonted heat, "let us die like ancient Romans!" 
 
 "What are you bursting your throat about?" in- 
 terrupted the shoemaker angrily, "when it comes 
 to action, you will be the firct to run and leave the 
 rest of us to die." 
 
 "Cowards, you are cowards!" a rouged and pow- 
 dered woman broke into the dispute; she wore a 
 many-colored but poor garment, and was a woman 
 of the streets whom her admirers simply called the 
 Witch. 
 
 "Do you know," she continued angrily, "what 
 the holy martyrs, Theodulus, Tatianus and Mace- 
 donius said to the executioners?" 
 
 "We don't know. Tell us, Witch!" 
 
 "I heard them myself. In Phrygian Myrrha, 
 three youths, Macedonius, Theodulus and Tatia-
 
 In the Baths. 329 
 
 rms, went to a heathen temple at night and de- 
 sfroyed the idol, for the glory of God. The pro- 
 Sohsul Amachius seized the holy men, and putting 
 them on an iron frying pan, ordered a fire to be 
 lit. And they said themselves: Amachius, if you 
 wish to taste well-roasted flesh, turn us over on the 
 other side, so that we may not be underdone! And 
 all three of them laughed and spat in the procon- 
 1 sul's face. And many saw how an angel flew down 
 from heaven with three crowns. I do not think 
 you would answer so! You can only tremble for 
 your own skins! It is sad to look at you!" 
 
 The Witch turned aside, with contempt. 
 
 Cries floated up from the street. 
 
 "Can they be breaking down the idols?" asked 
 the glass-maker delightedly. 
 
 "Forward! citizens, follow me!" said Strombi- 
 cus waving his arms, and he tried to leap up from 
 the table, but slipped and would have rolled on 
 the floor if the faithful Aragarius had not caught 
 him in a tender embrace. 
 
 All rushed to the doors. From the chief street 
 of Singon a vast crowd was moving forward, and 
 choking the narrow by-street; it halted before the 
 baths. 
 
 "The aged Pamba, the aged Pamba!" the people 
 in the crowd cried to each other, joyfully. "He 
 has come from the desert to heal the people; to 
 overthrow the mighty, and save the weak!"
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 SAINT AND CAESAR. 
 
 The old man had a coarse face with high cheek- 
 bones. He wore his hair long. Instead of a tunic, 
 he wore a patched linen sack, instead of a cloak, a 
 dusty sheep-skin, with a hood for his head. In 
 walking, he leant on a long stick with a sharp 
 iron point. For twenty years, Pamba had not 
 washed because he considered every care for the 
 body a sin and believed that there -was a special 
 demon of physical cleanness. In the frightful 
 wilderness of Chalcedonian Berea, to the east of 
 Antioch, where the snakes and scorpions nest at 
 the bottom of dried up wells, he had lived in a 
 long dry reservoir, called in Syrian "kubba;" and 
 feeding on five stalks of a sweet farinaceous reed 
 a day, he had almost died of exhaustion. His dis- 
 ciples began to lower food to him on a string. For 
 seven years he lived each day on a half sextarius 
 of lentils soaked in water. His eye-sight grew 
 weak. His skin was covered with itch and scabs. 
 Then he added a little oil to his food. But he 
 began to accuse himself of sensuality. 
 
 Pamba heard from his disciples that the fierce 
 Antichrist Julian was persecuting Christ's flock, 
 and leaving the desert, he came to Antioch to con- 
 firm those who were wavering in the faith. 
 
 "Listen, listen! The saint is going to speak!" 
 
 Pamba ascended the steps in front of the baths, 
 and took his stand on the marble slab at the foot 
 of the lamp. 
 330
 
 Saint and Caesar. 331 
 
 His eyes gleamed with a fierce fire. He waved 
 his hand, pointing to the palaces, heathen temples, 
 baths, shops, courts and monuments of Antioch. 
 
 "ISTot one stone will be left standing upon an- 
 other. All shall pass away; all shall be destroyed. 
 Fire shall flash forth, and consume the earth. The 
 heavens shall be rent apart, like a burned scroll. 
 It is the dread judgment of Christ! Whither shall 
 I turn my eyes? In what shall I take delight? 
 Shall it not be to behold the kings of the earth, 
 cast into outer darkness? Shall it not be to see 
 how Aphrodite and her little son Eros tremble in 
 nakedness before the Crucified? To see how Zeus 
 with his bolts put out and all the Olympians flee 
 before the thunders of the Most High? Triumph, 
 ye martyrs! Eejoice, ye who are persecuted! 
 Where are your judges, the Eoman governors and, 
 consuls? They are caught in a flame hotter than 
 that which burned the Christians. The philoso- 
 phers, rejoicing in their vain wisdom, blush with 
 shame before their disciples, blazing in hell, and 
 neither the syllogisms of Aristotle nor the demon- 
 strations of Plato avail them. The tragic actors 
 cry out, as they never cried in the tragedies of 
 Sophocles and /Eschylus. The rope-dancers leap 
 in the fire of hell, with a zeal not seen before. 
 Then we, the people, coarse and unlearned, shall 
 tremble with joy, and shall say to the proud, the 
 wise, and the mighty: 'Look, oh scoffer! behold the 
 Crucified, the Son of the Carpenter; behold the 
 King of the Jews, clothed in purple, and crowned 
 with thorns! Samaritans, behold the Sabbath- 
 breaker, the possessed of devils! This is He whom 
 ye bound in the Pretorium, in whose face ye spat, 
 to whom ye gave vinegar and gall to drink! And
 
 332 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 \ve shall hear in answer a weeping and gnashing of 
 teeth, and we shall laugh, and delight our hearts 
 with gladness. Even so, Come Lord Jesus!" 
 
 Gluturinus the sewer-cleaner fell on his knees, 
 and blinking his swollen lids, stretched out his 
 hands as if he saw the coming Christ. The cop- 
 per-smith, clenching his fists, grew rigid like a hull 
 preparing to make an angry charge. The pale, 
 lank weaver, trembling in all his limbs, smiled 
 senselessly and murmured: "Lord, let me suffer!" 
 
 On the coarse faces of the vagabonds and toilers 
 was a wild expression of triumph, the triumph of 
 the weak over the strong, the slaves over their 
 masters. The harlot Witch gnashed her teeth, 
 with a noiseless laugh, and an insatiate thirst of 
 revenge gleamed in her drunken and threatening 
 eyes. Suddenly the rattle of weapons, and the 
 regular tramp of horses was heard. 
 
 Bound the corner appeared the Roman legion- 
 aries, the night-watch. In front of them was the 
 prefect of the East, Sallustius Secundus. He had 
 the head of a Roman official, a curved aquiline 
 nose, a broad, bare head, and wise, calm, kind 
 eyes. A simple senatorial lateclave covered him. 
 In his whole bearing there was nothing bombastic, 
 but the self-confident dignity and nobility of a 
 Roman patrician. 
 
 From behind the dome of the Pantheon erected 
 by Antiochus Seleucus, the huge, dull red disk of 
 the moon rose slowly, and threatening gleams 
 shimmered on the bronze shields of the Romans, 
 on their breast-plates and helmets. 
 
 "Disperse, citizens," Sallustius turned to the 
 crowd; "it is forbidden by the blessed Augustus to
 
 Saint and Caesar. 333 
 
 hold assemblies by night in the streets of An- 
 tioch." 
 
 The mob muttered and wavered. The street 
 boys began to whistle. An impudent, shrill boyish 
 voice sang: 
 
 "Sorrow to the poor fowls, 
 
 Sorrow to the oxen white, 
 For the emperor of Rome 
 Gives them to the gods of night ! " 
 
 The sharp threatening ring of steel was heard: 
 it was the Roman legionaries, drawing their swords 
 from their scabbards, ready to attack the crowd. 
 
 Old Pamba struck the iron point of his staff on 
 the marble slab, and cried: 
 
 "Hail, brave host of Satan, hail, wise Koman 
 leader. You have recalled the days of old, when 
 you burnt us, and we prayed God for you. Well, 
 do your will!" 
 
 The legionaries raised their swords. The pre- 
 fect stopped them with a movement of his hand. 
 
 He saw that the crowd was in his power. 
 
 "What do you threaten us with, fools?" contin- 
 ued Pamba, turning to Sallustius; "what can you 
 do? One hot night, and two or three torches will 
 suffice for our revenge. You fear the Alemans and 
 Persians we are more terrible than Persian or 
 Aleman! We are everywhere. We are among you, 
 innumerable; impalpable! We have no limits, no 
 fatherland; we recognize one kingdom, the King- 
 dom of Heaven! We are but of yesterday, yet we 
 fill the world: your cities, fortresses, islands, mu- 
 nicipalities, councils, camps, tribes, decuries, pal- 
 aces, senates, forums, only your temples we leave 
 to you. Oh, how we could overwhelm you, were it 
 not for our humility, our brotherly love, did we
 
 334 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 not desire rather to be slain than to slay. We 
 need neither fire nor sword. We are so many that 
 we need only depart together, and you perish. 
 Your cities will be deserted, you will be stricken 
 with terror at your loneliness, the silence of a 
 world. All life shall cease, stricken by death. Re- 
 member: the Roman Empire endures only through 
 the mercy of the Christians!" 
 
 All eyes were turned towards Pamba. No one 
 noticed that a man in the coarse gown of a wan- 
 dering philosopher, with a yellow, lean face, with 
 disheveled hair and a long black beard, surrounded 
 by several companions, had quickly passed among 
 the Roman legionaries who respectfully made way 
 for him. He bent towards the prefect Sallustius, 
 and whispered to him: 
 "Why are you delaying?" 
 
 "If we wait," answered Sallustius, "they will 
 disperse of themselves. The Galileans have too 
 many martyrs as it is, for us to make any new ones. 
 They fly to death like bees to honey." 
 
 The man in the philosopher's gown, stepping 
 forward, cried in a loud, clear voice, like that of a 
 general, used to command: 
 
 "Disperse the crowd! Seize the rioters!" 
 All turned at once. A cry of fear arose: 
 "It is Augustus, Augustus Julian!" 
 The soldiers charged with drawn swords. They 
 knocked down the old rag-picker. She struggled 
 under the feet of the legionaries, and shrieked. 
 Several ran. Little Strombicus was the first to 
 disappear. The crowd got locked together. Stones 
 began to fly. The copper-smith, protecting Pamba, 
 threw stones at the legionaries, but hit the Witch.
 
 Saint and Caesar. 335 
 
 She cried out shrilly, and fell, covered with blood, 
 thinking that she was dying a martyr. 
 
 A soldier seized Gluturinus. But the sewer- 
 cleaner surrendered with such readiness, (the posi- 
 tion of a martyr, honored by all, seemed to him 
 paradise, in comparison with his daily life of half- 
 starvation) and his garments had such a foul 
 odor, that the legionary instantly let his prisoner 
 go again. 
 
 In the midst of the crowd, a pedlar had got un- 
 intentionally entangled; he was driving an ass, 
 laden with fresh cabbage. He had listened to the 
 saint all the time, open-mouthed. Noticing his 
 danger, he wished to run away, but the ass was ob- 
 stinate. In vain the driver struck it over the back 
 with his stick, and clicked his tongue. Sticking 
 its front feet firmly against the ground, laying 
 back its ears, and lifting its tail, the beast began 
 to bray with a deafening roar. 
 
 And for a long time the voice of the ass echoed 
 above the crowd, victorious and ridiculous, smoth- 
 ering the groans of the dying, the shouting of the 
 soldiers, and the prayers of the Galileans. 
 
 The physician Oribazius, who was among Ju- 
 lian's companions, went up to the emperor: 
 
 "Julian, what are you doing? Is this worthy of 
 your wisdom?" 
 
 Augustus looked at him, frowning. Oribazius 
 grew confused, and did not finish his'sentence. 
 
 Julian had not only altered, but had grown old, 
 in the last few months: on his haggard face was 
 the pitiful, terrible expression which comes on 
 people who are attacked by a slow, incurable ill- 
 ness, or are possessed by a dominating idea, which 
 is nigh to madness. With his strong hands, he
 
 336 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 was tearing to pieces a papyrus scroll, which had 
 accidentally fallen into his hands, without noti- 
 cing what he was doing. 
 
 Finally the Emperor spoke, in a low, restrained 
 whisper, looking straight into the eyes of Oriba- 
 sius: 
 
 "Cease to importune me, you and others like 
 you, with fools' counsels. I know what I am 
 doing. With rascals who do not believe in the 
 gods, you cannot speak as if they were human 
 beings; you must trample them under foot like 
 wild beasts. And after all, what does it matter if 
 a dozen Galileans are slain by the hand of one Hel- 
 lene?" 
 
 Oribasius involuntarily thought: "How like he 
 is now to his cousin Constantius, in a moment of 
 anger." 
 
 Julian cried out to the crowd, in a voice which 
 seemed even to himself strange and unnatural: 
 
 "I am still Emperor, by the grace of the gods; 
 hear me then, Galileans! You may laugh at my 
 beard and my dress, but not at the laws of Eome. 
 Understand, I punish you, not for your faith but 
 for rioting. Put the rogue in chains!" 
 
 With trembling hand he pointed to Pamba. Two 
 fair-haired, blue-eyed Batavians with good-na- 
 tured faces seized the old man. 
 
 "You lie, blasphemer!" cried the triumphant 
 Pamba, " you are punishing us for our faith! Why 
 do you not spare me, as a while ago you spared 
 Maris, the blind man of Chalcedon? Why do you 
 not hide your efforts, as is your wont, by caresses, 
 and your fish-hook by the bait? Where is your 
 philosophy? Or are the times changed? Have you
 
 =-
 
 The Shrine of Apollo. 337 
 
 gone far? Brothers, let us fear, not the Roman 
 Caesar, but the living God!" 
 
 No one thought any longer of running away. 
 The victims infected each other with their fear- 
 lessness. The Batavians and Kelts were terrified 
 at their readiness to die, with laughing, gay, sense- 
 less faces. Even children threw themselves before 
 the blows of sword and spear. Julian wished to 
 stop the slaughter, but it was too late. The bees 
 were flying to the honey. He could only exclaim 
 with despair and contempt: 
 
 "Wretches, if you are so weary of life, is it so 
 hard to find a rope, or a precipice?" 
 
 And Pamba, bound, and lifted up, cried out 
 more triumphantly: 
 
 "Slay us, slay us, Romans, and we shall multi- 
 ply! Chains are our liberty, weakness is our 
 strength, our victory is death!" 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 THE SHRINE OF APOLLO. 
 
 Down the stream of the Orontes, forty stadia 
 from Antioch, was the famous grove of Daphne, 
 consecrated to Apollo. 
 
 Once the virgin nymph, so the poets tell, fled 
 from the embraces of Apollo. She stopped at the 
 bank of the Orontes, faint and overtaken by the 
 god. She turned in prayer to her mother Latona, 
 who, to free her from the persecutions of the Sun- 
 god, turned her into a laurel. From that time 
 forth Apollo loved Daphne the laurel more than
 
 338 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 all trees, and her proud greenery, that the sun's 
 rays cannot penetrate, but ever caress, he binds 
 upon his lyre, and as a wreath upon his curls. 
 Phoebus visits the spot where Daphne was trans- 
 formed, the thick laurel grove in the valley of the 
 Orontes, and mourns for her, and breathes the 
 scent of the thick leaves, warmed but not van- 
 quished by the sun, mysterious and full of gloom 
 even at the heat of noonday. Here men built him 
 a temple, and yearly celebrate a sacred festival in 
 honor of the deity of the sun. 
 
 Julian left Antioch early in the morning, inten- 
 tionally leaving his purpose unknown. He wished 
 to learn whether the men of Antioch remembered 
 the sacred festival of Apollo. On the way, he 
 thought continually of the celebration, expecting 
 to see crowds of worshippers, choirs in honor of 
 Apollo, libations, the smoke of incense, youths 
 and maidens ascending the steps of the temple in 
 white garments, the symbol of their stainless 
 youth. 
 
 The way was rough. From the stony plain of 
 Chalibonian Berea, a hot wind blew in gusts. The 
 air was full of the acrid vapor of a forest fire, a 
 bluish mist drifting down from the dreamy chasms 
 of the Casian hills. The dust stung his eyes and 
 gritted between his teeth. Through the smoky 
 hot vapor, the sunlight seemed red and sickly. 
 
 But as soon as the emperor entered the conse- 
 crated grove of Apollo, a sweet-scented freshness 
 surrounded him. It was hard to believe that this 
 paradise was only a few steps from the burning 
 road. The grove was eighty stadia round. Eter- 
 nal twilight reigned here under the impenetra-
 
 The Shrine of Apollo. 33 
 
 ble shade of gigantic laurels, that had grown there 
 for many centuries. 
 
 The emperor was astonished at the silence in the 
 grove: there were neither worshippers, nor incense, 
 nor offerings, no preparations whatever for the 
 Panegyrian festival. He thought the people must 
 be nearer the temple, and went on. 
 
 At every step, the grove seemed more deserted. 
 A strange silence reigned, unbroken by a single 
 sound, as in deserted cemeteries. Even the birds 
 did not sing; they rarely flew thither. The shadow 
 of the laurels was too dense for them. A cicada 
 began to shrill in the grass, but immediately 
 ceased as if frightened at its own voice. Only in a 
 narrow strip of sunlight, the noonday insects 
 hummed faintly and sleepily, not daring to fly be- 
 yond the boundary of the light into the surround- 
 ing darkness. 
 
 Julian entered a wider pathway between two 
 velvety gigantic walls of everlasting cypresses, that 
 cast a shade black as coal, almost as dark as night. 
 From them came a breath of sweet and sombre 
 perfume. 
 
 In one part of a crevice of rock overgrown with 
 moss, white water-drops were gathering and fall- 
 ing one after another, but the thick moss dead- 
 ened their fall. The drops fell silent, like the 
 tears of an unspoken love. 
 
 There were whole meadows of wild narcissus, 
 marguerites and lilies; here were many butterflies, 
 not colored, but black. A ray of the midday sun, 
 that struggled through the laurels and cypresses, 
 grew pale as a moon-beam, almost funereal and 
 soft as if it had come through black gauze, or the 
 smoke of a funeral torch.
 
 340 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 It seemed that Phoebus had grown pale for ever, 
 from the incurable coldness of Daphne, who had 
 remained gloomy and impenetrable, under the 
 burning kisses of the god, and still held the chilly 
 shadows of night under the boughs of the laurels. 
 And everywhere throughout the grove reigned 
 loneliness and silence, the sweet sadness of the 
 love-sick god. 
 
 Already the majestic steps, pedestals and col- 
 umns of the temple of Daphne, built in the days 
 of the Diadochians, shone blinding in their white- 
 ness among the cypresses, and Julian had not met 
 a single worshipper. 
 
 At last he saw a ten-year-old boy, following a 
 path thickly studded with hyacinths. He was a 
 weak, even sickly child. His black eyes stood out 
 strangely, shining brightly on a pale little face of 
 pure Hellenic beauty. His golden locks fell in 
 soft ringlets on his neck, and the veins on his tem- 
 ples were blue, clear as the veins of too transparent 
 leaves that have grown in the darkness. 
 
 "Do you know, child, where are the people and 
 the priests?" asked Julian. 
 
 The boy answered nothing, as if he had not 
 heard the question. 
 
 "Listen, boy, can you lead me to the chief priest 
 of Apollo?" 
 
 He gently, shook his head, and smiled. 
 
 "What is the matter with you? Why do you not 
 answer?" 
 
 Then the beautiful child pointed to his lips, and 
 then to both ears, and once more shook his head, 
 this time without smiling. 
 
 "Julian thought: "He must have been dumb 
 from his birth."
 
 The Shrine of Apollo. 341 
 
 The boy, laying his fingers on his pale red lips, 
 looked at the emperor under his brows. 
 
 "An evil augury!" muttered Julian, and he felt 
 almost terrified, in the silence, loneliness and twi- 
 light of Apollo's grove, with tte deaf and dumb 
 child who gazed steadily and enigmatically into 
 his eyes, beautiful as a god. At last he pointed to 
 an old man coming from among the trees, in a 
 stained and tattered garment, and whom Julian 
 immediately recognized as the priest. The old fel- 
 low,' bent, decrepit, tottering slightly like a man 
 who has drunk too much, laughed, and muttered 
 something as he went. He had a red nose, and a 
 round, bald pate, fringed with thin white locks 
 like white sheeps' wool, so light and downy that it 
 did not fall, but surrounded the bald place on his 
 head, almost standing up. In his bleared, moist 
 eyes, the old drunkard had a light of almost child- 
 ish good-nature. He was carrying a wicker basket. 
 
 "The priest of Apollo?" asked Julian. 
 
 "That is who I am; my name is Gorgias. And 
 what do you want, here, good man?" 
 
 "Can you show me where the high priest of the 
 temple and the worshippers are?" 
 
 Gorgias at first made no reply, but set his wicker 
 basket on the ground. Then he began to rub his 
 bare poll in a concerned way with his palm, then 
 set both hands upon his hips, and leaning his head 
 on one side, winked one eye, not without a certain 
 air of roguishness: 
 
 "And why should I myself not be the high 
 priest of Apollo?" he said, after an interval, "and 
 what worshippers do you speak of, my son? May 
 the Olympians have mercy on you!" 
 
 He smelt strongly of wine. Julian, to Avhom
 
 34:2 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 the high priest seemed indecent, was preparing to 
 give him a stern rebuke. 
 
 "Old man, you must be drunk." 
 
 Gorgias was quite unabashed, and only rubbed 
 his bare crown th harder, and winked still more 
 knowingly. 
 
 "Drunk, well, not exactly drunk. But I did 
 take four or five cups for the Panegyria. And 
 even so, you drink in sorrow, not in joy. So it is, 
 my son, and may the Olympians bless you. And 
 who may you be yourself? Judging from your 
 dress, you are a wandering philosopher, or a 
 school-teacher, from Antioch?" 
 
 The Emperor smiled and shook his head. He 
 wished to question the priest further. 
 
 "You have guessed. I am a teacher." 
 
 "A Christian?" 
 
 "No, a Hellene." 
 
 "Oh, that is it, is it? A lot of those godless folk 
 come here." 
 
 "Still you have not answered me, old man; 
 where are the people? Have they brought many 
 offerings from Antioch? Are the choirs ready?" 
 
 "Offerings? What next?" laughed the old man; 
 and wagged his head so vigorously that he almost 
 fell, "why friend, we have not had any this long 
 time, since Constantine's days!" 
 
 Gorgias waved his hand with a gesture of de- 
 spair, and cried: 
 
 "It is all over! Men have forgotten the gods. 
 As for offerings, we have never even an offering of 
 flour to bake the god a cake, or a grain of incense, 
 or a drop of oil for his lamp. Lie down and die 
 that is all that is left, my son, and may the Olym- 
 pians bless you! The monks have taken every-
 
 The Shrine of Apollo. 343 
 
 thing away. And they fight into the bargain. 
 Our little song is sung. The times are evil. And 
 you say: Do not drink! You must drink to drown 
 your sorrow. If I did not drink, I would have 
 hung myself long ago." 
 
 "No one has come from Antioch, for so great a 
 festival?" asked Julian. 
 
 "No one but yourself, my son. I am the priest; 
 you are the people. We'll offer a sacrifice together." 
 
 "You just said that not a single offering had 
 been brought to you." 
 
 Gorgias caressed his bald head with satisfaction. 
 
 "Other folk brought nothing: I have one of my 
 own. I looked to it myself. Euphorion and I 
 went hungry for three days," he went on, pointing 
 to the deaf and dumb boy, "to save up for an offer- 
 ing. Look!" 
 
 He raised the wicker lid of the basket. A goose 
 lifted its head and hissed, trying to get free. 
 
 "Ha-ha-ha! Isn't that an offering?" asked 
 the old man, proudly, "though the goose is no 
 longer young nor very fat, still it is a good and 
 holy bird. Apollo ought to be glad of it, as times 
 go. The steam of it will be good. The gods are 
 fond of geese," he added, winking his eye, with a 
 sly and piercing expression. 
 
 "Have you lived long in this temple?" asked 
 Julian. 
 
 "A long time, now. Forty years, may be 
 more." 
 
 "Is this your son?" said the emperor, pointing 
 to Euphorion, who had been watching all the time 
 with a fixed and thoughtful gaze, as if trying to 
 guess what they were saying. 
 
 "No, he is not my son. I have neither friends
 
 344 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 nor kindred. Euphorion assists me in the ser- 
 vices." 
 
 "Who are his parents?" 
 
 "His father I do not know, and I doubt if any 
 one knows. But his mother was the great Sibyl, 
 Diotime, who lived many years in this temple. She 
 never spoke with men nor raised her veil before 
 them, and was perfect as a vestal. When her child 
 was born, we wondered and did not know what to 
 think. But a wise centenarian priest, a hierophant, 
 told us." 
 
 And with a mysterious face, Gorgias, shading 
 his mouth with his palm, whispered in Julian's 
 ear, as if the boy might overhear: 
 
 "The hierophant said that the child was not the 
 son of a mortal, but of a god who had secretly 
 come by night to the Sibyl's embraces, when she 
 was asleep within the temple. You see how beau- 
 tiful he is?" 
 
 "A deaf and dumb boy, the son of a god?" 
 interrupted the emperor, astonished. 
 
 "What then? If in such times as ours," went 
 on the priest, "the son of a god and a prophetess 
 was not deaf and dumb, he would die of shame. 
 Look how thin and pale he is, even as it is!" 
 
 "Who knows?" muttered Julian, with a mourn- 
 ful smile. "May be you are right, old man, it is 
 better for a prophet to be dumb in our days." 
 
 Suddenly the boy came up to Julian, quickly 
 seized him by the hand and kissed it, looking into 
 his eyes with a strange, deep gaze. 
 
 Julian started. 
 
 "My son," said the old fellow, with a trium- 
 phant and joyful smile. "May the Olympians bless 
 you! You must be a good man. The boy never
 
 The Shrine of Apollo. 345 
 
 caresses the evil or impure. He runs away from 
 the monks, as from the plague. It seems to me 
 that he sees and hears more than we do, only he 
 cannot tell about it. I have sometimes found him 
 alone in the temple: he would sit whole hours be- 
 fore the image of Apollo and watch it, and smile 
 as if he was talking with the god." 
 
 Euphorion's face clouded over, and he went 
 softly away from them. 
 
 Gorgias regretfully struck himself on the bald 
 crown, shook himself, and said: 
 
 "But why do I stay here gossiping with you? 
 The sun is high. It is time to offer the sacrifice. 
 Come." 
 
 "Wait, old man," said the emperor; "I wished 
 to ask you something more: have you heard that 
 the Emperor Julian has resolved to set up the 
 worship of the old gods again?" 
 
 "How should I not hear it?" the priest shook his 
 head incredulously, and waved his hand. "What 
 can he do, poor fellow? Nothing will come of it. 
 It is useless. I tell you it is all over!" 
 
 "You believe in the gods!" said Julian. "Can 
 the Olympians desert mankind for ever?" 
 
 The old man sighed deeply, and bent his head: 
 
 "My son, you are young," he said, at last, "al- 
 though the early grey is touching your locks and 
 there are wrinkles on your brow. But in the days 
 when my white hair was black and the girls looked 
 at me, I remember we were once sailing in a ship 
 not far from Thessalonica, and we saw Mount 
 Olympus from the sea. Its base and middle were 
 wrapped in a light blue mist, but the snowy sum- 
 mits soared in the air, and gleamed, a glory in the 
 sky above the sea, and unapproachable in their
 
 346 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 golden light. And I thought to myself: That is 
 where the gods live! And my heart was full of 
 awe. But on the same boat there was an old man, 
 an evil jester who called himself an Epicurean. 
 He pointed to Mount Olympus and said: 'My 
 friends, many years have passed since travelers 
 reached the summit of Olympus. They found that 
 it was an ordinary mountain, just like any other. 
 There was nothing there but snow, ice, and stones.' 
 Thus he spoke, and his words sank deep into my 
 heart, and I have remembered them, all my life." 
 
 The emperor smiled. 
 
 "Old man, your faith is childish. If there are 
 no gods on Olympus, why should they not be still 
 higher, in the realm of eternal Ideas, in the king- 
 dom of spiritual light?" 
 
 Gorgias' head sank still lower, and he scratched 
 his poll despondently. 
 
 "That is so. But all the same, it is all over. 
 Olympus is empty!" 
 
 Julian looked at him silent and wondering. 
 
 "You see," continued Gorgias, "the earth now 
 gives birth to people as weak as they are cruel and 
 hard-hearted. The gods can only mock them or 
 grow wroth at them. It is not worth while to de- 
 stroy them. They will perish themselves, of sick- 
 ness and corruption and weariness. The gods have 
 grown tired, and have departed." 
 
 "And you think, Gorgias, that the human race 
 must perish?" 
 
 The priest shook his head. 
 
 "Oh ho ho, my son! may the Olympians save 
 you! All is going to wrack and ruin. The earth 
 is growing old. The rivers flow slower. An old 
 boatman told me, not long ago, that when you are
 
 The Shrine of Apollo. 347 
 
 sailing away from Sicily, you cannot see Etna at 
 so great a distance as of old. The air has grown 
 thicker and darker. The sun has grown dim. The 
 end of the world is at hand." 
 
 "Tell me, Gorgias, in your memory, were there 
 ever better times?" 
 
 The old man brightened up, and his eyes 
 gleamed with the fire of recollection: 
 
 "When I came here, in the first years of Con- 
 stantino's reign," he answered joyfully, "there 
 were still great Panegyria every year in Apollo's 
 honor. How many lovers, youths and maidens, 
 used to gather in the sacred grove! And how the 
 moon shone, and how the cypresses smelt, and how 
 the nightingales sang! And when their songs died 
 away, the air trembled with the nightly kisses and 
 the sighs of the lovers, like the whisper of unseen 
 wings. Those were the times!" 
 
 Then Gorgias ceased, and fell into melancholy 
 thought. 
 
 At that same moment, the sad sound of church 
 singing was clearly borne to them from beyond the 
 trees. 
 
 "What is that?" asked Julian. 
 
 "The monks," answered the priest, "every day 
 they pray over the bones of a dead Galilean." 
 
 "What? a dead Galilean here, in the sacred 
 grove of Apollo?" 
 
 "Yes. They call him the martyr Babylas. Ten 
 years ago, the Emperor Julian's brother, Cffisar 
 Gallus brought the dead bones of Babylas from 
 Antioch to Daphne's grove, and built a splendid 
 sarcophagus over them. Since then, the prophe- 
 cies have ceased. The temple is polluted and the 
 god has departed."
 
 '348 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "What sacrilege!" cried the emperor, in anger. 
 
 "It was that same year/' continued the old man, 
 rt that the virgin Sibyl Diotime gave birth to a deaf 
 and dumb son, which was an augury of ill. The 
 waters of the Castalian spring, choked by a stone, 
 grew scant, and lost their prophetic power. Only 
 one of the sacred streams has not dried up; it is 
 called 'the Tears of the Sun;' you see it there, 
 where my boy is now sitting. Drop by drop, it 
 oozes forth from the mossy stone. They say that 
 Helios is weeping for the nymph who was turned 
 into a laurel. Euphorion sits whole days there." 
 
 Julian looked up. The boy was sitting motion- 
 less in front of the mossy stone, and stretching 
 out his palm, was collecting the falling drops. A 
 sunbeam pierced through the laurels, and the slow- 
 tears sparkled in it, silent and unassuaged. The 
 shadows were strangely tremulous, and Julian fan- 
 cied for a moment that he saw two transparent 
 wings flutter behind the back of the child, beauti- 
 ful as a child of the gods. He was so pale, so fra- 
 gile, so lovely, that the emperor involuntarily 
 thought: 'It is Eros himself, the little old god of 
 love, sick and dying in our age of Galilean sadness. 
 He is gathering the last tears of love, the tears of 
 the god for Daphne, for vanished beauty." 
 
 The deaf mute sat motionless, and a great black 
 butterfly, velvety and funereal, alighted on his 
 head. He did not notice it, and did not move. 
 Like an ill-omened shade, it hovered over his bent 
 head. And the golden Tears of the Sun, one after 
 the other, fell slowly into Euphorion's pink hand, 
 and round him spread the sounds of the church 
 singing, funereal and hopeless, rising ever louder 
 and louder.
 
 The Shrine of Apollo. 349 
 
 Suddenly the voices of disputants were heard 
 from behind the cypress-trees. 
 
 "Augustus is here." 
 
 "Why should he come alone to Daphne?" 
 
 "Because this is the day of the great Panegyria 
 of Apollo. Look, he is there! Julian we have 
 been seeking you since early morning!" 
 
 The speakers were the Greek sophists, learned 
 men, and rhetoricians, the emperor's wonted com- 
 panions. Here were the ascetic, the neo-Pythago- 
 rean Prisons from Epirus, and the bilious sceptic 
 Junius Mauricus, and the wise Sallustius Secun- 
 dus, and the renowned Antiochian orator Liba- 
 nius, vainest of men. 
 
 Augustus paid no attention to them, and did 
 not even greet them. 
 
 "What is the matter with him?" muttered Ju- 
 nius Mauricus, in Priscus' ear. 
 
 "He is probably dissatisfied to find that no prep- 
 arations were made for the festival. We have been 
 careless, indeed! not a single sacrifice." 
 
 Julian turned to Hecebolus the former Chris- 
 tian orator, and now high priest of Astarte: 
 
 "Go to the chapel over there, and announce to 
 them my command that the Galileans who are cel- 
 ebrating a service over the relics should come 
 here." 
 
 Hecebolus went to the chapel hidden among the 
 trees, whence came the sounds of singing. 
 
 Gorgias, holding the basket with the goose in 
 his right hand stood motionless with staring eyes. 
 Sometimes, with desperate energy, he took to 
 scratching his pate. He thought he had drunk too 
 much wine, and that he was dreaming it all. A 
 oold sweat gathered on the poor old man's brow,
 
 350 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 when he remembered what he had said to that 
 supposed school-teacher, about Julian Augustus, 
 and the gods. His knees knocked together in ter- 
 ror. He knelt before Julian: 
 
 "Oh Cffisar, be gracious! Forget my rash words. 
 I did not know." 
 
 One of the officious philosophers wished to drive 
 the old man away: 
 
 "Where are you going? get away, old fool!" 
 
 Julian stopped him: 
 
 "Do not insult the priest. Rise, Gorgias! Here 
 is my hand. Do not fear. While I live, no one 
 shall harm you or your boy. We have both come 
 to the Panegyria; we both love the old gods, let 
 us be friends, and meet the festival of the Sun 
 with glad hearts." 
 
 The church singing ceased. In the cypress alley 
 appeared the pale frightened monks, deacons, and 
 the priest himself, who had not had time to re- 
 move his stole. Hecebolus led them. The presby- 
 ter, a fat man with a shining, bronze-red face, 
 puffed, blew, and wiped the sweat from his brow. 
 Stopping before Augustus, he bowed low, bringing 
 his hand to the earth, and spoke in a thick, pleas- 
 ant bass which the worshippers were particularly 
 fond of: 
 
 "May the most humane Augustus have mercy 
 on his unworthy slaves." 
 
 He bowed still lower, and when he rose again, 
 muttering, two young acolytes, who greatly resem- 
 bled each other, lank, with faces yellow as wax, 
 supported him on either side, holding his hands. 
 One of them had forgotten to leave his censer, and 
 a fine thread of smoke rose from the embers. Eu-
 
 The Shrine of Apollo. 351 
 
 phorion, seeing the monks from afar, immediately 
 ran away. Julian spoke: 
 
 "Galileans! Before to-morrow night, I com- 
 mand you to clear the grove of Apollo of this dead 
 man's bones. We do not wish to employ force 
 against you, but if our will is not executed, we 
 shall take measures ourselves to free Helios from 
 the sacrilegious presence of these Galilean ashes. 
 I shall send my soldiers here, to dig up the bones, 
 and burn them, and cast the ashes to the winds. 
 Such is our will, citizens!" 
 
 The presbyter coughed gently, covering his 
 mouth with his palm, and finally murmured in a 
 most humble voice: 
 
 "Most gracious Caesar, this is of course most 
 grievous for us, because for a long time already 
 have these relics rested in a sanctified place, ac- 
 cording to the will of the Caesar Gallus. But the 
 matter is beyond our power; we shall lay it before 
 the bishop." 
 
 A noise was heard in the crowd. A boy, hiding 
 behind a laurel-bush was singing: 
 
 The butcher comes, 
 
 With a big, sharp knife, 
 
 And his beard hangs down, 
 
 With its black, black wool, 
 
 With its long, long wool, 
 
 Like a he-goat's beard, 
 
 Make a rope of it 
 
 But some one gave the boy such a slap, that he 
 ran away howling. 
 
 The presbyter, thinking that for decency's sake, 
 he ought to make a stand for the relics, again 
 began, humbly coughing in his hand: 
 
 "If it pleases thy wisdom to decree this, because 
 of the idol"
 
 352 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 He quickly corrected himself: 
 "That is, the Hellenic god, Helios " 
 The emperor's eyes flashed with anger. 
 "The idol!" he interrupted the priest, "the idol, 
 that was your word. What fools do you take us 
 to be, if you think we deify the substance of the 
 images, the bronze, or stone, or wood? All your 
 preachers try to make themselves and others and 
 even us believe that! But it is a lie! We honor 
 not the dead stone, bronze, or wood, but the soul, 
 the living soul of beauty in our images, symbols of 
 the highest human joy. It is not we who are idol- 
 aters, but you, who fight like wild beasts for 
 'homo-ousios,' and 'homoi-ousios,' for a single 
 iota, you who kiss the rotten bones of criminals, 
 punished for breaking the Roman laws, you who 
 called the fratricide Constantius 'his Eternity/ 
 and 'his Holiness.' We deify a splendid sculpture 
 of Phidias which breathes Olympian beauty and 
 wisdom; is not this wiser than to bow down before 
 two wooden beams, fastened cross-wise, a base 
 instrument of punishment? Ought I to blush for 
 you, or to pity you, or to hate you? It is the 
 crown of folly and dishonor for our land that the 
 descendants of the Hellenes, who have read Homer 
 and Plato, should betake themselves whither? 
 oh, baseness, to an outcast tribe almost destroyed 
 by Vespasian and Titus, to deify a dead Jew. 
 And yet you dare to accuse us of idolatry!" 
 
 The presbyter, unabashed, stroking his soft sil- 
 very-black beard with his five fingers, looked 
 askance at Julian with a bored and weary look, 
 and wiped big drops of sweat from his shining 
 forehead.
 
 The Shrine of Apollo. 353 
 
 Then the emperor said to the philosopher Pris- 
 cus: 
 
 "My friend, you know the old rites of the Hel- 
 lenes. Accomplish the Delian mystery necessary 
 to purify Apollo's temple from the sacrilegious 
 presence of these dead bones. The god will return 
 to his dwelling-place, the old oracles will be re- 
 stored as soon as the stone is removed from the 
 Castalian spring." 
 
 The presbyter closed the meeting with a pro- 
 found bow, with the humility in which invincible 
 obstinacy is felt. 
 
 "Be it according to thy will, most potent Augus- 
 tus! We are children. Thou art our father. In 
 the Scripture, it is said: 'Let every soul be subject 
 unto the higher powers. For there is no power, 
 but of God/ " 
 
 "Oh hypocrites!" exclaimed the emperor, "I 
 know, I know your humility and obedience. Eise 
 up against me, and fight like men ! Your humility 
 is your serpent's sting, slaves! With it you poison 
 those whom you bow down before. Your own 
 Teacher well said of you: 'Woe unto you, Scribes 
 and Pharisees, hypocrites, for ye are like unto 
 whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful 
 outward, but are within full of dead men's bones 
 and of all uncleanness!' In truth ye have filled 
 the world with dead men's bones, and uncleanness. 
 You fall down before dead bones, and expect to 
 be saved l>y them. Like sepulchral worms, you 
 feed on decay. Is that what Jesus taught? Bid 
 He command you to hate your brothers, whom you 
 call heretics, because they do not believe as you be- 
 lieve? The words of the Galilean are applied to 
 you out of my mouth: 'Woe unto you Scribes and
 
 354 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Pharisees, hypocrites! oh generation of vipers, 
 how will ye flee from the wrath to come?' " 
 
 He turned to go away, when suddenly an old 
 man and an old woman came forth from the crowd 
 and threw themselves at the emperor's feet. Both 
 of them in poor, tattered, garments, but well- 
 favored and greatly resembling each other, with 
 birdlike faces and kindly wrinkles around their 
 bleared eyes, they recalled Philemon and Baucis. 
 
 "Protect us, just Ca3sar!" begged the old man; 
 "we have a little house in the suburb of Antioch, 
 at the foot of Staurinus. We have lived in it 
 twenty years. We reverenced God. Then sud- 
 denly, the other day, the decurions " 
 
 At this point, the old man clasped his hands in 
 despair, and the old woman clasped hers: her every 
 movement mimicked his. 
 
 "The decurions come and say: 'The house isn't 
 yours!' 'How? not ours? The Lord be with you. 
 We have owned it for twenty years.' 'You have 
 occupied it, but against the law. The land belongs 
 to the temple of the god ^Esculapius, and the 
 foundations of the house are laid on stones of the 
 ruined shrine. We are going to take your land 
 away, and restore it to yEsculapius.' What are we 
 to do? be merciful to us, all-powerful Augustus!" 
 
 The old couple knelt before him, clean and de- 
 cent, like children, kissing his feet in tears. Ju- 
 lian noticed an amber cross on the old woman's 
 neck: 
 
 "Christians?" he asked, clouding over. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I would gladly grant your request. But what 
 can I do? The ground belongs to the god. But
 
 The Shrine of Apollo. 355 
 
 I will give orders to pay you the value of the prop- 
 erty." 
 
 "No, no, we do not want that/' said the old cou- 
 ple, "we have grown accustomed to the place. 
 Everything there is ours. We know every blade of 
 grass. We do not want money." 
 
 "Everything there is ours," said the old woman, 
 like an echo, "our vineyard, our olives, our chick- 
 ens, our cow, our little pigs, everything our own. 
 And there is the little bench on which we have sat 
 of an evening, for twenty years, warming our old 
 bones in the sun." 
 
 The emperor, not listening, turned to the fright- 
 ened crowd, standing further off: 
 
 "This is the last time the Galileans shall besiege 
 me with requests for the restoration of church 
 lands. Thus the Valentinians from the city of 
 Edessa complain of the Arians, who, they say, took 
 away their land. To cut the quarrel short, I gave 
 one part of the disputed property to my Gallic vet- 
 erans, and the other to the treasury. And thus I in- 
 tend to act in the future. You ask by what right? 
 But you yourselves say 'it is easier for a camel 
 to pass through the eye of a needle, than for a rich 
 man to enter into the kingdom of heaven/ So, 
 you see, I have decided to help you to fulfill your 
 difficult and wise law. As is known to all the 
 world, you exalt poverty, Galileans. Then why do 
 you rail against me? In taking away property 
 which you have stolen from your brothers the her- 
 etics, or from Helenic shrines, I only set you again 
 on the path of salutary poverty, which leads 
 straight to the kingdom of heaven." 
 
 An unkind smile flickered across his lips.
 
 356 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "We suffer evil against the law!" cried the old 
 couple. 
 
 "Very good, then; endure it," answered Julian. 
 "You should rejoice in persecutions and insults, 
 as the Nazarene taught you. What signify these 
 temporary sufferings in comparison with eternal 
 blessedness?" 
 
 The old man was least of all prepared for such 
 an argument. He grew bewildered, and could only 
 mutter as a last hope: 
 
 "We are your faithful slaves, Augustus! My 
 son is serving as the assistant of the strategos in a 
 distant fortress on the Koman frontier, and his su- 
 periors are satisfied with his work." 
 
 "Also a Galilean?" interrupted Julian. 
 
 "Yes," answered the old man, frightened at his 
 own admission. 
 
 "Well, it is well that you warned me. The Gali- 
 leans are the bitter enemies of the Eoman Augus- 
 tus, and must not therefore fill the higher offices 
 of the empire, especially the military offices. Once 
 more in this as in much else, I am more in har- 
 mony with your Teacher than you are yourselves. 
 Is it just that the disciples of Jesus should dispense 
 justice according to the Roman law, when he said: 
 'Judge not, that ye be not judged?' Or that Chris- 
 tians should accept from us the sword for the pres- 
 ervation of the empire, when your Teacher has 
 warned you that 'He that draweth the sword shall 
 perish with the sword?' And in another place as 
 plainly: 'Resist not evil.' This is why, busy for 
 the salvation of Christian souls, we shall take away 
 Roman justice, and the Roman sword from them; 
 therefore let them enter the kingdom of heaven,
 
 The Shrine of Apollo. 357 
 
 light, undefended, unarmed, estranged from all 
 that is worldly and vain." 
 
 With a silent inner laugh, which somewhat re- 
 lieved his hatred, the emperor turned, and rapidly 
 entered the temple of Apollo. 
 
 The old people sobbed, stretching out their 
 hands to him: 
 
 "Caesar, we did not know. Take our little house, 
 our land, everything that we have, only have 
 mercy on our son!" 
 
 The philosophers wished to enter the doors of 
 the temple with the emperor. He stopped them 
 with a wave of his hand: 
 
 "I alone came to the festival. I alone bring an 
 offering to the god." 
 
 "Come," he turned to the priest, "close the 
 doors, so that none of the impure may enter." 
 
 In the very faces of his philosophic friends, the 
 doors slammed to. 
 
 "The impure! How do you like that?" said 
 Gargilianus, uncertain what to think. 
 
 Libanius sniffed, and sulked in silence. 
 
 With a mysterious air, Mauricus led his compan- 
 ions to a corner of the portico, and whispered 
 something, pointing to his forehead: 
 
 "Do you understand?" 
 
 All were astonished. 
 
 "Is it possible?" 
 
 He began to count on his fingers: 
 
 "To begin with, pale face, burning eyes, dishev- 
 eled hair, uneven steps, disconnected speech. Sec- 
 ondly, extreme irritability and hard-heartedness. 
 Thirdly, these senseless wars with the Persians; I 
 swear by Pallas! It is clear madness!"
 
 358 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 The friends drew closer together, and whis- 
 pered, gossiping delightedly. 
 
 Sallustius standing apart, watched this confer- 
 ence with a bitter smile. 
 
 Inside the temple, Julian found Euphorion. The 
 boy was gay, and during the celebration of the sa- 
 cred rites, often looked into the emperor's eyes and 
 smiled enigmatically, as if they had a common 
 secret. 
 
 Lit up by the sun, the gigantic statue of Apollo 
 rose in the center of the temple. The body was 
 ivory, the garments gold, as in the Zeus of Phidias 
 at Olympia. The god, slightly bending, was mak- 
 ing a libation to Mother Earth, praying that she 
 should restore Daphne to him. 
 
 A light cloud passed over; shadows shimmered 
 on the ivory, golden-yellow with age, and it seemed 
 to Julian that the god bent towards him with a 
 benevolent smile, accepting the last offering of his 
 last worshippers, the decrepit priest, the apostate 
 emperor, and the prophetess' deaf and dumb child. 
 
 "This is my reward," thought Julian, with 
 childlike pleasure, "and I wish for no other glory. 
 Oh Apollo, I thank thee that I am cursed and re- 
 jected by the crowd, as thou art; that I live alone, 
 and shall die alone like thee! Where the mob 
 worships, God is not. Thou art here in the ac- 
 cursed shrine. Oh god, mocked at by men, thou art 
 now more beautiful than in the days when men 
 bowed before thee! In the day appointed for me 
 by the Fates, let me unite myself with thee, oh 
 joyful one; let me die into thee, oh Sun, as on 
 the altar the last fire dies in thy radiance!"
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 THE BURNING OF THE SHRINE. 
 
 Darkness reigned in Daphne's grove. A hot 
 wind chased the clouds. Not a drop of rain fell 
 to the earth, parched with the heat. The black 
 branches of the laurels trembled, stretched to- 
 wards the sky. The titanic alleys of cypress rus- 
 tled, and the sound was like the talking of angry 
 old men. 
 
 Two figures stole through the shadows close to 
 Apollo's temple. The shorter, who had green cat' s 
 eyes, that saw excellently at night, led the taller 
 by the hand. 
 
 "Oh, oh, oh, nephew! we'll break our necks 
 somewhere in a chasm." 
 
 "There are no chasms here. What are you 
 afraid of? Since you got baptized, you have 
 turned into a regular old woman." 
 
 "An old woman! my heart beat evenly when I 
 fought against bears in the Hyrcanian forest with 
 my spear. But here, it is different. You and I 
 will dangle together on one gallows, nephew!" 
 
 "Well, well, keep quiet, you fool!" 
 
 The shorter once more dragged on his tall com- 
 panion, who had a huge bundle of straw on his 
 shoulders, and a spade. 
 
 They stealthily reached the rear wall of the tem- 
 ple. 
 
 "Here, with the spade first," whispered the 
 shorter, feeling among the bushes along the wall 
 
 359
 
 360 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 for a hole left among the hricks by the careless- 
 ness of the builders, "then break the wooden board- 
 ing inside with the axe." 
 
 The blows of the spade were muffled by the 
 wind among the trees. Suddenly there was a cry, 
 like the wail of a sick child. 
 
 The taller of the two shivered in all his limbs. 
 
 "What was that?" 
 
 "The Evil Power!" exclaimed the shorter, his 
 green eyes starting out with terror, and gripping 
 his companion's garment. "Oh, oh, do not desert 
 me, uncle!" 
 
 "'Why, it was only a screech-owl what cowards 
 we are!" 
 
 The huge night-bird, disturbed by their com- 
 ing, had started up flapping its wings, and disap- 
 peared in the distance with a long cry. 
 
 "Let us leave it," said the taller; "all the same, 
 it will not burn." 
 
 "How can it not biirn? The wood is rotten, 
 dried by the sun and eaten by worms, touch it, 
 and it falls to pieces. It will kindle from a single 
 spark. Come, come, friend, cut away; don't go to 
 sleep." 
 
 And the shorter shook the taller, impatiently. 
 
 "Now the straw in the hole. Like that more, 
 more! Glory to the Father, the Son, and the Holy 
 Ghost!" 
 
 "What are you wriggling like an eel for? Why 
 are your teeth rattling?" snarled the taller. 
 
 "Ha ha ha! I cannot help laughing! Now 
 the angels are flying through the sky. But remem- 
 ber, uncle, if we are caught, not to renounce the 
 faith! We shall light a brave fire. Here is a 
 spark, set it going."
 
 The Burning of the Shrine. 361 
 
 "Get away to the devil!" said the taller, trying 
 to push him aside, ''do not lead me into evil, you 
 cursed little snake. Light it yourself." 
 
 "Oh ho, so you are going back on your word? 
 you are mad, brother!" 
 
 The little man, beside himself with fright, con- 
 vulsively caught at the giant's red beard. 
 
 "I'll inform on you first! they will believe me/' 
 
 "Well, well, you little devil, stop it. Give me 
 the tinder. There is nothing to be done, we 
 must finish with it." 
 
 The sparks began to fall. The little man lay 
 down on his stomach, and looked still more like a 
 snake. The flickering flames ran among the straw 
 soaked in pitch, the smoke rolled up and the tar 
 crackled. The flames flared up, and their red light 
 illumined the frightened face of the huge Araga- 
 rius, and the sly monkey-like countenance of the 
 Syrian Strombicus. He looked like an ugly imp, 
 clapped his hands, jumped about and laughed like 
 a drunken man or a madman. 
 
 "We shall destroy it all, to the glory of the 
 Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. He-he-he! 
 And the snakes, and the snakes, how they run! 
 A fine fire, uncle, eh?" 
 
 In his passionate laughter, there was the eternal 
 savagery of the crowd, the delight in destruction. 
 
 Aragarius, pointing into the darkness, said: 
 
 "Do you hear?" 
 
 The grove was deserted as before. But in the 
 wailing of the wind and the murmuring of the 
 cypresses the incendiaries fancied whispering 
 voices. Aragarius started to run at full speed. 
 
 Strombicus caught the end of his tunic, and 
 shrieked out:
 
 362 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "Uncle, take me on your shoulder. You have 
 long legs! But if I come to grief, I'll blame it all 
 on you/' 
 
 Aragarius stopped for a moment. 
 
 Strombicus sprang up like a squirrel on the Sar- 
 matian's shoulder, and they fled on. The little 
 Syrian pressed his knees into the other's sides, and 
 clasped his arms round his neck to keep from fall- 
 ing. Looking at the fire, he laughed uncontrolla- 
 bly, squealing softly to himself in mad delight. 
 
 The incendiaries left the grove and ran out into 
 the open fields, where the dusty, lean ears of corn 
 bent towards the arid ground. Between the clouds 
 on the horizon shone bands of moonlight. Tho 
 wind whistled piercingly. Crouching on the 
 giant's shoulders, little Strombicus, with his glit- 
 tering green cat's eyes, looked like an evil spirit, 
 or a were-wolf hanging to its victim. A super- 
 stitious terror overcame Aragarius: it suddenly 
 seemed to him that it was not Strombicus but the 
 devil himself, in the form of a huge cat, sitting 
 on his shoulders, and scratching his face, and hiss- 
 ing, and squealing, and laughing, and driving him 
 into the abyss. The giant began to make desper- 
 ate leaps, trying to rid himself of his burden. His 
 hair stood on end, and he forgot where he was, in 
 his fright. A great double shadow of black against 
 the pale bands of the horizon, they fled across the 
 dead fields with their dusty corn-ears bending to- 
 wards the burnt and stony ground. 
 
 At that time, in the sleeping-chamber of Ju- 
 lian's palace in Antioch, the emperor was engaged 
 in a secret conference with Sallustius Secundus, 
 the prefect of the East.
 
 The Burning of the Shrine. 363 
 
 "Most gracious Caesar, where are we to find corn 
 for such an army?" 
 
 "I have sent triremes to Sicily, to Egypt, to 
 Apulia, wherever there is a harvest," replied the 
 emperor. "I tell you, there will be corn." 
 
 "And money?" continued Sallustius. "Would 
 it not be wiser to put it off till next year, to 
 wait?" 
 
 Julian all the time walked up and down the 
 room, with great strides; suddenly he stopped be- 
 fore the old man. 
 
 "Wait?" he exclaimed angrily, "you seem to 
 have agreed among you all to repeat the same 
 thing. To wait? As if I can wait now and weigh 
 the matter, and continue undecided! Will the 
 Galileans wait? Understand old man, I must ac- 
 complish the impossible, I must return from Per- 
 sia terrible and mighty, or not return at all. There 
 can be no more truce. There is no middle path. 
 What do you say about wisdom? About being 
 reasonable? Or do you think that Alexander of 
 Macedon conquered the world by being reason- 
 able? Would not that beardless youth who set 
 forth with a handful of Macedonians against the 
 rulers of Asia, have seemed mad to such moderate 
 folk as you? And who gave him the victory?" 
 
 "I know not," answered the prefect, conciliat- 
 ingly, with a slight mockery, "it seems to me that 
 the hero himself." 
 
 "Not he himself," exclaimed Julian, "but the 
 gods! You hear, Sallustius? The Olympian gods 
 can give me victory also, a victory greater than 
 Alexander's, if they wish. I began in Gaul, I shall 
 end in India. I shall pass through the whole 
 earth, from the sunset to the sunrise, like the great
 
 364 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Macedonian, like the god Dionysus. Let us see 
 what the Galileans will do then, how they who 
 now mock at the simple dress of a sage will laugh 
 at the sword of the Roman Emperor, when he re- 
 turns victorious over Asia!" 
 
 His eyes burned with a delirious brilliance. Sal- 
 lustius wished to say something, but stopped. 
 When Julian began once more to pace through 
 the room with great uneven strides, the prefect 
 shook his head and pity shone in the eyes of the 
 old Roman. 
 
 '"The army must be ready to march," continued 
 Julian, "I will it so, do you hear? No dissua- 
 sions, no delays! We have thirty thousand men. 
 The Armenian king, Arzacius has promised his as- 
 sistance. We have corn. What more do we need? 
 I must know that I can start against the Persians 
 at any moment. On this depends not only my 
 honor and the safety of the Roman Empire, but 
 also the victory of the everlasting gods over the 
 Galileans." 
 
 The wide window was open. The hot dusty 
 wind, blowing into the window made the long 
 flames flicker in the three-wicked lamp. Cutting 
 through the darkness of the heavens, a falling star 
 flashed forth, and disappeared. Julian shuddered. 
 The omen was evil. 
 
 There was a knocking at the door. Voices were 
 heard. 
 
 "Who is it? enter!" said the emperor. 
 
 It was the group of philosophers. Libanius led 
 them. He seemed more bombastic and inflated 
 than usual. 
 
 "What do you want?" said Julian coldly.
 
 The Burning of the Shrine. 365 
 
 Libanius knelt down, preserving his haughty 
 look. 
 
 "Let me depart, Augustus. I cannot live longer 
 at court. My endurance is exhausted. Every day 
 1 suffer unheard-of insults." 
 
 He spoke long of certain presents, of money re- 
 wards promised to him, of ingratitude, of his ser- 
 vices, of the splendid panegyrics in which he had 
 celebrated the emperor's praises. 
 
 But Julian no longer listening to him, looked 
 with repulsion and weariness at the famous ora- 
 tor, and thought: "Can this be the same Libanius 
 whose speeches I esteemed so highly in my youth ? 
 "What little-mincledness! What vanity!" 
 
 Afterwards all the philosophers began to speak 
 at once. They quarreled, shouted, accusing each 
 other of atheism, of extortion, of immorality, and 
 repeating the most foolish gossip. It was a shame- 
 ful domestic war, not of sages, but of parasites, 
 maddened with their own fatness, ready to tear 
 each other in pieces from vanity, malice and weari- 
 ness. 
 
 Finally, the emperor uttered a single word, in a 
 low voice, which compelled them all to remember 
 themselves: 
 
 "Teachers!" 
 
 All became silent instantly, like a frightened 
 flock of chattering jackdaws. 
 
 "Teachers," he repeated, with a bitter smile, "I 
 have heard you long enough. Allow me to relate 
 a fable to you. An Egyptian king once had some 
 tame monkeys, taught to perform the Pyrrhic war- 
 dance on the stage. They were dressed in helmets 
 and masks, and their tails were hid under the im- 
 perial purple, and when they danced, it was hard
 
 366 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 to believe that they were not human beings. For 
 a long time the sight gave him great pleasure. But 
 once upon a time one of the spectators threw a 
 handful of nuts upon the stage. And what hap- 
 pened? The actors tore off the purple and the 
 masks, laid bare their tails, went down on all 
 fours, and began to scratch each other for the nuts, 
 squealing the while. Thus certain people majes- 
 tically perform the Pyrrhic dance of wisdom, till 
 the first present comes. But it is only necessary 
 to throw the handful of nuts, and the wise men 
 turn into monkeys: they lay bare their tails, squeal, 
 and scratch. How does this fable please you, 
 Teachers?" 
 
 Suddenly Sallustius softly took the emperor by 
 the arm, and pointed through the open window. 
 
 Against the black lining of cloud, a scarlet 
 gleam was slowly spreading, rocked by the strong 
 wind. 
 
 "A fire! a fire!" cried all, at once. 
 
 "Across the river," suggested some. 
 
 "Not across the river, but in the suburb of Har- 
 andama," corrected others. 
 
 "No, no, in Hezira, among the Jews!" 
 
 "Neither in Hezira, nor in Harandama," ex- 
 claimed some one, with that irresistible gladness 
 which takes hold of a crowd at sight of a fire, "but 
 in the grove of Daphne!" 
 
 "The temple of Apollo," muttered the emperor, 
 and suddenly all the blood rushed to his heart. 
 
 "The Galileans!" he cried, in a terrible, wild 
 voice, and ran to the door, and then down the stair. 
 
 Slaves! quick! a horse, and fifty legionaries! 
 
 After a few moments, all was ready. They led 
 a black stallion into the court-yard, trembling in
 
 The Burning of the Shrine. 367 
 
 every limb, dangerous and angrily turning back 
 his bloodshot eyes. 
 
 Julian sped through the streets of Antioch, with 
 fifty legionaries behind him. The crowd scattered 
 in terror before them. They knocked down some 
 and crushed others. Their cries were drowned by 
 the thunder of hoofs and the rattle of armor. 
 
 They passed out through the city. Their gal- 
 lop lasted more than two hours. Three legionaries 
 were left behind. Their horses had given out. 
 
 The scarlet grew ever clearer. There was a smell 
 of smoke. The fields with their dusty corn-ears, 
 reflected the blood-red glow. Curious people were 
 hurrying from all sides like moths to a flame. They 
 were inhabitants of the neighboring villages and 
 the outlying parts of Antioch. Julian noticed 
 gladness in their faces and voices, as if they had 
 come to a festival, or to some holiday spectacle. 
 
 The tongues of flame flashed at last among the 
 clouds of thick smoke over the black summits of 
 Daphne's grove. 
 
 The emperor entered the sacred enclosure. Here 
 a noisy crowd was gathered. Many were cracking 
 jokes at each other, and laughing. The quiet al- 
 leys, so long deserted by all, swarmed with people. 
 The mob polluted the grove, broke branches of the 
 ancient laurels, fouled the springs, and crushed the 
 soft dreamy flowers. The narcissus and lilies, 
 dying, vainly struggled with their last freshness 
 against the smothering heat of the fire and the 
 breath of the mob. 
 
 "God's miracle! God's miracle!" a delighted 
 hum of voices rose above the crowd. 
 
 "I saw myself how lightning fell from heaven, 
 and set the roof on fire."
 
 368 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "It was not lightning. You lie. The earth 
 opened, and shot up a flame inside the shrine, just 
 under the idol." 
 
 "And no wonder. What a crime they had com- 
 mitted! disturbed the relics! They thought 
 they would get off. How could it be otherwise? 
 And there is your temple of Apollo for you, and 
 your Castaliau springs! That's how it happens!" 
 
 Among the crowd, Julian saw a woman half- 
 dressed, disheveled, who had probably just come 
 from her bed; she was also watching the fire with 
 delight, with a beatific and meaningless smile, and 
 was hugging an infant to her breasts. Tears 
 gleamed on his lashes. He had been crying, but 
 stopped, and hungrily began to suck the dusky fat 
 breast, smacking his lips, pressing one hand 
 against it, and stretching forth the other, plump 
 and dimpled, towards the fire, as if he was trying 
 to reach a bright, pretty plaything. 
 
 The emperor stopped his horse. It was impos- 
 sible to go a step further. The heat blew in his 
 face, like a furnace. The legionaries awaited his 
 orders. He understood that the temple was lost. 
 
 It was a splendid sight. The building blazed 
 from head to foot. The inner boarding, the rot- 
 ten walls, the dried-up beams, piles, joists, trusses, 
 were all turned into blazing brands. They fell 
 crashing, and fiery wreaths of sparks flew up to the 
 sky, which seemed to lower ominous and blood- 
 red. The flames licked the clouds with their long 
 tongues, flickering and swaying in the wind like 
 the folds of a curtain. 
 
 The leaves of the laurels crackled in the flames, 
 and curled up as if in pain. The tops of the cy- 
 presses blazed with a bright resinous light, like
 
 The Burning of the Shrine. 3CO 
 
 gigantic black torches. Their white smoke seem- 
 ed the smoke of offerings. The drops of resin fell 
 thick, as if the world-old trees, coeval with the 
 temple, were shedding tears of gold for the god. 
 
 Julian watched the fire with a fixed, uncompre- 
 hending gaze. He wished to give on order to the 
 legionaries, but only drew his sword from its scab- 
 bard, reined his horse up on its haunches, and 
 clenching his teeth, muttered with impotent 
 wrath: 
 
 "Oh abominable creatures!" 
 
 The cry of the crowd was heard further off. He 
 remembered that the treasury was behind the tem- 
 ple, with the vessels for the service of the god, and 
 he was afraid the Galileans would plunder the 
 shrine. He gave the signal, and hurried with his 
 soldiers to the side where the treasury was. A sad 
 procession stopped him on the way. 
 
 A number of Roman guards who had just had 
 time to come from the neighboring village of 
 Daphne, were carrying a litter. 
 
 "What is it?" asked Julian. 
 
 "The Galileans have stoned the priest Gorgias," 
 answered the Romans. 
 
 "And the treasury?" 
 
 "It is untouched. Standing on the threshold, 
 the priest slammed the door, and would not let the 
 sanctuary be polluted. He did not desert his post 
 until he fell, struck on the head with a stone. Then 
 they killed the boy. The Galilean mob, trampling 
 them down, would have broken in the door, but 
 we arrived and dispersed the crowd." 
 
 "Is he alive?" asked Julian. 
 
 "Just breathing." 
 
 The emperor sprang from his horse. They
 
 370 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 gently lowered the litter. He approached, bent 
 down, and carefully lifted the old stained cloak 
 that covered both bodies. 
 
 The old man lay on a cushion of fresh laurel 
 boughs. His eyes were closed. His breast rose 
 and fell slowly. Pity filled Julian's heart, when 
 he saw the old drunkard's red nose, which had so 
 recently seemed so indecent to him, and when he 
 remembered the lean goose in the wicker basket, 
 the last sacrifice to Apollo. Drops of blood 
 trickled over the soft wooly hair, white as snow, 
 and the sharp, black laurel-leaves curved round 
 the priest's head in a sacred wreath. 
 
 Beside him in the same litter, lay the little body 
 of Euphorion. His face, over which had spread 
 the paleness of death, was even lovelier than be- 
 fore. Eed drops gleamed on his tangled golden 
 curls. Eesting his hand against his cheek, he 
 seemed to be sleeping a gentle sleep. Julian 
 thought: 
 
 "Thus must Eros be, the 50,0. of the Goddess of 
 Love, stoned by the Galileans." 
 
 And the Roman Emperor knelt down reverently 
 before the martyr of the Olympian gods. In spite 
 of the ruin of the temple, in spite of the senseless 
 mockery of the mob, Julian felt in that death the 
 presence of God. His heart softened, even 
 his hatred vanished, and with tears of tenderness 
 he kissed the old man's hand. 
 
 The dying man opened his eyes. 
 
 "Where is my boy?" he asked, softly. 
 
 "Here, beside you." 
 
 "Alive?" asked Gorgias, stroking the child's 
 hair, with a last caress. 
 
 He was so weak that he could not turn his head
 
 The Burning of the Shrine. 371 
 
 round to him. Julian had not the heart to reveal 
 the truth to him. The priest turned to the em- 
 peror a look full of entreaty: 
 
 "Caesar, I intrust him to you do not desert 
 him. " 
 
 "Best assured that I shall do all that I can for 
 your boy." 
 
 Thus Julian took upon himself the responsibil- 
 ity for him to whom not even the Koman Caesar 
 could do either good or ill, upon this earth. 
 
 Gorgias did not withdraw his stiffening hand 
 from Euphorion's curls. Suddenly his face lighted 
 up; he wished to say something, but murmured 
 only disconnected words: 
 
 "It is they it is they I knew it rejoice." 
 
 He looked before him, with wide-open eyes, 
 sighed, stopping in the middle of a breath, and his 
 glance faded out. 
 
 Julian closed the dead man's eyes. 
 t Suddenly the triumphant sounds of church sing- 
 ing broke forth. The emperor looked up, and saw 
 that along the chief cypress alley was moving a 
 procession, an endless crowd of priests and elders, 
 in gold-embroidered stoles studded with precious 
 stones, high deacons with swaying censers, black 
 monks with tall tapers, youths and maidens in 
 white garments, with palm-branches in their 
 hands. And high up above the crowd, on a trium- 
 phal car, gleamed the shrine of Saint Babylas. 
 The flames of the burning temple flickered along 
 its pale silver. The relics, driven forth by the 
 emperor's command, from Daphne's grove were 
 on their way to Antioch. The departure of the 
 relics had been turned into a triumphal procession.
 
 372 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 The people were singing a psalm of David, in 
 praise of the God of Israel: 
 
 "Clouds and darkness are round about Him;" 
 their voices rose, drowning the wail of the wind, 
 and the nickering of the flames; and the triumphal 
 song of the Galileans soared to the sky, lit up with 
 red, 
 
 "'Clouds and darkness are round about Him. 
 
 "A fire goeth before Him, and burneth up His 
 enemies round about Him. 
 
 "The hills melted like wax at the presence of the 
 Lord, at the presence of the Lord of the whole 
 earth." 
 
 And Julian grew pale, on hearing the insolent 
 triumph of the last verse: 
 
 ''Confounded be all they that serve graven im- 
 ages, that boast themselves of idols: worship Him 
 all ye gods!" 
 
 Then the emperor leaped on his horse, drew his 
 .sword and cried: 
 
 "Soldiers! follow me!" 
 
 He wished to throw himself into the midst of 
 the crowd, to disperse the triumphant mob, to 
 overthrow the shrine with the relics and scatter 
 the accursed bones. 
 
 But some one's hand caught the emperor's horse 
 by the rein. 
 
 "Out of the way!" he cried, angrily, and had 
 already raised his sword to strike. But at the same 
 moment his hand fell again. Before him was a 
 wise old man, with a sad and quiet face, Sallustius 
 Secundus, who had just come from Antioch. 
 
 "Cresar! do not fall upon unarmed men. Re- 
 member yourself." 
 
 Julian replaced his sword in the scabbard.
 
 The Burning of the Shrine. 373 
 
 The bronze helmet galled and burned his brow > 
 as if it had been red-hot. Tearing it .off and 
 throwing it on the ground, he wiped the great 
 drops of sweat from his forehead. Then alone, 
 without soldiers and bareheaded, he approached 
 the crowd and stopped the procession with a mo- 
 tion of his hand. 
 
 All recognized him. The singing stopped. 
 
 "Men of Antioch!" pronounced Julian, almost 
 calmly, restraining himself by a terrible effort of 
 will, "know that the rebels and incendiaries of 
 Apollo's temple will be punished without pity. 
 You laugh at my mercy; let us see whether you 
 will laugh at iny wrath. The Roman Augustus 
 might wipe your whole city off the earth, so that 
 men might lose the memory of great Antioch. But 
 I shall only leave you. I start on an expedition 
 against the Persians. If the gods have decreed 
 that I shall return victorious, then woe to you, 
 rebels! Woe to thee, Nazarene, Carpenter's son!" 
 
 He shook his sword above the crowd. 
 
 Suddenly it seemed to him that a strange, inhu- 
 man voice spoke clearly behind him: 
 
 "The Nazarene, the Carpenter's son, is prepar- 
 ing a coffin for thee!" 
 
 Julian shuddered and turned, but saw no one. 
 He raised his hand to his eyes. 
 
 "What is it? or did it only seem so to my 
 fancy?" he said, almost inaudibly and vaguely. 
 
 At the same moment, within the blazing temple 
 a deafening noise was heard; part of the wooden 
 roof fell directly upon the gigantic statue of 
 Apollo. The image tumbled from its pedestal. 
 The golden goblet, with which Apollo was making 
 his everlasting libation to the All-mother Earth r
 
 374 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 rang piteously. Sparks flew up to the clouds in a 
 golden sheaf. A graceful column in the portico 
 staggered, and the Corinthian capitol, with a soft 
 charm even in its destruction, fell like a white lily 
 from its broken stem, and lay prostrate on the 
 earth. It seemed to Julian that the whole temple, 
 falling in ruins, would overwhelm him. 
 
 And the psalm of David in praise of the Lord 
 God of Israel, rose in triumph to the midnight sky, 
 drowning the roar of the flames and noise of the 
 falling idol: 
 
 "Confounded be all they that serve graven im- 
 ages, that boast themselves of idols: worship Him, 
 all ye gods!" 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 THE BUILDING OF THE TEMPLE. 
 
 Julian passed the winter in hastening on the 
 preparations for the Persian campaign. At the 
 beginning of spring, on the fifth of March, he left 
 Antioch with an army of sixty-five thousand men. 
 
 The snow was melting on the mountains. In the 
 fruit gardens, the young peach trees naked and 
 leafless, were already covered with pink flowers. 
 The soldiers went forth to war joyfully, as to a 
 festival. 
 
 A fleet of twelve hundred vessels had been built 
 at the wharfs of Samosata, of huge cedars, pines 
 and oaks hewn in the ravines of Mount Taurus, 
 and sent down the Euphrates to Callinice. 
 
 Julian passed through Hierapolis to Carrhae by
 
 The Building of the Temple. 375 
 
 forced marches, then further to the south, along 
 the bank of the Euphrates, to the Persian frontier. 
 Another army of thirty thousand was sent to the 
 north under the leadership of Procopius and Se- 
 bastian. They were to unite with the Armenian 
 king Argaces, and lay waste Adiabene and Chilio- 
 cus, and passing through Corduene, to meet the 
 main army on the banks of the Tigris under the 
 walls of Ctesiphon. 
 
 The emperor had superintended everything 
 down to the smallest details, and everything had 
 been weighed and meditated on with love. Those 
 who understood his plans were justified in their 
 enthusiasm for its wisdom, largeness, and simplic- 
 ity. 
 
 At the very beginning of April, the army arrived 
 at Circesium, the last Roman possession, strongly 
 fortified by Diocletian, on the frontier of Mesopo- 
 tamia, where the river Abora flows into the Eu- 
 phrates. A floating bridge of boats was con- 
 structed. Julian gave the order to cross the fron- 
 tier on the following morning. 
 
 Late in the evening, when all was prepared, he 
 returned to his tent weary but elated, lit his lamp, 
 and wished to take up the favorite work, which 
 daily took up a part of his leisure. It was an ex- 
 tensive philosophical dissertation "Against the 
 Christians." He wrote it in fragments, to the 
 sound of war trumpets, camp songs, and the cries 
 of the sentinels. He found joy in the thought that 
 he was fighting against the Galileans, by all possi- 
 ble means, on the field of battle, and in his book, 
 with the Roman sword, and the wisdom of Hellas. 
 The emperor never parted with the works of the 
 Fathers of the Church, the Canons, and the de-
 
 376 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 crees of the Councils. On the leaves of a very an- 
 cient and worn roll of the New Testament, which 
 he studied with not less zeal than Plato and 
 Homer, sarcastic remarks were written by his own 
 hand. 
 
 Julian stripped off his dusty armor, washed, sat 
 down at his camp table, and dipped a sharp pointed 
 reed in his ink-horn, getting ready to write. But 
 his solitude was disturbed. Two messengers had 
 reached the camp, one from Italy, the other from 
 Jerusalem. Julian heard them both. 
 
 The news was not elating. Earthquakes had 
 just destroyed Nicomedia, a splendid city in Asia 
 Minor. Subterranean shocks had caused a panic 
 among the inhabitants of Constantinople. The 
 Sibylline books forbade the crossing of the Roman 
 frontier for a year. 
 
 The messenger from Jerusalem brought a letter 
 from Alypius of Antioch, the official to whom Ju- 
 lian had entrusted the rebuilding of Solomon's 
 temple. By a strange contradiction, the worship- 
 per of Olympus with its many gods had deter- 
 mined to restore the temple of the one God of 
 Israel, destroyed by the Romans, in order to con- 
 fute, before the eyes of all peoples and all ages, 
 the words of the Gospel prophecy: "There shall 
 not be left here one stone upon another, that shall 
 not be thrown down." The Jews enthusiastically 
 welcomed Julian's design. Offerings came in from 
 all sides. The plan of construction was grandiose. 
 The work was taken up with alacrity. The gen- 
 eral superintendence of the work Julian entrusted 
 to his friend Alypius of Antioch, a noble and culti- 
 vated man who had been governor of Britain. 
 
 "What has happened?" asked Julian uneasily,
 
 The Building of the Temple. 377 
 
 looking under his brows at the messenger's gloomy 
 face, and breaking the seal of the letter. 
 
 "A great misfortune, most noble Augustus!" 
 
 "Speak. Fear not!" 
 
 "While the builders were clearing away the rub- 
 bish," began the messenger, "and removing the 
 ruins of the ancient walls, all went well. But as 
 soon as they proceeded to the foundations of the 
 new building, a flame burst forth from the exca- 
 vations in the form of globes of lire, and scattered 
 the stones and burned up the workmen. On the 
 next day, by order of the most noble Alypius, they 
 returned to the work. The miracle was repeated. 
 And the same thing a third time. And now the 
 Christians are triumphant, the Hellenes are in 
 terror, and not a single workman will consent to 
 enter the excavations. Not one stone of the build- 
 ing is left upon another. All is thrown down." 
 
 "Be silent, villain! You must be a Galilean 
 yourself," cried the emperor wrathfully, raising 
 his hand to strike the kneeling messenger, "it is a 
 lie! a lie!! Old wives' tales! Is it possible that 
 Alypius could not have chosen a more intelligent 
 messenger?" 
 
 He hastily broke the seal, unfolded the letter, 
 and read it. The messenger had spoken the truth. 
 Alypius confirmed his words. Julian could not 
 believe his own eyes, and re-read it carefully, hold- 
 ing the letter close to the lamp: a red flush of 
 anger and shame covered his face, and finally bi- 
 ting his lips till they bled, he crumpled the papy- 
 rus, and threw it to the physician Oribasius, who 
 was standing beside him: 
 
 "Read, you do not believe in miracles. Either 
 Alypius is mad, or no, no, that cannot be!"
 
 378 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 The young Alexandrian scientist took up the 
 letter and read it, with the calm and impassive 
 slowness with which he did everything. Then he 
 turned his wise, bright eyes to Julian. 
 
 "I see no miracle here," said the physician, 
 "men of science have long ago described this phe- 
 nomenon. In the vaults of old buildings, which 
 have been closed and deprived of the access of air 
 for many centuries, heavy, easily inflammable 
 fumes sometimes collect. It is enough to enter 
 these vaults with a lighted torch, to cause an ex- 
 plosion. The sudden outbursts of fire may kill 
 the careless. And ignorant people take it to be a 
 miracle. But here, as everywhere, the light of 
 science disperses the darkness of superstition, and 
 gives the wise man freedom. Everything is beau- 
 tiful, because everything is natural and conforms 
 to the will of Nature." 
 
 He laid the letter quietly on the table, with a 
 self-confident and pedantic smile on his thin, ob- 
 stinate lips. 
 
 <f Yes, yes, certainly," replied Julian, with bitter 
 irony, "we must find some way of consoling our- 
 selves! Everything can be explained; everything 
 is natural: the earthquake in Nicomedia, and the 
 earthquake in Constantinople, and the prophecy 
 of the Sibylline books, and the drought in An- 
 tioch, and the fire in Eome, and the flood in 
 Egypt. Everything is natural, only it is strange 
 that everything is against me, earth and heaven, 
 water and fire, and, it would seem, the very gods 
 themselves!" 
 
 Sallustius Secundus entered the tent. 
 
 "Great Augustus! The Tuscan soothsayers 
 whom you ordered to inquire concerning the will
 
 The Building of the Temple. 3T ; J" 
 
 of the gods, pray you to delay and not to cross 
 the frontier to-morrow. The prophetic chickens 
 of the Haruspices, in spite of every prayer, refuse 
 food and sit crouching together, and will not pick 
 the grains of barley, it is an evil augury!" 
 
 At first Julian knit his brows in anger, but sud- 
 denly his eyes lit up, and he burst into laughter so 
 unexpectedly that all looked at him in astonish- 
 ment and silence. 
 
 "Is it so, Sallustius? They will not eat? Well? 
 What are we to do with these obstinate birds? 
 Had we not better obey them, and return to An- 
 tioch, to the joy and derision of the Galileans? 
 Do you know, my dear friend, what must be done? 
 Go at once to the Tuscan fortune-tellers, and de- 
 clare to them the emperor's will. Let the priests 
 take all their silly fowls, and throw them into the 
 river. That is the right place for them. Do you 
 hear? The fat, spoilt creatures will not eat; let 
 us see whether they will drink fresh river-water. 
 Go, fulfil my will!" 
 
 "You are jesting, gracious Caesar! Have I un- 
 derstood you aright? Is it possible that you are 
 still determined to cross the frontier to-morrow 
 morning?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, I swear by my future victories, I 
 swear by the might of the Eoman Empire that no 
 consecrated chickens can terrify me, nor waters, 
 nor fire, nor earth, nor heaven, nor even the gods 
 themselves. It is too late! The die is cast. 
 Friends, is there anything more godlike in all na- 
 ture than a man's will? In all the Sibylline books; 
 is there anything stronger than these words: I will 
 it so! More than ever before, I feel the secret of 
 my life. Before, signs entangled me like nets, and
 
 380 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 intimidated me. Now I believe in them, and 
 laugh at them. Perhaps this is sacrilege! Be it 
 so! I have nothing more to lose. If the gods de- 
 sert me, I renounce the gods." 
 
 When those about him had departed, Julian 
 went to a little silver image of Mercury, by a port- 
 able altar, intending, as was his habit, to perform 
 the evening prayer, and to throw a few grains of 
 incense into the flame, but he suddenly turned, and 
 went away, with a smile, and threw himself down 
 on the lion's skin which served as his couch, and 
 extinguishing his lamp, fell into a deep, careless 
 sleep, such as sometimes overtakes people after 
 great misfortunes. 
 
 Dawn had hardly broken when he awoke, still 
 fuller of gladness. The trumpets were sounding. 
 
 Julian leaped on his horse and rode down the 
 bank of the Abora. 
 
 The early April morning was fresh and almost 
 perfectly still. A dreamy breeze brought the cool- 
 ness of the night from the great Asian -river. All 
 along the wide spring flood of the Euphrates, from 
 the tower of Circesium to the Eoman camp, for 
 ten stadia stretched the fleet. Such martial pomp 
 had not been seen since the days of Xerxes. 
 
 The first rays of the sun flashed up from behind 
 the pyramidal mausoleum of Gordianus, the con- 
 queror of the Persians, who had been put to death 
 there, by Philip of Arabis. The edge of the red 
 disk gleamed above the quiet horizon of the des- 
 ert like a hot coal, and in a moment all the tops 
 of the sails and masts grew rosy through the 
 morning gloom. 
 
 The emperor gave a sign, and eight huge com- 
 panies of five thousand men advanced with meas-
 
 The Building of the Temple. 381 
 
 ured tread, that made the earth quake and trem- 
 ble. The Koman army began to cross the bridge, 
 and the frontier of Persia. 
 
 Julian rode across to the opposite bank, to a 
 high, sandy hillock in the territory of the enemy. 
 
 At the *head of one of the Palatine cohorts, 
 marched Anatolius, Arsinoe's admirer, the centu- 
 rion of the shield-bearers. 
 
 Anatolius looked at the emperor. In Julian's 
 outward appearance, a great change had taken 
 place. 
 
 The month spent in the open air in camp work, 
 had done him good. In the manly warrior with 
 wind-tanned and sun-burned cheeks, with a light 
 of youth in his eyes that shone exultantly, he 
 could hardly recognize the scholastic philosopher 
 with the lean, yellow and unhealthy face, the pe- 
 dantic severity in his eyes, the disheveled hair and 
 beard, the absent-minded abruptness of movement, 
 the ink-blots on his fingers, and the Cynic toga, 
 Julian the rhetorician, whom the street-boys of 
 Antioch jeered at. 
 
 "Listen! Listen! Ca?sar is going to speak!" 
 
 All became silent. The only sounds were the 
 low rattle of weapons, the murmuring of the water 
 around the ships, and the rustling of the silken 
 standards. 
 
 "Valorous warriors!" began Julian, in a strong, 
 sonorous voice, "I see such courage and gladness 
 in your faces that I cannot refrain from a joyful 
 greeting. Eemember, friends, that universal des- 
 tinies are in our hands. We go to restore the an- 
 cient glory of Rome. Therefore be of good heart, 
 and make ready to face all. For us. there is no 
 more return. I shall be at your head, or among
 
 382 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 your ranks, on horse or on foot, taking part in 
 all your difficulties and dangers, not above the last 
 of my soldiers, because from this day forth you are 
 not servants, but my equals, my children! And 
 if traitorous fate has decreed that I shall fall in 
 the struggle, I shall be happy, for I die for ever- 
 lasting Home like the great men of old, the Scsevo- 
 las, the Curtii, and the noblest scions of the Decii. 
 Quit yourselves like men, my companions, and re- 
 member that victory is to the valiant!" 
 
 He drew his sword, and stretched it forth, and 
 with a smile pointed to the distant horizon of the 
 desert. 
 
 The soldiers raised their shields in unison, and 
 struck them with a cry of joy: 
 
 "Glory to Caesar the Victorious!" 
 
 The war-galleys cut the waters of the Euphrates 
 and the Roman eagles spread their wings above 
 the cohorts, as his white charger bore the young 
 emperor towards the rising sun. 
 
 But a cold, pale blue shadow fell on the smooth 
 white sand, from the pyramid of Gordianus. Soon 
 Julian passed from the morning sunlight into the 
 long ominous shadow of the lonely tomb. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 ON THE EUPHRATES. 
 
 The army marched along the left bank of the 
 Euphrates. 
 
 The plain, broad and smooth as the sea, was 
 covered with silver-grey brushwood. There were
 
 On the Euphrates. 383 
 
 no trees. The bushes and grass had an aromatic 
 odor. Now and then a herd of wild asses appeared 
 on the horizon, in a cloud of dust. Ostriches ran 
 before the army. The plump, dainty flesh of great 
 bustards smoked over the camp-fires of the soldiers 
 at supper. Jests and songs continued the whole 
 night through. The march was like a holiday- 
 party. Graceful, slender-legged gazelles sped be- 
 fore them, with airy lightness, hardly touching the 
 ground: they had soft winning eyes, like the eyes 
 of fascinating women. 
 
 The soldiers, who sought glory, prey and blood 
 in the desert, met only a silent welcome, star-lit 
 nights, quiet sunsets and sunrises, and the sweet- 
 smelling gloom of evening, full of the odor of 
 scented brushwood. 
 
 They went on further and further, without find- 
 ing the enemy. 
 
 And as soon as they had passed, the silence 
 again descended on the plain, as water closes be- 
 hind a passing ship, and the stems of the grass 
 that the feet of the legionaries had trodden down, 
 rose softly upright. 
 
 Suddenly the desert took on a threatening face. 
 Clouds covered the sky. Rain began to fall. The 
 lightning killed a soldier who was leading his 
 horse to the water. 
 
 The days began to grow hot at the^nd of April. 
 The soldiers who walked in the shadow of the 
 camels, or of the baggage- wagons with their can- 
 vas covers were envied by their companions. The 
 men of the distant north, the Gauls and Scythians 
 died of sunstroke. The plain became bleak, bald, 
 and only here and there dotted with tufts of dry 
 grass. Their feet sank in the sand.
 
 384 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Sudden hurricanes blew so fiercely that they 
 tore away the standards, and even whole tents. 
 Men and horses were struck to the ground. Then 
 again came a strange and sudden silence, that 
 seemed to the frightened soldiers more terrible 
 even than the storm. Jests and songs were no 
 longer heard. But the soldiers went ever further 
 and further, without meeting the enemy. 
 
 At the beginning of May, they entered the 
 palm-groves of Assyria. 
 
 At Macepracta, where were still visible the ruins 
 of a great wall built by the ancient Assyrian kings, 
 they saw the enemy for the first time. The Per- 
 sians retreated with unexpected readiness. 
 
 Through a storm of poisoned arrows the Eo- 
 mans crossed a deep canal which united the Eu- 
 phrates with the Tigris. This mighty fortifica- 
 tion, made of Babylonian bricks, and cutting 
 through the whole of Mesopotamia with geomet- 
 rical accuracy, was called Nahar-Malcha, the River 
 of the Kings. 
 
 Suddenly the Persians disappeared. The level 
 of the Nahar-Malcha rose. Then overflowing its 
 banks, the water poured over the surrounding 
 plain. The Persians had caused an inundation, 
 opening the sluices and flood-gates of the canals 
 which irrigated the withered earth of the Assyr- 
 ian plains through a net- work of channels. 
 
 The infantry walked up to their knees in water. 
 Their feet stuck in the heavy, clinging mud. 
 Whole companies fell into unseen channels, and 
 unexpected morasses, and even horses with their 
 riders, and loaded camels disappeared. They had 
 to feel their way with stakes.
 
 On the Euphrates. 385 
 
 The plain became a lake, with the palm-groves 
 for islands. 
 
 "Where are we going?" murmured the cowardly, 
 "what are we looking for? Why do we not go 
 back to the river at once, and go aboard the ships? 
 We are soldiers, not frogs, to swim about in 
 muddy pools." 
 
 Julian went on foot beside the soldiers in the 
 ranks, even in the most difficult places. With his 
 own hands he helped to pull out the heavily loaded 
 wagons, when their wheels stuck in the mire, and 
 even jested, showing the soldiers his imperial pur- 
 ple, wet and besmirched with dark green slime. 
 
 They made rafts of palm-trees, and built float- 
 ing bridges on inflated skins. 
 
 When night came on, the army managed to 
 reach a dry camping ground. 
 
 The worn-out soldiers sank into a troubled sleep. 
 
 In the morning, they saw the fortress of Peri- 
 sabor. 
 
 The Persians shot at their enemies, from the 
 summits of inaccessible towers and walls hung 
 with thick cushions of goat-skin, to guard against 
 the blows of siege-machines. The whole day was 
 spent in an exchange of iron missiles and taunts. 
 
 In the darkness of a moonless night, the Ro- 
 mans, preserving absolute silence, brought their 
 catapults and battering rams from the ships, and 
 set them close up to the walls of Perisabor. 
 
 Cries filled the air. 
 
 By means of a "maleola," or fire-bolt, a huge 
 distaff-shaped missile full of a burning mixture of 
 pitch, sulphur, oil, and tar, the Romans succeeded 
 in setting fire to the carpet of goat's-hide which 
 hung on the wall. The Persians rushed to extin-
 
 386 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 guish the fire. Taking advantage of this moment 
 of confusion, the emperor ordered the siege- 
 machine to be brought forward. 
 
 It was a huge pine, hung on chains from a pyr- 
 amidal tower of beams. The trunk ended in a 
 bronze ram. Hundreds of powerful legionaries, 
 with a strong, sing-song cry of a one, two, three!" 
 set the battering ram swinging. The muscles on. 
 their dusky shoulders stood out, as they strained 
 at the thick ropes of tightly twisted ox-gut, and 
 swayed the heavy pine-trunk. 
 
 The first blow sounded like a peal of thunder. 
 The earth rang, the walls trembled. Then again 
 and again the tree-stem swung back, the blows fell 
 thick and fast, the ram seemed to grow furious and 
 struck its bronze head against the wall in obstinate 
 anger. Suddenly a crash was heard, and a whole 
 corner of the wall gave way. 
 
 The Persians fled with a cry of despair. 
 
 Julian, his helmet flashing in a cloud of dust, 
 joyful and terrible as a god of war, pressed for- 
 ward into the captured city. 
 
 The army advanced. For two days, the soldiers 
 rested in fresh shady groves, refreshing themselves 
 with a cooling acid drink like wine, made of 
 palm juice, and with aromatic Babylonian dates, 
 transparent, and golden-yellow like amber. 
 
 Then they entered a wild and stony plain. The 
 heat was oppressive. Men and animals fell dead. 
 The air at midday shimmered and curled above 
 the cliffs, in hot wavelike layers. The river Tigris 
 flowed through the grey, ash-colored plain, glitter- 
 ing like scales of silver, like a lazy snake warming 
 its supple folds in the noonday heat. 
 
 The Romans saw a huge wall overhanging the
 
 On the Euphrates. 387 
 
 Tigris, red and bare, with uneven, pointed peaks. 
 It was a second fortress guarding Ctesiphon, the 
 southern capital of Persia, even more inaccessible 
 than Perisabor, a true eagle's nest above the 
 clouds. The sixteen towers and double wall of 
 Maogamalcha were built of the famous Babylo- 
 nian bricks, dried in the sun, and laid in tar, like 
 all the old Assyrian buildings, which have noth- 
 ing to fear even from tens of centuries. 
 
 The assault began. Once more the huge, un- 
 wieldy arms of the balistae creaked, the wheels, 
 blocks and pulleys of the catapultas whirred, and 
 the fiery maleolae hissed through the air. 
 
 It was the hour when the lizards sleep in the 
 crevices of the cliffs. The rays of the sun fell on 
 the backs and heads of the soldiers like a crushing 
 weight. Their glitter was terrible. The legion- 
 aries tore off their glowing helmets and breast- 
 plates in despair, in spite of the commands of their 
 leaders and regardless of danger. They preferred 
 wounds to the scorching heat. Above the dark 
 brown brick towers and embrasures of Maogamal- 
 cha, whence fell showers of poisonous arrows, 
 spears, stones, leaden and clay projectiles, naming 
 . Persian phalarici which poisoned the air with a 
 foul stench of sulphur and naphtha, hung the 
 dusty sky, with its hardly perceptible tinge of 
 azure, terrible, blinding, inexorable as death. 
 
 The sky overcame the hostility of men. Be- 
 siegers and besieged ceased from the fight, worn 
 out and weary. 
 
 A silence came over them, strange in that bright 
 noontide, more full of death than the depth of 
 night. 
 
 The "Romans did not lose courage.
 
 388 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Since the capture of Perisabor, they had be- 
 lieved the emperor invincible, comparing him to 
 Alexander the Great, and looking for miracles. 
 
 During several days the soldiers dug a mine on 
 the eastern side of Maogamalcha, where the cliffs 
 descended more obliquely to the plain. Advan- 
 cing under the wall of the fortress, the mine ended 
 in the center of the town. The width of the sub- 
 terranean passage was three cubits, and allowed two 
 soldiers to advance together. Thick wooden beams 
 set at some distance from each other, upheld the 
 roof. The sappers worked gaily; after the sun, the 
 coldness and damp of the mine was pleasant 
 enough. 
 
 "It is not so long since we were frogs," laughed 
 the soldiers, "now we are moles." 
 
 Three cohorts, the Matiarii, the Lacinarii and 
 the Victores, fifteen hundred of the bravest war- 
 riors, entered the underground gallery in the most 
 perfect silence, and impatiently awaited the or- 
 ders of their commanders to break through into 
 the city. 
 
 At dawn, the attack was intentionally directed 
 to two different points, so as to divert the attention 
 of the Persians. 
 
 Julian led the soldiers up a narrow path over a 
 precipice, under a hail of arrows and stones. "Let 
 us see," he said, exulting in the danger, "whether 
 the gods will preserve me, whether a miracle will 
 happen, whether I shall be saved from death." 
 
 With irresistible curiosity and a thirst for the 
 supernatural, he exposed himself to danger, seek- 
 ing fate with a challenging smile. He feared not 
 death, but only to lose that purposeless, intoxica- 
 ting game with the Higher Powers.
 
 On the Euphrates. 389 
 
 And the soldiers followed him, charmed and in- 
 fected by his courage. 
 
 The Persians, laughing at the efforts of the be- 
 siegers, sang aloud in praise of King Sapor, the 
 Son of the Sun, and cried to the Romans, from the 
 cloud-capped towers of Maogamalcha: 
 
 "Julian will sooner reach the Hall of High Or- 
 muzd than the heart of our fortress!" 
 
 In the heat of the attack, the emperor whispered 
 the word of command to the generals. 
 
 The soldiers hidden in the mine came forth in 
 the center of the city, in the cellar of a house 
 where an old Persian woman was baking cakes. 
 She uttered a piercing shriek, when she saw the 
 Roman legionaries. They killed her. 
 
 Stealing up unobserved, they threw themselves 
 on the besieged from behind. The Persians threw 
 down their weapons, and fled through the streets 
 of Maogamalcha. Then the Romans within the 
 fort opened the gates to Julian, and the city was 
 captured from both sides. 
 
 Then the soldiers no longer doubted that the 
 emperor, like Alexander of Macedon, would con- 
 quer the Persian monarchy as far as India. 
 
 The army was approaching Ctesiphon, the 
 southern capital of Persia. The boats remained 011 
 the Euphrates. 
 
 Julian, with that feverish and almost magical 
 swiftness which gave the enemy no time to think, 
 restored the old Roman connecting canal, dug by 
 Trajan and Septimhis Severus, to guard against 
 onslaughts of the Persians. 
 
 Through this canal, the fleet was taken to the 
 Tigris a short distance above the walls of Ctesi-
 
 390 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 phon. The emperor had penetrated to the very 
 heart of the Central Asian monarchy. 
 
 On the evening of the following day, Julian, 
 calling a Council of war, announced that he would 
 that night transfer the army to the other bank, up 
 to the walls of Ctesiphon. Dagalaiphus, Hormis- 
 das, Secundinus, Victor, Sallustius, all men ex- 
 perienced in war, were terror-struck, and for a 
 long time pleaded with the emperor to desist from 
 such a daring undertaking. They pointed to the 
 weariness of the army, the width of the river, the 
 speed of the current, the steepness of the opposite 
 bank, the proximity of Ctesiphon, the vast army 
 of King Sapor, and the fact that the Persians 
 would inevitably make a sally, while the Eomans 
 were crossing over. Julian would not hear them. 
 
 "However long we may wait," he exclaimed at 
 last, impatiently, "the river will not grow nar- 
 rower, nor the banks less steep, but the army of 
 the Persians will receive new reinforcements every 
 day. If I had listened to your counsels, we should 
 still be at Antioch!" 
 
 The generals left him in dismay. 
 
 "He cannot hold out!" said the experienced and 
 wise Dagalaiphus, a barbarian who had entered 
 the Eoman service, "he cannot hold out. He is 
 gay, it is true, and he even laughs, but still there 
 is something not all right in his face. I have seen 
 an expression like that in the faces of people who 
 were at the point of despair, and tired to death. 
 It is not a wholesome gayety." 
 
 The hot misty twilight descended swiftly on the 
 surface of the mighty river. The signal was given. 
 The dip of the oars was heard for a long time; then 
 all was still. The gloom became impenetrable.
 
 On the Euphrates. 391 
 
 Julian looked steadily from the bank. He hid his 
 excitement with a smile. The generals whispered 
 to each other. Suddenly a fire flashed up in the 
 darkness. All held their breaths, and turned their 
 eyes to the emperor. He understood what that 
 fire meant. The Persians had succeeded in setting 
 fire to the Eoman ships with fire-bolts, thrown 
 down skilfully from the steep bank. 
 
 He grew pale, but came to himself in a moment, 
 and without giving the soldiers time to think, 
 threw himself into the first vessel that came to 
 hand, moored close to the bank, and cried aloud, 
 with a triumphant smile to the army: 
 
 "Victory, victory! See! the fire! They have 
 scaled the bank and taken possession of it. I or- 
 dered the cohort that was sent to light fires in, 
 sign of victory. Follow me, companions!" 
 
 "What are you doing?" the cautious Sallustius 
 whispered to him; "we are lost. That is a confla- 
 gration." 
 
 "Caesar has gone mad/' Hormisdas muttered to 
 Dagalaiphus, in terror. 
 
 The cunning barbarian shrugged his shoulders 
 in bewilderment. 
 
 The army hastened towards the bank with irre- 
 sistible speed. With a triumphant cry of: "Vic- 
 tory! victory!" they urged each other on, vying 
 with each other, falling into the water and climb- 
 ing out again, swearing merrily, and all swarmed 
 aboard the boats. Several small barques were al- 
 most upset. There was no more room on the gal- 
 leys. 
 
 Many horsemen swam in, turning the breasts of 
 their horses up the swift current. The Kelts and 
 Bavarians pushed off into the dark river on their
 
 392 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 huge leather shields bent like coracles. They 
 swam through the mist utterly fearless, and their 
 shields whirled round in the swift eddies, but not 
 noticing their danger, the soldiers raised the joy- 
 ful cry: "Victory, victory!" 
 
 The force of the current was temporarily broken 
 by the ships which dammed the river. The fire 
 on the first five galleys was easily put out. 
 
 It was only then that all understood the em- 
 peror's daring strategy. But the soldiers only grew 
 merrier. Now, when they had overcome such a 
 danger, everything seemed possible. 
 
 Not long before the dawn, they gained posses- 
 sion of the heights, on the opposite bank. The 
 Eomans had hardly had time to refresh themselves 
 with a short sleep, without taking off their armor, 
 when they saw a huge army in the dawning light, 
 stretching from the walls of Ctesiphon to the plain 
 in front of the city. 
 
 The battle lasted for twelve hours. The Per- 
 sians fought with the fury of despair. It was here 
 that Julian's army for the first time encountered 
 huge battle-elephants that could crush a whole 
 cohort, like a field of corn. 
 
 The victory was such as the Eomans had not 
 gained since the times of the great emperors, Tra- 
 jan, Vespasian and Titus. At sunrise, Julian of- 
 fered a solemn sacrifice to Ares the War-god: ten 
 white bullocks of rare beauty, that recalled the 
 images of the consecrated oxen on the ancient 
 Greek bas-reliefs. Every one was in holiday mood. 
 The Tuscan augurs alone maintained an obstinate 
 and malicious silence as before. With every vic- 
 tory that Julian won, they grew more gloomy, se- 
 cretive and enigmatical. The first bullock was
 
 On the Euphrates. 393 
 
 led up to the lighted altar, wreathed with laurels. 
 The ox walked sluggishly and quietly, then sud- 
 denly slipped and fell on its knees, with a strange 
 and piteous lowing like a human voice, at the 
 sound of which a chill crept over every one's body; 
 then it laid its muzzle in the dust, and before 
 the two-edged axe of the victimarius touched its 
 broad forehead, it shivered and died. They brought 
 another. It fell dead in the same way. Then a 
 third, and a fourth. All came up to the altar list- 
 less, weak, hardly able to stand, as if they were 
 stricken with a mortal illness, and lowing mourn- 
 fully, fell dead. A murmur of terror spread 
 through the army. It was a terrible omen. 
 
 Many asserted that the Tuscan augurs had in- 
 tentionally poisoned the oxen, in order to take 
 vengeance on the emperor for his contempt of 
 their sooth-saying. 
 
 Nine oxen fell. The tenth broke loose, burst its 
 cords, and charged, bellowing and scattering con- 
 fusion through the army. It ran out through the 
 gates of the camp, and the soldiers were not able 
 to catch it. 
 
 The sacrifice was disorganized. The augurs were 
 malignantly delighted. 
 
 When they cut open the dead bullocks, Julian's 
 practised eye saw in their intestines certain and 
 dire auspices. He turned away. His face was 
 covered with pallor. He tried to smile and could 
 not. Suddenly he approached the blazing altar, 
 and kicked it with all his strength. The altar 
 swayed, but did not fall. The crowd sighed heav- 
 ily like a single man. The prefect Sallustius hur- 
 ried up to the emperor and whispered to him:
 
 394: Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "The soldiers are watching. Better cut the ser- 
 vice short." 
 
 Julian pushed him aside, and kicked the altar 
 harder. The altar fell, and the ashes were scat- 
 tered on the ground. The fire went out, but the 
 aromatic smoke rose in still thicker clouds. 
 
 "Woe, woe unto us! the altar is polluted!" cried 
 some one's voice, in the crowd. 
 
 "I tell you that he is mad," muttered Hormis- 
 das, in terror, seizing Dagalaiphus by the arm. 
 "Look at his face. I wonder the rest do not see 
 it." 
 
 The Tuscan augurs stood as before calm, un- 
 moved, with stern, impassive faces. 
 
 Julian raised his hands towards the sky. His 
 eyes shone. He cried aloud: 
 
 "I swear by the everlasting joy hidden here in 
 my heart that I renounce you, as you have re- 
 nounced me, I turn away from you as you have 
 turned away from me, blessed, powerless gods! I 
 stand alone against you, shadows of Olympus! I 
 am like unto you; but not your equal, because I am 
 a man, and you are only gods. Long has my heart 
 thirsted for this final liberation, and now 1 tear 
 our treaty in pieces. I laugh at my superstitious 
 fear, at the childish lisping of your prophecies. I 
 have lived like a slave, and might have died like 
 a slave, but I have awakened, I have understood, 
 I am stronger than the gods, because, subject to 
 death, I have conquered death. There is no more 
 place for dejection, there is no place for fear, no 
 place for sacrifices, no place for prayers. It is 
 finished. Henceforth, there will not be one shadow 
 in my life, nor any trembling, nothing but eternal 
 Olympian laughter, which I rob you of; and when
 
 On the Euphrates. 395 
 
 I die, nothing but the heavenly fire, which I wrest 
 from you, immortals! My life shall be like the 
 motionless azure, in which ye once dwelt and now 
 die, giving place to us, who are like unto the 
 gods!" 
 
 A bent nonagenarian augur, with a long white 
 beard and a crooked priestly crozier, came up to 
 t he emperor and laid his still firm, strong hand on 
 his shoulder: 
 
 "Hush, my child, hush! If you have won the 
 secret, rejoice in silence. Do not lead the crowd 
 away. Those are listening to you, who may not 
 understand." 
 
 The murmur of discontent grew stronger. 
 
 "He is raving. He is simply raving/'' Hormis- 
 das whispered to Dagalaiphus, "he should be taken 
 to his tent. Otherwise things may turn out ill." 
 
 Oribasius hurried up to Julian, with his wonted 
 air of concern, as a self-forgetting physician. He 
 cautiously took the emperor by the arm, and began 
 to address him insinuatingly, as people talk to a 
 sick man: 
 
 "Most gracious Augustus, you .need rest. You 
 have not slept for two nights. How hot your 
 hands are! There are dangerous fevers in these 
 lands, let us go to your tent. The sun is inju- 
 rious. Your illness may be aggravated." 
 
 The emperor looked at him with a vague smile: 
 
 "Wait, Oribasius. I have forgotten something. 
 Yes yes. This is the most important thing. 
 Listen, do not say: the gods are no more, but, 
 the gods are not yet. They are not, but they shall 
 be, not in the heavens, but here, upon earth. We 
 shall all be as gods, only we must have mighty dar-
 
 39(5 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 ing, such as no man has yet had on earth, not even 
 the hero, Alexander of Macedon." 
 
 The disturbance among the soldiers grew dan- 
 gerous. The murmurs and exclamations grew into 
 an open expression of dissatisfaction. No one un- 
 derstood anything clearly, but all felt that some- 
 thing evil was happening. Some cried out in 
 superstitious terror: 
 
 "Sacrilege! sacrilege! Lift up the altar! Why 
 do the priests look on?" 
 
 Others answered: 
 
 "The priests have poisoned Caesar, because he 
 would not listen to their counsels. Beat the 
 priests! They are bringing us to destruction!" 
 
 The Galileans, taking advantage of a favorable 
 opportunity, hurried and pushed in every direc- 
 tion, with most humble countenances, smiling and 
 whispering to each other, inventing gossip, and 
 like snakes awakening from their serpent's sleep, 
 just warmed by the sun, began to hiss: 
 
 "Can you not see? God is punishing him. It 
 is a fearful thing to fall into the hajids of the 
 living God! The devils have gained dominion 
 over him, the devils have confused his reason, 
 and so he rises up against the very gods for whom 
 he renounced the One God." 
 
 The emperor, as if awakening from a deep 
 sleep, enveloped them all in a slow glance, and 
 finally, with an expression of perfect calm, asked 
 Oribasius: 
 
 "What is the matter? What are they shouting 
 about? What has happened? Oh, yes, the over- 
 turned altar." 
 
 He looked at the ashes of incense, smouldering 
 in the dust, with a sad mockery:
 
 On the Euphrates. 3D 7 
 
 "Do you know, my learned friend, that nothing 
 wounds people like the truth? Poor silly chil- 
 dren! Well, well, let them cry, let them weep; 
 they will soon be consoled again. Come, Oriba- 
 sius, let us go into the shade. You are right, the 
 sun must be too strong for me. My eyes are sore. 
 I am tired." 
 
 Julian walked slowly, leaning on the physician's 
 arm. Entering his pavilion, he signed to all to 
 depart, by a listless gesture. They closed the 
 doors, and it grew dark within the tent. 
 
 The emperor went to his hard traveling couch, 
 a lion's skin, and fell helplessly on it. He lay 
 thus for a long time on the ground, pressing his 
 head between his hands, as he used to in child- 
 hood, after sorrow or insult. 
 
 "Softly, softly, Ca3sar is ill," the generals tried 
 to calm the excited soldiers. 
 
 The soldiers grew quiet, and kept silent. 
 
 Silence fell over the Eoman camp, as over a 
 sick-room, a silence full of ominous and harassing 
 expectation. 
 
 The Galileans alone did not wait nor linger, but 
 hurried hither and thither, gliding unobserved 
 and penetrating everywhere, spreading dark 
 rumors, and hissing as snakes hiss when they wake 
 from their serpents' sleep, warmed by the sun. 
 
 "Can you not see? God is punishing him. It 
 is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the 
 living God!"
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 HOW THE SHIPS WERE BURNED. 
 
 Oribasius looked cautiously into the tent several 
 times, and offered the sick man a cooling draught. 
 Julian declined it, and asked to be left in peace. 
 He feared human faces, sounds, and light. 
 
 Clasping his head in his hands as before, he 
 tried to think of nothing, to forget where he was, 
 and what had happened to him. 
 
 The unnatural strain on his will, which he had 
 maintained for three months, deserted him and 
 left him weak and broken, as if he had had a long 
 illness. 
 
 He hardly knew whether he was asleep or awake. 
 
 Pictures passed before him, changing and melt- 
 ing into each other with irresistible swiftness and 
 torturing clearness. 
 
 First it seemed to him that he was lying in the 
 great cool chamber in Macellum. His decrepit 
 old nurse Labda was crossing him for the night, 
 and the snorting of the war-horses turned into the 
 ridiculous, abrupt snoring of the old pedagogue 
 Mardonius. He was full of joy at feeling himself 
 once more a little boy, quite unknown, far from 
 everybody, amongst the mountains of Cappadocia. 
 
 Then he seemed to smell the familiar, fresh and 
 delicate odor of hyacinths, softly warmed by the 
 March sun, in the snug little garden of Olympio- 
 dorus the priest, and to hear the dear, silvery 
 laughter of Amaryllis, and the murmuring of the 
 398
 
 How the Ships Were Burned. 390 
 
 fountain, the sound of the bronze cups, in the 
 game of cottabus, and Diophane's cry from the 
 kitchen, before dinner: "My children, the ginger 
 cakes are ready." 
 
 Then all vanished. 
 
 And he heard only how the first flies of Janu- 
 ary, rejoicing in the heat of noon, sang their 
 springtide songs in a corner sheltered from the 
 wind, on the white wall beside the sea. At his 
 feet, the bright green waves died away without 
 foam. He watched the sails with a smile, as they 
 sank in the infinite softness of the sea and the 
 winter sun, knowing that in that blessed loneli- 
 ness there was none but he, and like the black 
 flies on the wall, feeling only the innocent glad- 
 ness of life, the sunlight and the stillness. 
 
 Suddenly Julian awoke, and remembered that 
 he was in the depths of Persia, that he was the 
 Roman emperor, that he had sixty thousand sol- 
 diers on his hands, that the gods were not, that 
 he had thrown down the altar and committed sac- 
 rilege. He shuddered. A cold chill ran through 
 his body. It seemed to him that he had broken 
 loose, and was falling through an abyss, and had 
 nothing to catch hold of. 
 
 He could not say whether he had lain in that 
 trance one hour or twenty-four. 
 
 But the voice of his faithful old slave sounded 
 clear, not in dream, but in broad wakefulness, as 
 he cautiously put his head into the door: 
 
 "Cassar! I am afraid to disturb you, but I dare 
 not disobey you. You ordered me to tell yon 
 without delay. The General Arintheus has just 
 reached the camp." 
 
 "Arintheus!" cried Julian, and sprang to his
 
 400 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 feet, awakened as if by a thunderclap, "Arin- 
 theus! Call him, call him hither!" 
 
 Arintheus was one of his bravest generals who 
 had been sent with a small division to the north, 
 to find out whether the auxiliary army of thirty 
 thousand men under Procopus and Sebastian was 
 approaching, the army which had been ordered 
 to join the forces of Eome's ally, Arsaces King of 
 Armenia, and to unite with the emperor under 
 the walls of Ctesiphon. Julian had long been 
 waiting for these reinforcements. The fate of the 
 main army depended on them. 
 
 "Bring him here," exclaimed the emperor, 
 "Bring him herd Quick! Or, no. I will go 
 myself." 
 
 But his weakness had not quite passed, in spite 
 of his momentary excitement. His head felt 
 dazed. He closed his eyes and had to lean for sup- 
 port against the canvas wall of the tent. 
 
 "Give me some wine strong with cold water.'* 
 
 The old servant bustled about, hurriedly filled 
 a drinking-cup, and gave it to the emperor. 
 
 Julian drank it in slow draughts, to the last 
 drop, and sighed with relief. Then he left the 
 tent. 
 
 It was late in the evening. A storm was pass- 
 ing, far away across the Euphrates. The gusts of 
 wind brought a fresh dampness, a smell of rain. 
 
 Through the dark clouds a few big stars were 
 shimmering like lamp-flames flickering in the 
 wind. The cry of the jackals was borne up from 
 the desert. Julian bared his breast, turned his 
 face to the wind, and felt with delight the vigor- 
 ous caress of the departing storm playing with his 
 hair.
 
 How the Ships Were Burned. 401 
 
 He smiled, remembering his faintness of spirit. 
 His weakness vanished. The pleasant tension of 
 moral forces returned like an intoxication. His 
 nerves were strained like tightened chords. He 
 felt a desire to command, to act, to keep vigil 
 through the whole night, to go into battle, to play 
 with life and death, to vanquish danger. Only 
 from time to time a cold chill ran over his body. 
 Arintheus came up. 
 
 His tidings were melancholy. Every hope of 
 help from Procopius and Sebastian had disap- 
 peared. The emperor was deserted by his allies, 
 in the unknown depths of Asia. 
 
 There were gloomy rumors of treachery, of the 
 crafty Arsaces having betrayed him. 
 
 At that moment the emperor was informed that 
 a Persian fugitive from King Sapor's camp wished 
 to speak to him. 
 
 He was brought. 
 
 The Persian prostrated himself before Julian, 
 and kissed the earth. He was a monster of dis- 
 figurement. His shaven head was scarred with 
 Asiatic tortures, his ears were cut off, his nostrils 
 were slit open, so that he looked like a skull. But 
 his eyes were full of intelligence and decision. 
 He wore costly raiment of fire-colored Sogdiari 
 silk, and spoke in broken Greek. Two slaves ac- 
 companied him. 
 
 The Persian, who called himself Artabanes, said 
 that he was a satrap who had been calumniated to 
 Sapor and disfigured by tortures, and that he had 
 fled to the Romans to be revenged on the king. 
 
 "Oh universal ruler!" said Artabanes, in an in- 
 flated and flattereing voice, "I shall deliver Sapor 
 unto thee, tied hand and foot like a sheep for the
 
 402 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 sacrifice. I shall lead thee by night to his camp 
 and than shalt softly, softly cover the king with 
 thy hand, and take him, as children take nestlings 
 in their palms. Only hearken to Artabanes. 
 Artabanes can do all things. Artabanes knows 
 the secrets of the king." 
 
 "What do you want of me?" asked Julian. 
 
 "A mighty vengeance! Come with me." 
 
 "Whither?" 
 
 "To the north, across the desert, three hun- 
 dred and twenty-five parasangs, then across the 
 mountains to the east, straight to Susa and Ecba- 
 tana." 
 
 The Persian pointed to the horizon. 
 
 "Thither, thither," he repeated, not taking his 
 eyes off Julian's. 
 
 "Ca3sa.r," Hormisdas 'whispered in the emperor's 
 ear, "Beware! That man has an evil eye. He is 
 a wizard, a knave, or, let it not be spoken at 
 night, something worse. Sometimes dark things 
 stir in these lands at night. Drive him away, do 
 not listen to him." 
 
 The emperor paid no heed to Hormisdas' words. 
 He felt a strange enchantment in the Persian's 
 supplicating, steady gaze. 
 
 "You know the road to Ecbatana well?" 
 
 "Oh yes, yes, yes," muttered the Persian, with 
 an ecstatic laugh, "I know it how could I fail 
 to know it? Every blade of grass, every well in 
 the wilderness. Artabanes knows what the birds 
 sing, hears how the feather-grass grows, how the 
 springs flow underground. The old wisdom of 
 Zarathustra is in the heart of Artabanes. He will 
 run, he will run before thine army, scenting the 
 trail, pointing out the way. Believe me, and in
 
 How the Ships Were Burned. 403 
 
 twenty days all Persia shall be in thy hands, as 
 far as India, as far as the Ocean!" 
 
 The emperor's heart beat rapidly. 
 
 "Is it possible," he thought, "that this is the 
 miracle I have waited for? In twenty days Persia 
 shall be in my hands!" 
 
 His breathing stopped, for joy. 
 
 "Drive me not away," murmured the monster, 
 "I will lie like a dog at thy feet. When I beheld 
 thy face, I loved thee, I loved thee, universal ruler, 
 more than mine own soul, because thou art 
 mighty! I would that thou shouldst step on my 
 body, and crush me under thy feet, and I will lick 
 the dust from thy feet, and sing: 'Glory, glory, 
 glory to the Son of the Sun, to Julian, king of 
 East and West !'" 
 
 He kissed his feet. The two slaves fell on their 
 faces to the ground, repeating: 
 
 "Glory, glory, glory!" 
 
 "What am I to do with the ships?" muttered 
 Julian, deep in thought, as if to himself, "to leave 
 them without a guard, as a prey to the enemy, or 
 to remain with them?" 
 
 "Burn them!" whispered Artabanes. 
 
 Julian shuddered, and looked inquiringly in his 
 face. 
 
 "Burn them? what do you say?" 
 
 Artabanes raised his head, and his eyes pierced 
 the eyes of the emperor: 
 
 "Thou fearest, thou? No, no, men are afraid, 
 but not gods! Burn them, and thou shalt be free 
 as the wind, the ships will not fall into the hands 
 of the enemy, and thy army will be strengthened 
 by the soldiers withdrawn from the fleet. Be 
 mighty and fearless to the end! Burn them, and
 
 404 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 in ten days thou shalt be at Ecbatana, and in 
 twenty Persia shall be in thy hands! Thou shalt 
 be greater than Phillip's son, who overcame 
 Darius. Only burn the ships, and follow me! Or 
 thou darest not?" 
 
 "And if this is a lie?" If I read in thy heart 
 that all this is a lie?" exclaimed the emperor, siez- 
 ing the Persian by the throat with one hand, and 
 holding his short sword above him with the other. 
 
 Hormisdas heaved a sigh of relief. 
 
 For several moments, they silently looked each 
 other in the eyes. Artabanes did not flinch before 
 the emperor's gaze. Julian felt himself once more 
 conquered by the influence of those bold and sup- 
 plicating eyes. 
 
 "Let me die, let me die by thy hand if thou 
 believest not!" repeated the Persian. 
 
 Julian loosed him, and returned the sword to 
 its scabbard. 
 
 "It is terrible and sweet to look into thine 
 eyes!" continued Artabanes, "for thy face is as the 
 face of a god! None know it yet. I alone know 
 who thou art. Cast not away thy slave, oh Lord!" 
 
 "We shall see," said Julian, meditatively, "I 
 myself have long wished to penetrate the desert, 
 and seek battle with the king. But the ships " 
 
 "Oh yes, the ships!" broke in Artabanes, "we 
 must depart this very night, before the dawn, 
 while it is yet dark, so that the enemy in Ctesi- 
 phon may not know. Wilt thou burn them?" 
 
 Julian made no answer. 
 
 "Take him away," commanded the emperor to 
 the soldiers, pointing to the fugitive, "and guard 
 him carefully."
 
 How the Ships Were Burned. 405 
 
 Returning to his tent, Julian stood for a mo- 
 ment in the doorway and raised his eyes. 
 
 "Can it be? so easy and so soon? I feel that my 
 will is like the will of the gods! I have not time 
 to think, and it is already accomplished." 
 
 The gladness in his soul grew and swelled like 
 a storm. With a smile, he pressed his hand to his 
 heart, so strongly was it beating. The chill still 
 ran over him, and his head ached as if he had 
 spent the whole day in too strong sunlight. 
 
 Caesar, calling the old General Victor who was 
 blindly and boundlessly devoted to him, to his 
 tent, gave him his gold ring with the imperial 
 seal. 
 
 "To the commanders of the fleet, Constanti- 
 nianus and Lucillianus," commanded Julian, "to 
 burn the ships before dawn, except the five largest 
 with corn, and twenty boats for temporary bridges. 
 They are to be taken. The rest are to be burned. 
 Whoever resists, answers with his head. Keep it 
 all secret. Go!" 
 
 He gave him a fragment of papyrus, after 
 quickly writing a few words on it, a laconic order 
 to the commanders of the fleet. 
 
 Victor, as was his wont, showed no astonish- 
 ment and made no reply, but silently, with an 
 expression of passive obedience, kissed the hem of 
 the emperor's robe, and went forth to fulfil his 
 command. 
 
 Julian summoned a council of war in spite of 
 the late hour. 
 
 The generals assembled in his tent, gloomy, 
 secretly irritated, and suspicious. 
 
 In a few words, he informed them of his plan to 
 go to the north, to the interior of Persia, in the
 
 406 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 direction of Susa and Ecbatana, so as to take the 
 king unawares. 
 
 All the generals arose and spoke at once, hardly 
 concealing their opinion that the emperor's plan 
 was madness. On the stern faces of these wise old 
 men who were inured to every danger, there was 
 an expression of weariness, dejection and sus- 
 picion. Many expressed themselves sharply. 
 
 "Where are we going? What do you want?" 
 said Sallustius Secundus, "bethink yourself, gra- 
 cious Cassar. We have conquered half Persia. 
 Sapor offers you such conditions of peace as the 
 kings of Asia have never offered to a Roman con- 
 queror, not even to the great Pompey, nor to Sep- 
 timius Severus, nor Trajan. Let us make a glori- 
 ous peace, while it is not too late, and return to 
 our native land." 
 
 "The soldiers murmur," remarked Dagalaiphus, 
 "do not hring them to despair. They are weary. 
 Many are wounded. Many are sick. If you lead 
 them further into the unknown desert, we can 
 answer for nothing. Have pity on them! And it 
 is time for you also to rest. Perhaps you are more 
 tired than any of us." 
 
 "Let us turn back," they all cried; "to go fur- 
 ther is madness!" 
 
 At that moment, an indistinct and menacing 
 murmur was heard through the wall of the tent, 
 like the roar of distant surge. Julian stopped to 
 listen, then immediately understood that it was a 
 mutiny. 
 
 "You know my will," he said, with cold haughti- 
 ness, showing the generals to the entrance of the 
 tent. "It is unchangeable. I need nothing more. 
 In two hours we start. See that all is ready."
 
 How the Ships Were Burned. 407 
 
 "Blessed Augustus," said Sallustius quietly and 
 respectfully, but with a slight tremor in his voice, 
 "I cannot go without saying what I have to say. 
 You have spoken to us, your equals, not in power, 
 but in valor, not as a Roman, nor as a disciple of 
 Socrates and Plato. We can justify your words 
 only by a momentary irritation, which darkens 
 your godlike reason." 
 
 "What then?" said Julian, sneering, and paling 
 with hidden wrath, "the worse for you, my friends! 
 It means that you are in the hands of a madman. 
 I have just ordered the admirals to burn the ships, 
 and my command is being carried out. I fore- 
 saw your two great reasonableness, and cut off the 
 last pathway for retreat. Yes, your lives are now 
 in my hands, and I shall make you believe in 
 miracles!" 
 
 All were struck dumb. Only Sallustius sprang 
 toward Julian, and caught him by the hand. 
 
 "It is impossible, Caesar. You could notl-^-or is 
 it true?" 
 
 He did not finish, and dropped the emperor's 
 hand. All sprang out to listen. 
 
 The cries of the soldiers beyond the canvas wall 
 grew louder, and the mutinous uproar came closer, 
 like a storm passing over a vast forest. 
 
 "Let them shout!" said Julian, calmly, "poor, 
 foolish children! Where could they go, away from 
 me? Listen! That is why I burned the ships, 
 the hope of the cowards, the consolation of the 
 indolent. In twenty days Asia will be in our 
 hands. I have surrounded you with terror and 
 destruction, that you may conquer all and become 
 like me. Eejoice! I shall lead you like Dionysus,
 
 408 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 through the whole world, and you will conquer 
 men and gods, and will yourselves be as gods!" 
 
 He had hardly pronounced the last words, when 
 a cry of despair arose throughout the whole army: 
 
 "The ships are burning! The ships are burn- 
 ing!" 
 
 The generals ran out of the pavilion, Julian fol- 
 lowed them. They saw the sky all red. Victor 
 had faithfully fulfilled his lord's commands. The 
 fleet was in flames. The emperor watched it with 
 a strange and silent smile. 
 
 "Cassar! May the gods pardon us, he has 
 escaped!" 
 
 With these words one of the centurions threw 
 himself at Julian's feet, pale and trembling. 
 
 "Escaped? Who? What do you say?" 
 
 "Artabanes, Artabanes! Woe unto us. He has 
 deceived you, Cassar!" 
 
 "Impossible! And his servants?" stammered 
 the emperor, hardly audibly. 
 
 "They have just confessed under torture," con- 
 tinued the centurion, "that he is not a satrap, but 
 a tax-collector of Ctesiphon. He invented this 
 ruse to save the city, and deliver you into the 
 hands of the Persians by leading you into the 
 wilderness. He led you to set fire to the ships. 
 And they said further that Sapor was approach- 
 ing, with a great army. 
 
 The emperor hastened to the river-bank, to 
 meet General Victor. 
 
 "Quick, quick, extinguish the fires!" 
 
 But his words died on his lips, and looking at 
 the burning fleet, Julian understood that his com- 
 mand was folly, and that no human power could
 
 How the Ships Were Burned. 409 
 
 stay the flames, fanned by the strong gusts of 
 wind. 
 
 He seized his head in terror, and although there 
 was neither faith nor prayer in his heart, he raised 
 his eyes to heaven, as if seeking something there. 
 
 The pale stars hardly shone through the red- 
 ness of the sky. 
 
 The army grew more and more tumultuous. 
 
 "The Persians set fire to them !" cried some, 
 stretching forth their hands toward the blazing 
 ships, their last hope. 
 
 " It was not the Persians but the generals them- 
 selves, to draw us into the wilderness, and desert 
 us," cried others. 
 
 "Beat the priests, beat the priests ! " repeated 
 others, ' 'the priests have drugged Caesar, and taken 
 away his reason. ' ' 
 
 " Glory to Augustus Julian, the Conqueror," 
 cried the faithful Gauls and Kelts, "be silent, 
 traitors ! While he lives, we have nothing to 
 fear." 
 
 The cowardly wept : 
 
 * ' Let us go home ! We will go no further, we will 
 not go into the wilderness. We will not take a 
 step further ; we will fall by the way better slay 
 us!" 
 
 ' ' We shall never see our homes again. We are 
 lost, brothers ! We have fallen into the Persian's 
 snare. ' ' 
 
 "Can you not see?" triumphed the Galileans, 
 "that the devils have gained dominion over him ! 
 The impious Julian has sold his soul to them, and 
 they are carrying it to destruction. Whither can 
 a madman lead us, who is in the power of the 
 devils?"
 
 4:10 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 And at the same time Caesar, seeing nothing and 
 hearing nothing as if in delirium, whispered to 
 himself, with a wandering, weak and vacant smile: 
 
 "It is all the same; it is all the same! the mira- 
 cle will happen. If not now, then later. I believe 
 in the miracle." 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 ARSINOE'S TEMPTATION. 
 
 It was the first halt on the retreat, in the begin- 
 ning of June. The army had refused to go fur- 
 ther. 
 
 The prayers, promises and threats of the em- 
 peror were equally in vain. Kelts, Scythians, Ko- 
 mans, Christians, and heathens, brave and cow- 
 ardly alike, all answered him with the cry: 
 "Back, back, to our homes again!" 
 
 The generals were full of secret satisfaction. 
 The Tuscan augurs triumphed openly. 
 
 All revolted after the burning of the ships. 
 
 Not only the Galileans, but the worshippers of 
 the Olympian gods also, were now convinced that 
 over the emperor's head hung a curse, that the 
 Furies were pursuing him. 
 
 When he entered the camp, all conversation 
 ceased and all made way for him fearfully. 
 
 The books of the Sibyl and the Apocalypse, 
 Tuscan augurs and Christian seers, gods and an- 
 gels united to condemn the common foe. 
 
 Then the emperor declared that he would lead 
 them homewards through the province of Cordu- 
 ene, in the direction of the fertile Chiliocomus.
 
 Arsinoe's Temptation. 411 
 
 In retreating by this route, he at least retained 
 some hope of uniting with the soldiers of Proco- 
 pius and Sebastian. 
 
 Julian consoled himself with the thought that 
 he had not yet left the boundaries of Persia, and 
 consequently might meet the chief forces of Sapor, 
 and achieve such a victory as would set everything 
 right. 
 
 The Persians did not appear again. Wishing 
 to wear out the Roman army before making a final 
 onslaught, they set fire to the rich fields with their 
 golden barley and oats already ripe, and burnt all 
 the dwelling-houses and granaries in the villages. 
 
 Julian's soldiers went through a dead desert, 
 smelling of the recent conflagration. A famine 
 began. 
 
 To increase their misfortunes, the Persians 
 broke down the banks of the canals, and flooded 
 the burnt-up fields. The springs and streams 
 helped them, overflowing their banks after a short 
 but rapid melting of the snows on the peaks of 
 Armenia. 
 
 The water dried up rapidly, under the hot June 
 sun. In the fields, not yet cooled after the fire, 
 stood pools of warm, thick, black mud. In the 
 evening, there arose from the wet wood a heavy 
 exhalation, a horrible smell of rottenness mixed 
 with burning, which infected everything, the air, 
 the water, even the clothes and food of the sol- 
 diers. 
 
 From the rotting marshes rose myriads of in- 
 sects, mosquitoes, poisonous gadflies, flies and 
 gnats. 
 
 They settled in swarms upon the baggage ani- 
 mals. They fastened on the dusty, sweaty skin of
 
 412 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 the legionaries. Their sleepy droning resounded 
 day and night. Horses went mad; oxen broke 
 forth from beneath their burdens and cast their 
 packs on the ground. 
 
 After a wearisome march, the soldiers could 
 not count on sleep. There was no escape from the 
 insects, even in the tents. They made their way 
 through the interstices. The soldiers had to wrap 
 themselves up in their hot blankets, covering their 
 heads also, to get any sleep. 
 
 From the bite of a tiny yellow-brown fly, came 
 boils and blains, which first itched, then ached, 
 and finally turned into horrible open sores. 
 
 For several days the sun had not shone out. The 
 sky was covered with an even pall of white, hot 
 clouds. But their unmoving light was even more 
 blinding for the eyes than the sun. The sky 
 seemed low, flat and smothering, like the hanging 
 ceiling in a hot bath. 
 
 Thus they went on, worn, weak, with weary 
 tread, hanging their heads, between the sky im- 
 placably lowering, white as lime, and the charred 
 black ground. 
 
 It seemed to them that Antichrist himself, a 
 man apostate from god, had led them deliberately 
 into this cursed place to destroy them. 
 
 Some murmured, accusing their leaders, but in- 
 distinctly, as in delirium. 
 
 Others prayed and wept quietly, like sick chil- 
 dren, asking their companions for a piece of bread, 
 a mouthful of wine. 
 
 Some fell by the way from weakness. 
 
 The emperor gave orders to distribute to the 
 hungry soldiers the last food supplies which were 
 being kept for himself and his suite.
 
 Arsinoe's Temptation. 413 
 
 He himself ate thin flour pottage, with a small 
 piece of lard, food such as the not very particular 
 soldiers would have turned away from. 
 
 Thanks to the utmost abstinence, he felt a rest- 
 less excitement, and at the same time a strange 
 lightness in his body, as if he had wings. It sup- 
 ported him and increased his powers tenfold. 
 
 He tried not to think of the future. To return 
 to Antioch or Tarsus, beaten, a mockery and 
 laughing-stock for the Galileans, he knew well 
 that he could not endure it, if he were to accept 
 this thought even for a moment. 
 
 That night the soldiers rested. A north wind 
 drove away the insects. The oil, wine and flour, 
 given out from the emperor's last reserves, some- 
 what stayed the hunger of the soldiers. Hopes of 
 return were awakened anew. The camp sank into 
 a deep sleep. 
 
 Julian went into his tent alone. 
 
 For some time he had slept as little as possible, 
 sinking into a light doze only when morning was 
 at hand. If he slept longer, he awoke with terror 
 in his heart, with drops of cold sweat over all his 
 body. He needed the power of consciousness to, 
 overcome the torments that gnawed at his soul. 
 
 Entering his pavilion, he snuffed the small 
 bronze lamp hanging in the middle of the tent. 
 Parchment rolls were strewn around, part of his 
 traveling library, the Gospels amongst others. He 
 got ready to write. It was his favorite occupation 
 at night. He was writing his philosophic work: 
 "Against the Galileans," begun two months and a 
 half ago, when he was setting out on his journey. 
 
 Julian read over his manuscript, lying with his
 
 414 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 back to the door of the tent, when suddenly he 
 heard a rustle. 
 
 He turned, uttered an exclamation, and leaped 
 to his feet. It seemed to him that he saw a vision. 
 In the doorway was standing a youth in a dark 
 brown tunic of camel's hair, with a dusty sheep- 
 skin thrown over his shoulder, the so-called "me- 
 lote" of the Egyptian hermits with bare feet and 
 palm-leaf sandals. 
 
 The emperor looked and waited, unable to utter 
 a word. Silence reigned, such deep silence as 
 comes only in the depth of night. 
 
 "Do you remember/' said a familiar voice, "do 
 you remember, Julian, how you came to me in the 
 monastery? Then I drove you away, but I could 
 not forget, because you alone were ever near to 
 me." 
 
 The youth threw the dark monastic covering 
 aside. Julian saw golden curls, and recognized 
 Arsinoe. 
 
 "Whence and how did you come hither? Why 
 are you dressed thus?" 
 
 He still feared that it might be a vision; that 
 she might disappear unexpectedly, as she had 
 come. 
 
 Arsinoe told him in a few words what had be- 
 fallen her since they had parted. 
 
 Leaving her guardian Hortensius, and distrib- 
 uting nearly all her possessions to the poor, she 
 had long lived among the Galilean hermits, to the 
 south of Lake Mareotis, among the barren Libyan 
 hills, in the terrible deserts of Mtria and Setia. 
 The youth Juventinus, the pupil of blind old 
 Didymus, accompanied her. They visited the as- 
 cetics.
 
 Arsinoe's Temptation. 415 
 
 "And then? " asked Julian, not without a se- 
 cret dread, "what then, girl? did you find what 
 you sought?" 
 
 She shook her head, and answered sadly: 
 
 "No; only glimpses, only hints and signs, as 
 everywhere." 
 
 "Tell me; tell me all," the emperor pressed her, 
 and his eyes gleamed with hope and gratitude. 
 
 "Shall I be able to tell you?" she began, slowly. 
 "You see, my friend, I was seeking spiritual free- 
 dom, but it does not exist there." 
 
 "Yes, yes, is it not so?" said Julian triumphant- 
 ly; "I told you it was so, Arsinoe! Do you re- 
 member?" 
 
 She sat down on a stool covered with a leopard 
 skin, and went on quietly, with the same sad smile. 
 He caught at her every word with hungry delight. 
 ********* 
 
 "Tell me how you came to leave the wretches?" 
 asked Julian. 
 
 "I also had my temptation," answered Arsinoe; 
 "once in the desert among the stones, I found a 
 fragment of pure white marble. I took it up and 
 admired it for a long time, watching it sparkle in 
 the sun, and suddenly I remembered Athens, my 
 youth, art, you, I seemed to awake. Then I 
 immediately determined to return, to live and die 
 what God made me, an artist. At that time the 
 old man Didymus dreamed a prophetic dream, 
 that I had reconciled you with the Galilean." 
 
 "With the Galilean?" cried the emperor, and his 
 face immediately clouded over, his eyes grew dark, 
 and the triumphant smile died away from his lips. 
 
 "Curiosity brought me to you," continued Ar- 
 sinoe, "I wished to know if you had attained
 
 416 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 truth along your path, and what you had reached. 
 Disguised as a monk, I set out with brother Juven- 
 tinus, to Alexandria along the Nile, by ship to Se- 
 leucian Antioch,with a great Syrian caravan across 
 Apamea, Epiphania, and Edessa to the frontier. 
 Through many dangers and difficulties, we passed 
 through the desert of Mesopotamia, deserted by 
 the Persians. Not far from the village of Abusata, 
 after the victory at Ctesiphon, we came in sight 
 of you camp. And here I am. And you, Julian?" 
 
 He sighed. His head fell on his breast, and he 
 answered nothing. 
 
 Afterwards, looking at her from under his 
 brows with a quick supplicating and suspicious 
 glance, he asked: 
 
 "And now you hate Him, Arsinoe?" 
 
 "No: why should I?" she answered softly and 
 simply. "Why should I hate Him? Did not the 
 sages of Greece come close to what the Galilean 
 said? They who mortify their bodies and souls in 
 the wilderness, are far from Mary's gentle Son. 
 He loved children and liberty and the joys of fes- 
 tivals, and sumptuous white lilies. He loved 
 beauty, Julian! Only we have departed from 
 Him and have wandered and darkened our souls. 
 They all call you the Apostate. But they them- 
 selves are Apostates." 
 
 The emperor knelt before her, raising his eyes 
 full of entreaty. Tears shone in them and trickled 
 slowly down his emaciated cheeks: 
 
 "Do not! do not!" he whispered, "do not say 
 it! What use is it? Leave me with what I have 
 already! Do not become my enemy anew!" 
 
 "No! no!" she exclaimed, with irresistible force, 
 "I must tell you all. Listen! I know that you
 
 Arsinoe's Temptation. 417 
 
 love Him! Be silent! it is so, in this is your 
 curse! Whom have you risen against? In what 
 sense are you His enemy? When you fight against 
 His name, you are nearer His spirit than they who 
 with dead lips repeat: "Lord, Lord!" They are 
 your enemies, not He. When your lips curse the 
 Crucified One, your heart is thirsting for Him. 
 Why do you torture yourself more than the Gali- 
 lean monks?" 
 
 The emperor tore himself from her embrace, 
 and sprang up white as death. His face was dis- 
 torted, his eyes flashed with a strange hatred. He 
 whispered with trembling lips, with a smile of 
 pain, pride and anger: 
 
 "Away, away! depart from me! I know this 
 Galilean guile!" 
 
 Arsinoe gazed at him in terror and despair, as 
 at a maniac: 
 
 "Julian, Julian! What is it? Is it possible that 
 only for a name ?" 
 
 But he had already regained command over 
 himself. 
 
 His eyes grew calm, his face became indifferent, 
 almost contemptuous. The Roman Emperor spoke 
 to the Galilean woman: 
 
 "Away, Arsinoe! Forget all that I have said. 
 It was a moment of weakness. It has passed. I 
 am calm. You see that we are still strangers to 
 each other. The shadow of the Crucified is be- 
 tween us. You have not renounced Him. 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 yourself, while it is not too late! This is mad- 
 ness! Recover yourself, or else "
 
 418 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 She did not finish speaking. But he concluded 
 for her, with a haughty smile: 
 
 "You would say, Arsinoe, that I shall perish? 
 So be it! I shall follow out my path to the end, 
 whithersoever it may lead me. If, as you say, I 
 was wrong and unjust to the wisdom of the Gali- 
 leans, remember what I endured from them, how 
 innumerable, how contemptible, were my enemies! 
 Listen! Once in my presence the Roman soldiers 
 found a lion in the marshes of Mesopotamia, per- 
 secuted by poisonous flies. They flew into his 
 mouth, his ears, his nostrils, and would not let him 
 breathe; they darkened his shining eyes, and the 
 lion's might was slowly overcome by their stings. 
 Such will be my death! Such the victory of the 
 Galileans over the Roman Caesar!" 
 
 The girl still stretched forth her white hands to 
 him from the gloom, without words, without hope, 
 like a friend to a friend that is dead. But be- 
 tween them was a gulf, such as the living pass not 
 
 over. 
 
 ********* 
 
 On the twentieth of July, the Roman army, 
 after a long march through the burned-up plains, - 
 found in the deep valley of the river Dura, a little 
 grass that had escaped the fire. The legionaries 
 were unspeakably delighted, lying down and 
 breathing the damp smell of the earth, and press- 
 ing the lush, cool grass to their inflamed eyelids 
 and dusty faces. 
 
 There was a field of ripe wheat at hand. The 
 soldiers gathered the ears. Three days they rested 
 in the sheltering valley of the Dura. 
 
 On the morning of the fourth, the Roman sen- 
 tries noticed a cloud, like smoke or dust on the
 
 The Last Battle. 410 
 
 neighboring hills. Some thought that it was a 
 herd of wild asses, gathered together to protect 
 themselves from the attacks of lions; others 
 thought that it was the Saracens, attracted by ru- 
 mors of the siege of Ctesiphon; while others feared 
 that it was the main army of King Sapor himself. 
 
 The emperor commanded to sound the trumpet. 
 
 The cohorts, in close defensive order, a great 
 regular circle, protected by their shields, closed 
 up and forming an unbroken wall of bronze, took 
 up their position on the bank of the stream. 
 
 The curtain of smoke or dust remained on the 
 horizon until evening, and no one could guess 
 what was hidden behind it. 
 
 The night was dark and silent. Not a star 
 shone in the sky. 
 
 The Romans did not sleep. They stood round 
 their blazing camp-fires, and awaited the morning, 
 in silent uncertainty. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 THE LAST BATTLE. 
 
 At sunrise, they saw the Persians. The enemy 
 moved slowly forward. On the estimation of ex- 
 perienced warriors, there were not less than two 
 hundred thousand of them. New and ever new 
 ranks kept appearing from behind the hills. 
 
 The flashing of their armor was so bright that 
 even through the thick dust, the soldiers' eyes 
 could hardly endure it. 
 
 The Romans silently left their camp in tha 
 valley and drew up in battle array.
 
 420 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Their faces were stern but not downcast. 
 
 Danger put an end to hostility. All eyes were 
 again turned to the emperor. Galileans and 
 heathens alike tried to guess from the expression 
 of his face what were their hopes of victory. 
 
 Cesar's face shone with gladness. He waited 
 for the attack of the Persians as for a miracle, 
 knowing that victory would set all right, and give 
 him such honor and power that the Galileans could 
 not withstand him. 
 
 Danger gave him wings. A strange, joyful fire 
 gleamed in his eyes. 
 
 He was beautiful as a hero of old Hellas. 
 
 The close dusty morning of the 22d of July 
 foretold a hot day. 
 
 The emperor was unwilling to load himself with 
 the heavy bronze armor. He remained in a light 
 silken tunic. 
 
 The general Victor came up to him, holding a 
 breastplate in his hand. 
 
 "Cassar, I have dreamed an evil dream. Do not 
 tempt fate, but put on your armor!" 
 
 Julian silently pushed it aside with his hand. 
 
 The old man knelt down, holding up the light 
 armor: 
 
 "Put it on! Have pity on your slave! The 
 battle will be dangerous." 
 
 Julian took the round shield, threw the flowing 
 purple over his shoulder, and leaped on his horse: 
 
 "Let me alone, old man! I do not need it." 
 
 And he set forth, his Boeotian helmet shining 
 in the sunlight, with its tall crest of gold. 
 
 Victor looked after him, anxiously shaking his 
 head. 
 
 The Persians were approaching. There was no
 
 The Last Battle. 421 
 
 time to lose. Julian drew up the army in the 
 order, "lunare acie, sinuatis lateribus," in the form 
 of a bent crescent. The huge half moon was to 
 plunge its two horns into the Persian multitude, 
 and lay hold on it on both sides. On the right 
 wing, Dagalaiphus commanded; on the left, Hor- 
 misdas, and in the center Julian and Victor. 
 
 The trumpets sounded. 
 
 The earth swayed and rumbled under the soft, 
 heavy tread of the charging Persian elephants. 
 Ostrich feathers waved on their broad foreheads. 
 Towers were fastened on their backs, with leather 
 thongs. From each of them four arches dis- 
 charged their phalarici, missiles of burning 
 pitch and tow. 
 
 The Eoman cavalry did not withstand their 
 first onslaught. With deafening roars from their 
 trunks, the elephants opened their fleshy, damp 
 mouths, so that the soldiers could feel in their 
 faces the breath of the monsters maddened with 
 a mixture of wine, pepper and valerian, a special 
 stimulant which the barbarians intoxicated them 
 with before battle. Their tusks reddened with 
 cinnabar and lengthened with steel points, ripped 
 open the bellies of the horses. Their trunks 
 caught the riders, and lifting them into the air, 
 hurled them on the ground. 
 
 In the midday heat a piercing and acrid smell 
 of sweat came from these grey, swaying giants, 
 with flapping folds of skin. The horses shivered,, 
 snorted and stamped when they caught the smell 
 of the elephants. 
 
 One cohort had already taken to flight. 
 
 It was the Christians. 
 
 Julian hastened to stop the fugitives, and strik-
 
 422 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 ing the chief decurion in the face with his hand, 
 he cried out angrily: 
 
 "Cowards! you only know how to pray!" 
 
 The Thracian light-armed archers and Paphla- 
 gonian slingers went forward against the ele- 
 phants. 
 
 Behind them went the skilled Illyrian javelin 
 throwers with weapons filled with lead, the "mar- 
 tiobarbuli." 
 
 Julian gave orders to aim their arrows at the 
 legs of the monsters, as also stones and the leaden 
 javelins. One arrow struck a huge Indian ele- 
 phant in the eye. He bellowed, and reared on his 
 haunches. The thongs burst. The saddle with 
 the leather tower fell over and crashed to the 
 ground, the Persian archers falling out of it like 
 young birds from a nest. Confusion broke out 
 among the ranks of elephants. Wounded in the 
 legs, they fell down, and soon a moving mountain 
 of fallen beasts was heaped up round them. Feet 
 lifted in the air, bloody trunks, broken tusks, up- 
 turned towers, half-crushed horses, wounded and 
 dead, Persians and Romans, all were mingled 
 together. 
 
 Finally the elephants took to flight, rushing 
 among the Persians and trampling them under 
 foot. 
 
 This danger was foreseen in the tactics of the 
 barbarians. The example of the fight at Nisiba 
 had shown that an army might be thrown into 
 confusion by the broken ranks of its own ele- 
 phants. 
 
 Then the Vogatai, with long sickle-shaped 
 knives tied to their right hands, began to strike 
 at the monsters with all their might between two
 
 The Last Battle. 423 
 
 joints of the spinal column close to the skull. One 
 blow was enough to strike the strongest and big- 
 gest of them dead. 
 
 The cohorts of martiobarbuli threw themselves 
 forward, slipping between the bodies of the 
 wounded, and following up the fugitives. 
 
 At that time the emperor was hurrying to the 
 assistance of the left wing. 
 
 The Persian clibanarii were advancing at this 
 point, a famous body of horsemen, fastened to- 
 gether by huge chains of bronze and covered from 
 head to foot with thick chain mail, impenetrable, 
 almost invulnerable in battle, like statues cast in 
 bronze. They could only be wounded through 
 the narrow openings of their visors, left for their 
 eyes and mouths. 
 
 Against the clibanarii, he directed the cohorts 
 of his old faithful friends, the Batavians and Celts. 
 They died for a smile of the Caesar, watching him 
 with childlike, passionate eyes. 
 
 On the right wing, the Roman cohorts were cut 
 into by the Persian chariots yoked with striped, 
 thin-legged zebras. Sharp-edged scythes fastened 
 to the axles and spokes of the wheels, turning 
 with frightful rapidity, cut off the legs of the 
 horses and the heads of the soldiers at a single 
 blow, and mowed their bodies down as easily as 
 the scythe of the reaper cuts a swathe through the 
 soft stems of grain. 
 
 After midday, the clibanarii grew faint; their 
 armor stuck to them and burned them. 
 
 Julian directed all his forces against them. 
 
 They wavered and broke in disorder, and the 
 emperor uttered a cry of triumph. 
 
 He threw himsolf forward, pursuing the fugi-
 
 424 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 tives, not noticing that the soldiers had fallen 
 behind him. 
 
 A few body-guards accompanied Julian, 
 amongst the number the General Victor. The 
 old man, though wounded in the arm, felt no pain. 
 Not for a moment did he leave the emperor, sav- 
 ing him from mortal danger, covering him with 
 his long shield, sharp-pointed below. 
 
 The skilful general knew that to follow close 
 after a fleeing army is as unwise as to approach 
 a falling building. 
 
 "What are you doing, Caesar?" he cried to 
 Julian, "take care! Take my armor!" 
 
 Julian flew forward unheeding, with arms up- 
 lifted, with bare breast, as though he alone, with- 
 out his army, and by the terror of his counte- 
 nance and his uplifted hands, would put to flight 
 the innumerable foe. 
 
 A joyful smile played on his lips, his Boeotian 
 helmet shone through the clouds of dust raised by 
 the wind, and the folds of his cloak, floating in the 
 breeze, were like two gigantic purple wings which 
 carried the emperor ever farther and farther on- 
 ward. 
 
 The division of the Saracens was fleeing in front 
 of him. One of their horsemen turned, recog- 
 nized Julian by his dress, and shouted to his com- 
 panions, with a wild guttural cry, like the shriek 
 of an eagle: 
 
 "Malek! Malek!" "the king! the king!" 
 
 They all turned back. Without stopping their 
 horses, they leaped to the ground, in their long, 
 white cloaks, with spears raised above their heads. 
 
 The emperor saw a wild, dusky face. He was 
 almost a boy. He was riding on the hump of a
 
 The Last Battle. 425 
 
 huge Bactrian camel, with lumps of dry dirt stick- 
 ing to its belly and hanging from its rough hair. 
 
 Victor turned two Saracen spears aside with his 
 shield, guarding the life of the emperor. 
 
 Then the boy on the camel aimed, and flashing 
 his wild eyes, and savagely gnashing his teeth, 
 cried out in triumph: 
 
 "Malek! Malek!" 
 
 "How full of joy he looks," thought Julian, 
 "and I even more." 
 
 He had not time to finish his thought. 
 
 The spear whistled throng the air, struck him 
 on the right arm, slightly scratched his skin, 
 slipped between His ribs, and buried itself in his 
 side. 
 
 He thought that the wound was not severe, and 
 caught the two-edged spear-head to draw it out, 
 but cut his hand. The blood gushed forth. 
 
 Julian cried out aloud, throwing back his head, 
 and with wide open eyes looking into the pale 
 blue sky, fell from his horse into the arms of his 
 body-guard. 
 
 Victor supported him reverently and gently. 
 The old man's lips trembled and with eyes dim 
 with sorrow he looked at the veiled eyes of his 
 commander. 
 
 The belated cohort overtook them.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE DEATH OF JULIAN.; 
 
 They carried Caesar to his tent, and laid him on 
 a camp-bed. He did not return to consciousness, 
 but groaned from time to time. 
 
 The physician Oribasius drew the sharp blade 
 from the wound, examined it, and washed and 
 bandaged it. 
 
 After the bandaging was complete, Julian 
 sighed deeply and opened his eyes. 
 
 "Where am I?" he looked round wondering, as 
 if awaking from deep sleep. 
 
 From afar the sound of the battle came. He 
 remembered all, and rose from his couch with a 
 great effort. 
 
 "Why did you carry me away? Where is my 
 horse? Quick, Victor!" 
 
 Suddenly his face was drawn with pain. All 
 sprang forward, to support Cassar. He pushed 
 Victor and Oribasius aside. 
 
 "Leave me! I must be with them till the end!" 
 
 And he rose slowly to his feet. There was a 
 smile on his pale lips, and his eyes shone: 
 
 "You see, I still can Quick, my shield, my 
 sword, my horse!" 
 
 His soul fought against death. Victor gave him 
 the shield and sword. 
 
 Julian took them, and staggering like a child, 
 who had not learned to walk, made two steps for- 
 ward. 
 
 426
 
 The Death of Julian. 427 
 
 His wound opened. He dropped his weapons, 
 and fell into the arms of Oribasius and Victor, and 
 opening his eyes with a smile of quiet contempt, 
 he exclaimed: 
 
 "It is finished! Thou hast conquered, Gali- 
 lean!" 
 
 And resisting no longer he yielded himself up 
 to those who surrounded him. They laid him on 
 the hed. 
 
 "Yes, it is finished, friends!" he repeated in a 
 low voice. "I am dying." 
 
 Oribasius bent over him, trying to soothe him, 
 and assuring him that wounds like his could be 
 healed. 
 
 "Do not deceive me!" said Julian, briefly, "to 
 what end? I am not afraid." 
 
 Then he added triumphantly: 
 
 "I shall die the death of the wise." 
 
 Toward evening be became unconscious. 
 
 Hour after hour passed. 
 
 The sun set. The battle ceased. They lit a 
 lamp in the tent. Night came on. 
 
 He did not return to consciousness. His breath- 
 ing grew weaker. They thought that he was 
 dying. At last he slowly opened his eyes. His 
 steady, unmoving gaze was strained toward a 
 corner of the tent. A quick, weak whisper broke 
 from his lips. He was delirious. 
 
 "You? Here? Why? No matter, it is fin- 
 ished. Can you not see? Go! You hated laugh- 
 ter. That is what we cannot forgive." 
 
 Then he came to himself for a little while, and 
 asked Oribasius: 
 
 "What hour is it? Shall I see the sun?"
 
 428 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 And meditating, he added, with a mournful 
 smile: 
 
 "Oribasius, is the reason so weak? I know it is 
 bodily weakness. The blood fills the brain and 
 gives birth to visions. It must be conquered. The 
 reason must " 
 
 His thoughts grew once more confused. His 
 gaze became fixed. 
 
 "I will not. Do you hear? Depart, Deluder! 
 I do not believe. Socrates died like a god. The 
 reason must Victor! Victor! What do you want 
 with me, merciless one? Your love is more ter- 
 rible than death. Your yoke is a heavy yoke. 
 Why do you watch me like that? How I loved 
 you, Good Shepherd, you alone. No, no! Pierced 
 feet? Blood? The death of Hellas? Darkness. 
 I want the sun, the golden sun, on the marble of 
 the Parthenon! Why did you quench the sun- 
 light?" 
 
 The dark, quiet hour after midnight came. 
 
 The legions returned to the camp. Their vic- 
 tory gave them no joy. In spite of their weari- 
 ness, almost no one slept. They were waiting for 
 news from the emperor's tent. Many standing 
 beside the waning camp fires were drowsy from 
 weakness, and leaned heavily upon their long 
 spears. 
 
 The heavy breathing of the shackled horses was 
 audible, as they munched their oats. 
 
 White stripes began to show on the horizon, 
 between the dark tents. The stars grew distant 
 and cold. The air grew damp. The spears and 
 shields began to be covered with a grey layer of 
 dew, like cobwebs. The cocks of the Tuscan 
 augurs began to crow; the wise birds had not been
 
 The Death of Julian. 421) 
 
 drowned, in spite of the emperor's command. A 
 soft sadness was over heaven and earth. All 
 things seemed transparent; the near seemed far; 
 the far, near. Round the doorway of Cesar's 
 camp gathered his friends, the generals, and his 
 suite. In the twilight, they seemed to each otHer 
 like pale shadows. 
 
 A still more solemn silence reigned inside the 
 pavilion. "\Vith a monotonous sound, the physi- 
 cian Oribasius stirred some medicinal herbs in a 
 bronze basin, to prepare a cooling drink. 
 
 The sick man grew quiet. His delirium left 
 him. 
 
 At the dawn, he returned to consciousness for 
 the last time, and asked impatiently: 
 
 "When will the sun come?" 
 
 "In an hour," answered Oribasius, glancing at 
 the level of the water in the glass walls of the 
 clepsydra, 
 
 "Summon the generals!" commanded Julian, 
 "I must speak." 
 
 "Gracious Caesar," observed the physician, "will 
 it not injure you?" 
 
 "It is all one. I shall not die before the sun- 
 rise. Victor, raise my head higher. So! Good!" 
 
 They told him of the victory over the Persians, 
 of the flight of Meranee, the leader of the enemy's 
 cavalry with the king's two sons, of the destruc- 
 tion of fifty satraps. Julian showed neither sur- 
 prise nor pleasure. His face became indifferent. 
 
 His closest friends entered: Dagalaiphus, Hor- 
 misdas, Nevitta, Arintheus, Lucillianus, and Sal- 
 lustius, the prefect of the East. In front of them 
 came Jovian. Many, making suggestions for the 
 future, expressed a wish to see this weak, timid
 
 430 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 man on the throne, because he would be danger- 
 ous to no one. They hoped to rest under him, 
 after the turmoils of a stormy reign. Jovian had 
 the art of pleasing everybody. He was tall and 
 well-favored, with an insignificant face, easily lost 
 in the crowd. He had a well-meaning and insig- 
 nificant soul. 
 
 Here also among the emperor's suite, was a 
 young centurion of the household shield-bearers, 
 the future historian, Ammianus Marceliinus. 
 Everyone knew that he was keeping a diary of 
 the campaign and. collecting materials for an ex- 
 tensive historical work. On entering the pavilion, 
 Ammianus drew forth his wax tablets and bronze 
 stylus. He was preparing to write down the em- 
 peror's dying speech. On his manly face there 
 was a deep, impassive curiosity, as in the face of 
 an artist, or man of science. 
 
 "Baise the curtain," commanded Julian. 
 
 They drew back the hangings in the doorway. 
 All stepped back. The coldness of the morning 
 blew in the dying man's face. The door opened 
 toward the east. Not far off was a declivity. 
 Nothing interrupted the horizon. 
 
 On the rim of the sky, Julian saw the white 
 clouds, still cold and transparent as ice. He 
 sighed, and then spoke: 
 
 "So! Good! Put the lamp out." 
 
 They extinguished the lamp. Twilight filled 
 the tent. 
 
 All waited in silence. 
 
 "Hear, my friends!" Julian began his last 
 speech. He spoke low, but clearly; his face was 
 calm. It wore an expression of the triumph of 
 reason. Invincible will shone in his eyes.
 
 The Death of Julian. 431 
 
 Ammiamis Marcellinus began to write. His 
 hand trembled. He knew that he was writing on 
 the tablets of history, recording the last words of 
 a mighty emperor for future generations: 
 
 "Hear, my friends, my hour has come, perhaps 
 too soon, but you see that I rejoice, like an honest 
 debtor repaying my life to Nature, and there is 
 neither sorrow nor fear in my soul, but only the 
 quiet gladness of the wise, the foretaste of ever- 
 lasting rest. I have fulfilled my duty, and recall- 
 ing the past, I repent of nothing. In the days 
 when, persecuted by all men, I expected death in 
 the desert of Cappadocia, in the castle of Macel- 
 lum, and afterward, at the summit of my power, 
 I have kept my soul unspotted, striving after the 
 highest goal. If I have not accomplished all that 
 I desired, remember that earthly things are in the 
 hands of Fate. And now I bless the Everlasting, 
 that He has given me to die, not from a lingering 
 illness, nor at the hand of an executioner, or an 
 assassin, but on the field of battle, in the flower 
 of my youth, in the midst of great achievements. 
 
 "And now, beloved, tell my enemies and friends 
 how the Hellenes die, through the power of god- 
 like wisdom." 
 
 He ceased speaking. All knelt. 
 
 Many wept. 
 
 "Why do you weep?" asked Julian, with a 
 smile. "It is unseemly to weep for one who is 
 going home. Victor, be consoled." 
 
 The old man tried to answer but could not, and 
 covering his face with his hands, he wept aloud.
 
 432 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "Hush, hush!" said Julian, turning his gaze to 
 the distant sky; "the sun!" 
 
 The clouds lit up. The twilight in the tent 
 grew yellow and warm. The first ray of the sun 
 flashed up. The dying man turned his face to- 
 ward it. 
 
 Then Sallustius Secundus the Prefect of the 
 East, approaching, kissed Julian's hand: 
 
 "Blessed Caesar, whom will you appoint as your 
 successor?" 
 
 "It matters not," answered Julian, "Fate will 
 decide. It is useless to resist. Let the Galileans 
 triumph. We shall conquer in the end. There 
 will be a kingdom of godlike men upon the earth, 
 ever full of laughter like the sun! The sun! Be- 
 hold the sun!" 
 
 A faint shudder ran through his body, and with 
 a last effort he raised his hands as though to go 
 forth to meet the sunrise. The dark blood gushed 
 from his wound. The veins stood out on his neck 
 and temples. 
 
 "Give me water," he Avhispered, dying. 
 
 Victor raised a deep drinking cup to his lips, a 
 shining vessel of gold full of fresh spring water 
 to the brim. Julian watched the sun, and slowly 
 and with eager draughts he drank the water, 
 transparent and cold as ice. 
 
 Then his head fell backward, and from his half- 
 open lips came a last sigh, a last whisper: 
 
 "Rejoice, death is like the sun. Helios! 
 Take me. I am as thou art." 
 
 His eyes grew dim. Victor closed his lids. 
 
 The emperor's face in the sunlight was like the 
 face of a sleeping Olympian god.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 INNOXIA AND MICA AUREA. 
 
 Three months had passed since the Emperor 
 Jovian concluded his shameful treaty with the 
 Persians. 
 
 TheEoman army had returned to Antioch at the 
 beginning of October, worn out with hunger and 
 endless marches through burning Mesopotamia. 
 
 On the march, Anatolius, tribune of the ehield- 
 bearers, had made friends with the young historian 
 Ammianus Marcellinus. The two friends decided 
 to go to Italy, to a quiet villa near Baiae whither 
 Arsinoe had invited them, to rest from the fatigues 
 of their journey, and to be cured of their wounds 
 by the sulphur baths. 
 
 On the way, they stopped a few days at Antioch. 
 
 Every one was looking forward to a splendid 
 festival in honor of Jovian's accession to the 
 throne, and the return of the army. The peace 
 concluded with King Sapor was disgraceful to the 
 empire; five rich Roman provinces across the Ti- 
 gris, including Corduene and Regimene, fif- 
 teen forts on the frontier, the cities of Singara, 
 Castra-Maurorum, and the old inaccessible fort- 
 ress of Niziba, which had withstood three assaults 
 of the Persians, passed into Sapor's hands. 
 
 But the Galileans were not concerned at the 
 downfall of Rome. 
 
 When the news of the Apostate Emperor's death 
 was brought to Antioch, the frightened citizens at 
 
 433
 
 434: Julian the Apostate. 
 
 first refused to believe it, fearing that it was a wile 
 of Satan, a new net to catch the feet of the just, 
 but at last they believed it, and went mad with joy. 
 
 Early in the morning, the noise of festivities 
 and the cries of the people began to pierce through 
 the closely fastened shutters into Anatolius' sleep- 
 ing chamber. He awoke, and decided to pass the 
 day at home. The exultation of the multitude 
 disgusted him. 
 
 He tried to go to sleep again, but could not; a 
 strange curiosity got the better of him; he dressed 
 rapidly, and went out to the street, without saying 
 anything to Ammianus. 
 
 It was a southern autumn morning, fresh but 
 not cold. Great round clouds in the dark blue 
 sky blended with the white marble of Antioch's 
 endless colonnades and porticos. Fountains mur- 
 mured at the street-corners, and in the market- 
 places and forums. Along the sunny, dusty vistas 
 of the streets, the city aqueducts were seen sprink- 
 ling their nets of crystal drops. Pigeons were 
 cooing and picking up grains of barley. There 
 was a smell of flowers, of incense from the open 
 church-doors, and of wet dust. Dusky girls were 
 laughing, sprinkling baskets of pale October roses 
 at the transparent basins, and then weaving them 
 in garlands around the columns of the Christian 
 basilicas, singing joyful psalms the while. 
 
 The crowd filled the street with incessant talk 
 and noise. The chariots and litters, the pride of 
 the city council of decurions, moved along the 
 splendid pavement of Antioch in slow procession. 
 
 Triumphant cries were heard: 
 
 "Long live Jovian Augustus, blessed and 
 mighty!"
 
 Innoxia and Mica Aurea. 435- 
 
 Others added: "the conqueror!" but hesita- 
 tingly, because the title of "conqueror" looked too 
 like irony. 
 
 The street boy who had once drawn charcoal 
 caricatures of Julian on the walls, now clapped his 
 hands,, whistled and jumped about, playing in the 
 dust like a sparrow, and crying out in a piercing 
 voice: 
 
 "He is dead, the wild boar is dead who laid 
 waste the garden of the Lord." 
 
 He repeated these words after his elders; they 
 seemed the more offensive to him, because he did 
 not understand what they meant. 
 
 An old hag in tatters, who lived in a foul quar- 
 ter, in a damp cellar, also crawled forth into the 
 sunlight, like a wood-louse, to enjoy the festival. 
 She brandished her stick, and cried in a trembling 
 voice: 
 
 "Julian is dead! The Beast is dead!" 
 
 The joy of the festival was also reflected in the 
 wide-open wondering eyes of an infant in the arms 
 of a dusky work-woman from the factory of purple 
 dye. His mother had given him a honey-cake. 
 Watching the many-colored garments in the sun,, 
 he stretched out his hands in delight, and sud- 
 denly turned his plump, dirty face, smeared with 
 honey, and laughed cunningly, as if he knew per- 
 fectly well what it was all about, but would not 
 tell. And his mother proudly thought to herself 
 that her wise boy was pleased at the festival for 
 the death of the Apostate. 
 
 An endless sadness filled Anatolius' heart. 
 
 But he went onwards, overcome by a strange 
 curiosity. 
 
 He approached the cathedral, on the street of
 
 436 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Singon. There was a dense throng on the sun-lit 
 porch. He saw the well-known face of Marcus 
 Ausonius, the questor, leaving the basilica accom- 
 panied by two slaves, who pushed a way for him 
 through the crowd with their elbows. 
 
 "What is this?" thought Anatolius in wonder, 
 "what has this detester of the Galileans been doing 
 in the church?" 
 
 Ausonius' violet-colored cloak was adorned with 
 crosses embroidered in gold, and there were even 
 crosses on the toes of his crimson leather slippers. 
 
 Jimius Mauricus, another acquaintance of Ana- 
 tolius, came up to Marcus Ausonius: 
 
 "How is your health, worthy sir?" asked Jimius, 
 feigning comic wonder, as he examined the offi- 
 cial's new Galilean decorations. 
 
 Junius was free, and possessed an independent 
 fortune, so that he had nothing in particular to 
 gain by embracing Christianity. He was not the 
 least surprised when his official friendo went over 
 to the church in a body, but he took a special 
 pleasure in mocking them every time he met them, 
 questioning them, and playing the part of a deeply 
 offended friend who hid his sorrow under a mask 
 of forced irony. 
 
 The crowd passed hastily through the church 
 door. The porch rapidly emptied. Anatolius 
 stood behind a column, listening to their dialogue: 
 
 "Why did you not wait till the end of the ser- 
 vice?" asked Mauricus. 
 
 "Palpitations. It was so close. What can I do, 
 I am not used to it." 
 
 And he added thoughtfully: 
 
 "That young preacher's style is something ex- 
 traordinary, all the same. His exaggerations get
 
 limoxia and Alica Aurea. 437 
 
 on my nerves. As if a piece of iron was scraping 
 across glass. A strange style." 
 
 "Truly, this is touching," cried Junius delight- 
 edly, "here is a man who has been unfaithful to 
 everything, except good style." 
 
 "No, no, perhaps I have not yet caught the 
 taste," Ausonius interrupted him hurriedly, "please 
 do not think that I am insincere, Mauricus." 
 
 The vast fat body of the questor Gargilianus 
 came slowly forth from a deep, soft litter, with 
 groans and sighs: 
 
 "I am afraid I am late, never mind, I can 
 stand in the porch a while; God is a spirit, inhab- 
 iting" 
 
 "A miracle!" laughed Junius, "texts of Holy 
 Writ on the lips of Gargilianus!" 
 
 "Christ forgive you, my son," answered Gargili- 
 anus, unabashed, "what are you always sneering 
 and mocking about?" 
 
 "I am trying to count up how many conver- 
 sions how many perversions. I always thought 
 that your convictions at least ' 
 
 "What nonsense, my dear! I have only one con- 
 viction, that the Galilean cooks are just as good as 
 the Hellenic. And their fast-day dishes are excel- 
 lent. Come to supper with me, philosopher. 1 will 
 soon convert you to my faith. You will lick your 
 fingers. After all, is not all the same, my friends, 
 whether you eat a good dinner in honor of Mer- 
 cury the god, or Mercury the saint? Mere preju- 
 dice! What is the harm in a pretty little thing 
 like this?" 
 
 And he pointed to a simple amber cross, hang- 
 ing among the scented folds of rich amethyst-col- 
 ored purple which covered his portly paunch.
 
 438 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "Look, look, there is Hecebolus, the archpriest 
 of Astarte Dindymene, the repentant hierophant 
 in the black robe of a Galilean. Oh why art thou 
 not here, poet of the Metamorphoses!" cried Ju- 
 nius Mauricus, pointing to a dignified old man, 
 grey-haired, with a serene tranquillity in his pleas- 
 ant pink face, who was seated in a half-open litter. 
 
 "What is he reading?" 
 
 "Not the laws of the goddess Astarte!" 
 
 "What humility and sanctity! He is thin from 
 fasting. Look how he casts down his eyes, and 
 sighs!" 
 
 "Have you heard how he was converted?" asked 
 the questor, with a gay smile. 
 
 He probably went and fell at Jovian's feet, as 
 he did at Julian's." 
 
 "Oh no, he has a new fashion for everything. 
 It was quite unexpected. A public repentance! 
 He lay on the ground at the door of one of the 
 basilicas, when Jovian was -coming out, amongst a 
 crowd of people, and cried in a loud voice: 'Tram- 
 ple me under foot; trample the salt that has lost 
 its savor!' And he wept, and kissed the feet of 
 the passers-by." 
 
 "Yes, that was certainly something new. And 
 was it a success?" 
 
 "I should think so! They say he had a private 
 conference with the emperor. Oh, people like that 
 will neither burn nor drown. Everything turns 
 their way. They put off their old skins, and look 
 all the younger. Learn from them, my children." 
 
 "But what could he have to say to the em- 
 peror?" 
 
 "'Oh, many things," answered Gargilianus, not 
 without secret envy, "for example, he might have
 
 Innoxia and Mica Aurea. 439 
 
 whispered to him: 'Hold firmly to Christianity, 
 and there will not be a heathen left in the world; 
 the true faith will be the strength of your throne/ 
 The way is straight before us, now; far better than 
 in Julian's times." 
 
 "Oh, oh, oh, my benefactors! help me, defend 
 me! Save the humble slave Sicumbricus from the 
 lion's claws!" 
 
 "What is the matter?" asked Gargilianus of a 
 bow-legged, consumptive shoemaker, with a good- 
 natured, absent-minded expression, and disheveled 
 grey locks. Roman spearsmen were dragging him 
 away to prison. 
 
 "They are taking me to jail!" 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "For robbing a church." 
 
 "What? did you?" 
 
 "No, no, I was only in the crowd, and cried out: 
 'Strike!' once or twice, perhaps. That was in Au- 
 gustus Julian's time. People said that the Caesar 
 would be pleased if we wrecked the Galilean 
 churches. And so we wrecked them. And now 
 some evil-minded people have reported that I car- 
 ried away a silver sacramental fan under my cloak. 
 And I was not even in the church. I only cried 
 out: 'Strike!' once or twice, in the street. I am a 
 peaceful man. I have a poor little shop, in a popu- 
 lous quarter, and if there is a disturbance, the peo- 
 ple will certainly rob it. Do you think I did it for 
 myself? What had I to gain? Oh, fathers, pro- 
 tect me!" 
 
 "Are you a Christian or a heathen?" asked Ju- 
 nius. 
 
 "I don't know, benefactors; I don't know my- 
 self. Till the Emperor Constantine's time, I
 
 440 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 brought offerings to the gods. Then they baptized 
 me. Then came the Arian trouble, under Oon- 
 stantius. I became an Arian. Then the Hellenes 
 came into power. So I became a Hellene. And 
 now I have gone back to the beginning again. I 
 want to repent, and return to the Arian church. 
 But I do not want to make any mistakes. I knock- 
 ed down the idolatrous shrine; then I set it up 
 again; and then I knocked it down once more. 
 Everything is in confusion. I don't know myself 
 what I am, and what has happened to me. I am 
 faithful to the powers that be, but I cannot find 
 the truth at all. I miss every time. I am either 
 too soon, or too late. The only thing I see is, that 
 there is no rest for me, or was I born to this fate? 
 They beat me for Christ's sake, and then they beat 
 me for the gods'. I am afraid for my children. Oh, 
 protect me, benefactors, set the humble slave 
 Sicumbricus free!" 
 
 "Don't fear, good friend," said Gargilianus, with 
 a smile, "we will set you free. We will see about 
 your case. You made me a nice pair of shoes, with 
 a creak in them." 
 
 Sicumbricus fell on his knees, stretching forth 
 his manacled hands hopefully. 
 
 Growing a little calmer, he looked shyly at his 
 protectors, and asked: 
 
 "And how about religion now, my masters? Am 
 I to repent and hold fast till the end? There will 
 be no more changes? I am afraid, if they change 
 again " 
 
 "No, no," laughed Gargilianus, "make your 
 mind easy. It is all over. They won't change any 
 more." 
 
 Anatolius entered the churcb, unobserved by
 
 Innoxia and Mica Aurea. 441 
 
 the rest. He wished to hear the famous young 
 preacher, Theodorit. 
 
 The oblique rays of the sun trembled in bluish 
 sheaves on the surging waves of incense, as they 
 pierced through the narrow upper window of the 
 vast cupola, like a golden sky, the symbol of the 
 world-conquering Universal Church. 
 
 One ray fell on the fiery-red beard of the 
 preacher, who stood on the high ambo. He raised 
 his pale thin hands, transparent as wax, in the 
 sunlight. His eyes burned with triumph. His 
 voice thundered, filling the vast crowd with emo- 
 tion, and rising to heaven in a cry of revenge: 
 
 "As on a tablet of shame, I will write for pos- 
 terity the story of the evil-doer, the Apostate Ju- 
 lian. And let all ages and all peoples read what I 
 have written; and let them tremble before the just 
 wrath of God. Come hither, torturer! Come 
 hither, crafty serpent! Let us now upbraid thee, 
 let us unite in spirit and cry out, let us 
 sound the timbrels and sing the song of vic- 
 tory, the song of Mariam in Israel, at the drown- 
 ing of the Egyptians in the Red Sea. And let the 
 deserts rejoice and blossom forth like the lily, and 
 let the church, which yesterday was widowed and 
 orphaned in the sight of all, rejoice and be exceed- 
 ing glad. Behold, from joy I am as one drunken 
 with wine, and mad. But what voice, what gift of 
 words can express that miracle? Where are thy 
 sacrifices, thy offerings and mysteries? Where are 
 the curses and omens of thy augurs? Where is thy 
 art of soothsaying from the entrails of living men? 
 Where is the glory of Babylon? Where are the 
 Medes and Persians? Where are the gods who 
 guarded thee, and whom thou gnardest? Where
 
 442 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 are thy protectors, Julian? All is vanished, all is 
 scattered and melted away!" 
 
 "Oh pet, what a beard!" a withered and pow- 
 dered dame standing near Anatolius muttered to 
 her companion; "look, look, it is all gold." 
 
 "Yes, but his teeth " said her companion 
 doubtfully. 
 
 "What does it matter about his teeth, when he 
 is so handsome?" 
 
 "Oh, no, no, Veronica, how can you say so? His 
 teeth matter too. Can you compare the brother of 
 Theophanus " 
 
 Theodorit thundered: 
 
 "Behold how the Lord has broken the sinews of 
 the evil-doer! In vain has Julian gathered malice, 
 as wild beasts gather poison. God waited until 
 Julian had put forth all the foulness that was in 
 him, like some unclean sore ' 
 
 "We must take care not to be late for the cir- 
 cus," whispered a workman near Anatolius, speak- 
 ing in his companion's ear, "they say there are she- 
 bears from Britain." 
 
 "What? is it possible? she-bears?" 
 
 "Yes, it is quite true! One of them is called 
 Mica Aurea, Golden Crumb, and the other is 
 called Innoxia, Innocence. They feed them on 
 human flesh. And there are gladiators, too." 
 
 "Lord Jesus, are there gladiators? we must take 
 care not to be late. We need not wait till the end 
 let us slip out quick, brother, or all the places 
 will be taken." 
 
 Now Theodorit began to praise Julian's prede- 
 cessor Constantius, as a Christian benefactor, as a 
 man of pure life, a lover of his kindred. 
 
 Anatolius felt faint in the crowd. He left the
 
 Innoxia and Mica Aurea. 443 
 
 church, glad to breathe the fresh air, that smelt 
 neither of incense nor lamp-smoke, and look at the 
 blue sky, no longer hidden by the golden cupola. 
 
 In the porch, people were talking loudly, with 
 little reverence for the consecrated building. Im- 
 portant news had spread through the crowd. The 
 two bears were to be brought past immediately in 
 iron cages, on their way to the amphitheatre. 
 When they heard the news, the people began to 
 stream out of the church with preoccupied, eager 
 faces, not waiting for the end of the service. 
 
 "What? Where? we are not late? is it true 
 that Golden Crumb is sick?" 
 
 "Nonsense. Innocence had stomach-ache dur- 
 ing the night. She ate too much. It is all right 
 again now. They are both in good form." 
 
 "Glory to God! Glory to God!" 
 
 However sweet the eloquence of Theodorit, it 
 could not rival the charm of the gladiatorial shows 
 and British bears. 
 
 The church began to grow empty. Anatolius 
 saw the people running breathlessly from all the 
 corners of the city, and from the deserted basilicas 
 towards the circus. They knocked each other 
 clown, scolded and shouted at each other, crushed 
 children, ran over fallen women, lost their sandals, 
 and passed on. Their red, sweaty faces were as 
 full of the fear of being late as if life had been at 
 stake. 
 
 And two names passed tenderly from mouth to 
 mouth, like sweet promises of unknown joys: 
 
 "Golden Crumb, Innocence, Mica Aurea, In- 
 noxia." 
 
 Anatolius followed the crowd to the amphithea- 
 tre.
 
 444 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 According to the Koman custom, the velarium, 
 sprinkled with perfumes, protected the people 
 from the sun, and filled the amphitheatre with a 
 cool, red twilight. The many-headed crowd was 
 already surging over the circular ranges of seats. 
 
 Before the games began, the chief officials of 
 Antioch brought a bronze statue of the Emperor 
 Jovian to the imperial lodge, that the people 
 might behold the likeness of their new ruler. In his 
 right hand, the emperor held a globe, surmounted 
 by a cross. A blinding ray of sunlight pierced be- 
 tween the purple strips of the velarium, and fell 
 on the statue. His face lit up, and the crowd 
 looked at the shining head, with its self-satisfied 
 smile. The officials kissed the. feet of the image. 
 The mob cried out with joy: 
 
 "Glory, glory to the savior of his country, to 
 Augustus Jovian! Julian has perished, the wild 
 boar is punished, who laid waste the garden of the 
 Lord!" 
 
 Innumerable hands waved colored handker- 
 chiefs and scarves in the air. 
 
 The mob greeted Jovian, as their image, their 
 own spirit, their reflection, ruling over the world. 
 Tears of gladness shone in many eyes. 
 
 Mocking at the dead emperor, the mob address- 
 ed him as if he was present in the amphitheatre, 
 and could hear: 
 
 "Well, philosopher? The wisdom of Plato and 
 Chrysippus did not help you, nor the Thunderer, 
 nor PhoBbus the Far-darter protect you! You 
 have fallen into the devil's claws, and they will 
 tear you to pieces, Apostate! Where are your 
 prophecies, foolish Maximus? Christ and His
 
 Innoxia and Mica Aurea. 445 
 
 God have conquered; we, the lowly, have con- 
 quered!" 
 
 All believed that Julian had fallen by the hands 
 of the Galileans, and thanked God for that "saving 
 blow/' and sang the praises of the regicide. 
 
 And when they saw the dusky bodies of the 
 gladiators under the claws of Golden Crumb and 
 Innocence, the crowd was overcome by fury. Their 
 eyes were opened wide, and they had never enough 
 of the sight of blood. The crowd answered the 
 roar of the wild beasts with a still more savage 
 human roar. They sang praises to God, as if it 
 was only now that they beheld the full triumph of 
 the faith: 
 
 "Glory to the emperor, the noble Jovian! Christ 
 has conquered, Christ has conquered!" 
 
 Anatolius turned in disgust from the foul at- 
 mosphere of the mob, the smell of the human herd. 
 Half-closing his eyes, trying not to breathe, he 
 fled to the street, and, returning home, fastened 
 his door, closed the shutters tight, threw himself 
 on the bed, and lay motionless till late in the even- 
 ing. 
 
 But even here, there was no escape from the 
 multitude. 
 
 As soon as it grew dark, all Antioch was lit up 
 with fires. At the corners of the basilicas and the 
 lofty pediments af the government buildings, myr- 
 iads of lamps smoked, flickering in the wind, and 
 torches flared in the streets. And the ruddy glow 
 of the fires penetrated Anatolius' room, through 
 the interstices of the shutters, with an ill-smelling 
 odor of burning pitch and tallow. The drunken 
 songs of legionaries and sailors were heard from 
 the neighboring taverns, and the laughter, cries,
 
 446 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 and abusive voices of women of the streets, and 
 above all, like the sound of many waters, rose un- 
 ceasing praises of Jovian the Savior, and curses at 
 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 Anatolius, raising his hands to the sky, ex- 
 claimed with bitter mockery: 
 
 "Thou hast conquered indeed, Galilean!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 A great merchant trireme, with soft Asian car- 
 pets and vases of olive oil, was voyaging from An- 
 tiochian Seleucia to Italy. Through the islands of 
 the JEgean Archipelago it sailed towards Crete, 
 where it was to take on board a cargo of wool, and 
 drop several monks, bound for a solitary retreat 
 beside the sea shore. The elders, who kept to the 
 fore part of the ship, passed the day in pious con- 
 versations, prayers, and the customary occupation 
 of the monasteries, weaving baskets of palm- 
 leaves. 
 
 At the other end of the ship, at the poop, 
 crowned with an image of Athene Tritonides 
 carved of oak, under a light awning of violet-col- 
 ored cloth, to temper the sun's rays, were gathered 
 other travelers, with whom, as being heathens, the 
 monks had no intercourse. They were Anatolius, 
 Ammianus Marcellinus, and Arsinoe. 
 
 Tt was a calm evening. The rowers, Alexan- 
 drian galley-slave? with shaven heads, slowly 
 dipped and raised their long bending oars, singing 
 a melancholy song.
 
 Conclusion. 447 
 
 The sun hid behind the clouds. 
 
 Anatolius watched the waves, remembering the 
 poet's phrase: "the much-laughing sea." After the 
 stir, heat and dust of the streets of Antioch, after 
 the ill-smelling atmosphere of the mob, and the 
 smoke of the festival lamps, he breathed freely, 
 repeating: 
 
 "Oh much-laughing sea, take me, and wash my soul !" 
 
 Callimnos, Amorgos, Astyphalsea, Thera, floated 
 past them, one after another, like dream-islands, 
 now rising above the sea, now disappearing again, 
 like the daughters of the ocean dancing their ever- 
 lasting dance. It seemed to Anatolius that the 
 days of the Odyssey had not yet vanished here. 
 
 His fellow-travelers did not disturb his silent 
 reveries. Each of them was absorbed in his own 
 occupations. Ammianus Marcellinus was arrang- 
 ing his notes of the Persian expedition and the life 
 of Julian, and in the evening, as a relaxation, he 
 read the famous work of the Christian teacher, 
 Clement of Alexandria, entitled "Stromata," the 
 "Variegated Carpet." 
 
 Arsinoe was making wax models for a large 
 statue. 
 
 It was a naked, "beautiful body, an Olympian 
 god, with a face full of an expression of unearthly 
 melancholy. Anatolius wished to ask her who it 
 was, Dionysus or Christ, but could not make up 
 his mind to ask. 
 
 The sculptress had long laid aside her monastic 
 garments. The pious turned away from her in 
 horror, calling her an apostate. But the glorious 
 name of her ancestors, and the memory of the 
 great treasures with which she had formerly en-
 
 448 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 riched many Christian monasteries, saved her from 
 open persecution. 
 
 She still retained a moderate fortune from her 
 former wealth, enough to ensure her a life of 
 independence. 
 
 She still had a little estate on the shore of the 
 Bay of Naples, not far from Baias, and the villa in 
 which Myra's last days had been spent. 
 
 Here Arsinoe, Ammianus, and Anatolius had 
 decided to rest after the stormy years which they 
 had just passed through, in perfect quiet, in ser- 
 vice of the Muses. 
 
 The former nun now wore almost the same cos- 
 tume as before she had taken the veil. The simple, 
 noble folds of the peplum once more made her re- 
 semble an Athenian girl of the olden days. But 
 her garment was of dark stuff, and her pale gold 
 curls just flashed from under a dark hood which 
 covered her head. There was a stern and almost 
 severe wisdom in her brilliant black eyes, that 
 never laughed. Only the arms of the artist, bare 
 to the shoulders, shone white from under the folds 
 of the peplum, while she worked impatiently, al- 
 most angrily, pressing and moulding the soft wax. 
 Anatolius felt the daring force, of those white, im- 
 petuous arms. 
 
 On that quiet evening, the ship was passing a 
 small island. 
 
 None of them knew its name. From a distance, 
 it seemed a barren cliff. But to escape the hidden 
 reefs, the ship had to put in close to the land: 
 here, round the precipitous cliff, were such trans- 
 parent depths that they could see silvery-white 
 patches of sand at the bottom, alternating with 
 Tblack tufts of sea-weed.
 
 Conclusion. 449 
 
 Beyond the dark cliffs, green meadows appeared. 
 Sheep were grazing in them. On the head of the 
 cape grew a plane-tree. 
 
 Anatolius noticed a boy and a girl beside its 
 mossy roots. They were probably the children of 
 poor shepherds. Beyond them, in a cypress grove, 
 gleamed a white marble statue of goat-footed Pan, 
 with a nine-stemmed pipe. 
 
 Anatolius turned towards Arsinoe, to draw her 
 attention to that quiet corner of lingering Hellas. 
 But the words died away on his lips. 
 
 The artist was gazing fixedly at her creation, 
 with a smile of strange mirth, looking at the wax 
 statue, the ambiguous and fascinating image, with 
 its beautiful Olympian body, and the unearthly 
 sadness in its face. 
 
 A feeling of oppression filled Anatolius' heart. 
 He asked Arsinoe passionately, almost angrily, 
 pointing to the statue: 
 
 "What is it? what are you representing?" 
 
 Slowly, as if by an effort, she raised her eyes: 
 "The Sibyl should have such eyes," he thought to 
 himself. 
 
 "Arsinoe, do you think people will understand 
 you?" asked Anatolius. 
 
 "Is it not all the same?" she answered quietly, 
 with a sad smile. 
 
 And after a silence she added, in a still lower 
 voice, as if speaking to herself: 
 
 "He will stretch forth his hands to the world. 
 He must be implacable and terrible, like Mithra- 
 Dionysus in his beauty and strength, pitiful and 
 gentle." 
 
 "What are you saying, Arsinoe? What a con- 
 tradiction! How can that be?"
 
 450 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 "Who knows? For us it is impossible, but in 
 the future " 
 
 The sun sank lower. 
 
 A cloud lay beneath it on the horizon, waiting. 
 Its last rays lit up the island with a melancholy 
 tenderness. The shepherd and the girl approached 
 the altar of Pan, to perform the evening oblation. 
 
 "Do you think, Arsinoe," continued Anatolius, 
 "that unseen brothers will take up the thread of 
 our lives, where we drop it, and carry it on still 
 further? Do you hope that all will not perish in 
 that barbarous darkness that is descending over 
 Borne and Hellas? If that were so, if we could 
 know that in the future " 
 
 "Yes, yes," exclaimed Arsinoe, and her stern, 
 dark eyes glowed with prophetic fire, "the future is 
 in us, in our unreasoning sadness. Julian was 
 right. We must work on to the end, without glory, 
 in silence, estranged from all, and alone. We must 
 hide the last spark of fire in the ashes of the dying 
 altars, that future peoples and nations may be 
 able to kindle the flame once more. They will 
 begin where we end. Let Hellas die; a day will 
 come when men will dig up her sacred bones, frag- 
 ments of divine marble, and will once more pray 
 and weep over them. They will seek out the rot- 
 ting pages of our books in silent tombs, and once 
 more, like children, spell out the letters of the old 
 poems of Homer, and the wisdom of Plato! Hellas 
 shall be born again, and we shall be born with 
 her!" 
 
 "And with us, our curse!" exclaimed Anatolius. 
 Once more will begin the struggle between Olym- 
 pu and Golgotha! Why? Who will conquer?
 
 Conclusion. 451 
 
 When will the end be? Answer, Sibyl, if thou 
 canst!" 
 
 Arsinoe was silent, with downcast eyes. Finally 
 she glanced at Ammianus, and directed Anatolius' 
 attention to him: 
 
 "He can answer you better than I. His heart 
 is divided between Christ and Olympus, as yours 
 and mine are. Yet he has not lost his lucidity of 
 spirit. See how quietly and wisely he decides the 
 quarrel/' 
 
 Ammianus Marcellinus, laying aside Clement's 
 work, was silently listening to their conversation. 
 
 "It is true," said the Epicurean, turning to him, 
 "we have been together as friends for more than 
 four months, and I do not know yet whether you 
 are a Christian or a Hellene." 
 
 "I do not know myself," said Ammianus, blush- 
 ing slightly, with a frank smile. 
 
 "What? And no doubts ever disturb you, and 
 you do not suffer from the contradictions between 
 the Galilean and the Hellenic wisdom?" 
 
 "No, my friend, I think that the teachings have 
 many things in common." 
 
 "But how do you intend to write your history of 
 the Eoman Empire? One of the scales must out- 
 weigh the other. Can you intend to leave poster- 
 ity in such strange uncertainty as to your beliefs?" 
 
 "They need not know them," replied the his- 
 torian. "To be just to both parties, is my aim. 
 I loved the Emperor Julian, but I will not let my 
 love for him weigh down one pan of the scales. 
 Let none amongst posterity decide which I was, as 
 I myself do not decide." 
 
 Anatolius had already had an opportunity to 
 note Ammianus' graceful courtesy, his true cour-
 
 452 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 age in battle, from which all vanity was absent, 
 his quiet confidence in friendship; and now he was 
 involuntarily charmed by another trait in his com- 
 panion, the deep lucidity of his mind. 
 
 "Yes, you are a born historian, Ammianus," ex- 
 claimed Arsinoe, "you are the passionless judge of 
 our passionate age. You will reconcile the con- 
 tending teachings!" 
 
 "I am not the first!" answered Ammianus, 
 slowly. 
 
 He was so inspired by the subject that he rose 
 and pointed to the parchment roll of the great 
 Christian teacher's work: 
 
 "It is all here already, and much more, far bet- 
 ter expressed than I could express it. This is the 
 'Stromata' of Clement of Alexandria. He shows 
 that all the greatness of Eome and all the wisdom 
 of Hellas lead up to the teaching of Christ. They 
 are forebodings, presentiments, hints. They are 
 the broad steps, leading to the divine temple, like 
 the Propylse. Plato is the forerunner of Jesus 
 of Nazareth." 
 
 These last words about the teaching of Clement 
 of Alexandria, spoken with such sincere simplicity 
 r by Ammianus, stirred Anatolius to the depths of 
 his soul. He seemed to remember that all this had 
 once happened before, down to the smallest detail, 
 the island, gilded by the evening sun, the strong, 
 pleasant smell of pitch in the ship's seams, and the 
 unexpected and simple words of Ammianus, about 
 Plato, as the forerunner of Christ. He seemed 
 to see a wide stairway of marble, flooded by the 
 sun, with many steps like the Athenian Propylse, 
 leading straight up to the blue sky.
 
 Conclusion. 453 
 
 Meanwhile the trireme was slowly rounding the 
 cape. 
 
 The cypress grove was almost hidden behind 
 the cliffs. Anatolius cast a last glance at the youth 
 standing beside the maiden, before Pan's statue. 
 The girl was pouring out a simple bowl of wood 
 before the altar, bringing the god her evening gift, 
 an offering of goat's milk, mixed with honey. The 
 youth was about to play his flute. The trireme 
 entered the open sea. The group disappeared be- 
 hind a projection of the cliff. Only a pale blue 
 thread of sacrificial smoke rose straight up above 
 the grove. 
 
 Then a great silence came over the sky, the 
 earth, and the sea. 
 
 The slow sounds of church singing were heard. 
 The hermit-fathers were singing their evening 
 prayer in chorus, in the fore part of the ship. 
 
 At the same moment, other sounds were borne 
 to them across the quiet surface of the sea. The 
 shepherd boy was playing an evening hymn to 
 Pan, the antique god of joy and love and liberty. 
 The heart of Anatolius was stirred with wonder. 
 
 " Thy will be done on earth, as it is in 
 heaven," rose the voices of the monks, and high up 
 in the sky resounded the clear sounds of the shep- 
 herd's flute, mingling with the words of the 
 Lord's Prayer. 
 
 The last faint glimmer died out on the rocks of 
 the happy island. It once more seemed a dead 
 cliff in the midst of the sea. Both hymns sank to 
 silence. 
 
 The wind rustled through the rigging. The 
 waves began to rise. The halcyon uttered its 
 plaintive note. Shadows hurried forth from the
 
 454 Julian the Apostate. 
 
 west, and the sea grew dark. The clouds gathered. 
 From the horizon came the first mutterings of 
 thunder. Night and storm were drawing nigh. 
 
 But in the hearts of Anatolius, Ammianus, and 
 Arsinoe already shone the great gladness of the 
 Renaissance, like the light of a sun that knows no 
 setting. 
 
 The End.
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONA 
 
 A 000023797 4