"This must be a deaf-mute."
The child looked shyly askance at the Emperor, who grew almost fearful
in the silent twilight of the deserted wood in the company of the elf,
who stared at him fixedly and haughtily as a little god.
Suddenly, he pointed out to Julian an old man, clothed in a patched
and tattered tunic; Julian immediately recognised a temple priest. The
weak and broken old man stumbled along in drunken fashion, laughing
and mumbling to himself as he went. He was red-nosed and completely
bald except for a fringe of downy grey hair. His watery and
short-sighted eyes had an expression of childlike benevolence. He was
carrying a large basket.
"The priest of Apollo?" asked Julian.
"I am he. I am called Gorgius. What do you want, good man?"
"Can you direct me to the high-priest of this temple and the people
worshipping here?"
Gorgius made no answer at first, but put his panier on the ground.
Then he rubbed his bald pate and, standing with arms akimbo, held his
head on one side winking mischievously with his left eye.
"And why am _I_ not the high-priest of Apollo?" he asked, "and what
worshippers do you mean, my son?... May the Olympians protect you."
He smelt strongly of wine. Julian thought his behaviour indecent and
prepared to administer a rebuke--
"You seem to be drunk, old man."
Gorgius, in no wise perturbed, continued to rub the back of his neck.
"Drunk? I don't think so. But I may have tossed off five cups or so,
for the sake of the celebrations; and as to that, I drink more through
sorrow than merriment. Yes, my son, may the Olympians have you in
their keeping!... Who are you? By your dress perhaps a wandering
philosopher, or a professor from the schools of Antioch?"
The Emperor smiled and nodded his head in acquiescence. He wished to
make the priest talk freely.
"You have hit it. I am a teacher."
"Christian?"
"No, Hellenist."
"Ah, that's good. There are many others of your way of thinking who
hang about this neighbourhood."
"You have not yet answered me as to where the people are: whether many
victims have been sent from Antioch; whether the choirs are ready."
"Victims? Small thanks for victims," said the old man, laughing and
stumbling so violently that he nearly tumbled down. "Many's the long
year, my brother, since we saw that kind of thing!... Since the time
of Constantine...." Gorgius snapped his fingers despairingly and
whistled. "It is all over--done for!... Phut!... Men have forgotten
the gods. Not only have we no victims, but we don't even get a handful
of wheat to cook a cake; not a grain of incense, not a drop of oil for
the lamps.... There's nothing for it but to go to bed and die!... Yes,
my son! may the Olympians protect you!... The monks have taken
everything!... and they fight each other; they're rolling in fat....
Our tale is told.... Ah! bad times these. And you say 'Don't drink!'
But it's hard not to drink when one suffers. If I didn't drink a bit I
should have hanged myself long ago."
"And no one has come from Antioch for this great feast day?" asked
Julian.
"None but you, my son. I am the priest, you are the people! We will
together offer the victim to the god."
"You have just told me that you received no victims!"