"Ah, ah, ah! The earth is in pain. The rivers flow more slowly; the
flowers in spring have not their old fragrance. An ancient fisherman
lately told me that one can see Etna no longer as we used to do. The
air has become thicker and darker, the sun is waxing weak; the end of
the world is near...."
"Tell me, Gorgius, can you remember better times?"
The old man brightened up, and his eyes shone.
"When I first came here in the first years of the reign of
Constantine," he said joyfully, "grand festivals were celebrated every
year in honour of Apollo. What numbers of lads and virgins used to
come to this holy wood! How the moon used to shine! How exquisite the
smell of the cypresses! How the nightingales used to sing! And when
their chant ceased, the air would tremble with nocturnal kisses and
sighings of love, as with the beatings of invisible wings."
Gorgius was silent and plunged in thought.
At that moment the sound of church-singing came from behind the trees.
"What is that?" asked Julian.
"The monks," answered the priest. "Monks praying over a dead
Galilean."
"What, a Galilean in the wood sacred to Apollo?'"
"Yes; they call him the martyr Babylas. Ten years ago the brother of
the Emperor Julian, Cæsar Gallus, transferred the bones of this
Babylas from Antioch into this wood, and had a superb sarcophagus made
for him. From that day the oracle ceased. The temple was sullied and
the god departed."
"What sacrilege!" exclaimed the Emperor indignantly.
"That year the virgin sibyl Diotima gave birth to a deaf-mute child, a
bad omen. Only one sacred spring was left us and did not dry up, the
spring called Tears of the Sun ... over there, where the child is now
sitting...."
Julian turned round. The boy was sitting in front of the mossy rock,
motionless, and in his open palm receiving the falling drops. Julian
almost imagined he saw two transparent wings trembling behind the
divinely beautiful child. So sad, so pale, so enchanting his look,
that the Emperor mused--
"He must be Eros, the little god of love, dying in our century of
Galilean moroseness, and in his hand receiving the last drops, the
last tears of love, tears of the god over Daphne, over the vanished
beauty of Daphne!"
The deaf-mute remained motionless, and a great black velvety butterfly
alighted on his head. He neither saw it, nor stirred. Like a malign
shadow the butterfly opened and shut its wings, while the Tears of the
Sun dropped, one by one, into the hand of Hepherion. Louder and louder
in the distance rose funereal psalms.
Suddenly from behind the cypresses came the sound of voices
disputing--
"Augustus is there."
"Why should he go alone to Daphne?"
"Why not? to-day is the great festival of Apollo. See, there he is ...
Julian, we have sought you since the morning!"
They were Greek sophists, men of science and rhetoricians, habitual
companions of the Emperor, and with them the Neo-Platonist Priscus of
Epirus, the bilious sceptic Julius Mauricus, the wise Sallustius
Secundus, and the celebrated orator Libanius.
Julian vouchsafed them not the least attention.
"What's the matter?" murmured Julius to Priscus.
"He must be displeased that there has been no preparation for the
feast! We have not sent a single offering...."
Julian addressed the former Christian rhetorician, now the high-priest
of Astarte, Hekobolis--
"Go into the neighbouring chapel, and inform the Galileans praying
there of my will. Let them come here."
Hekobolis went.
Gorgius, still holding his basket, stood petrified, with eyes and
mouth wide open. He rubbed his bald head. Had he not drunk too much?
It must all be a dream! But when he remembered all he had said about
Julian and the god to the pretended professor, a cold sweat broke out
on his forehead, his legs trembled, and he fell on his knees--
"Pardon, Cæsar! Forget my words!"
One of the philosophers wished to thrust away the old man; but Julian
stopped him--
"Do not insult the sacrificial priest. Rise, Gorgius, there is my
hand; fear nothing. So long as I live, none shall do harm to you or to
your little lad. You and I both came for the festival, both love the
old gods. We will be friends and rejoice together at this feast of the
Sun!"
The psalms had meantime ceased. Frightened monks appeared coming up
the alley of cypresses, deacons and superiors still in the sacerdotal
dress and led by Hekobolis. The arch-priest, a fat man with a shining
red face, walked swaying from side to side, much out of breath and
wiping his brow. He saluted Augustus profoundly, reaching one finger
to the ground, and said in a pleasant bass voice--
"May the humane Augustus pardon his unworthy servants!"
He bowed lower yet, and two novices skilfully assisted him to rise
again. One of them had forgotten to put away the censer, from which
the incense was escaping in thin fillets of smoke.