"Let me depart, Augustus. I can no longer endure life at your Court.
My patience is exhausted. Every day there is some new insult to put up
with...." and he spoke at length of rewards, the moneys received by
him no longer, of ingratitude in view of his services, and the
splendid panegyrics with which he had glorified Cæsar.
But Julian, unheeding, gazed at the celebrated orator with disgust.
Could this really be the same Libanius whose speeches he had admired
so much in youth? What baseness! what vanity!
Then all the philosophers began speaking at once. Their voices rose,
they mutually accused each other of impiety, debauchery, peculation,
repeating the most fatuous scandals. The scene was a petty civil war,
not of the wise, but between parasites waxed fat through prosperity,
ready to fly at each other's throats through pride, anger, and
idleness.
At last the Emperor uttered a word which brought them back to their
senses--
"Masters!"
All were silenced like so many frightened magpies.
"Masters!" repeated Julian, with bitter irony, "I have heard you long
enough. Permit me to relate you a fable: 'An Egyptian king had a set
of tame apes, trained to perform a war-dance of Epirus. They were
costumed in helmets and masks; their tails were hidden under the
Imperial purple, and while they were dancing it was difficult to
believe they were not human. This spectacle gave general delight for
years. But on one occasion one of the spectators happened to throw on
the stage a handful of nuts! And what happened? The warriors tore off
their purple and masks, readjusted their tails, dropped on all fours,
and began to bite each other.' How do you like my fable, masters?"
Everybody was silent. Suddenly Sallustius took the Emperor by the hand
and pointed to the open window. Under the sombre masses of clouds a
reddish light, tossed by a violent wind, seemed slowly spreading.
"Fire! fire!" all present cried.
"On the other side of the river," some suggested.
"No, at Garandâma," others cried.
"No, it must be at Gezireh, in the Jew quarter!"
"It's neither at Gezireh nor at Garandâma," exclaimed a voice, with
the exultant tone of one in a crowd at sight of a conflagration. "It
is in the wood of Daphne!"
"Apollo's temple!" murmured the Emperor, whose heart was beating
wildly. "The Galileans!" he shouted with a mad voice, rushing to the
door, then to the staircase.
"Slaves, ... quick! My charger and fifty legionaries!"
In a few moments all was ready. A black colt, trembling all over and
with a dangerous look in his bloodshot eyes, was led into the
courtyard.
Julian rode at a breakneck speed through the streets of Antioch,
followed by his legionaries. The crowd scattered in terror before
them. One man was knocked down and another trampled to death, but
their cries were drowned by the thunder of hoofs and the clatter of
arms.
The open country was reached. Julian knew not how long the mad gallop
lasted; three legionaries fell with their foundered horses. The glow
became brighter and brighter and the smell of smoke perceptible. The
fields with their dusty vegetation assumed a yellowish hue. A curious
crowd rushed up from every side, like moths to a flame. Julian noticed
the joyousness of their faces, as if they were hurrying to a festival.
Tongues of flame glittered, in thick smoke-clouds, above the wood of
Daphne. The Emperor penetrated into the sacred enclosure. There the
crowd was bellowing, and exchanging pleasantries and laughter.
The calm alleys, abandoned by all for so many years, were swarming.
Rioters profaned the wood, broke down branches of ancient laurels,
befouled the springs, and trampled on the sleeping flowers. The cool
odour of narcissus and lily strove with the stifling heat of the fire
and the breath of the people.
"A miracle from God," murmured the crowd gleefully. "I myself saw
lightning fall from heaven and kindle the roof!"
"No, thou liest! The earth split in the midst of the temple and
vomited flames underneath the idol!"
"'S death!... It was after the abominable order to shift the relics.
They thought they could do it without let or hindrance.... Pooh!... So
much for your Temple of Apollo and prophecy from the sacred spring! It
is a blessing!"
Julian saw in the crowd a woman half-dressed, as if newly risen from
bed. With a stupid smile she was wondering at the fire, while cradling
on her arm an infant at the breast. Tears still trembled on the
eyelashes of the little one; but he quieted himself sucking vigorously
at the breast, against which he had propped himself with one hand,
while stretching the other towards the flames as if for a new
plaything.
The Emperor reined up his horse. Further advance was impossible, by
reason of the heat. The legionaries stood awaiting orders. But Julian
saw that the temple was doomed. From base to roof it was enveloped in
flames, like an immense brazier. Walls, joists, and carven cross-beams
were falling in, with crash after crash, and whirlwinds of sparks
mounted to a sky which came down lower and lower, lurid and menacing.
The flames seemed to lick the clouds, struggling against the embraces
of the wind and, roaring, flapped like great sails. The laurel leaves
writhed in the heat, and doubled themselves as in torture. The peaks
of the cypresses, kindled like huge torches, gave up the smoke of
sacrifice. Drops of resin fell thickly from the centenarian trees, old
as the temple.
Julian gazed haggardly at the fire. He wished to give an order to the
legionaries; but drawing his sword from the scabbard and curbing his
restive horse, he could only ejaculate impotently between clenched
teeth--"Oh, wretched, wretched people!"
Shouts of the crowd sounded in the distance. Julian recollected that
the entrance to the treasury was at the back; and the idea occurred to
him that the Galileans were pillaging the wealth of the god.... He
made a sign, and dashed in that direction, followed by the
legionaries. A melancholy procession brought him to a halt. A few
Roman guards, who had run up in haste from the village of Daphne, were
carrying a rude litter.
"What is it?" asked Julian.
"The Galileans have stoned the priest Gorgius to death."
"And the treasury?"
"It is untouched. Standing on the threshold of the door, the priest
defended the entrance. He never left his post until a stone stretched
him on the ground. Then they killed the child. The Galilean horde,
after trampling them under foot, would have got into the treasury if
we hadn't arrived in time."
"Is he still alive?"
"Hardly breathing."
The Emperor leapt from his horse. The litter was laid gently down; and
Julian stooping, cautiously lifted a corner of the old chlamys of the
priest, which covered both bodies. The old man was stretched with
closed eyes and scarcely heaving breast on a bed of fresh
laurel-branches. Julian's heart shook with pity when he saw the
red-nosed old drinker, whom he had thought so scandalous a few days
before. He remembered the poor goose in the wicker basket, the last
offering to Apollo. On the snowy hair drops of blood stood like
berries, and laurel leaves enlaced lay in a wreath on the priest's
head.
By his side lay the little body of Hepherion, his cheek resting on his
hand. He seemed asleep. Julian thought--
"Such must Eros be, son of the Love-goddess, killed by the stones of
Galileans."
And the Roman Emperor knelt in veneration before the martyrs to
Olympus. In spite of the loss of the temple, in spite of the stupid
triumph of the mob, Julian felt in this death the presence of the god.
His heart softened; even his hate disappeared, and with humble tears
he kissed the old man's hand. The dying man opened his eyes.
"Where is the child?" he asked under his breath.
"Here, near you."
Julian gently placed the hand of Gorgius on the locks of Hepherion.
"Is he alive?" asked Gorgius, stroking the child's curls for the last
time. He was so weak that he could not turn his head, and Julian had
not the courage to reveal the truth.