"I will not! Do you hear?... Go, Tempter! I do not believe! Socrates
died like a god. Reason ... Victor, ah, Victor!... what do you want
from me? Thou, the unappeasable, the implacable? Thy love is more
terrible than death.... Thy burden is the heaviest of all.... Why dost
thou look at me so? How much I have loved thee, Good Shepherd! ...
Only Thou? No, no! The pierced feet, blood? ... The death of Hellas
... darkness?... I want sunlight, the golden sun ... on the Parthenon
marble!... Wouldst thou veil the sun?..."
It was one o'clock in the morning. The legions had returned to camp,
with no exultation over their victory. In spite of fatigue, scarcely
any slept, all waiting for news from the Imperial tent. Many stood
sleeping, leaning on their lances round the half-extinguished
camp-fires; and the breathing of picketed horses could be heard,
munching captured forage of corn.
Between the dark rows of tents, faint white lines showed on the
horizon. Stars became yet more chilly and pale. The mists kept
spreading, and the steel of lances and shields was clouded with dew.
Here and there crew a cock, belonging to the Tuscan soothsayers. A
calm sadness hovered over heaven and earth. The scene was illusive as
a mirror; the near seemed far off and the distant came near.
At the entrance to Julian's tent stood a throng of generals, friends,
and familiar companions, all looking like phantoms in the misty
twilight. Still deeper silence reigned within the tent. Oribazius, the
physician, was pounding simples in a mortar to make a refreshing
drink. The sick man lay calm, and the delirium had left him. At dawn,
collecting himself, he asked impatiently--
"When will the sun rise?"
"In an hour," answered Oribazius glancing at the clepsydra.
"Call the generals," ordered Julian. "I must speak...."
"Well-beloved Cæsar, it may be hurtful...."
"What matter! I shall not die before the sun rises. Victor, raise my
head."
He was told about the victory over the Persians, the flight of the
enemy's cavalry, and of the two sons of Sapor the king; of the death
of fifty satraps. Julian showed neither astonishment nor gladness. He
remained indifferent.
Dagalaïf, Hormizdas, Ariphas, Lucilian, and Sallustius came in, headed
by the general Jovian. Many, with an eye to the future, had wished to
see on the throne this weak and timid man, who could be dangerous to
none. It was their hope under his rule to recover from the anxieties
of the tumultuous reign of Julian. Jovian possessed the art of
pleasing all. Tall and handsome in person, he in no way differed from
the crowd, aiming at all-round benevolence. Among the intimate friends
stood also a young centurion of the Imperial horse, the future famous
historian, Ammianus Marcellinus. Everyone was aware that he was
writing an account of the campaign, and amassing documents for a great
historical work. Stooping under the tent-door Ammianus drew out
tablets and stylus. A keen and impartial curiosity animated his stern
face; and with the coolness of an artist or a man of science he
prepared to take notes of the speech of the dying Emperor.
"Lift the curtain!" Julian ordered.
It was raised, and everyone stood aside so that the fresh air of the
morning might blow on the face of the dying. The door faced east, and
the view to the horizon was unbroken.
"Now put the lamp out."
The order was executed, and the tent filled with twilight. Everybody
stood waiting in silence.
"Listen, friends," Julian began; his voice was low but clear, his
whole presence breathed a triumph of mind over body, and invincible
will still gleamed from those eyes. The hand of Ammianus trembled, but
he wrote down the words uttered. He knew that he was writing on the
tables of history, and transmitting to men unborn the last words of a
great man.
"Listen, friends; my hour is come, perhaps too soon. But you see, like
an honest debtor, I am not sorry to give back my life to Nature, and
in my soul is neither pain nor fear; nothing but cheerfulness, and a
fore-feeling of the long repose. I have simply done my duty, and have
nothing to repent of. From the days when I daily expected death, like
a hunted beast, in the palace of Macellum, in Cappadocia, up to the
day of greatness when I took on the purple of the Roman Cæsar, I have
tried to keep my soul stainless, I have aspired to ends not ignoble.
If I have failed--and I have failed--to do all that I desired, you
will not forget that most of our earthly affairs are in the hands of
Destiny. And now I thank the Eternal for having allowed me to die
neither after long sickness nor at the hands of the executioner, but
on the battlefield--in mid-youth--in mid-endeavour, half-way to
achievement.... And dear, dear friends...."
His voice ceased; everyone present knelt down; many were weeping.
"No, no, my dear friends," said Julian smiling; "why weep for those
who are going back to their own country? Take heart, Victor!"
The old man tried to answer, but in vain; then hiding his face in his
hands, he sobbed aloud.
"Soft! Soft!" cried Julian; and then turning toward the sky: "Ah,
there He is!"
The morning clouds were growing rosy, and the twilight in the tent had
become warm and mellow; the first beam of the sun washed over the rim
of the horizon. The dying man held his face towards the light, with
closed eyes.