prayer. There was no reason why any one should ever come to this
outermost point of human habitation. Once a young Roman officer--Caius
Crassus--rode out a day's journey from Tyras, and climbed the hill to
have speech with the anchorite. He was of an equestrian family, and
still held his belief in the old dispensation. He looked with interest
and surprise, but also with some disgust, at the ascetic arrangements
of that humble abode.
"Whom do you please by living in such a fashion?" he asked.
"We show that our spirit is superior to our flesh," Simon answered. "If
we fare badly in this world, we believe that we shall reap an advantage
in the world to come."
The centurion shrugged his shoulders. "There are philosophers among our
people, Stoics and others, who have the same idea. When I was in the
Herulian Cohort of the Fourth Legion we were quartered in Rome itself,
and I saw much of the Christians, but I could never learn anything from
them which I had not heard from my own father, whom you, in your
arrogance, would call a Pagan. It is true that we talk of numerous gods;
but for many years we have not taken them very seriously. Our thoughts
upon virtue and duty and a noble life are the same as your own."
Simon Melas shook his head.
"If you have not the holy books," said he, "then what guide have you to
direct your steps?"
"If you will read our philosophers, and above all the divine Plato, you
will find that there are other guides who may take you to the same end.
Have you by chance read the book which was written by our Emperor Marcus
Aurelius? Do you not discover there every virtue which man could have,
although he knew nothing of your creed? Have you considered, also, the
words and actions of our late Emperor Julian, with whom I served my
first campaign when he went out against the Persians? Where could you
find a more perfect man than he?"
"Such talk is unprofitable, and I will have no more of it," said Simon
sternly. "Take heed while there is time, and embrace the true faith; for
the end of the world is at hand, and when it comes there will be no
mercy for those who have shut their eyes to the light." So saying, he
turned back once more to his praying-stool and to his crucifix, while
the young Roman walked in deep thought down the hill, and mounting his
horse, rode off to his distant post. Simon watched him until his brazen
helmet was but a bead of light on the western edge of the great plain;
for this was the first human face that he had seen in all this long
year, and there were times when his heart yearned for the voices and the
faces of his kind.
So another year passed, and save for the change of weather and the slow
change of the seasons, one day was as another. Every morning when Simon
opened his eyes, he saw the same grey line ripening into red in the
furthest east, until the bright rim pushed itself above that far-off
horizon across which no living creature had ever been known to come.
Slowly the sun swept across the huge arch of the heavens, and as the
shadows shifted from the black rocks which jutted upward from above his
cell, so did the hermit regulate his terms of prayer and meditation.
There was nothing on earth to draw his eye, or to distract his mind, for
the grassy plain below was as void from month to month as the heaven
above. So the long hours passed, until the red rim slipped down on the
further side, and the day ended in the same pearl-grey shimmer with
which it had begun. Once two ravens circled for some days round the
lonely hill, and once a white fish-eagle came from the Dniester and
screamed above the hermit's head. Sometimes red dots were seen on the
green plain where the antelopes grazed, and often a wolf howled in the
darkness from the base of the rocks. Such was the uneventful life of
Simon Melas the anchorite, until there came the day of wrath.
It was in the late spring of the year 375 that Simon came out from his
cell, his gourd in his hand, to draw water from the spring. Darkness had
closed in, the sun had set, but one last glimmer of rosy light rested
upon a rocky peak, which jutted forth from the hill, on the further side
from the hermit's dwelling. As Simon came forth from under his ledge,
the gourd dropped from his hand, and he stood gazing in amazement.
On the opposite peak a man was standing, his outline black in the fading
light. He was a strange, almost a deformed figure, short-statured,
round-backed, with a large head, no neck, and a long rod jutting out
from between his shoulders. He stood with his face advanced, and his
body bent, peering very intently over the plain to the westward. In a
moment he was gone, and the lonely black peak showed up hard and naked
against the faint eastern glimmer. Then the night closed down, and all
was black once more.
Simon Melas stood long in bewilderment, wondering who this stranger
could be. He had heard, as had every Christian, of those evil spirits
which were wont to haunt the hermits in the Thebaid and on the skirts of
the Ethiopian waste. The strange shape of this solitary creature, its
dark outline and prowling, intent attitude, suggestive rather of a
fierce, rapacious beast than of a man, all helped him to believe that he
had at last encountered one of those wanderers from the pit, of whose
existence, in those days of robust faith, he had no more doubt than of
his own. Much of the night he spent in prayer, his eyes glancing
continually at the low arch of his cell door, with its curtain of deep
purple wrought with stars. At any instant some crouching monster, some
horned abomination, might peer in upon him, and he clung with frenzied
appeal to his crucifix, as his human weakness quailed at the thought.
But at last his fatigue overcame his fears, and falling upon his couch
of dried grass, he slept until the bright daylight brought him to his
senses.
It was later than was his wont, and the sun was far above the horizon.
As he came forth from his cell, he looked across at the peak of rock,
but it stood there bare and silent. Already it seemed to him that that
strange dark figure which had startled him so was some dream, some
vision of the twilight. His gourd lay where it had fallen, and he picked
it up with the intention of going to the spring. But suddenly he was
aware of something new. The whole air was throbbing with sound. From all
sides it came, rumbling, indefinite, an inarticulate mutter, low, but
thick and strong, rising, falling, reverberating among the rocks, dying
away into vague whispers, but always there. He looked round at the blue,
cloudless sky in bewilderment. Then he scrambled up the rocky pinnacle
above him, and sheltering himself in its shadow, he stared out over the
plain. In his wildest dream he had never imagined such a sight.
The whole vast expanse was covered with horsemen, hundreds and thousands
and tens of thousands, all riding slowly and in silence, out of the
unknown east. It was the multitudinous beat of their horses' hoofs
which caused that low throbbing in his ears. Some were so close to him
as he looked down upon them that he could see clearly their thin, wiry
horses, and the strange humped figures of their swarthy riders, sitting
forward on the withers, shapeless bundles, their short legs hanging
stirrupless, their bodies balanced as firmly as though they were part of
the beast. In those nearest he could see the bow and the quiver, the
long spear and the short sword, with the coiled lasso behind the rider,
which told that this was no helpless horde of wanderers, but a
formidable army upon the march. His eyes passed on from them and swept
further and further, but still to the very horizon, which quivered with
movement, there was no end to this monstrous cavalry. Already the
vanguard was far past the island of rock upon which he dwelt, and he
could now understand that in front of this vanguard were single scouts
who guided the course of the army, and that it was one of these whom he
had seen the evening before.
All day, held spell-bound by this wonderful sight, the hermit crouched
in the shadow of the rocks, and all day the sea of horsemen rolled
onward over the plain beneath. Simon had seen the swarming quays of
Alexandria, he had watched the mob which blocked the hippodrome of
Constantinople, yet never had he imagined such a multitude as now
defiled beneath his eyes, coming from that eastern skyline which had
been the end of his world. Sometimes the dense streams of horsemen were
broken by droves of brood-mares and foals, driven along by mounted
guards; sometimes there were herds of cattle; sometimes there were lines
of waggons with skin canopies above them; but then once more, after
every break, came the horsemen, the horsemen, the hundreds and the
thousands and the tens of thousands, slowly, ceaselessly, silently
drifting from the east to the west. The long day passed, the light
waned, and the shadows fell, but still the great broad stream was
flowing by.
But the night brought a new and even stranger sight. Simon had marked
bundles of faggots upon the backs of many of the led horses, and now he
saw their use. All over the great plain, red pin-points gleamed through
the darkness, which grew and brightened into flickering columns of
flame. So far as he could see both to east and west the fires extended,
until they were but points of light in the furthest distance. White
stars shone in the vast heavens above, red ones in the great plain
below. And from every side rose the low, confused murmur of voices, with
the lowing of oxen and the neighing of horses.
Simon had been a soldier and a man of affairs before ever he forsook the
world, and the meaning of all that he had seen was clear to him. History
told him how the Roman world had ever been assailed by fresh swarms of
Barbarians, coming from the outer darkness, and that the eastern Empire
had already, in its fifty years of existence since Constantine had moved
the capital of the world to the shores of the Bosphorus, been tormented
in the same way. Gepidae and Heruli, Ostrogoths and Sarmatians, he was
familiar with them all. What the advanced sentinel of Europe had seen
from this lonely outlying hill, was a fresh swarm breaking in upon the
Empire, distinguished only from the others by its enormous, incredible
size and by the strange aspect of the warriors who composed it. He alone
of all civilised men knew of the approach of this dreadful shadow,
sweeping like a heavy storm cloud from the unknown depths of the east.
He thought of the little Roman posts along the Dniester, of the ruined
Dacian wall of Trajan behind them, and then of the scattered,
defenceless villages which lay with no thought of danger over all the
open country which stretched down to the Danube. Could he but give them
the alarm! Was it not, perhaps, for that very end that God had guided
him to the wilderness?
Then suddenly he remembered his Arian neighbour, who dwelt in the cave
beneath him. Once or twice during the last year he had caught a glimpse
of his tall, bent figure hobbling round to examine the traps which he
laid for quails and partridges. On one occasion they had met at the
brook; but the old theologian waved him away as if he were a leper. What
did he think now of this strange happening? Surely their differences
might be forgotten at such a moment. He stole down the side of the hill,
and made his way to his fellow-hermit's cave.
But there was a terrible silence as he approached it. His heart sank at
that deadly stillness in the little valley. No glimmer of light came
from the cleft in the rocks. He entered and called, but no answer came
back. Then, with flint, steel, and the dry grass which he used for
tinder, he struck a spark, and blew it into a blaze. The old hermit, his
white hair dabbled with crimson, lay sprawling across the floor. The
broken crucifix, with which his head had been beaten in, lay in
splinters across him. Simon had dropped on his knees beside him,
straightening his contorted limbs, and muttering the office for the
dead, when the thud of a horse's hoofs was heard ascending the little
valley which led to the hermit's cell. The dry grass had burned down,
and Simon crouched trembling in the darkness, pattering prayers to the
Virgin that his strength might be upheld.
It may have been that the new-comer had seen the gleam of the light, or
it may have been that he had heard from his comrades of the old man whom
they had murdered, and that his curiosity had led him to the spot. He
stopped his horse outside the cave, and Simon, lurking in the shadows
within, had a fair view of him in the moonlight. He slipped from his
saddle, fastened the bridle to a root, and then stood peering through
the opening of the cell. He was a very short, thick man, with a dark
face, which was gashed with three cuts upon either side. His small eyes
were sunk deep in his head, showing like black holes in the heavy, flat,
hairless face. His legs were short and very bandy, so that he waddled
uncouthly as he walked.
Simon crouched in the darkest angle, and he gripped in his hand that
same knotted cudgel which the dead theologian had once raised against
him. As that hideous stooping head advanced into the darkness of the
cell, he brought the staff down upon it with all the strength of his
right arm, and then, as the stricken savage fell forward upon his face,
he struck madly again and again, until the shapeless figure lay limp and
still. One roof covered the first slain of Europe and of Asia.
Simon's veins were throbbing and quivering with the unwonted joy of
action. All the energy stored up in those years of repose came in a
flood at this moment of need. Standing in the darkness of the cell, he
saw, as in a map of fire, the outlines of the great Barbaric host, the
line of the river, the position of the settlements, the means by which
they might be warned. Silently he waited in the shadow until the moon
had sunk. Then he flung himself upon the dead man's horse, guided it
down the gorge, and set forth at a gallop across the plain.
There were fires on every side of him, but he kept clear of the rings of
light. Round each he could see, as he passed, the circle of sleeping
warriors, with the long lines of picketed horses. Mile after mile and
league after league stretched that huge encampment. And then, at last,
he had reached the open plain which led to the river, and the fires of
the invaders were but a dull smoulder against the black eastern sky.
Ever faster and faster he sped across the steppe, like a single
fluttered leaf which whirls before the storm. Even as the dawn whitened
the sky behind him, it gleamed also upon the broad river in front, and
he flogged his weary horse through the shallows, until he plunged into
its full yellow tide.
* * * * *
So it was that, as the young Roman centurion--Caius Crassus--made his
morning round in the fort of Tyras he saw a single horseman, who rode
towards him from the river. Weary and spent, drenched with water and
caked with dirt and sweat, both horse and man were at the last stage of
their endurance. With amazement the Roman watched their progress, and
recognised in the ragged, swaying figure, with flying hair and staring
eyes, the hermit of the eastern desert. He ran to meet him, and caught
him in his arms as he reeled from the saddle.
"What is it, then?" he asked. "What is your news?"
But the hermit could only point at the rising sun. "To arms!" he
croaked. "To arms! The day of wrath is come!" And as he looked, the
Roman saw--far across the river--a great dark shadow, which moved slowly
over the distant plain.
V
THE CONTEST
In the year of our Lord 66, the Emperor Nero, being at that time in the
twenty-ninth year of his life and the thirteenth of his reign, set sail
for Greece with the strangest company and the most singular design that
any monarch has ever entertained. With ten galleys he went forth from
Puteoli, carrying with him great stores of painted scenery and
theatrical properties, together with a number of knights and senators,
whom he feared to leave behind him at Rome, and who were all marked for
death in the course of his wanderings. In his train he took Natus, his
singing coach; Cluvius, a man with a monstrous voice, who should bawl
out his titles; and a thousand trained youths who had learned to applaud
in unison whenever their master sang or played in public. So deftly had
they been taught that each had his own role to play. Some did no more
than give forth a low deep hum of speechless appreciation. Some clapped
with enthusiasm. Some, rising from approbation into absolute frenzy,
shrieked, stamped, and beat sticks upon the benches. Some--and they were
the most effective--had learned from an Alexandrian a long droning
musical note which they all uttered together, so that it boomed over the
assembly. With the aid of these mercenary admirers, Nero had every hope,
in spite of his indifferent voice and clumsy execution, to return to
Rome, bearing with him the chaplets for song offered for free
competition by the Greek cities. As his great gilded galley with two
tiers of oars passed down the Mediterranean, the Emperor sat in his
cabin all day, his teacher by his side, rehearsing from morning to night
those compositions which he had selected, whilst every few hours a
Nubian slave massaged the Imperial throat with oil and balsam, that it
might be ready for the great ordeal which lay before it in the land of
poetry and song. His food, his drink, and his exercise were prescribed
for him as for an athlete who trains for a contest, and the twanging of
his lyre, with the strident notes of his voice, resounded continually
from the Imperial quarters.
Now it chanced that there lived in those days a Grecian goatherd named
Policles, who tended and partly owned a great flock which grazed upon
the long flanks of the hills near Her[oe]a, which is five miles north of
the river Alpheus, and no great distance from the famous Olympia. This
person was noted over all the country-side as a man of strange gifts and
singular character. He was a poet who had twice been crowned for his
verses, and he was a musician to whom the use and sound of an instrument
were so natural that one would more easily meet him without his staff
than his harp. Even in his lonely vigils on the winter hills he would
bear it always slung over his shoulder, and would pass the long hours by
its aid, so that it had come to be part of his very self. He was
beautiful also, swarthy and eager, with a head like Adonis, and in
strength there was no one who could compete with him. But all was ruined
by his disposition, which was so masterful that he would brook no
opposition nor contradiction. For this reason he was continually at
enmity with all his neighbours, and in his fits of temper he would
spend months at a time in his stone hut among the mountains, hearing
nothing from the world, and living only for his music and his goats.
One spring morning, in the year of 67, Policles, with the aid of his boy
Dorus, had driven his goats over to a new pasturage which overlooked
from afar the town of Olympia. Gazing down upon it from the mountain,
the shepherd was surprised to see that a portion of the famous
amphitheatre had been roofed in, as though some performance was being
enacted. Living far from the world and from all news, Policles could not
imagine what was afoot, for he was well aware that the Grecian games
were not due for two years to come. Surely some poetic or musical
contest must be proceeding of which he had heard nothing. If so, there
would perhaps be some chance of his gaining the votes of the judges; and
in any case he loved to hear the compositions and admire the execution
of the great minstrels who assembled on such an occasion. Calling to
Dorus, therefore, he left the goats to his charge, and strode swiftly
away, his harp upon his back, to see what was going forward in the
town.
When Policles came into the suburbs, he found them deserted; but he was
still more surprised when he reached the main street to see no single
human being in the place. He hastened his steps, therefore, and as he
approached the theatre he was conscious of a low sustained hum which
announced the concourse of a huge assembly. Never in all his dreams had
he imagined any musical competition upon so vast a scale as this. There
were some soldiers clustering outside the door; but Policles pushed his
way swiftly through them, and found himself upon the outskirts of the
multitude who filled the great space formed by roofing over a portion of
the national stadium. Looking around him, Policles saw a great number of
his neighbours, whom he knew by sight, tightly packed upon the benches,
all with their eyes fixed upon the stage. He also observed that there
were soldiers round the walls, and that a considerable part of the hall
was filled by a body of youths of foreign aspect, with white gowns and
long hair. All this he perceived; but what it meant he could not
imagine. He bent over to a neighbour to ask him, but a soldier prodded
him at once with the butt end of his spear, and commanded him fiercely
to hold his peace. The man whom he had addressed, thinking that Policles
had demanded a seat, pressed closer to his neighbour, and so the
shepherd found himself sitting at the end of the bench which was nearest
to the door. Thence he concentrated himself upon the stage, on which
Metas, a well-known minstrel from Corinth and an old friend of Policles,
was singing and playing without much encouragement from the audience. To
Policles it seemed that Metas was having less than his due, so he
applauded loudly, but he was surprised to observe that the soldiers
frowned at him, and that all his neighbours regarded him with some
surprise. Being a man of strong and obstinate character, he was the more
inclined to persevere in his clapping when he perceived that the general
sentiment was against him.
But what followed filled the shepherd poet with absolute amazement. When
Metas of Corinth had made his bow and withdrawn to half-hearted and
perfunctory applause, there appeared upon the stage, amid the wildest
enthusiasm upon the part of the audience, a most extraordinary figure.
He was a short fat man, neither old nor young, with a bull neck and a
round, heavy face, which hung in creases in front like the dewlap of an
ox. He was absurdly clad in a short blue tunic, braced at the waist with
a golden belt. His neck and part of his chest were exposed, and his
short, fat legs were bare from the buskins below to the middle of his
thighs, which was as far as his tunic extended. In his hair were two
golden wings, and the same upon his heels, after the fashion of the god
Mercury. Behind him walked a negro bearing a harp, and beside him a
richly dressed officer who bore rolls of music. This strange creature
took the harp from the hands of the attendant, and advanced to the front
of the stage, whence he bowed and smiled to the cheering audience. "This
is some foppish singer from Athens," thought Policles to himself, but at
the same time he understood that only a great master of song could
receive such a reception from a Greek audience. This was evidently some
wonderful performer whose reputation had preceded him. Policles settled
down, therefore, and prepared to give his soul up to the music.