The Death of the Gods

Among Russian writers whose works have achieved European

reputation, prominence must be given to Dmitri Merejkowski.

The son of a court official, Merejkowski was born in 1866, and

began to write verses at the age of fifteen, his first volume

of poems appearing in 1888. Then, nine years later, came the

first of his great trilogy, "The Death of the Gods," which is

continued in "The Resurrection of the Gods," and completed by

"Anti-Christ," the last-named having for its central character

the figure of Peter the Great, the creator of modern Russia.

"The Death of the Gods," by many considered the finest of the

three, is a vivid picture of the times of the Roman Emperor

Julian, setting forth the doctrine that the pagan and the

Christian elements in human nature are equally legitimate and

sacred, a doctrine which, in its various guises, runs through

the trilogy.

_I.--Julian's Boyhood_

All was dark in the great palace at Macellum, an ancient residence of

Cappadocian princes. Here dwelt Julian and Gallus, the youthful cousins

of the reigning Emperor Constantius, and the nephews of Constantine the

Great. They were the last representatives of the hapless house of the

Flavii. Their father, Julian Constantius, brother of Constantine, was

murdered by the orders of Constantius on his accession to the throne,

and the two orphans lived in constant fear of death.

Julian was not asleep. He listened to the regular breathing of his

brother, who slept near him on a more comfortable bed, and to the heavy

snore of his tutor Mardonius in the next room. Suddenly the door of the

secret staircase opened softly, and a bright light dazzled Julian.

Labda, an old slave, entered, carrying a metal lamp in her hand.

The old woman, who loved Julian, and held him to be the true successor

of Constantine the Great, placed the lamp in a stone niche above his

head, and produced honey cakes for him to eat. Then she blessed him with

the sign of the cross and disappeared.

A heavy slumber fell on Julian, and then he awoke full of fears. He sat

up on his bed, and listened in the silence to the beatings of his own

heart. Suddenly, voices and steps resounded from room to room. Then the

steps approached, the voices became distinct.

The boy called out, "Gallus, wake up! Mardonius, can't you hear

something?"

Gallus awoke, and at the same moment old Mardonius, with his grey hair

all dishevelled, entered and rushed towards the secret door.

"The soldiers of the Prefect! ... Dress! ... We must fly! ..." he

exclaimed.

Mardonius was too late; all he could do was to draw an old sword and

stand in warlike attitude before the door, brandishing his weapon. The

centurion, who was drunk, promptly seized him by the throat and threw

him out of the way, and the Roman legionaries entered.

"In the name of the most orthodox and blessed Augustus Constantius

Imperator! I, Marcus Scuda, Tribune of the Fretensian Legion, take under

my safeguard Julian and Gallus, sons of the Patrician Julius Flavius."

It was Scuda's plan to gain favour with his superiors by boldly carrying

off the lads and sending them down to his barracks at Caesarea. There

were rumours from time to time of their escaping from Macellum, and

Scuda knew, the emperor's fear lest these possible claimants for the

throne should gain a following among the soldiers of the people. At

Caesarea they would be in safe custody.

For the first time he gazed upon Gallus and Julian. The former, with his

indolent and listless blue eyes and flaxen hair, trembled and blinked,

his eyelids heavy with sleep, and crossed himself. The latter, thin,

sickly, and pale, with large shining eyes, stared at Scuda fixedly, and

shook with bridled rage. In his right hand, hidden by the panther skin

of his bed, which he had flung over his shoulder, he gripped the handle

of a Persian dagger given him by Labda; it was tipped with the keenest

of poisons.

A wild chance of safety suddenly occurred to Mardonius. Throwing aside

his sword, he caught hold of the tribune's mantle, and shrieked out, "Do

you know what you're doing, rascals? How dare you insult an envoy of

Constantius? It is I who am charged to conduct these two princes to

court. The august emperor has restored them to his favour. Here is the

order from Constantinople!"

"What is he saying? What order is it?" Scuda waited in perplexity while

Mardonius, after hunting in a drawer, pulled out a roll of parchment,

and presented it to the tribune. Scuda saw the name of the emperor, and

read the first lines, without remarking the date of the document. At the

sight of the great imperial seal of dark green wax he became frightened.

"Pardon, there is some mistake," said the tribune humbly. "Don't ruin

us! We are all brothers and fellow-sinners! I beseech you in the name of

Christ!"

"I know what acts you commit in the name of Christ. Away with you!

Begone at once!" screamed Mardonius. The tribune gave the order to

retire, and only when the sound of the steps dying away assured

Mardonius that all peril was over did the old man forget his tutorial

dignity. A wild fit of laughter seized him, and he began to dance.

"Children, children!" he cried gleefully. "Glory to Hermes! We've done

them cleverly! That edict was annulled three years ago! Ah, the idiots,

the idiots!"

At daybreak Julian fell into a deep sleep.

_II.--Julian the Emperor_

Gallus had fallen at the hands of the imperial executioner, and Julian

had been banished to the army in Gaul. Constantius hoped to get news of

the defeat and death of Julian, and was horribly disappointed when

nothing was heard but tidings of victory.

Julian, successful in arms and worshipped by his soldiers, became more

and more convinced that the old Olympian gods were protecting him and

advancing his cause, and only for prudential reasons did he continue to

attend Christian churches. In his heart he abhorred the crucified

Galilean God of the Christians, and longed for the restoration of the

old worship of Apollo and the gods of Greece and Rome.

More than two years after the victory of Argentoratum, when Julian had

delivered all Gaul from the barbarians, he received an important letter

from the Emperor Constantius.

Each new victory in Gaul had maddened the soul of Constantius, and

smitten his vanity to the quick. He writhed with jealousy, and grew thin

and sleepless and sick. At the same time he sustained defeat after

defeat in his own campaign in Asia against the Persians. Musing, during

nights of insomnia, the emperor blamed himself for having let Julian

live.

Finally, Constantius decided to rob Julian of his best soldiers, and

then, by gradually disarming him, to draw him into his toils and deal

him the mortal blow.

With this intention he sent a letter to Julian by the tribune Decensius,

commanding him to select the most trusted legions, namely, the Heruli,

Batavians, and Celts, and to dispatch them into Asia for the emperor's

own use. Each remaining legion was also to be deflowered of its three

hundred bravest warriors, and Julian's transport crippled of the pick of

the porters and baggage carriers.

Julian at once warned Decensius, and proved to him that rebellion was

inevitable among the savage legions raised in Gaul, who would almost

certainly prefer to die rather than quit their native soil. But

Decensius took no account of these warnings.

On the departure of the first cohorts, the soldiers, hitherto only

restrained by Julian's stern and wise discipline, became excited and

tumultuous. Savage murmurs ran through the crowd. The cries came nearer;

wild agitation seized the garrison.

"What has happened?" asked a veteran.

"Twenty soldiers have been beaten to death!"

"Twenty! No; a hundred!"

A legionary, with torn clothes and terrified appearance, rushed into the

crowd, shouting, "Comrades, quick to the palace! Quick! Julian's just

been beheaded!"

These words kindled the long-smouldering flame. Everyone began to shout,

"Where is the envoy from the Emperor Constantius?"

"Down with the envoy!"

"Down with the emperor!"

Another mob swept by the barracks, calling out, "Glory to the Emperor

Julian! Glory to Augustus Julian!"

Then the cohorts, who had marched out the night before, mutinied, and

were soon seen returning. The crowd grew thicker and thicker, like a

raging flood.

"To the palace! To the palace!" the cry was raised. "Let us make Julian

emperor! Let us crown him with the diadem!"

Foreseeing the revolt, Julian had not left his quarters nor shown

himself to the soldiers, but for two days and two nights had waited for

a sign.

The indistinct cries of the mutineers came to him, borne faintly upon

the wind.

A servant entered, and announced that an old man from Athens desired to

see the Caesar on urgent business. Julian ran to meet the newcomer; it

was the high-priest of the mysteries of Eleusis, whom he had impatiently

expected.

"Caesar," said the old man, "be not hasty. Decide nothing to-night; wait

for the morrow, the gods are silent."

Outside could be heard the noise of soldiers pouring into the courtyard,

and thrilling the old palace with their cries. The die was cast, Julian

put on his armour, warcloak, and helmet, buckled on his sword, and ran

down the principal staircase to the main entrance. In a moment the crowd

felt his supremacy; in action his will never vacillated; at his first

gesture the mob was silenced.

Julian spoke to the soldiers, asked them to restore order, and declared

that he would neither abandon them nor permit them to be taken from

Gaul.

"Down with Constantius!" cried the legionaries. "Thou art our emperor!

Glory to Augustus Julian the Invincible!"

Admirably did Julian affect surprise, lowering his eyes, and turning

aside his head with a deprecating gesture of his lifted palms.

The shouts redoubled. "Silence!" exclaimed Julian, striding towards the

crowd. "Do you think that I can betray my sovereign? Are we not sworn?"

The soldiers seized his hands, and many, falling at his feet, kissed

them, weeping and crying, "We are willing to die for you! Have pity on

us; be our emperor!"

With an effort that might well have been thought sincere, Julian

answered, "My children, my dear comrades, I am yours in life and in

death! I can refuse you nothing!"

A standard-bearer pulled from his neck the metal chain denoting his

rank, and Julian wound it twice around his own neck. This chain made him

Emperor of Rome.

"Hoist him on a shield," shouted the soldiery. A round buckler was

tendered. Hundreds of arms heaved the emperor. He saw a sea of helmeted

heads, and heard, like the rolling of thunder, the exultant cry, "Glory

to Julian, the divine Augustus!"

It seemed the will of destiny.

_III.--The Worship of Apollo_

Constantius was dead, and Julian sole emperor of Rome.

Before all the army the golden cross had been wrenched from the imperial

standard, and a little silver statue of the sun-god, Mithra-Helios, had

been soldered to the staff of the Labarum.

One of the men in the front rank uttered a single word so distinctly

that Julian heard it, "Anti-Christ!"

Toleration was promised to the Christians, but Julian organised

processions in honour of the Olympian gods, and encouraged in every way

the return of the old and dying worship.

* * * * *

Five miles from Antioch stood the celebrated wood of Daphne, consecrated

to Apollo. A temple had been built there, where every year the praises

of the sun-god were celebrated.

Julian, without telling anyone of his intention, quitted Antioch at

daybreak. He wished to find out for himself whether the inhabitants

remembered the ancient sacred feast. All along the road he mused on the

solemnity, hoping to see lads and maidens going up the steps of the

temple, the crowd of the faithful, the choirs, and the smoke of incense.

Presently the columns and pediments of the temple shone through the

wood, but not a worshipper yet had Julian encountered. At last he saw a

boy of twelve years old, on a path overgrown with wild hyacinth.

"Do you know, child, where are the sacrificers and the people?" Julian

asked.

The child made no answer.

"Listen, little one. Can you not lead me to the priest of Apollo?"

The boy put a finger to his lips and then to both his ears, and shook

his head gravely. Suddenly he pointed out to Julian an old man, clothed

in a patched and tattered tunic, and Julian recognised a temple priest.

The weak and broken old man stumbled along in drunken fashion, carrying

a large basket and laughing and mumbling to himself as he went. He was

red-nosed, and his watery and short-sighted eyes had an expression of

childlike benevolence.

"The priest of Apollo?" asked Julian.

"I am he. I am called Gorgius. What do you want, good man?"

He smelt strongly of wine. Julian thought his behaviour indecent.

"You seem to be drunk, old man!"

Gorgius, in no wise dismayed, put down his basket and rubbed his bald

head.

"Drunk? I don't think so. But I may have had four or five cups in honour

of the celebration; and, as to that, I drink more through sorrow than

mirth. May the Olympians have you in their keeping!"

"Where are the victims?" asked Julian. "Have many people been sent from

Antioch? Are the choirs ready?"

"Victims! Small thanks for victims! Many's the long year, my brother,

since we saw that kind of thing. Not since the time of Constantine. It

is all over--done for! Men have forgotten the gods. We don't even get a

handful of wheat to make 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....

The monks have taken everything.... Our tale is told.... And you say

'don't drink.' But it's hard not to drink when one suffers. If I didn't

drink 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! Together we

will offer the victim to the god. It is my own offering. We've eaten

little for three days, this lad and I, to save the necessary money.

Look; it is a sacred bird!"

He raised the lid of the basket. A tethered goose slid out its head,

cackling and trying to escape.

"Have you dwelt long in this temple; and is this lad your son?"

questioned Julian.

"For forty years, and perhaps longer; but I have neither relatives nor

friends. This child helps me at the hour of sacrifice. His mother was

the great sibyl Diotima, who lived here, and it is said that he is the

son of a god," said Gorgius.

"A deaf mute the son of a god?" murmured the emperor, surprised.

"In times like ours if the son of a god and a sibyl were not a deaf mute

he would die of grief," said Gorgius.

"One thing more I want to ask you," said Julian. "Have you ever heard

that the Emperor Julian desired to restore the worship of the old gods?"

"Yes, but ... what can he do, poor man? He will not succeed. I tell

you--all's over. Once I sailed in a ship near Thessalonica, and saw

Mount Olympus. I mused and was full of emotion at beholding the

dwellings of the gods; and a scoffing old man told me that travellers

had climbed Olympus, and seen that it was an ordinary mountain, with

only snow and ice and stones on it. I have remembered those words all my

life. My son, all is over; Olympus is deserted. The gods have grown

weary and have departed. But the sun is up, the sacrifice must be

performed. Come!"

They passed into the temple alone.

From behind the trees came the sound of voices, a procession of monks

chanting psalms. In the very neighbourhood of Apollo's temple a tomb had

been built in honour of a Christian martyr.

_IV.--"Thou Hast Conquered, Galilean!"_

At the beginning of spring Julian quitted Antioch for a Persian campaign

with an army of sixty-five thousand men.

"Warriors, my bravest of the brave," said Julian, addressing his troops

at the outset, "remember the destiny of the world is in our hands. We

are going to restore the old greatness of Rome! Steel your hearts, be

ready for any fate. There is to be no turning back, I shall be at your

head, on horseback or on foot, taking all dangers and toils with the

humblest among you; because, henceforth, you are no longer my servants,

but my children and my friends. Courage then, my comrades; and remember

that the strong are always conquerors!"

He stretched his sword, with a smile, toward the distant horizon. The

soldiers, in unison, held up their bucklers, shouting in rapture,

"Glory, glory to conquering Caesar!"

But the campaign so bravely begun ended in treachery and disaster.

At the end of July, when the Roman army was in steady retreat, came the

last battle with the Persians. The emperor looked for a miracle in this

battle, the victory which would give him such renown and power that the

Galileans could no longer resist; but it was not till the close of the

day that the ranks of the enemy were broken. Then a cry of triumph came

from Julian's lips. He galloped ahead, pursuing the fugitives, not

perceiving that he was far in advance of his main body. A few bodyguards

surrounded the Caesar, among them old General Victor. This old man,

though wounded, was unconscious of his hurt, not quitting the emperor's

side, and shielding him time after time from mortal blows. He knew that

it was as dangerous to approach a fleeing enemy as to enter a falling

building.

"Take heed, Caesar!" he shouted. "Put on this mail of mine!" But Julian

heard him not, and still rode on, as if he, unsupported, unarmed, and

terrible, were hunting his countless enemies by glance and gesture only

from the field.

Suddenly a lance, aimed by a flying Saracen who had wheeled round,

hissed, and grazing the skin of the emperor's right hand, glanced over

the ribs, and buried itself in his body. Julian thought the wound a

slight one, and seizing the double-edged barb to withdraw it, cut his

fingers. Blood gushed out, Julian uttered a cry, flung his head back,

and slid from his horse into the arms of the guard.

They carried the emperor into his tent, and laid him on his camp-bed.

Still in a swoon, he groaned from time to time. Oribazius, the

physician, drew out the iron lance-head, and washed and bound up the

deep wound. By a look Victor asked if any hope remained, and Oribazius

sadly shook his head. After the dressing of the wound Julian sighed and

opened his eyes.

Hearing the distant noise of battle, he remembered all, and with an

effort, rose upon his bed. His soul was struggling against death. Slowly

he tottered to his feet.

"I must be with them to the end.... You see, I am able-bodied still....

Quick, give me my sword, buckler, horse!"

Victor gave him the shield and sword. Julian took them, and made a few

unsteady steps, like a child learning to walk. The wound re-opened; he

let fall his sword and shield, sank into the arms of Oribazius and

Victor, and looking up, cried contemptuously, "All is over! Thou hast

conquered, Galilean!" And making no further resistance, he gave himself

up to his friends, and was laid on the bed.

At night he was in delirium.

"One must conquer ... reason must.... Socrates died like a god.... I

will not believe!... What do you want from me?... Thy love is more

terrible than death.... I want sunlight, the golden sun!"

At dawn the sick man lay calm, and the delirium had left him.

"Call the generals--I must speak."

The generals came in, and the curtain of the tent was raised so that the

fresh air of the morning might blow on the face of the dying. The

entrance faced east, and the view to the horizon was unbroken.

"Listen, friends," Julian began, and his voice was low, but clear. "My

hour is come, and like an honest debtor, I am not sorry to give back my

life to nature, and in my soul is neither pain nor fear. I have tried to

keep my soul stainless; I have aspired to ends not ignoble. Most of our

earthly affairs are in the hands of destiny. We must not resist her. Let

the Galileans triumph. We shall conquer later on!"

The morning clouds were growing red, and 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.

Then his head fell back, and the last murmur came from his half-open

lips, "Helios! Receive me unto thyself!"

* * * * *