At about five miles from Antioch, up the course of the river Orontes, stood the celebrated wood of Daphne, consecrated to Apollo. Therein a temple had been built, where every year the praises of the Sun-god were celebrated.
Julian, without saying anything of his intention quitted Antioch at the break of day. He wished to ascertain for himself whether the inhabitants remembered the ancient sacred feast. All along the road he mused of the solemnity, hoping to see lads and virgins going up the steps of the temple, clad in white as a symbol of purity and youth, the crowd of the faithful, the choirs, and the smoke of incense.
The road was difficult; from the rocky Berean hills a gusty burning wind came down. The atmosphere was laden with the bitter smell of burnt wood, and thick with a bluish fog which spread itself over the deep gorge of Mount Kazia. Harassing dust filled eyes and throat, and crackled between the teeth of the traveller. The very sun through the smoky vapour seemed red and sickly. But hardly had the Emperor penetrated into the wood of Daphne than fragrant coolness surrounded him. It was difficult to believe that such a corner of Paradise could be found at a few paces from the scorching road. The wood was twenty-four stadia in circumference, and perpetual twilight reigned in its almost impenetrable alleys of gigantic laurels, planted centuries before. The Emperor was surprisedat the solitariness of the wood—no worshippers, no victims, no incense, nor any preparation for the solemn feast-day. Thinking that the people must be assembled near the temple, he pushed on farther. At every step the wood became more lonely. It was as untroubled by any sound as an abandoned cemetery. Birds were few, the shadow of the laurel-grove being too thick, and no song of theirs was heard. A grasshopper began his shrill cry in the grass, and quickly ceased, as if startled at his own voice. Insects alone were humming faintly in a slender ray of sunlight, but ventured not to quit its beam for the neighbouring gloom. Sometimes Julian pushed his path along wider alleys, bordered with titanic walls of weird cypress, casting shade dark as a moonless night. Here and there subterranean waters made the moss spongy. Streams ran everywhere, chill as melted snow, but silently, with no tinkling ripples, as if muted by the melancholy of that enchanted wood. In one nook, a rift in the rock, clear drops were falling slowly, glittering, one by one. But moss stifled the sound of their fall, and they sank away like the tears of an unspoken love.
There were broad glens of wild narcissus, many lilies, and even butterflies. But these were dark-winged and not gay-coloured, for the sun-rays filtered through the thick laurel became almost lunar-pale, and pensive as if fallen through the smoke of a funeral torch. It was as though Phœbus had grown faint and inconsolable after the final loss of Daphne. And she, remaining, overcast and shadowy under the most burning kisses of the god, here kept impenetrable coolness and bloom under her branches for ever.
Everywhere in that wood reigned the abandonment,the tender melancholy of the god who loved in vain.
Already in sight, and dazzling through the cypresses, shone the columns and pediments of the temple raised in the time of Seleucus Nicator. But not a worshipper yet had Julian encountered. At last he saw a child of twelve years old, on a path overgrown with wild hyacinth. His dark eyes shone strangely brilliant in his finely cut pale face. Golden hair fell in curls on his slender neck, and his blue-veined temples were transparent as the petals of a flower grown in the shade.
"Do you know, child, where are the sacrificers and the people?" Julian asked.
The child made no answer, as if he had not understood the question.
"Listen, little one, can you not lead me to the priest of Apollo?"
He shook his head, smiling.
"Why will you not answer me?"
Then the boy put a finger to his lips and then to both his ears, and shook his head gravely this time.
Julian thought—
"This must be a deaf-mute."
The child looked shyly askance at the Emperor, who grew almost fearful in the silent twilight of the deserted wood in the company of the elf, who stared at him fixedly and haughtily as a little god.
Suddenly, he pointed out to Julian an old man, clothed in a patched and tattered tunic; Julian immediately recognised a temple priest. The weak and broken old man stumbled along in drunken fashion, laughing and mumbling to himself as he went. He was red-nosed and completely bald except for a fringe of downy grey hair. His watery and short-sighted eyeshad an expression of childlike benevolence. He was carrying a large basket.
"The priest of Apollo?" asked Julian.
"I am he. I am called Gorgius. What do you want, good man?"
"Can you direct me to the high-priest of this temple and the people worshipping here?"
Gorgius made no answer at first, but put his panier on the ground. Then he rubbed his bald pate and, standing with arms akimbo, held his head on one side winking mischievously with his left eye.
"And why amInot the high-priest of Apollo?" he asked, "and what worshippers do you mean, my son?... May the Olympians protect you."
He smelt strongly of wine. Julian thought his behaviour indecent and prepared to administer a rebuke—
"You seem to be drunk, old man."
Gorgius, in no wise perturbed, continued to rub the back of his neck.
"Drunk? I don't think so. But I may have tossed off five cups or so, for the sake of the celebrations; and as to that, I drink more through sorrow than merriment. Yes, my son, may the Olympians have you in their keeping!... Who are you? By your dress perhaps a wandering philosopher, or a professor from the schools of Antioch?"
The Emperor smiled and nodded his head in acquiescence. He wished to make the priest talk freely.
"You have hit it. I am a teacher."
"Christian?"
"No, Hellenist."
"Ah, that's good. There are many others of your way of thinking who hang about this neighbourhood."
"You have not yet answered me as to where the people are: whether many victims have been sent from Antioch; whether the choirs are ready."
"Victims? Small thanks for victims," said the old man, laughing and stumbling so violently that he nearly tumbled down. "Many's the long year, my brother, since we saw that kind of thing!... Since the time of Constantine...." Gorgius snapped his fingers despairingly and whistled. "It is all over—done for!... Phut!... Men have forgotten the gods. Not only have we no victims, but we don't even get a handful of wheat to cook 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!... Yes, my son! may the Olympians protect you!... The monks have taken everything!... and they fight each other; they're rolling in fat.... Our tale is told.... Ah! bad times these. And you say 'Don't drink!' But it's hard not to drink when one suffers. If I didn't drink a bit 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! We will together offer the victim to the god."
"You have just told me that you received no victims!"
Gorgius rubbed the back of his neck, grinning—
"We received none from others, but there is my own offering. Weve eaten little for three days, Hepherion and I, to save the necessary money. Look!"
He raised the lid of the basket. A tethered goose slid out its head, cackling and trying to escape.
"Ha, ha, ha! is not that a victim?" asked the oldman proudly. "Although it isn't a fat young goose it is nevertheless a sacred bird! Apollo ought to be glad of it just now. The gods consider geese a delicacy."
"Have you long dwelt in this temple?" questioned Julian.
"For forty years and perhaps longer...."
"Is this your son?" asked Julian, pointing to Hepherion, who was staring at him as if he were trying to follow the conversation.
"No. I have neither relatives nor friends. Hepherion helps me at the hours for sacrifice."
"Who are his father and mother?"
"I do not know the father and I strongly suspect that no one knows who he is. But his mother was the great sibyl Diotima, who long lived in this temple. She would never speak nor raise her veil before men. She was chaste as a vestal. When she brought this child into the world we were all astonished, and at a loss what to think ... but a learned centenarian, a magian told us...."
Gorgius, with a mysterious air, put his hand before his mouth and muttered in Julian's ear as if he feared the child could catch his words—
"The hierophant told us that he was no son of man, but a god come down by night to the sibyl while she was asleep within the temple! See how beautiful he is!"
"A deaf-mute son of a god?" murmured the Emperor, surprised.
"In times like ours if the son of the god and of the sibyl were not a deaf-mute he would die of grief," answered Gorgius. "See how thin and pale he is already!"
"Who knows," said Julian, with a sad smile, "but that you are right, old man. In our days it is well for a prophet to be a deaf-mute."
Suddenly the child approached Julian and looking at him fixedly, seized his hand and kissed it. A thrill ran through Julian.
"My son," said the old man, gravely, "may the Olympians shield you; you must be a good man. That child never kisses the evil nor the impious, and he flees from the monks as from the plague. I think he sees and understands more than either of us but can utter nothing. I've often surprised him sitting before the statue of Apollo for hours, gazing at him with joy as if he were talking with the god."
The face of Hepherion grew dark and he went away.
Gorgius smote his head and said—
"I am wasting time in gossip. The sun is up; the sacrifice must be performed. Come!"
"Wait," said the Emperor. "I wished to ask you something more. Have you ever heard that the Emperor Julian desired to restore to honour the worship of the old gods?"
"Yes, but ... what canhedo, poor man? He will not succeed. I tell you—all's over!"
"Have you faith in the gods?" asked Julian. "Can the Olympians quit us so for ever?"
The old man sighed, and hanging his head—
"My son, you're young; although there are white hairs shining in your dark locks, and furrows on your brow already. But in the days when my hair was black and young girls used to look at me with favour, I remember sailing in a ship, near Thessalonica, and seeing Mount Olympus. Its base and its girdle melted into blue, and its snowy summit seemed hanging inthe air, dominating sky and sea, golden and inaccessible. I mused 'Behold the dwelling of the gods!' and I was full of emotion. But on this same ship there was a scoffing old man who called himself an Epicurean. He pointed out Mount Olympus, and said to me: 'My friend, travellers have long ago climbed Olympus, and they saw that it was an ordinary mountain, like other mountains, on which there was nothing but snow, ice and stones!' And those words sank so deep into my heart that I shall remember them all my life."
The Emperor smiled—
"Old man, your faith is childish. Suppose there were no Olympus—why should not the gods exist above, in the kingdom of the eternal Ideas, in the realm of the soul's light?"
Gorgius hung his head lower yet—
"Yes, yes, yes!... but ... nevertheless all is over. Olympus is deserted."
Julian gazed at him, surprised.
"You see," continued Gorgius, "the earth breeds nowadays only hard men or weak men. The gods can only laugh at them, or grow wrath with them. They are not worth destroying. They will perish of themselves by sickness, debauchery, or decline. The gods are grown weary and they have departed!"
"And do you think, Gorgius, that the human race must disappear?"
The priest shook his bald head—
"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 palmreceiving 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 toput away the censer, from which the incense was escaping in thin fillets of smoke.
At the sight of the monks Hepherion fled. Julian said—
"Galileans, I order you to rid the sacred wood of Apollo of the relics of your co-religionist. We do not desire to use force against you, but if our will is not carried out, I must myself see that Helios is delivered from such sacrilege. I shall send here my soldiers, who will disinter the bones, burn them, and scatter the ashes to the winds."
The arch-priest coughed, and finally said in a humble tone—
"Most merciful Cæsar, that is hard on us, for these relics have long rested here, in a place blessed by the will of Cæsar Gallus. But as it is a matter beyond our jurisdiction, we are forced to refer it to the bishop."
A murmur ran through the crowd; an urchin hidden in a laurel bush shouted—
"The butcher comesWith a big, big knife!"
"The butcher comesWith a big, big knife!"
But he received such a buffet that he fled, howling.
The arch-priest, feeling that decency obliged him to defend the relics, coughed again and began—
"If it pleases your High Wisdom to give this order on account of the idol..." he quickly corrected himself.
"Of the Hellenic god, Helios...."
The Emperor's eyes sparkled with rage.
"The 'idol,'" he interrupted, "'idol' is your word. For what imbeciles do you take us, if you think that we worship the matter that represents ourgods, metal, stone, or wood. All your preachers preach this, but it is a lie. We worship not these things, but the soul, the living soul of beauty in these models of the purest human beauty. It is not we, the idolaters, but you—you, who devour each other like wild beasts for the sake of an iota; you, who kiss the rotten bones of criminals punished for breaking the Roman laws; you, who call the fratricide Constantius an 'Eternal Holiness!' To deify the splendid sculptures of Phidias, which breathe Olympian beauty and goodness, is that less reasonable than to bow before two crossed beams of wood, a shameful instrument of torture? Must one blush for you, pity you, or hate you? It is the pitch of mad degradation for our country, to see sons of the Hellenes, who read Plato and Homer, rushing to an outcast tribe, a tribe almost blotted out by Vespasian and Titus, in order to deify a dead man!... And you still dare to accuse us of idolatry!"
The arch-priest imperturbably stroked his long beard, and looking at Julian askance, wiped the perspiration from his glistening forehead.
Then the Emperor said to Priscus the philosopher—
"My friend, accomplish the Delian mysteries with which you are familiar. We must purify the Temple of Apollo. He will return to his dwelling, and once we have taken away the stone which seals the spring, the oracle will speak again."
The arch-priest terminated the interview with a deep bow and the same obsequious manner, in which an invincible tenacity could be felt—
"Let your will be done, Cæsar. We are the children, you are the father; but there is no power above the power of God."
"Oh, you hypocrites, I know your obedience andyour humility! Your humility is the serpent's fang! Why not struggle against me at least like men?"
Julian turned round to depart, when a little old man and woman issued from the crowd and prostrated themselves at his feet. They were poorly but cleanly dressed, and bore a surprising resemblance to each other, reminding him of Philemon and Baucis.
"Protect us, just Cæsar," whispered the old man. "We have a little house near Antioch at the foot of the Stavrinus. We've lived there twenty years, and now the town-senators, the decurions, are come...." The old man clasped his hands despairingly, and the old woman, imitating him, did the same.
"The decurions come and say, 'This house does not belong to you!'—'What—the Lord be with you—we've been here twenty years!'—'Yes; but you had no right. The land belongs to the temple of the god Æsculapius, and your house is built with the temple-stones. It must return to Æsculapius.' What does this mean?... Have mercy, all-powerful Augustus!"
The two old people, with their clear and childlike faces, were kneeling before him, and weeping, kissed his feet.
Julian perceived an amber cross on the woman's neck.
"Are you Christians?" he asked, his brow growing sombre.
"Yes."
"I should like to grant your prayer ... but how is it to be done? The land belongs to the god.... Nevertheless, your property shall be paid for."
"No, no," cried out the old people, "we're rooted there by all our habits. We don't ask formoney. But there everything is ours; we know every blade of grass...."
"There everything is ours," repeated the old woman like an echo. "The vine, the chickens, the cow, the olives, the pigs—everything is ours. And there's the step too, on which in the evening we have warmed our old bones in the sun, side by side, for these twenty years."
The Emperor, without listening, turned toward the startled crowd—
"Latterly the Galileans have overwhelmed me with demands for the return of lands belonging to the churches, and the Valentinians accuse the Arians of having robbed them of their properties. To cut short dispute I have given half of those lands to the Gallic warriors and the other half to the Imperial Treasury; and I am decided to act similarly in future. By what right, you ask? But is it not more easy for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven? You glorify poverty, Galileans? Why murmur against me? In taking property which you yourselves have taken from your brother-heretics, or from Olympian temples, I am only restoring you to wholesome poverty and the narrow way into the heavenly kingdom."
An evil smile curled his lips.
"We're injured unjustly," groaned the two old people.
"Well, suffer the injustice!" answered Julian. "You should rejoice in persecution. What are these sufferings to eternal bliss?"
The old man, unprepared for this deduction, stammered in dismay, as a forlorn hope—
"We are your faithful slaves, Augustus. My sonserves on the military staff, in a distant fortress of the Roman frontier, and his superior officers think well of him...."
"Is he also a Christian?" interrupted Julian.
"Yes," sighed the old man, and was immediately dismayed at the avowal.
"You have done well to warn me. As proved enemies of the Roman Augustus, Christians must not henceforth occupy high Imperial office, above all in the army. I am more of your Master's opinion than you are yourselves. How should disciples of Jesus do justice according to the Roman law, when He has said, 'Judge not, and ye shall not be judged'? How should Christians rightly defend the Empire by the sword, when they were taught by Him 'He who shall take up the sword shall perish by the sword'; and again, 'Resist not evil'? Therefore, for the safety of your souls, we shall withdraw Christians from the law and from the army of Rome; that helpless, and disarmed, and free from frivolous earthliness, they may reach the kingdom of heaven!"
Smiling inwardly, and so robbing his hatred of still greater bitterness, the Emperor strode rapidly toward the Temple of Apollo.
The old people stretched their arms after him, sobbing—
"Cæsar, we did it unwittingly! Take our house, our land, all that we have, but have pity on our son!"
The philosophers wished to enter the temple, but the Emperor waved them back—
"I came to the festival alone. I alone will offer the sacrifice!"
"Let us go in," he added, addressing Gorgius.
"Close the doors, and let none of the unconsecrated enter...."
And the doors were shut in the faces of his philosopher friends.
"'Unconsecrated?' How do you like that?" asked Garguillus moodily.
Libanius stood sulking in silence.
Mauricus, with a mysterious air, dragged his friends into a corner of the portico, and touching his forehead with a finger murmured—
"Do you understand?"
All were dumbfounded.
"Is it possible?"
Mauricus began to reckon—
"First, pallor, feverish appearance, disordered hair, irregular step, incoherent speeches; second, excessive harshness and nervousness; third, this stupid war against the Persians!... By Pallas, it clearly means madness!"
The friends drew closer, and began to tell each other all sorts of anecdotes. Sallustius, who held aloof, contemplated the group with a bitter smile.
Within the temple Julian found Hepherion, who brightened on seeing him, and several times during the rite gazed into the Emperor's face, as if the two had some secret in common. Shining in the sunlight, the colossal statue of Apollo stood in the midst of the temple, its body ivory and its garments golden, like those of the Zeus by Phidias at Olympia. The god, stooping slightly, was pouring the nectar of his cup to the Earth-Mother, praying her to restore him Daphne.
A slight cloud passed above the temple. Shadows ran over the time-yellowed ivory. It seemed to Julian that the god benignly stooped still lower, to receive theoffering of the last adorers—the weak priest, the apostate Emperor, and the deaf-mute son of the sibyl.
"This is my reward," thought Julian. "I wish for no other glory, nor guerdon, O Apollo! I thank thee for the curses of the crowd; and for thy grace, in making me live and die alone, like thyself! There, where the populace prays, there is no god! Thou art here, in this sanctuary profaned. O god, scorned by mankind, now art thou far more beautiful than of old when they adored thee! On the day marked for me by the Fates, let me be joined again to thee, O Radiant One! Let me die in thee, Sun, as the fire of the last offering dies in thy rays!"
So prayed the Emperor, tears streaming down his cheeks, and one by one the drops of the victim's blood fell like tears on the half-consumed embers.