Three months had elapsed since the shameful treaty of peace signed by Jovian with the Persians. At the beginning of October the Roman army, exhausted by famine and forced marches through the deserts of Mesopotamia, had at last reached Antioch. During this melancholy retreat Anatolius, the centurion of Imperial cavalry, had formed a close friendship with the historian, Ammianus Marcellinus. The two friends had decided to betake themselves to Italy, to a secluded villa at Baiæ, whither Arsinoë had invited them, to rest from the fatigues of the campaign, and to heal their wounds at the sulphur-baths.
On this journey, they had made a halt of some days at Antioch, where great festivals were in preparation, in honour of Jovian's accession to the throne and of the return of the army.
The peace concluded with King Sapor was dishonourable for the Empire. Five rich Roman provinces lying along the farther banks of the Tigris, together with fifteen frontier fortresses, including Singara, Castra Maurorum, and the invincible Nizibis, all these passed into the hands of Sapor. Little did the Galileans care for the defeat of Rome. When the news of Julian's death arrived at Antioch, the timorous citizens believed at first that it was some new device of Satan, fresh toils in which to capture the righteous. But when the news was confirmed their joy became delirious.
In the early morning the noise of festival and thecries of the people reached the sleeping-chamber of Anatolius. He had decided to pass all day indoors, the rejoicing of the populace being repugnant to him. He attempted to sleep again, and failed. A strange curiosity woke in him. Without a word to Ammianus, he dressed quickly, and went out into the street. It was a fresh and pleasant autumn morning.
Great round clouds, in sharp contrast with the deep blue of the sky, sailed over the innumerable colonnades and marble porticoes of Antioch. In the forum and the markets everywhere ran the murmur of fountains and streams; and down the long dusty vistas of the bright streets flowed wide currents, artificially-channelled waters, crossing each other in a perfect network of rills. Here and there pigeons were cooing and picking grains of barley. The scent of flowers and incense issued from the open doors of churches. Near the fountain-basins young girls were sprinkling their baskets of pale October roses with water, or singing joyful psalms, and garlanding the columns of the Christian basilicas. A noisy crowd was pouring through the streets. Chariots and litters were forging slowly down the middle of the pavements. At every moment rose cries of—
"Hail to Jovian Augustus, the great and happy!"
Some added: "The conqueror," but with a certain diffidence, as if the word smacked of irony.
The same urchin who had once caricatured Julian on the walls of the town was there now clapping his hands, beating his drum, whistling, tumbling in the dust, and shouting (although he had no notion of the meaning of the words)—
"The Wild Boar has perished, the Devastator of the Garden of Eden!"
An old woman, bent double in her rags, came out like a black-beetle into the sun, rejoicing with the rest. She was brandishing a stick and vociferating in a cracked voice—
"Julian has perished! The evil-doer has perished!"
An infinite sadness filled the heart of Anatolius; but urged by curiosity he wandered on, and in following the Syngon, approached the cathedral. There he saw an official connected with the quæstorship, Marcus Avinius, coming out of the basilica, accompanied by two slaves, who elbowed a passage for him through the crowd.
"What is this?" wondered Anatolius. "Why should this enemy of the Galileans be here?"
Crosses embroidered in gold adorned the violet chlamys of Avinius, and were even sewn on his crimson leather shoes.
Julius Mauricus, another friend of Anatolius, accosted Avinius—
"How do you do, my reverend friend?" he asked, after a surprised and mocking scrutiny of the dignitary's new costume.
Julius was a free man, having an independent fortune; and for him the change of religion was a matter of indifference. He was by no means surprised at the transformation of his official friends, but took pleasure in putting teasing questions whenever he met them, assuming the air of a moralist who concealed indignation under the mask of irony.
The people were hurrying to the entrance of the church, and upon the deserted steps outside the friends were soon able to talk freely. Anatolius, ensconced behind a column, listened to the dialogue—
"Why didn't you stay to the end of the service?" asked Mauricus.
"Palpitations. I was half-stifled. I'm not accustomed..." and Avinius added thoughtfully—
"The new preacher has an extraordinary style. His exaggerations act too violently on my nerves. A style ... like the scratching of iron on glass!"
"Really, how touching!" laughed Mauricus. "Here's a man who has abjured conscience!... Butstyle...."
"No, no; perhaps I didn't understand him well!" interrupted Avinius. "Don't disbelieve it! Mauricus, I am sincere."
From a downy litter the head of the chancery himself, Garguillus, got out, groaning—
"I think I'm late.... But that's of no great importance; I'll remain on the space outside ... God and the Holy Ghost...."
"Here's another miracle!" laughed Mauricus. "Texts from the Bible, in the mouth of Garguillus!"
"May Christ forgive you, my son!" quoth that imperturbable quæstor; "what are you always racking your soul about?"
"Oh, but up to now I haven't been able quite to get over it! There are so many conversions, so many transformations! I had always imagined that your opinions...."
"Pure stupidity, my dear son! I have only one opinion, which is, that the Galilean cooks are no worse than the Hellenist cooks. The Hellenists put me on a lenten diet ... which would make anybody ill.... Come and dine, O philosopher, and I'll bring you over to my belief. You will lick your fingers after it! And, after all, isn't it the same thing to eat a good dinner in honour of the god Hermes, and to eat it in honour of St. Mercurius? All these things areprejudices. I don't see anything irritating in trifles like this." And he pointed to the little amber cross, which dangled amidst the perfumed folds of an amethystine-purple robe, upon his enormous belly.
"Look, there's Hekobolis, the arch-priest of the goddess Astarte-Dindymene! The hierophant has repented, and is now in black Galilean vestments again!... Oh, Ovid, singer ofMetamorphoses, why art thou not here?" chanted Mauricus, pointing to an old man with a red face seated in a covered litter—
"What's he reading?"
"It surely can't be the laws of the goddess of Pessinus!"
"What divine humility!... Fasting has thinned him!... Look how he's sighing and throwing up his eyes!"
"Do you know the story of his conversion?" asked Garguillus with a cheerful laugh.
"He went to find Jovian, the Emperor, and I suppose, as formerly with Julian, fell at his feet...."
"Oh, no! he invented something entirely new. There was a sudden public repentance. He prostrated himself at the door of a church, just as Jovian was coming out, and in the middle of the crowd, Hekobolis shouted 'Trample on me! trample on me! I am Dead-Sea fruit!' and, with tears, kissed the feet of the passers-by."
"Ah ... that's new! And was it successful?"
"By Jove! he had a private interview with the Emperor. Oh, people like him have got nine lives! Everything turns to gold in their fingers. When they slough the old skin, they get young again. Learn, my children...."
"And what did he manage to say to the Emperor?"
"How can I tell?" sighed Garguillus, not without a certain secret jealousy. "He may have said perhaps, 'Cling to Christianity till not a Pagan be left upon earth! The religion of the just is the basis of your throne!' Now his fortune is made; and far more securely than in the time of Julian. What exquisite sagacity!"
"Oh, my benefactors, protect me! Snatch Cicumbrix, the humblest of your slaves, from the claws of the lions!"
"What's happened?" asked Garguillus of the consumptive shoemaker, who was being dragged off by two of the town police.
"They're going to throw me into prison!"
"Why?"
"For pillaging a church..."
"What? You have..."
"No, no! I was in the crowd, and I just cried out once or twice 'Beat them!' That was under Augustus Julian. Then they said, 'Cæsar desires that the Christian churches shall be destroyed.' But I didn't go into the church; I stayed outside. My shop is a wretched little place; but it's on a crowded square, and if anything happens I'm always lugged up as a witness. O defend me! Have pity on me!"
"Are you a Christian or a Pagan?" asked Julius.
"I don't know myself. Before Constantine's time I sacrificed to the gods. Then I was baptised. Then, under Constantius, I became an Arian. Afterwards I had to become a Hellenist. Now I want to be an Arian again; but it's all mixed up in my head! I obey orders, and I never can happen to profess the true religion at the right time. I have fought for Christ,and also for the gods.... But it's always either too soon or too late! One gets no rest.... I have children.... Protect me, benefactors!"
"Fear nothing, my friend; we will get you off. I remember you once made me a handsome pair of shoes."
Anatolius, unperceived by his friends, now went into the church, desiring to hear Theodorite, the young and celebrated preacher. The sun was shining through clouds of incense, and one of the slanting rays fell on the red beard of the speaker in the pulpit. His frail hands were transparent as wax; his exultant eyes feverishly bright, and his thrilling voice thundered in an avenging cry.
"I desire to write, as on a sign-post of infamy for future generations, the history of Julian, the foul renegade. May all ages and peoples read my inscription, and tremble before the justice of the Lord!... Come hither, torturer, serpent of wisdom, to-day we will scoff at thee! Together, my brothers, let us rejoice; let us sound our timbrels, and chant the chant of Miriam over the destruction of the Egyptians in the Red Sea. O Emperor! where are thy ceremonies, thy mysteries? Where now are thy invocations and thy divinations? Where are thy Persian and Babylonish glories? Where are the gods that accompanied thee—thy defenders, Julian? All have deceived thee, all have vanished!"
"Ah, my dear! What a beard he has!" said an ancient rouged patrician lady, standing near Anatolius, to her neighbour. "It's a sort of gold, of brown-gold colour!"
"Yes, but how about his teeth?" answered the other.
"What—teeth? With a beard like that, teeth are nothing!"
"No! ah no, Veronica, don't say that! Can one compare him with brother Tiphanius..."
Theodorite continued—
"Julian bred evil in his soul as wild beasts secrete venom. God waited till all his cruelty was manifest, to strike him...."
"Don't miss the circus to-day," murmured another neighbour of Anatolius into the ear of his companion. "There are going to be she-bears from Britain."
"You don't say so! Real ones?"
"Yes. One's called Mica Aurea (grain of gold), and the other Innocentia! They're fed on human flesh. And then, there'll be the gladiators!"
"Lord Jesus!... we mustn't miss that! Let's not wait for the end! Let's run, in order to get a seat in time!"
Meantime Theodorite was praising Julian's predecessor for his Christian benevolence, pure life, and love for all his family.
Anatolius felt choked by the crowd. He went out of the church, and once quit of the smell of incense and oil, drew a deep breath of fresh air under the blue sky.
Outside the church portico a loud conversation was going on undisturbed. A grave rumour was circulating in the crowd; the two she-bears were being led through the streets to the amphitheatre. Those who heard the news precipitately left the church before the end of the sermon, asking each other anxiously—
"Are we still in time? Is Mica Aurea ill?"
"No, it's Innocentia who had a fit of indigestion to-day. But now she's going on quite well."
"Thank God ... thank God!"
The church quickly emptied. Anatolius saw panting multitudes running in the direction of the circus from every street, from every alley, from every basilica. They crushed each other, trampled on women and children, hurled abuse, lost their sandals, but halted for nothing in the race. Every face wore a careworn expression denoting that life depended on getting a seat in the amphitheatre. Two names full of sanguinary promise passed from lip to lip—
"Mica Aurea! Innocentia!"
Anatolius followed the crowd into the amphitheatre.
According to the Roman custom a vast awning, the velarium, sprinkled with perfume, protected the people against the rays of the sun, and spread a pleasant coolness. Thousands of heads already swarmed round the circus.
Before the opening of the games, the highest dignitaries in Antioch carried the bronze statue of Jovian into the Imperial box, so that the people could enjoy a sight of the new sovereign. In his right hand Augustus was holding a globe surmounted by a cross. The sun lighted up the placid bronze countenance of the Emperor. The officials kissed the feet of the statue, and the populace yelled with joy—
"Hail to the saviour of the country, Augustus Jovian!"
Multitudes of hands waved coloured girdles and linen kerchiefs. The crowd acclaimed in Jovian its symbol, its soul, its image regnant over the world. In its scorn of the dead Emperor the mob next addressed itself to Julian, as if he were there, still alive in the amphitheatre, and could hear them—
"Well, philosopher, the wisdom of Plato and Crisipuswasn't much good to you! Jupiter and Phœbus didn't protect you! Now you are in the claws of the devils! Ah, you godless idolater, Christ has conquered! We, the humble of the world, have conquered!"
All were convinced that Julian had been slain by a Christian, and returned thanks to God for the blow. But the furious enthusiasm of the crowd reached its highest pitch when they saw the gladiator prostrate in the claws of Mica Aurea. Their eyes started out of their heads to glut themselves with the sight of blood; and to the roaring of the wild beast the people responded by a roar wilder still—
"Glory to the most pious Emperor Jovian! Christ has conquered!"
Anatolius felt overcome with disgust at the sweltering breath and odour of the human horde. Closing his eyes, attempting not to draw breath, he ran out into the street, returned to his lodging, closed door and shutters, and flung himself on his bed until night-fall. But it was impossible to escape the populace.
Hardly had twilight descended, when the whole of Antioch was illumined by thousands of lights. At the angles of basilicas and Imperial edifices huge torches were aflare, and cressets flaming in every street. Through the cracks in the shutters of the sleeping-room of Anatolius came in the glow of bonfires and the stink of pitch and tallow. Songs of drunken legionaries were bellowed from neighbouring taverns, amidst the shrill laughter of prostitutes. Dominating all, rose the praises of Jovian, and curses on Julian the renegade.
Anatolius, with a bitter smile, raised his arms skyward, crying—
"In truth, thou hast conquered, Galilean!"