Volume 1 / Book 2 — BOOK II

(XX.)

Ashes of Phrygia and you last remnants of the ruined East (if any such remain), the augury was but too true, too clear the threats of heaven: now that the blow has fallen what use to learn the presagings of this year of portents? The sailor is more cautious; he foresees the violence of the North wind and hauls in his canvas before the swelling storm. Of what avail to acknowledge a mistake when his vessel is already sunk? Can tears extenuate a crime? The sinister auspices of your consul live on; the atonement due to unmoved fate remains fixed. Ere the deed was done you should have realized its horror; you should have erased the blot ere it had dried. When the body is overwhelmed by long-standing disease ’tis all in vain that thou makest use of healing medicines. When an ulcer has penetrated to the marrow of the bones the touch of a hand is useless, steel and fire must sane the place that the wound heal not on the surface, like any moment to re-open. The flame must penetrate to the quick to make a way for the foul humours to escape; in order that, once the veins are emptied of corrupted blood, the

fountain-head of the evil may be dried up. Nay, even limbs are amputated to assure the healthy life of the rest of the body. Think you the Court fitly cleansed by Eutropius’ exile in Cyprus? The world avenged by the banishment of a eunuch? Can any ocean wash away that stain? any age bring forgetfulness of so great a crime?

Ere yet he had donned the consul’s robe there came a rumbling from the bowels of the earth; a hidden madness shook the subterranean caverns and buildings crashed one on another. Chalcedon, shaken to the foundations, tottered like a drunken man, and Bosporus, straying from his course, flooded the cities on his either bank. The shores of the strait came together and the sailors once more had to avoid the Clashing Rocks, torn from their foundation and errant. Surely such presages were sent by the sister deities of Styx, rejoicing that under this consul at last all peoples were delivered into their hands. Soon arose divers forms of ruin: here the fire-god spread his flames; there Nereus, god of the sea, brake his bounds. Here men’s homes were burned, there flooded. Ye gods, what punishment do ye hold in store for the scoundrel whose rise to power was marked by such portents? O’ercome us, Neptune, with thy trident and overwhelm our defiled soil along with all the guilt. One city we yield to the Furies, a scapegoat for the sins of the world.

Once the way was open for portents, prodigies of every sort hasted to disclose themselves. Rain of blood fell, children of weird form were born and offspring discordant with their breed. Statues wept, not seldom the herds dared to speak, and wild beasts braved an entrance into the city. Then seers raved

strangely and frenzied hearts were everywhere ablaze, stirred by the fires of the dread god Phoebus. Yet even had no god warned us, whose mind shall be so dull as to doubt that the year of an emasculate consul must be fatal to those lands? Blind folly ever accompanies crime; of the future no account is taken; sufficient for the day is its short-lived pleasure; heedless of loss passion plunges into forbidden joys, counting the postponement of punishment a gain and believing distant the retribution that even now o’erhangs. In face of such portents I would not have entrusted Camillus’ self with the fasces, let alone a sexless slave (oh! the shame of it!), to yield it to whom were, for men, a disgrace, even though every oracle decreed it, and the insistent deities gave pledges of prosperity.

Look back in the annals of crime, read o’er all past history, unroll the volumes of Rome’s story. What can the Capri of Tiberius’ old age, what can Nero’s theatre offer like to this?[105] A eunuch, clad in the cloak of Romulus, sat within the house of the emperors; the staled palace lay open to the eager throng of visitors; hither hasten senators, mingling with the populace, anxious generals and magistrates of every degree; all are fain to be the first to fall at his feet and to touch his hand; the prayer of all is to set kisses on those hideous wrinkles. He is called defender of the laws, father of the emperor, and the court deigns to acknowledge a slave as its overlord. Ye who come after, acknowledge that it is true! Men must needs erect monuments to celebrate this infamy; on many an anvil groans the bronze that is to take upon it the form of this monster. Here gleams his statue as a judge,

there as a consul, there as a warrior. On every side one sees that figure of his mounted on his horse; before the very doors of the senate-house behold a eunuch’s countenance. As though to rob virtue of any place where she might sojourn undefiled, men labour to befoul every street with this vile image. May they rest for ever undisturbed, indisputable proofs of our eternal shame; such is my prayer. Beneath the statues one reads flattering titles and praises too great even for men. Do they tell of his noble race and lineage while his owners are still alive? What soldier brooks to read that single-handed he, Eutropius, won great battles? Are Byzas[106] and Constantine to be told that he is the third founder of Rome? Meanwhile the arrogant pander prolongs his revels till the dawn, stinking of wine and scattering money amid the crowd to buy their applause. He spends whole days of amusement in the theatres, prodigal of another’s money. But his sister and spouse (if such a prodigy can be conceived) wins the favour of Rome’s matrons by entertainments, and, like a chaste wife, sings the praises of her eunuch husband. ’Tis her he loves, her he consults on all matters of importance, be it of peace or war, to her care he entrusts the keys of the palace, as one would of a stable or empty house. Is the guardianship of a mighty empire thus naught? Is it thus he makes a mockery of a world’s obedience?

Winter, passing into spring, had now felt the returning warmth of Zephyrus’ breezes and the earliest flowers had oped their buds when, in the lap of peace, they were preparing the annual journey to thy walls, Ancyra. ’Twas Eutropius’ device that weariness of the sea[107] might not come upon him,

but a roaming summer might slide away in pleasure journeys. But so magnificent was their return, you would have imagined they brought conquered Persia in their train and had drunk of the waters of Indus. Look you! Mars, returning from the distant lands of the yellow-haired Geloni, was re-seeking the lands of Thrace in his bloody chariot. Pangaeus subsided beneath his wheels, the mountain snows cried out under his sounding axle. Scarce had the father stayed on Haemus’ summit and, reining in his coursers, looked upon the toga-clad woman, when he smiled a cruel smile and shook his gleaming crested helm; then he addressed Bellona, implacable goddess, who, her raiment all stained with blood, was combing her snake-hair, fattened on the slaughter of Illyrians.

“Sister, shall we never succeed in curing the East of effeminacy? Will this corrupt age never learn true manliness? Argaeus yet reeks with those heaps of dead Cappadocians not yet cold; Orontes is still pale from misery. But they only remember evil while they suffer it; give them a moment’s respite and all their slaughter fades from their minds unfelt; little they reck of bloodshed that is past.

“Seest thou this foul deed? Why veil thy face with thine hair? See what crimes a short spell of peace has wrought! what a curse has the sheathèd sword proved! The year that has known no war has had a eunuch for its consul. The consulship would have been at an end had a like spirit animated Italy; this age-long office had fallen amid mockery and no traces been left of its trampled rights, had not Stilicho, heedful of the empire and of the character and morals of a past age, banished from Tiber’s city

this shameful name and kept Rome unsullied by an unheard of crime. He has given us a harbour to which the exiled majesty of Latium and the disgraced fasces might retire; he has given us annals wherein, abandoning the East, an age polluted with servile stains might find a refuge.

“How like to its lord the inhabitants of the palace! Turn your eyes to the city walls. Surely they at least mutter disapprobation, though fear forbids them speak out? Do they not condemn him in their hearts? No: list the plaudits of the senate, of the lords of Byzantium, of the Grecian citizens of Rome. O people worthy of such a senate, senate worthy of such a consul! To think that all these bear arms and use them not, that manly indignation reminds not of their sex those many whose thighs bear a sword! Has my descendants’ robe of office sunk so low? Is Brutus’ renown thus brought to scorn?

“Romulus, forgive thy sire for coming so tardy an avenger of those outraged fasces. Right soon will I make them pay for this joy with liberal tears. Why delayest thou, Bellona, to sound the trumpet of hell and to arm thyself with the scythe wherewith thou mowest the people to the ground? Foment discord, banish pleasures. I am aweary of the devastation of Thrace and Macedon, of vengeance twice wreaked on races already buried. Arouse less accustomed destruction; spread fire and sword beyond the seas, make a beginning of new devastation. Seek not now thy foe on Riphaeus’ heights: what boots it to rouse the storm of war amid Caucasia’s ravines? Ostrogoths and Gruthungi together inhabit the land of Phrygia; ’twill need but a touch

to precipitate them into revolt; readily does nature return to her old ways. So be it. Since our soldiers’ valour is numbed and they have learned to obey an unmanned master, let a stranger from the north avenge our outraged laws and barbarian arms bring relief to disgraced Rome.”

So spake he and thundered with his shield nigh as loud as the ruler of the gods when he shakes his aegis from out the lowering cloud. Athos replies, Haemus re-echoes; again and again shaken Rhodope repeats the hoarse uproar. Hebrus raised from out the wondering waters his horns hoary with frost, and bloodless Ister froze in fear. Then the god cast his javelin,[109] heavy with steel, and stiff with knotted shaft, a mighty weapon such as none other god could wield. The clouds part before its onset and give it free passage; through the air it speeds o’er seas and mountains by one mighty cast and comes to earth amid the plains of Phrygia. The ground felt the shock; Hermus blessed with Dionysus’ vines groaned thereat, Pactolus’ golden urn shuddered, all Dindymus bent his forest fleece and wept.

Bellona, too, hastens forth with speed no less than that of Mars’ whistling spear; a hundred ways of hurt she pondered and at last approached Tarbigilus,[110] fierce leader of the Getic squadron. It chanced he had but late returned with empty hands from a visit to Eutropius; disappointment and indignation aggravated his ferocity, and poverty, that can incite

the gentlest heart to crime, inflamed his savage breast. Taking upon her the similitude of his wife she comes to meet him; proudly she steps forth like the barbarian queen, clothed in linen raiment. Close to her breast a brooch fastened her dress that trailed behind her; she had bound her locks into a coil that a polished circlet confined, and bidden her green snakes turn to gold. She hastens to greet him on his return and throws her snowy arms about his neck, instilling the poison of the furies into his soul by her kisses. Guilefully to stir his rage she asks if the great man has been generous to him; if he brings back rich presents. With tears he recounts his profitless journey, his useless toil, the pride and insults, moreover, which he had to bear at the eunuch’s hands. At once she seized the favourable moment, and tearing her cheek with her nails, discloses her complaints.

“Go then, busy thyself with the plough, cleave the soil, bid thy followers lay aside their swords and sweat o’er the harrow. The Gruthungi will make good farmers and will plant their vines in due season. Happy those other women whose glory is seen in the towns their husbands have conquered, they whose adornment is the spoils so hardly won from an enemy, whose servants are fair captives of Argos or Thessaly, and who have won them slaves from Sparta. Fate has mated me with too timid, too indolent a husband, a degenerate who has forgotten the valour of Ister’s tribes, who deserts his country’s ways, whom a vain reputation for justice attracts, while he longs to live as a husbandman by favour rather than as a prince by plunder. Why give fair names to shameful weakness?

Cowardice is called loyalty; fear, a sense of justice. Wilt thou submit to humiliating poverty though thou bearest arms? Wilt thou weep unavenged, though so many cities open to thee their undefended gates?

“Dost thou fear the consequences? Rome’s old way was to reward merit and vent on rebels a hate that knew no bound. Now he who breaks a treaty wins riches, while he who observes one lives in want. The ravager of Achaea and recent devastator of defenceless Epirus is lord of Illyria[111]; he now enters as a friend within the walls to which he was laying siege, and administers justice to those whose wives he has seduced and whose children he has murdered. Such is the punishment meted out to an enemy, such the vengeance exacted for wholesale slaughter—and dost thou still hesitate? Hast thou regard to the small numbers of thy followers? Nay, have done with peace: war will give thee allies. Nor would I urge thee so instantly hadst thou to face men. It is another sex that is in arms against thee; the world has entrusted itself to the protection of eunuchs; ’tis such leaders the eagles and standards of Rome follow. Time it is thou didst return to a barbarian life; be thou in thy turn an object of terror, and let men marvel at thy crimes who despised thy virtues. Laden with booty and plunder thou shalt be a Roman when it pleases thee.”

So saying she suddenly changed into an ill-omened bird, a loathsome sight with its hooked beak and plumage blacker than Hell’s darkness, and perched, a sinister augury, on an old tomb.

So soon as repose from terror came to his freed

heart, and his stiffened hair sank down again, he made all haste to carry out the commands of the goddess. He told his followers all that he had seen and urged them to follow him. Rebellious Barbary had found a champion and openly threw off the Latin yoke.

That part of Phrygia which lies towards the north beneath the cold constellation of the Wain borders on Bithynia; that towards the sunset on Ionia, and that towards the sunrise on Galatia. On two sides runs the transverse boundary of Lydia while the fierce Pisidians hem it in to the south. All these peoples once formed one nation and had one name: they were of old called the Phrygians, but (what changes does time not bring about?) after the reign of a king Maeon, were known as Maeones. Then the Greeks settled on the shores of the Aegean, and the Thyni from Thrace cultivated the region now called Bithynia. Not long since a vast army of Gauls, nomad hitherto, came at last to rest in the district; these laid by their spears, clothed them in the civilized robe of Greece and drank no longer from Rhine’s, but from Halys’, waters. All antiquity gives priority to the Phrygian, even Egypt’s king had perforce to recognize it when the babe, nourished at no human breast, first opened his lips to lisp the Phrygian tongue.[112]

Here fell the pipe once hurled into the marshes of Libya, what time the stream reflected Minerva’s disfigured countenance.[113] Here, too, there perished, conquered by Apollo’s lyre, the shepherd Marsyas whose flayed skin brought renown to the city of

Celaenae. Hence flow four broad auriferous rivers. Small wonder that the waters in which King Midas bathed so often glitter with the rare metal. Two flow north, two southwards. Dindymus gives birth to the river Sangarius, which, swollen by the clear stream of the Gallus, hastens on to the Euxine, the sea of the Amazon. The conjoined streams of Marsyas and Meander make for the Icarian main and Mycale’s strand. Marsyas flows fast and straight while his course is his own; mingled with thy waters, Meander, he goes slowly—unlike the Saône whose waters are hastened by the Rhone’s inflowing. Between these rivers is a sun-kissed plain; kindly is it to the corn, thick-set with vines and displaying the fruit of the grey-green olive; rich, too, in horses, fertile in flocks, and wealthy with the purple-veined marble that Synnada quarries.

Such was Phrygia then when the gods allowed it to be ravaged by Getic brigands. The barbarian burst in upon those cities so peaceful, so easy of capture. There was no hope of safety, no chance of escape. Long and peaceful ages had made the crumbling stones of their battlements to fall.

Meanwhile Cybele was seated amid the hallowed rocks of cold Ida, watching, as is her wont, the dance, and inciting the joyous Curetes to brandish their swords at the sound of the drum, when, lo, the golden-turreted crown, the eternal glory of her blessèd hair, fell from off her head and, rolling from her brow, the castellated diadem is profaned in the dust. The Corybantes stopped in amazement at this omen; general alarm checked their orgies and silenced their pipes. The mother of the gods wept; then spake thus in sorrow.

“This is the portent that agèd Lachesis foretold long years ago. My fallen crown assures me that Phrygia’s final crisis is upon her. Alas for the blood that shall redden Sangarius’ waves; for all the corpses that shall retard Meander’s slow stream. The hour is fixed irrevocably; such, long since, was my son’s, the Thunderer’s, will. A like disaster awaits the neighbouring peoples; in vain does Lydia invoke the thyrsus of Bacchus in her defence. Now fare thee well, land of Phrygia, farewell, walls doomed to the flames, walls that now rear aloft proud towers but will soon be levelled with the ground and the bare earth. Farewell, dear rivers: never more shall I hold my inspired revels in your grottoes; no more shall my chariot leave the traces of its wheels on Berecynthus’ heights.” So spake she, and turned her drums to strains of mourning. Attis filled his devoted country with holy lamentations and Cybele’s tawny lions burst into tears.

Eutropius, although this terrible revolt could not be hid and although rumour had spread everywhere the dread news, none the less affects to ignore it and shuts his eyes to the empire’s peril. ’Twas some poor troop of wandering brigands; such wretches call for punishment not war; a judge—so he brags—not a general should crush their strength. Even so the great Libyan bird, hard pressed by the cries of its pursuers, runs o’er the burning sands and flies through the dust, curving its wings like sails to catch the breeze; but when it clearly hears the footsteps close behind it, it forgets its flight, standing with closed eyes and hiding its head, believing, poor fool, it cannot be seen by those whom itself cannot see. None the less Eutropius

sends towering promises with new gifts, if haply his foe may pause at his entreaty. But the barbarian, in whose heart was once waked the old love of plunder, refuses to submit to a slave; for him the gifts of fear have no charm; haughtily he disdains any rank,[114] even the highest, for under such a consul what honour would not be disgrace?

When Eutropius saw that no prayers could move him nor any gold win him over; when messenger after messenger returned, his mission unfulfilled, and all hopes of an alliance were at an end, he at last recognized the necessity for war and summoned the council to his palace. Thither they came—wanton lads and debauched greybeards whose greatest glory was gluttony, and whose pride it was to diversify the outraged banquet. Their hunger is only aroused by costly meats, and they tickle their palates with foods imported from overseas, the flesh of the many-eyed fowl of Juno,[115] or of that coloured bird brought from farthest Ind that knows how to speak. Not the Aegean, not deep Propontis, not Maeotis’ lake afar can sate their appetites with fish. Perfumed garments are their care, their pride to move foolish laughter with their silly jests. On their adornment and toilette they bestow a woman’s care and find even the silk they wear too heavy a burden. Should the Hun, the Sarmatian, strike at the city’s gates yet trouble they for nought but the theatre. Rome they despise and reserve their admiration for their own houses—may Bosporus’ waters overwhelm them! Skilful dancers they and clever judges of charioteers.

Some sprung from the dregs of the people are generals; some magistrates—though their legs and

ankles are still scarred and livid with their wearing of the fetters of servitude and though their branded foreheads deny their owners’ right to office and disclose their true title. Among them Eutropius holds the first place; Hosius, on whom he relies, comes next. He of a truth is more popular, a cunning artificer of justice who knows well how to steam his cases; at times boiling with anger, yet well able to render down that anger when aroused.[117] These sit enthroned, joint rulers of the eastern empire, the one a cook the other a pander. The backs of both are scarred with the whip, each was a slave though of a different kind. The one had been bought and sold a hundred times, the other brought up a dependant in a Spanish household.

When, therefore, the chief men were gathered together for consultation in this strait and to comfort the sickness of the state, forthwith they forget Phrygia and, setting aside the question of war, start their accustomed fooling and engage in disputes about the Circus. With heat as fierce as it is pointless they wrangle what boy can best whirl quivering limbs in an easy somersault or sweep the marble floor with his drooping locks; who can most twist his flanks into a boneless arch; who can best suit his gestures to his words and his eyes to his character. Some recite speeches from tragedy, others chant the play of Tereus, others again that of Agave, never before staged.

Eutropius chides them; the present moment, says he, demands other spectacles than these; it is war which now should claim all their care. For his part (for he is an old man and a weary) it is enough to defend the frontiers of Armenia; single-handed

he cannot cope with all these perils. They must pardon his age and send younger men to the war:—it is as though a hated forewoman were sitting among a crowd of poor working-girls and bidding them in her raucous voice ply the loom and gain their livelihood, while they beg to be allowed the enjoyment of a holiday, to lay aside their tasks and visit their friends; angered at her refusal and wearied of their work they crush the threads in their hands and wipe away their gentle tears with the cloth.

Sudden from out that trembling throng upleaps bold Leo[118] with his vast bulk, he whose single prowess Cyclopean hunger could scarce match, whom starving Celaeno could not outvie. ’Tis to this fact that he is said to have owed his name. Bold (when his foe was absent), brave (as a speaker), great in bulk but small of heart, once a highly skilled spinner of thread and a cunning carder, none other could so well cleanse the dirt from out the fleece and fill the baskets, none other pull the thick wool over the iron teeth of the comb as could he. He was then Eutropius’ Ajax and far and near he raged, shaking not a huge shield compact of seven layers of ox-hide, but that belly of his, laden with continuous feastings, as he sat lazily among old dames and distaffs. At length he arose and, panting, said, “What unwonted sluggishness is this, my friends? How long must we sit closeted in the women’s apartments and suffer our perils to increase by reason of our sloth? Fate weaves for us a network of ill while we waste our time in useless vows. This difficult task demands my action; never was my hand slow to use iron. Let but Minerva favour

mine attempts and the work begun will be the work completed. Now will I render proud Tarbigilus, whose madness has caused all this turmoil, of less weight than a ball of wool, the faithless Gruthungi I will drive before me like a flock of wretched sheep; and when I have restored peace I will set the women of Phrygia once more beside their ancient spinning.”

So saying he sat down again. Great clamour and applause filled the council-chamber, applause such as rises from the rows of spectators in the theatre when some curled youth impersonates Niobe turned to stone, or Hecuba in tears. Straightway Leo unfolds his banners and starts on the journey whence there is to be no return. To the accompaniment of the screech-owl’s ill-omened cry he bids march the host destined so soon to feed the vultures of Mygdonia.

’Tis a well-favoured army, enamoured of the city’s shade, ever present at the games, anxious to shine in the baths, not to bear sun-scorch and rain, and oh! how different to that former army who, ’neath the leadership of Stilicho, endured under arms the frosts of Thrace and were wont to winter in the open air and break with their axes the frozen waters of Hebrus for a draught. Changed is the leader and changed their character. Byzantium’s luxury and Ancyra’s pomp[119] have destroyed their vigour. No longer does the cavalry ride ahead of the foot; suitable ground is not chosen for camps; no constant change of sentries safeguards the ramparts, no scouts are sent forward to discover which roads to take or which to avoid; their evolutions are performed without drill or discipline, in confusion they stray hither and thither amid dark forests, along narrow

paths in unexplored valleys. So goes a horse that has lost his rider, thus a ship whose helmsman has been drowned is swept to the abyss, chance guiding her and not the stars. So too the sea monster[120] is dashed to pieces against the rocks when it has lost the comrade fish that swam before it and guided its course through the waves, piloting the great beast with the motion of its tiny tail according to the compact which is between it and its huge companion. Aimlessly the monster swims all unguided through the deep; then, surprised in the shallow water and knowing not how to return to the sea, pants and to no purpose dashes its gaping jaws against the rocks.

Tarbigilus feigns retreat and raises the presumptuous hopes of Leo, then suddenly he bursts all unexpected upon the wine-sodden army, as, overcome by the heavy feast, they brag over their cups of leading the foe in chains. Some are slain as they lift their sluggish limbs from the couch, others know not any break between sleep and death. Others rush pell-mell into a neighbouring swamp and heap the marsh high with their dead bodies. Leo himself, swifter than deer or antelope, fled trembling on his foam-flecked horse, and it falling under his weight Leo sank in the mire and on all fours fought his way through the clinging slime. Held up at first by the thick mud, his fat body gradually settles down panting like a common pig, which, destined to grace the coming feast, squeals when Hosius arms him with flashing knife, and gathers up his garments, pondering the while what portions he will transfix with spits, which pieces of the flesh he will boil and how much sea-urchin

stuffing will be needed to fill the empty skin. The work of preparation goes on apace, Bosporus echoes to many a blow and the savoury smell envelops Chalcedon.

Suddenly a gentle breeze stirs the foliage behind Leo’s back. He thinks it an arrow, and terror, taking a missile’s place, does duty for a wound. Untouched and stricken only by fear he breathes his last. Degenerate Roman, by whose advice didst thou exchange the comb for the sword, thine ancestral calling for the field of battle? How much better to praise in safety the work of the weavers at their looms and keep out the cold by means of morning feasts. Here thou hast suffered a wretched death; here, while thou soughtest to shirk thy spinning, the Fates have at last spun for thee the final thread.

Now spreading rumour shakes the palace, pale with terror upon terror. It told how that the army was destroyed, the troops butchered, the plain of Maeonia red with slaughter, Pamphylia and Pisidia o’errun by the enemy. On all sides rings the dread name of Tarbigilus. He is now said to be bearing down upon Galatia, now to be meditating an attack on Bithynia. Some say he has crossed the Taurus and is descending upon Cilicia, others that he has possessed himself of a fleet and is advancing both by land and sea. Truth is doubled by panic’s fancy; they say that from the ships far cities are seen ablaze, that the straits are aglow and that ashes driven by the wind catch in the sails of every ship at sea.

Amid all this confusion comes a yet more terrible

rumour—that Babylon is again in arms and, under a new monarch,[122] threatens our Empire; the Parthians, long inactive, and now scorning slothful ease, seek to put an end to the peace imposed by Rome. Rare among the Medes is the murder of a king, for punishment falls on the regicide’s whole family. Thus equal obedience is offered to their overlords, cruel as well as kind. But what would not the year of Eutropius’ consulship dare? ’Tis that has stricken down our faithful ally Sapor and roused the Persians’ swords against their own king; that has cast the torch of the Furies across the Euphrates, there to kindle rebellion, that no quarter of the globe may escape carnage.

Then indeed men’s hearts failed them, their courage ebbed away amid all these storms; surrounded as they were on every side by the din of war, at last they recognized the wrath of heaven and their consul’s evil omen, learning too late—schooled by the stubborn issue—their now irrevocable doom. They say that the twin sons of Iapetus formed our first parents of the same materials but with unequal skill. Those whom Prometheus fashioned, and with whose clay he mingled abundant ether, foresee the distant future and, thanks to their more careful making by a better workman, are thus prepared to meet what fate has in store for them. Those framed of baser clay by the sorry artificer the Greek poets so well call Epimetheus, men through whose limbs no ethereal vigour spreads—these, like sheep, cannot avoid the dangers that o’erhang them, nor foresee aught. Not till the blow has fallen do they protest and weep too late the accomplished deed.

There now shone forth but one hope of salvation—Stilicho. Him the expectation of whose visits the consciousness of deeds ill-done had ever rendered bitter and unpleasant, him whose approach even as far as the Alps afflicted the Byzantines with fear of death and punishment, all now wish to come, repentant of their former wrongdoing. To him they look as to a star amid this universal shipwreck of war; to him innocent and guilty alike address their prayers. So children whose sire carries merchandise across the sea, wrapt up in their amusements and heedless of their studies, wander afield more joyfully now that their guardian is absent, yet, should a dangerous neighbour invade their defenceless home and seek to drive them forth unprotected as they are from their fireside, then they beg their father’s help, call upon his name with useless cries and all to no purpose direct their gaze towards the shore.

All admit that they deserve punishment and death for deserting Stilicho and entrusting themselves to the governance of slaves. Long they stood dazed with altered thoughts, and as their senses slowly return they marvel at the results of their own madness and turn away their eyes; flinging down his rods the lictor shudders, and the dishonoured axes fall of their own accord. Even so the Maenads returning to Thebes from the Aonian mount, their thyrses dripping with Pentheus’ blood, learning the true character of their dreadful hunting and seeing the head cast by the mother herself, hide them in the darkness and lament the end of their madness. Thereupon suppliant Aurora turned her flight towards powerful Italy, her hair no

longer aureole-crowned and she no more bright of countenance nor clothed with the saffron of the dawn. She stands wan with woe, even as when she buried Memnon in his Phrygian grave. Stilicho recognized her and stayed, well knowing the reason of her visit. Long time she clasped his victorious hand and at length amid tears and sighs addressed him.

“Why art thou so wearied of the world whereon I shine? Leavest thou me thus to be the sport and laughing-stock of slaves and carest only for Italy, thou that wert once my guide and my leader? Since thy victory over the tyrant Eugenius I have not seen thee. Has victory thus robbed me of thee and given thee to Gaul? Rufinus was the prime cause of the trouble; ’twas he who wrought disunion between the two empires. But when he aimed at more there met him an army returning in righteous wrath, an army still strong, still mindful of its former prowess. For a moment I was dazzled by the mirage of liberty: I hoped that Stilicho would once more hold the reins of our empire. Alas for my short-sighted happiness! The world had begun to form one single empire under the rule of the two brothers (for who, with the awful example[123] so fresh in his mind, would dare embark upon a like venture?) when suddenly (it is a monstrous story which scarce bears the telling) a eunuch came forward as Rufinus’ heir. Thus fortune brought back my former miseries with this one difference—that of changing my master’s sex.

At first he kept his crimes hidden behind the doors of his chamber, an unseen and timid ruler; power was his that all envied, yet only a eunuch’s, nor dared he yet arrogate to himself the right of

governing the state or of trampling on the laws. But when he had banished the good and, retaining the dregs of the people, had chosen therefrom advisers of no worth; when his creature Hosius stood on his one side and Leo on the other, then indeed his self-confidence waxed and his lust for power broke forth into open flame. Patrician and consul he brought defilement on the honours he sold; even greater defilement on those he carried himself. The very standards and trumpets of war grew feeble; a palsy seized upon our swords. What wonder the nations rejoiced and we became the easy prey of any who would subdue us? Gone are ploughs and ploughmen; the East is more a desert than Thrace and snowy Haemus. Alas! how many cities, how long unused to war’s alarms, have perished in a single invasion! Not long since a mounted band coming from Araxes’ farthest banks threatened the walls of Antioch and all but set fire to the chief city of the fair province of Syria. Laden with spoil and rejoicing in the vast carnage it had wrought the band returned with none to bar its passage; now it pursues its victorious career inflicting on me wound upon wound. ’Tis not now Caucasus nor cold Phasis that send forces against me; wars arise in the very centre of my empire. Time was when the Gruthungi formed a Roman legion; conquered we gave them laws; fields and dwelling-places we apportioned them. Now they lay waste with fire Lydia and the richest cities of Asia, ay, and everything that escaped the earlier storm. ’Tis neither on their own valour or numbers that they rely; it is our cowardice urges them on, cowardice and the treason of generals, through whose guilt our soldiers now

flee before their own captives, whom, as Danube’s stream well knows, they once subdued; and those now fear a handful who once could drive back all.

Meanwhile the palace devotes its attention to dances and feastings, and cares not what be lost so something remain. But lest our salesman lose aught by this dismemberment of the empire he has divided each remaining province into two, and forces the two halves, each under its own governor, to compensate him for the loss of other provinces. ’Tis thus they give me back my lost peoples: by this ingenious device they increase the number of my rulers while the lands they should rule are lost.

In thee is now my only hope; in place of Minerva’s supplicating branch I offer thee my tears. Help me in my distress. Save me from this tyranny of a slave master; do not condemn all for the fault of a few, and let not a recent offence cancel former merits. Grant me now my request; extreme danger ever exonerates from blame. Camillus, though justly angered at his banishment, forebore not to succour his country when in flames. I seek not to draw thee away from Italy; thou art enough defence for both empires. Let both have the benefit of thine illustrious arms; let the same shield defend us and one hero work the salvation of a twofold world”

FESCENNINA DE NUPTIIS HONORII AUGUSTI

I. (XI.)

FESCENNINE VERSES IN HONOUR OF THE MARRIAGE OF THE EMPEROR HONORIUS[124]

I. (XI.)

Prince, fairer than the day-star, who shootest thine arrows with an aim more sure than the Parthian’s, rider more daring than the Geloni, what praise shall match thy lofty mind, what praise thy brilliant beauty? Leda would rather have thee her son than Castor; Thetis counts thee dearer than her own Achilles; Delos’ isle admits thee Apollo’s victor; Lydia puts Bacchus second to thee. When in the heat of the chase thou guidest thy coursing steed amid the towering holm-oaks and thy tossing locks stream out upon the wind, the beasts of their own accord will fall before thine arrows and the lion, right gladly wounded by a prince’s sacred hand, will welcome thy spear and be proud so to die. Venus scorns Adonis returned from the dead, Diana disapproves Hippolytus recalled to life.

When after thy toils thou seekest the shade of a green plane-tree or shunnest Sirius’ extreme heat in some cool grot and freest thy wearied limbs in sleep, what a passion of love will inflame the Dryads’ hearts! how many a Naiad will steal up with trembling foot and snatch an unmarked kiss! Who,

II. (XII.)

though he be more uncivilized than the wild Scythians and more cruel even than the beasts, but will, when he has seen near at hand thy transcendent loveliness, offer thee a ready servitude? Who will not willingly seize the chains of slavery and demand the yoke for a neck as yet free? Hadst thou o’er the heights of snowy Caucasus gone against the cruel Amazons in all thy beauty, that warrior band had fled the fight and called to mind again their proper sex; Hippolyte, amid the trumpets’ din, forgetful of her sire, had weakly laid aside her drawn battle-axe, and with half-bared breast loosed the girdle all Hercules’ strength availed not to loose. Thy beauty alone would have ended the war.

Blessed is she who will soon call thee husband and unite herself to thee with the bonds of first love.

II. (XII.)

Come, earth, wreathed about with nuptial spring, do honour to thy master’s marriage-feast. Sing, woods and rivers all, sing, deep of ocean. Give your blessing, too, Ligurian plains and yours, Venetian hills. Let Alpine heights on a sudden clothe themselves with rose-bushes and the fields of ice grow red. Let the Adige re-echo the sound of choric lays and meandering Mincius whisper gently through his

reeds and Padus make answer with his amber-dripping alders. Let Tiber’s banks now ring with the voices of Rome’s full-fed citizens and the golden city, rejoicing in her lord’s marriage, crown her seven hills with flowers.

Let Spain hear afar, Spain the cradle of the imperial race, where is a house that is mother of emperors, rich in crowns of laurel, whose triumphs can scarce be numbered. Hence came the bridegroom’s sire, hence the bride’s mother; from either branch flows the blood of the Caesars, like twin streams reunited. Let rich herbage clothe Baetis’ banks and Tagus swell his golden flood; may Ocean, ancestor of the imperial race, make merry in his crystal caves. Let East and West, the two brothers’ realms, join in their applause, and peace and joy fill the cities illumined by the sun at his rising and at his setting. Be still, ye storms of the north and ye mad blasts of Caurus; sounding Auster, sink to rest. Let Zephyrus have sole rule over this year of triumph.

III. (XIII.)

IV. (XIV.)

III. (XIII.)

Twine with a soft garland, Stilicho, the locks whereon a helmet is wont to shine. Let the trumpets of war cease and the propitious torch of marriage banish savage Mars afar. Let regal blood unite once more with regal blood. Perform a father’s office and unite these children with thine illustrious hand. Thou didst marry an emperor’s daughter, now, in turn, thy daughter shall marry an emperor. What room is here for the madness of jealousy? What excuse for envy? Stilicho is father both of bride and bridegroom.

IV. (XIV.)

Hesperus, loved of Venus, rises and shines for the marriage with his Idalian[125] rays. Maiden shame now overcomes the anxious bride; her veil now shows traces of innocent tears. Hesitate not to be close in thine attacks, young lover, e’en though she oppose thee savagely with cruel finger-nail. None can enjoy the scents of spring nor steal the honey of Hybla from its fastnesses if he fears that thorns may scratch his face. Thorns arm the rose and bees find a defence for their honey. The refusals of coyness do but increase the joy; the desire for that which flies us is the more inflamed; sweeter is the kiss snatched through tears. How oft wilt thou say: “Better this than ten victories over the yellow-haired Sarmatae”!

Breathe a new loyalty into your breasts and let your senses kindle a flame that shall never be extinguished. May your clasped hands form a bond more close than that betwixt ivy and leafy oak tree or poplar and pliant vine. Be the frequent kisses that ye give and receive breathed more softly than those of plaintive doves, and when lips have united soul to soul let sleep still your throbbing breath. Be the purple couch warm with your princely wooing, and a new stain ennoble coverlets ruddy with Tyrian dye. Then leap victorious from the marriage-bed, scarred with the night’s encounter.

All night long let the music of the flute resound and the crowd, set free from law’s harsh restraints, with larger licence indulge the permitted jest. Soldiers, make merry with your leaders, girls with boys. Be this the cry that re-echoes from pole to pole, among the peoples, over the seas: “Fair Honorius weds with Maria.”

EPITHALAMIUM DE NUPTIIS HONORII AUGUSTI

PRAEFATIO

(IX.)

EPITHALAMIUM OF HONORIUS AND MARIA

PREFACE

(IX.)

When Pelion reared his height to form a bridal chamber with long-drawn arches, and his hospitable land could not contain so many gods; when Nereus, sire of the bride, and all the throng of her sisters strove to link day to day with feastings; when Chiron, lying at ease with his horse-flanks curled under him, offered the loving-cup to Jove; when Peneus turned his cold waters to nectar and frothing wine flowed down from Oeta’s summit, Terpsichore struck her ready lyre with festive hand and led the girlish bands into the caves. The gods, the Thunderer himself, disdained not these songs, for they knew that lovers’ vows ever harmonized with tender strains. Centaurs and Fauns would have none of it: what lyre could touch Rhoetus or move inhuman Pholus?

The seventh day had flamed in heaven, seven times had Hesperus relumed his lamp and seen the dances completed; then Phoebus touched his lyre with that nobler quill, wherewith he leads captive rocks and mountain-ashes, and sang to his sacred strings now the promised birth of Achilles, now the slaughter of the Trojans and the river Simois. The happy marriage-cry re-echoed o’er leafy Olympus, and Othrys and Ossa gave back their mistress Thetis’ name.

EPITHALAMIUM

(X.)

EPITHALAMIUM

(X.)

Unfelt before was the fire the Emperor Honorius had conceived for his promised bride, and he burned, all unexperienced, with passion’s first fever, nor knew whence came the heat, what meant the sighs—a tyro and as yet ignorant of love. Hunting, horses, javelins—for none of these he now cares nor yet to fling the spear; Love’s wound occupies all his thoughts. How often he groaned from the very heart; how often a blush, mantling to his cheeks, betrayed his secret; how often, unbidden of himself, his hand would write the loved one’s name. Already he prepares gifts for his betrothed and selects to adorn her (though their beauty is less than hers) the jewels once worn by noble Livia of old and all the proud women of the imperial house. The impatient lover chafes at the delay; the long days seem as though they stood still and the moon as though she moved not her slow wheel. Thus Deidamia, girl of Scyros, e’er yet she sees through his disguise, inflamed with love the young Achilles, and taught his warrior hands to draw the slender thread and passed her rosy fingers through the locks of that Thessalian of whom all Ida was soon to stand in awe.

Thus too he communed with himself: “How long

will honoured Stilicho forbear to grant my prayers? Why postpones he the union of those whose love he has approved? Why should he refuse to fulfil my chaste desires? I follow not the example of luxurious princes in seeking the beauties of a pictured countenance, whereby the pander canvass may pass from house to house to make known the charms demanded; nor yet have I sought to choose the uncertain object of my love from this house or from that, and thus entrusted to deceptive wax the difficult selection of a bride. I sever not in violence the bonds that unite a wedded woman to her lord; her I seek who hath long been betrothed to me, who by a father’s orders was left my affianced bride and who through her mother shares with me a common grandsire. A suppliant I have laid aside my rank and acted the suitor. Princes, second only to myself in rank, have I sent from my imperial palace to present my petition. ’Tis no small thing I ask, Stilicho; that I admit; yet surely to me, an emperor, son of that other emperor who, by giving thee his brother’s adopted daughter to wife, made thee his son-in-law,—to me thou dost owe Maria. Pay back to the son the interest due to his sire; restore to the palace those who are its own. Mayhap her mother[128] will be less inexorable. Daughter of mine uncle Honorius, whence I derive my name, chief glory of the land of swift-flowing Ebro, cousin by birth, by mother’s love a mother, to thy care was mine infancy entrusted, in thine arms I grew to boyhood; save for my birth thou, rather than Flacilla, art my mother. Why dost thou separate thy two

children? Why not bestow a daughter born upon an adopted son? Will the longed-for day ever come; the marriage-night ever be sanctioned?”

With such complaint he assuages the wounds of love. Cupid laughed and speeding across the deep bore the news to his gentle mother, proudly spreading his wings to their full extent.

Where Cyprus looks out over the Ionian main a craggy mountain overshadows it; unapproachable by human foot it faces the isle of Pharos, the home of Proteus and the seven mouths of the Nile. The hoar frost dares not clothe its sides, nor the rude winds buffet it nor clouds obscure. It is consecrate to pleasure and to Venus. The year’s less clement seasons are strangers to it, whereover ever brood the blessings of eternal spring. The mountain’s height slopes down into a plain; that a golden hedge encircles, guarding its meadows with yellow metal. This demesne, men say, was the price paid by Mulciber for the kisses of his wife, these towers were the gift of a loving husband. Fair is the enclosed country, ever bright with flowers though touched with no labouring hand, for Zephyr is husbandman enough therefor. Into its shady groves no bird may enter save such as has first won the goddess’ approval for its song. Those which please her may flit among the branches; they must quit who cannot pass the test. The very leaves live for love and in his season every happy tree experiences love’s power: palm bends down to mate with palm, poplar sighs its passion for poplar, plane whispers to plane, alder to alder.

Here spring two fountains, the one of sweet water, the other of bitter, honey is mingled with the first, poison with the second, and in these streams ’tis said

that Cupid dips his arrows. A thousand brother Loves with quivers play all around upon the banks, a tender company like to Cupid himself in face and of equal age. The nymphs are their mothers; Cupid is the only child of golden Venus. He with his bow subdues the stars and the gods and heaven, and disdains not to wound mighty kings; of the others the common people is the prey. Other deities, too, are here: Licence bound by no fetters, easily moved Anger, Wakes dripping with wine, inexperienced Tears, Pallor that lovers ever prize, Boldness trembling at his first thefts, happy Fears, unstable Pleasure, and lovers’ Oaths, the sport of every lightest breeze. Amid them all wanton Youth with haughty neck shuts out Age from the grove.

Afar shines and glitters the goddess’ many-coloured palace, green gleaming by reason of the encircling grove. Vulcan built this too of precious stones and gold, wedding their costliness to art. Columns cut from rock of hyacinth support emerald beams; the walls are of beryl, the high-builded thresholds of polished jaspar, the floor of agate trodden as dirt beneath the foot. In the midst is a courtyard rich with fragrant turf that yields a harvest of perfume; there grows sweet spikenard and ripe cassia, Panchaean cinnamon-flowers and sprays of oozy balm, while balsam creeps forth slowly in an exuding stream.

Hither Love glided down, winging his way o’er the long journey. Joyfully and with prouder gait than e’er his wont he enters. Venus was seated on her glittering throne, tiring her hair. On her right hand and on her left stood the Idalian sisters.[129] Of these one pours a rich stream of nectar over Venus’

head, another parts her hair with a fine ivory comb. A third, standing behind the goddess, braids her tresses and orders her ringlets in due array, yet carefully leaving a part untended; such negligence becomes her more. Nor did her face lack the mirror’s verdict; her image is reflected over all the palace and she is charmed wheresoever she looks. While she surveys each detail and approves her beauty she notes the shadow of her son as he approaches and catches the fierce boy to her fragrant bosom. “Whence comes thy joy?” she asks; “cruel child, what battles hast thou fought? What victim has thine arrow pierced? Hast thou once more compelled the Thunderer to low among the heifers of Sidon? Hast thou overcome Apollo, or again summoned Diana to a shepherd’s cave? Methinks thou hast triumphed over some fierce and potent god.”

Hanging upon his mother’s kisses he answered: “Mother, be thou glad; a great victory is ours. Now has Honorius felt our arrows. Thou knowest Maria and her sire, the general whose spear protects Gaul and Italy; the fame of noble Serena is not hidden from thee. Haste thee, assent to their princely prayers and seal this royal union.”

Cytherea freed her from her son’s embrace, hastily bound up her hair, gathered up her flowing dress and girt herself about with the divine girdle whose all-compelling charm can stay the rain-swollen torrent and appease the sea, the winds and angry thunderbolts. Soon as she stood on the shore she thus addressed her small foster-children. “Come, children, which of you will plunge beneath the glassy wave and summon me hither fleet Triton to bear me

quickly o’er the deep? Never will he have come to do us better service. Sacred is the marriage that I seek. Make all speed in your search; may be the Libyan sea rings to his conch, may be he cleaves the Aegean main. Whoso shall find and bring him hither shall have a golden quiver as a reward.”

She spake and, dividing into various bands, the scouts set out. Triton was swimming beneath the waves of the Carpathian sea, pursuing reluctant Cymothoë. She feared her rough lover and eluded his pursuit, her wet form gliding through the embraces of his strong arms. One of the Loves espied him and cried, “Stay! the deeps cannot hide your amours. Make ready to carry our mistress; as a reward for thy services (and ’tis no meagre one) thou shalt have Cymothoë, a complaisant mistress shall she be though she flout thee now. Come and win thy recompense.”

The dread monster uprose from the abyss; his billowing hair swept his shoulders; hoofs of cloven horn grown round with bristles sprang from where his fishy tail joined his man’s body. He swam three strokes and at the fourth stranded upon the shore of Cyprus. To shade the goddess the monster arched back his tail; then his back, rough with living purple, was bedded with scarlet coverlets; resting in such a retreat does Venus voyage, her snowy feet just dipping in the sea. A great company of wingèd Loves fly after her, troubling the calm surface of Ocean. Neptune’s palace is all adorned with flowers. Leucothoë, daughter of Cadmus, sports on the water, and Palaemon drives his dolphin with a bridle of roses. Nereus sets violets here

and there among the seaweed and Glaucus wreathes his grey hair with deathless flowers. Hearing the tale the Nereids, too, came mounted on various beasts: one (maiden above but fish below) rides the dread sea-tiger of Tartessus; another is carried by that fierce ram, the terror of the Aegean, who shatters ships with his forehead; a third bestrides the neck of a sea-lion; another is borne along by the sea-calf to which she clings. They vie with one another in bringing gifts to the newly-wedded pair. Cymothoë presents a girdle, Galatea a precious necklace, Psamathe a diadem heavily encrusted with pearls gathered by herself from the depths of the Red Sea. Doto suddenly dives to gather coral, a plant so long as it is beneath the water, a jewel once it is brought forth from the waves.

The nude crowd of Nereids throng around Venus, following her and singing praises after this manner: “We beg thee, Venus, our queen, to bear these our gifts, these adornments, to queen Maria. Tell her that never did Thetis receive their like nor even our sister Amphitrite when she espoused our Jupiter.[133] Let the daughter of Stilicho hereby realize the devotion of the sea and know that Ocean is her slave. ’Tis we who bore up her father’s fleet, the hope of his victorious land, what time he set out to avenge the ruined Greeks.”

And now Triton’s foam-flecked breast had touched the Ligurian shore and his wearied coils were extended over the surface of the water. Straightway Venus flew high in the air to the city founded by the Gauls, the city that shows as its device the fleece-covered pelt of a sow.[134] At the coming of the goddess the routed clouds retire; bright shine the Alps beneath

the clear North wind. The soldier rejoices though he cannot tell why. The standards of war burgeon with red flowers and the spears on a sudden sprout with living leaves. Then Venus thus addresses her attendant throng. “Comrades mine, keep away for a while the god of war that the palace may be mine and mine alone. Banish afar the terror of the flashing breastplate; let its scabbard sheath the threatening sword. Advance not the standards of war, the eagles and savage dragons. This day the camp shall yield to my standards; the flute shall sound instead of the bugle, the soft strains of the happy lyre take the place of the trumpets’ blare. Let the soldiers feast even when on guard and the beakers foam in the midst of arms. Let regal majesty lay by its awful pride and power, disdaining not to associate with the people, make one the nobles with the crowd. Let joy be unrestrained and sober Law herself be not ashamed to laugh.

“Hymen, choose thou the festal torches, and ye Graces gather flowers for the feast. Thou, Concord, weave two garlands. You, winged band, divide and hasten whithersoever you can be of use: let none be slothful or lazy. You others hang numberless lamps in order from their brackets against the coming of night. Let these haste to entwine the gleaming door-posts with my sacred myrtle. Do you sprinkle the palace with drops of nectar and kindle a whole grove of Sabaean incense. Let others unfold yellow-dyed silks from China and spread tapestries of Sidon on the ground. Do you employ all your arts in decorating the marriage-bed. Woven with jewels and upborne on carved columns be its canopy, such

as rich Lydia ne’er built for Pelops nor yet the Bacchae for Lyaeus, decked as his was with the spoils of Ind and the mantling vine. Heap up there all the gathered wealth of the family, all the spoil that Honorius the elder, our emperor’s grandsire, won from Moor and Saxon, all that his dread father with Stilicho at his side gained from numberless wars, all that the Geloni and Armenians have contributed or Meroë added—Meroë encircled by furthermost Nile whose people decorate their hair with arrows; whatever the Medes sent from the banks of Persian Tigris when suppliant Parthia bought peace of Rome. Let the lofty couch be adorned with the barbaric splendour of kings’ treasuries; be all the wealth of all our triumphs gathered in that marriage-chamber.”

So spake she and all unannounced sought the bride’s home. But Maria, with no thoughts of wedlock nor knowing that the torches were being got ready, was listening with rapt attention to the discourse of her saintly mother, drinking in that mother’s nature and learning to follow the example of old-world chastity; nor does she cease under that mother’s guidance to unroll the writers of Rome and Greece, all that old Homer sang, or Thracian Orpheus, or that Sappho set to music with Lesbian quill; (even so Latona taught Diana; so gentle Mnemosyne in her cave gave instruction to meek Thalia)—when the sky from afar grows more bright, a sweeter air breathes through the astonished palace and there is spread the happy fragrance of scented locks. Soon came the proof; in all her beauty the goddess bursts upon them. Yet Venus stands amazed, admiring now the daughter’s