 | LETTER XIV. Letters of Lucius M. Piso, from Palmyra, to his friend Marcus Curtius at Rome |  |
14. LETTER XIV.
The last days of this so lately favored empire draw
near — at least such is my judgment. After a brief day
of glory, its light will set in a long night of utter darkness
and ruin.
Close upon the rear guard of the Queen's forces followed
the light troops of Aurelian, and early this morning
it was proclaimed that the armies of Rome were in
sight, and fast approaching the city. These armies were
considered too numerous to hazard another battle, therefore
the gates were shut, and we are now beleaguered by
a power too mighty to contend with, and which the Arabs,
the climate and want, must be trusted to subdue. The
circumjacent plains are filled with the legions of Rome.
Exhausted by the march across the desert, they have but
pitched their tents, and now repose.
The Queen displays more than ever her accustomed
activity and energy. She examines in person every part
of the vast extent of wall, and every engine planted upon
them for their defence. By her frequent presence in
every part of the city she inspires her soldiers with the
same spirit which possesses herself; and for herself, to
behold her careering through the streets of the city, reviewing,
and often addressing, the different divisions of
the army, and issuing her commands, she seems rather
like one who is now Queen of the East, and is soon to be
of the world, than one whose dominion is already narrowed
down to the compass of a single city, and may
shortly be deprived even of that. The lofty dignity of
her air has assumed a more imposing greatness still. The
imperial magnificence of her state is noways diminished,
but rather increased, so that by a sort of delusion of the
senses, she seems more a Queen than ever. By her
native vigor and goodness, and by the addition of a most
consummate art, by which she manages as she will, a
people whom she perfectly comprehends, she is at this
moment more deeply intrenched within the affections of
her subjects, and more completely the object of their idolatrous
there is a deep depression, and a loss of confidence in
her cause, which amounts not yet to a loss of hope, but
approaches it. This is seen by those who can observe
her in her more quiet hours, when the glare of public
action and station is off, and her mind is left to its own
workings. But, like those who play at dice, she has
staked all — her kingdom, her crown — her life perhaps
upon a single throw, and having wound herself up to the
desperate act, all the entreaty or argument of the whole
earth could not move her to unclasp the hand that wields
the fatal box. She will abide the throw.
There are still those who use both entreaty and argument
to persuade her even at this late hour to make the
best terms she may with Rome. Otho, though perfectly
loyal and true, ceases not to press upon her, both in public
and in private, those considerations which may have
any weight with her to induce a change of measures.
But it has thus far been to no purpose. Others there are,
who, as the danger increases, become more and more
restless, and scruple not to let their voice be heard in loud
complaint and discontent, but they are too few in proportion
to the whole, to make them objects of apprehension.
It will however be strange if, as the siege is prolonged,
they do not receive such accessions of strength, as to
render them dangerous.
The Emperor has commenced his attacks upon the city
in a manner that shows him unacquainted with its
strength. The battle has raged fiercely all day, with
great loss, we infer, to the Romans, with none we know
to the Palmyrenes.
Early on the morning of the second day it was evident
that a general assault was to be made upon the walls.
The Roman army completely surrounding the city, at
shields, attempted both to undermine and scale them.
But their attempts were met with such vigor, and with
such advantage of action by the besieged, that although
repeated many times during the day, they have resulted
in only loss and death to the assailants. It is
incredible the variety and ingenuity of the contrivances
by which the Queen's forces beat off and rendered ineffectual
all the successive movements of the enemy, in
their attempts to surmount the walls. Not only from
every part of the wall were showers of arrows discharged
from the bows of experienced archers, but from
engines also, by which they were driven to a much
greater distance, and with great increase of force.
This soon rendered every attack of this nature useless
and worse, and their efforts were then concentrated upon
the several gates which simultaneously were attempted to
be broken in, fired, or undermined. But here again, as
often as these attempts were renewed, were they defeated,
and great destruction made of those engaged in them.
The troops approached as is usual, covered completely, or
buried rather, beneath their shields. They were suffered
to form directly under the walls, and actually commence
their work of destruction, when suddenly from the towers
of the gates, and through channels constructed for the
purpose in every part of the masonry, torrents of liquid
fire were poured upon the iron roof, beneath which the
soldiers worked. This at first they endured. The
melted substances ran off from the polished surface of the
shields, and the stones which were dashed upon them
from engines, after rattling and bounding over their
heads, rolled harmless to the ground. But there was in
reserve a foe which they could not encounter. When it
was found that the fiery streams flowed down the slanting
crevices of the well-joined shields, it was suggested by
the ingenious Periander, that there should first be thrown
down a quantity of pitch in a half melted state, by which
the whole surface of the roof should be completely covered,
and which should then, by a fresh discharge of fire, be
set in a blaze, the effect of which must be to heat the
shields to such a degree, that they could neither be held,
nor the heat beneath endured by the miners. This was
immediately resorted to at all the gates, and the success
was complete. For no sooner was the cold pitch set on
fire and constantly fed by fresh quantities from above, than
the heat became insupportable to those below, who suddenly
letting go their hold, and breaking away from their
compacted form, in hope to escape from the stifling heat,
the burning substance then poured in upon them, and
vast numbers perished miserably upon the spot, or ran
burning, and howling with pain, toward the camp. The
slaughter made was very great, and very terrible to
behold.
Nevertheless, the next day the same attempts were renewed,
in the hope, we supposed, that the Queen's missiles
might be expended, but were defeated again in the
same manner and with like success.
These things being so, and Aurelian being apparently
convinced that the city cannot be taken by storm, the
enemy are now employed in surrounding it with a double
ditch and rampart, as defences both against us and our
allies, between which the army is to be safely encamped,
an immense labor, to which I believe a Roman army is
alone competent. While this has been doing, the Palmyrenes
have made frequent sallies from the gates,
greatly interrupting the progress of the work, and inflicting
severe losses. These attacks have usually been
the exhausting toil of the day, and only a small proportion
of the whole have been in a condition to ward off the
blows.
The Roman works are at length completed. Every
lofty palm tree, every cedar, every terebinth, has disappeared
from the surrounding plains, to be converted into
battering rams, or wrought into immense towers, planted
upon wheels, by which the walls are to be approached and
surmounted. Houses and palaces have been demolished,
that the ready hewed timber might be detached and applied
to various warlike purposes. The once beautiful
environs already begin to put on the appearance of desolation
and ruin.
The citizens have awaited these preparations with
watchful anxiety. The Queen has expressed every
where and to all, her conviction that all these vast and
various preparations are futile — that the bravery of her
soldiers and the completeness of her counter provisions,
will be sufficient for the protection and deliverance of
the city.
Another day of fierce and bloody war. At four different
points have the vast towers been pushed to the walls,
filled with soldiers, and defended against the fires of the
besieged by a casing of skins and every incombustible
substance, and provided with a store of water to quench
whatever part might by chance kindle. It was fearful to
behold these huge structures urged along by a concealed
force, partly of men and partly of animals, and drawing
nigh the walls. If they should once approach so near
that they could be fastened to the walls, and so made
secure, then could the enemy pour their legions upon the
ramparts, and the battle would be transferred to the city
the fire of the besieged has proved irresistible.
It was the direction of Periander, to whose unequalled
sagacity this part of the defence was entrusted, that so
soon as the towers should approach within reach of the
most powerful engines, they should be fired, if possible,
by means of well-barbed arrows and javelins, to which
were attached sacs and balls of inflammable and explosive
substances. These fastening themselves upon every part
of the tower could not fail to set fire to them while yet at
some distance, and in extinguishing which the water and
other means provided for that purpose would be nearly or
quite exhausted, before they had reached the walls. Then
as they came within easier reach, the engines were to
belch forth those rivers of oil, fire, and burning pitch,
which he was sure no structure, unless of solid iron,
could withstand.
These directions were carefully observed, and their success
at every point such as Periander had predicted. At
the gate of the desert the most formidable preparations
were made, under the directions of the Emperor himself,
who, at a distance, could plainly be discerned directing
the work and encouraging the soldiers. Two towers of
enormous size were here constructed, and driven toward
the walls. Upon both, as they came within the play of
the engines, were showered the fiery javelins and arrows,
which it required all the activity of the occupants to ward
off or extinguish, where they had succeeded in fastening
themselves. One was soon in flames. The other, owing
either to its being of a better construction, or to a less
vigorous discharge of fire on the part of the defenders of
the walls, not only escaped the more distant storm of
blazing missiles, but succeeded in quenching the floods
of burning pitch and oil, which, as it drew nearer and
propelled by its invisible and protected power, and
had now reached the wall — the bridge was in the very
act of being thrown and grappled to the ramparts — Aurelian
was seen pressing forward the legions, who, as soon
as it should be fastened, were to pour up its flights of steps
and out upon the walls — when to the horror of all, not
less of the besiegers than of the besieged, its foundations
upon one side — being laid over the moat — suddenly gave
way, and the towering and enormous mass, with all its living
burden, fell thundering to the plain. A shout, as of a delivered
and conquering army, went up from the walls, while
upon the legions below — such as had not been crushed
by the tumbling ruin — and who endeavored to save themselves
by flight, a sudden storm of stones, rocks, burning
pitch, and missiles of a thousand kinds was directed, that
left few to escape to tell the tale of death to their comrades.
Aurelian, in his fury, or his desire to aid the
fallen, approaching too near the walls, was himself struck
by a well-directed shaft — wounded, and borne from the
field.
At the other gates, where similar assaults had been
made, the same success attended the Palmyrenes. The
towers were in each instance set on fire and destroyed.
The city has greatly exulted at the issue of these repeated
contests. Every sound and sign of triumph has
been made upon the walls. Banners have been waved to
and fro, trumpets have been blown, and, in bold defiance
of their power, parties of horse have sallied out from the
gates, and after careering in sight of the enemy, have returned
again within the walls. The enemy are evidently
dispirited, and already weary of the work they have undertaken.
The Queen and her ministers are confident of success,
are concerned — and, perhaps, with reason. For not
even the walls of Rome, as they are now re-building, can
be of greater strength than these — and never were the
defences of a besieged city so complete at all points. But
with equal reason are they despondent in the prospect of
Aurelian's reducing them by want. If he shall succeed
in procuring supplies for his army, and if he shall defeat
the allies of the Queen, who are now every day looked
for, captivity and ruin are sure. But the Queen and the
citizens entertain themselves with the hope, that Aurelian's
fiery temper will never endure the slow and almost
disgraceful process of starving them into a surrender, and
that finding his army constantly diminishing through the
effects of such extraordinary exertions in a climate like
this, he will at length propose such terms as they without
dishonor, can accept.
Many days have passed in inactivity on both sides —
except that nothing can exceed the strictness with which
all approaches to the city are watched, and the possibility
of supplies reaching it cut off.
That which has been expected has come to pass. The
Emperor has offered terms of surrender to the Queen —
but such terms, and so expressed, that their acceptance
was not so much as debated. The Queen was in council
with her advisers, when it was announced that a herald
from the Roman camp was seen approaching the walls.
The gates were ordered to be opened, and the messenger
admitted. He was conducted to the presence of the
Queen, surrounded by her ministers.
`I come,' said he, as he advanced toward Zenobia,
`bearing a letter from the Emperor of Rome to the Queen
of Palmyra. Here it is.'
`I receive it gladly,' replied the Queen, `and hope that
difficulties which now divide us. Nichomachus, break
the seals and read its contents.'
The secretary took the epistle from the hands of the
herald, and opening, read that which follows.
`Aurelian, Emperor of Rome and Conquerer of the
`East, to Zenobia and her companions in arms.
`You ought of your own accord long since to have
`done, what now by this letter I enjoin and command.
`And what I now enjoin and command is this, an imme
`diate surrender of the city — but with assurance of life
`to yourself and your friends — you, O Queen, with your
`friends, to pass your days where the senate, in its sov
`ereign will, shall please to appoint. The rights of
`every citizen shall be respected, upon condition that
`all precious stones, silver, gold, silk, horses and camels
`be delivered into the hands of the Romans.'
As the secretary finished these words the Queen broke
forth, —
`What think you, good friends,'— her mounting color
and curled lip showing the storm that raged within —
`What think you? — Is it a man or a God who has
written thus? Can it be a mortal, who speaks in such
terms to another? By the soul of Odenatus, but I think
it must be the God of War himself. Slave, what sayest
thou?'
`I am but the chosen bearer,' the herald replied, `of
what I took from the hands of the Emperor. But between
him and the God just named, there is, as I deem,
but small difference.'
`That 's well said,' replied the Queen, `there 's something
of the old Roman in thee. Friends, she continued,
turning to her councillors, what answer shall we send to
this lordly command? — What is your advice?'
`Mine is,' said Zabdas, `that the Queen set her foot
upon the accursed scrawl, and that yonder wretch that
bore it be pitched headlong from the highest tower upon
the walls, and let the wind from his rotting carcass bear
back our only answer.'
`Nay, nay, brave Zabdas,' said the Queen, the fury of
her general having the effect to restore her own self-possession,
`thou wouldst not counsel so. War then
doubles its woe and guilt, when cruelty and injustice bear
sway. Otho, what sayest thou?'
`Answer it in its own vein! You smile, Queen, as if
incredulous. But I repeat — in its own vein! I confess
an inward disappointment and an inward change. I
hoped much from terms which a wise man might at this
point propose, and soil neither his own, nor his country's
honor. But Aurelian — I now see — is not such a one.
He is but the spoiled child of fortune. He has grown too
quickly great to grow well. Wisdom has had no time to
ripen.'
Others concurring, Zenobia seized a pen and wrote
that which I transcribe.
`Zenobia, Queen of the East, to Aurelian Augustus.
`No one before you ever thought to make a letter serve
`instead of a battle. But let me tell you, whatever
`is won in war, is won by bravery, not by letters. You
`ask me to surrender — as if ignorant that Cleopatra
`chose rather to die, than surrendering, to live in the en
`joyment of every honor. Our Persian allies will not fail
`me. I look for them every hour. The Saracens are
`with me — the Armenians are with me. The Syrian
`robbers have already done you no little damage. What,
`then, can you expect, when these allied armies are
`upon you? You will lay aside, I think, a little of that
`render, as if you were already conquerer of the whole
`world.'
The letter being written and approved by those who
were present, it was placed by Nichomachus in the hands
of the herald.
No one can marvel, my Curtius, that a letter in the
terms of Aurelian's should be rejected, nor that it should
provoke such an answer as Zenobia's. It has served
merely to exasperate passions which were already enough
excited. It was entirely in the power of the Emperor to
have terminated the contest, by the proposal of conditions
which Palmyra would have gladly accepted, and by which
Rome would have been more profited and honored than
it can be by the reduction and ruin of a city and kingdom
like this. But it is too true, that Aurelian is rather a
soldier than an Emperor. A victory got by blood, is
sweeter far to him, I fear, than tenfold wider conquests
won by peaceful negotiations.
The effect of the taunting and scornful answer of the
Queen, has been immediately visible in the increased activity
and stir in the camp of Aurelian. Preparations are
going on for renewed assaults upon the walls, upon a
much larger scale than before.
On the evening of the day on which the letter of Aurelian
was received and answered, I resorted, according
to my custom during the siege, to a part of the walls not
far from the house of Gracchus, whence an extended
view is had of the Roman works and camp. Fausta, as
often before, accompanied me. She delights thus at the
close of these weary, melancholy days, to walk forth,
breathe the reviving air, observe the condition of the city,
and from the towers upon the walls, watch the movements
or stars. Low and heavy clouds hung, but did not move
over our heads. The air was still, nay, rather dead, so
deep was its repose.
`How oppressive is this gloom,' said Fausta, as we
came forth upon the ramparts, and took our seat where
the eye could wander unobstructed over the plain, `and
yet how gaily illuminated is this darkness by yonder belt
of moving lights. It seems like the gorgeous preparation
for a funeral. Above us and behind it is silent, dark and
sad. These show like the torches of the approaching
mourners. The Gods grant there be no omen in this.'
`I know not,' I replied. `It may be so. To-day has,
I confess it, destroyed the last hope in my mind that there
might come a happy termination to this unwise and unnecessary
contest. It can end now only in the utter defeat
and ruin of one of the parties — and which that shall
be I cannot doubt. Listen, Fausta, to the confused murmur
that comes from the camp of the Roman army, bearing
witness to its numbers, and to those sounds of the
hammer, the axe, and the saw, plied by ten thousand arms,
bearing witness to the activity and exhaustless resources
of the enemy, and you cannot but feel, that at last — it
may be long first — but that at last — Palmyra must give
way. From what has been observed to-day, there is not
a doubt, that Aurelian has provided, by means of regular
caravans to Antioch, for a constant supply of whatever
his army requires. Reinforcements, too, both of horse
and foot, are seen daily arriving, in such numbers as
more than to make good those who have been lost under
the walls, or by the excessive heats of the climate.'
`I hear so,' said Fausta, `but I will not despair. If I
have one absorbing love, it is for Palmyra. It is the land
of my birth, of my affections. I cannot tell you with
in arts and letters, and have dwelt in fancy
upon that future, when it should rival Rome, and surpass
the traditionary glories of Babylon and Nineveh. Oh
Lucius, to see now a black pall descending — these
swollen clouds are an emblem of it — and settling upon
the prospect and veiling it forever in death — I cannot
believe it. It cannot have come to this. It is treason to
give way to such fears. Where Zenobia is, final ruin
cannot come.'
`It ought not, I wish it could not,' I replied, `but my
fears are that it will, and my fears now are convictions.
Where, now, my dear Fausta, are the so certainly expected
reliefs from Armenia, from Persia? — Fausta, Palmyra
must fall.'
`Lucius Piso, Palmyra shall not fall — I say it — and
every Palmyrene says it — and what all say, is decreed.
If we are true in our loyalty and zeal, the Romans will
be wearied out. Lucius, could I but reach the tent of
Aurelian, my single arm should rid Palmyra of her foe,
and achieve her freedom.'
`No, Fausta, you could not do it.'
`Indeed I would and could. I would consent to draw
infamy upon my head as a woman, if by putting off my
sex and my nature too, I could by such an act give life
to a dying nation, and what is as much, preserve Zenobia
her throne.'
`Think not in that vein, Fausta. I would not that
your mind should be injured even by the thought.'
`I do not feel it to be an injury,' she rejoined, `it would
be a sacrifice for my country, and the dearer, in that I
should lose my good name in making it. I should be
sure of one thing, that I should do it in no respect for my
own glory. But let us talk no more of it. I often end,
of these contests to us, with dwelling upon one
bright vision. Misfortune to us will bring you nearer to
Julia.'
`The Gods forbid that my happiness should be bought
at such a price.'
`It will only come as an accidental consequence, and
cannot disturb you. If Palmyra falls, the pride of Zenobia
will no longer separate you.'
`But,' I replied, `the prospect is not at all so bright.
Captive princes are by the usages of Rome, often sacrificed,
and Aurelian — if sometimes generous, is often
cruel. Fears would possess me in the event of a capitulation
or conquest, which I cannot endure to entertain.'
`Oh, Lucius, you rate Aurelian too low, if you believe
he could revenge himself upon a woman — and such a
woman as Zenobia. I cannot believe it possible. No.
If Palmyra falls it will give you Julia, and it will be some
consolation even in the fall of a kingdom, that it brings
happiness to two whom friendship binds closer to me than
any others.'
As Fausta said these words, we became conscious of
the presence of a person at no great distance from us,
leaning against the parapet of the wall, the upper part of
the form just discernible.
`Who stands yonder,' said Fausta. `It has not the
form of a sentinel — besides — the sentinel paces by us
to and fro without pausing. It may be Calpurnius.
His legion is in this quarter. Let us move toward him.'
`No. He moves himself and comes toward us. How
dark the night. I can make nothing of the form.'
The figure passed us, and unchallenged by the sentinel
whom it met. After a brief absence it returned and
stopping as it came before us —
`Fausta?' said a voice — once heard, not to be mistaken.'
`Zenobia!' said Fausta, and forgetting dignity, embraced
her as a friend.
`What makes you here?' inquired Fausta — `are
there none in Palmyra to do your bidding, but you must
be abroad at such an hour and such a place?'
`'T is not so fearful quite,' replied the Queen, `as a
battle field, and there you trust me.'
`Never, willingly.'
`Then you do not love my honor?' said the Queen,
taking Fausta's hand as she spoke.
`I love your safety better — no — no — what have I
said — not better than your honor — and yet to what end
is honor, if we lose the life in which it resides. I sometimes
think we purchase human glory too dearly, at the
sacrifice of quiet, peace and security.'
`But you do not think so long. What is a life of indulgence
and sloth. Life is worthy only in what it
achieves. Should I have done better to have sat over my
embroidery, in the midst of my slaves, all my days, than
to have spent them in building up a kingdom?'
`Oh no — no — you have done right. Slaves can embroider.
Zenobia cannot. This hand was made for other
weapon than the needle.'
`I am weary — said the Queen — let us sit' — and
saying so, she placed herself upon the low stone block,
upon which we had been sitting, and drawing Fausta
near her, she threw her left arm round her, retaining the
hand she held clasped in her own.
`I am weary,' she continued, `for I have walked nearly
the circuit of the walls. You asked what makes me
here? No night passes but I visit these towers and battlements.
If the governor of the ship sleeps, the men at the
while others wait and watch. I would do my share.
How beautiful is this! The city girded by these strange
fires! its ears filled with this busy music. Piso, it seems
hard to believe an enemy, and such an enemy, is there,
and that these sights and sounds are all of death.'
`Would it were not so, noble Queen. Would it were
not yet too late to move in the cause of peace. If even
at the risk of life I' —
`Forbear, Piso,' quickly rejoined the Queen, `it is to
no purpose. You have my thanks, but your Emperor has
closed the door of peace forever. It is now war unto
death. He may prove victor. It is quite possible. But
I draw not back — no word of supplication goes from me.
And every citizen of Palmyra — save a few sottish souls
— is with me. It were worth my throne and my life, the
bare suggestion of an embassy now to Aurelian. But let
us not speak of this, but of things more agreeable. The
day for trouble, the night for rest. Fausta, where is the
quarter of Calpurnius, methinks it is hereabouts.'
`It is,' replied Fausta, `just beyond the towers of the
gate next to us, were it not for this thick night, we could
see where at this time he is usually to be found doing,
like yourself, an unnecessary task.'
`He is a good soldier and a faithful — may he prove as
true to you, my noble girl, as he has to me. Albeit I am
myself a sceptic in love, I cannot but be made happier
when I see hearts worthy of each other united by that
bond. I trust that bright days are coming, when I may
do you the honor I would. Piso, I am largely a debtor
to your brother — and Palmyra as much. Singular fortune!
— that while Rome thus oppresses me, to Romans I
should owe so much — to one, twice my life, to another,
it fell not into the snare that caught Calpurnius?'
`My heart,' I replied, `has always been Fausta's —
from childhood' —
`Our attachment,' said Fausta, interrupting me, `is
not less than love, but greater. It is the sacred tie of
nature — if I may say so — of brother to sister — it is
friendship.'
`You say well,' replied the Queen. `I like the sentiment.
It is not less than love, but greater. Love is a
delirium, a dream, a disease. It is full of disturbance.
It is unequal — capricious — unjust; its felicity, when at
the highest, is then nearest to deepest misery — a step —
and it is into unfathomable gulfs of woe. While the object
loved is as yet unattained — life is darker than darkest
night. When it is attained, it is then oftener like
the ocean heaving and tossing from its foundations, than
the calm, peaceful lake, which mirrors friendship. And
when lost — all is lost — the universe is nothing. Who
will deny it the name of madness? Will love find entrance
into Elysium? Will heaven know more than friendship?
I trust not. It were an element of discord there where
harmony should reign perpetual.' — After a pause in
which she seemed buried in thought, she added musingly
—`What darkness rests upon the future. Life, like love, is
itself but a dream — often a brief or a prolonged madness.
Its light burns sometimes brightly, oftener obscurely, and
with a flickering ray, and then goes out in smoke and
darkness. How strange that creatures so exquisitely
wrought as we are, capable of such thoughts and acts,
rising by science, and art, and letters almost to the level
of Gods, should be fixed here for so short a time, running
our race with the unintelligent brute — living not so long
as some, dying like all. Could I have ever looked out of
my aims would have been different. I should not
so easily have been satisfied with glory and power. At
least I think so — for who knows himself. I should then,
I think, have reached after higher kinds of excellence,
such, for example, as existing more in the mind itself
could be of avail after death — could be carried out of the
world — which power — riches — glory — cannot. The
greatest service which any philosopher could perform for
the human race, would be to demonstrate the certainty of
a future existence, in the same satisfactory manner that
Euclid demonstrates the truths of geometry. We cannot
help believing Euclid if we would, and the truths he has established
concerning lines and angles, influence us whether
we will or not. Whenever the immortality of the soul shall
be proved in like manner, so that men cannot help believing
it, so that they shall draw it in with the first elements
of all knowledge, then will mankind become a quite different
race of beings. Men will be more virtuous and more
happy. How is it possible to be either in a very exalted
degree, dwelling as we do in the deep obscure — uncertain
whether we are mere earth and water, or parts of the
divinity — whether we are worms or immortals — men or
Gods — spending all our days in, at best, miserable perplexity
and doubt. Do you remember, Fausta and Piso,
the discourse of Longinus in the garden, concerning the
probability of a future life?'
`We do, very distinctly.'
`And how did it impress you?'
`It seemed to possess much likelihood,' replied Fausta,
but that was all.'
`Yes,' responded the Queen, sighing deeply, `that
was indeed all. Philosophy, in this part of it, is a mere
guess. Even Longinus can but conjecture. And what
to his great and piercing intellect stands but in the
itself in the very weakness of fiction. As it is, I
value life only for the brightest and best it can give now,
and these to my mind are power and a throne. When
these are lost I would fall unregarded into darkness and
death.'
`But,' I ventured to suggest, `you derive great pleasure
and large profit from study — from the researches of philosophy,
from the knowledge of history, from contemplation
of the beauties of art, and the magnificence of
nature. Are not these things that give worth to life?
If you reasoned aright, and probed the soul well, would
you not find that from these, as from hidden springs, a
great deal of all the best felicity you have tasted, has
welled up? Then — still more, in acts of good and
just government — in promoting the happiness of your
subjects — from private friendship — from affections resting
upon objects worthy to be loved — has no happiness
come worth living for? And beside all this — from an
inward consciousness of rectitude! Most of all this may
still be yours, though you no longer sat upon a throne,
and men held their lives but in your breath.'
`From such sources,' replied Zenobia, `some streams
have issued it may be, that have added to what I have
enjoyed — but of themselves, they would have been
nothing. The lot of earth, being of the low and common
herd, is a lot too low and sordid to be taken if proffered.
I thank the Gods mine has been better. It has been a
throne — glory — renown — pomp and power — and I
have been happy. Stripped of these, and without the
prospect of immortality, and I would not live.'
With these words she rose quickly from her seat, saying
that she had a further duty to perform. Fausta
entreated to be used as an agent or messenger, but could
moment lost in the surrounding darkness. We returned
to the house of Gracchus.
In a few days the vast preparations of the Romans
being complete, a general assault was made by the whole
army upon every part of the walls. Every engine known
to our modern methods of attacking walled cities, was
brought to bear. Towers constructed in the former manner
were wheeled up to the walls. Battering rams of
enormous size, those who worked them being protected
by sheds of hide, thundered on all sides at the gates and
walls. Language fails to convey an idea of the energy,
the fury, the madness of the onset. The Roman army
seemed as if but one being, with such equal courage and
contempt of danger and of death, was the dreadful work
performed. But the Queen's defences have again proved
superior to all the power of Aurelian. Her engines have
dealt death and ruin in awful measure among the assailants.
The moat and the surrounding plain are filled and
covered with the bodies of the slain. As night came on
after a long day of uninterrupted conflict, the troops of
Aurelian, baffled and defeated at every point, withdrew
to their tents, and left the city to repose.
The temples of the gods have resounded with songs of
thanksgiving for this new deliverance, garlands have
been hung around their images, and gifts laid upon their
altars. Jews and Christians, Persians and Egyptians,
after the manner of their worship, have added their
voices to the general chorus.
Again there has been a pause. The Romans have
rested after the late fierce assault to recover strength, and
the city has breathed free. Many are filled with new
courage and hope, and the discontented spirits are
silenced. The praises of Zenobia, next to those of the
in her honor.
Another day of excited expectations and bitter disappointment.
It was early reported that forces were seen
approaching from the east, on the very skirts of the plain,
and that they could be no other than the long looked for
Persian army. Before its approach was indicated to those
upon the highest towers of the gates, by the clouds of
dust hovering over it, it was evident from the extraordinary
commotion in the Roman intrenchments, that somewhat
unusual had taken place. Their scouts must have
brought in early intelligence of the advancing foe. Soon
as the news spread through the city the most extravagant
demonstrations of joy broke forth on all sides. Even the
most moderate and sedate could not but give way to expressions
of heartfelt satisfaction. The multitudes poured
to the walls to witness a combat upon which the existence
of the city seemed suspended.
`Father,' said Fausta, after Gracchus had communicated
the happy tidings, `I cannot sit here — let us
hasten to the towers of the Persian gate, whence we may
behold the encounter.'
`I will not oppose you,' replied Gracchus, `but the
sight may cost you naught but tears and pain. persia's
goodwill, I fear, will not be much, nor manifested by
large contributions to our cause. If it be what I suspect
— but a paltry subdivision of her army, sent here
rather to be cut in pieces than aught else — it will but
needlessly afflict and irritate.'
`Father, I would turn away from no evil that threatens
Palmyra. Besides, I should suffer more from imagined,
than from real disaster. Let us hasten to the walls.'
We flew to the Persian gate.
`But why,' asked Fausta, addressing Gracchus on the
entertain of Sapor? Will he not be sincerely desirous to
aid us?'
`I fear not,' replied Gracchus. `If we are to be the
conquering party in this war, he will send such an army
as would afterward make it plain that he had intended
an act of friendship, and done the duty of an ally. If
we are to be beaten, he will lose little in losing such an
army, and will easily, by placing the matter in certain
lights, convince the Romans that their interests had been
consulted, rather than ours. We can expect no act of
true friendship from Sapor. Yet he dares not abandon
us. Were Hormisdas upon the throne, our prospects
were brighter.'
`I pray the gods that ancient wretch may quickly
perish then,' cried Fausta, `if such might be the consequences
to us. Why is he suffered longer to darken
Persia and the earth with his cruel despotism.'
`His throne shakes beneath him,' replied Gracchus,
`a breath may throw it down.'
As we issued forth upon the walls, and then mounted
to the battlements of the highest tower, whence the eye
took in the environs of the city, and even the farthest
verge of the plain, and overlooked like one's own court-yard,
the camp and entrenchments of the Romans — we
beheld with distinctness the Persian forces within less
than two Roman miles. They had halted and formed,
and there apparently awaited the enemy.
No sooner had Gracchus surveyed well the scene, than
he exclaimed, `The Gods be praised. I have done
Sapor injustice. Yonder forces are such as may well
call forth all the strength of the Roman army. In that
case there will be much for us to do. I must descend
and to the post of duty.'
So saying he left us.
`I suppose,' said Fausta, `in case the enemy be such
as to draw off the larger part of the Roman army, sorties
will be made from the gates upon their camp.'
`Yes,' I rejoined, `if the Romans should suffer themselves
to be drawn to a distance, and their forces divided,
a great chance would fall into the hands of the city.
But that they will not do. You perceive the Romans
move not, but keep their station just where they are.
They will oblige the Persians to commence the assault
upon them in their present position, or there will be no
battle.'
`I perceive their policy now,' said Fausta. And the
battle being fought so near the walls, they are still as
strongly beleaguered as ever — at least half their strength
seems to remain within their entrenchments. See, see—
the Persian army is on the march. It moves toward
the city. Now again it halts.'
`It hopes to entice Aurelian from his position, so as to
put power into our hands. But they will fail in their object.'
`Yes, I fear they will,' replied Fausta. `The Romans
remain fixed as statues in their place.'
`Is it not plain to you Fausta,' said I, `that the Persians
conceive not the full strength of the Roman army?
Your eye can now measure their respective power.'
`It is too plain alas!' said Fausta. `If the Persians
should defeat the army now formed, there is another
within the trenches to be defeated afterwards. Now they
move again. Righteous gods interpose in our behalf!'
At this moment indeed the whole Persian army put
itself into quick and decisive motion, as if determined to
dare all — and achieve all for their ally, if fate should so
decree. It was a sight beautiful to behold, but of an
interest too painful almost to be endured. The very existence
issues; and here, looking on and awaiting the decisive
moment, was as it were the empire itself assembled upon
the walls of its capital, with which, if it should fall, the
kingdom would also fall, and the same ruin cover both.
The Queen herself was there to animate and encourage,
by her presence, not only the hearts of all around, but
even the distant forces of the Persians who, from their
position, might easily behold the whole extent of the walls
and towers, covered with an innumerable multitude of
the besieged inhabitants, who, by waving their hands,
and by every conceivable demonstration, gave them to
feel more deeply than they could otherwise have done,
how much was depending upon their skill and bravery.
Soon after the last movement of the Persians, the light
troops of either army encountered, and by a discharge of
arrows and javelins, commenced the attack. Then in a
few moments, it being apparently impossible to restrain
the impatient soldiery, the battle became general. The
cry of the onset and the clash of arms fell distinctly upon
our ears. Long, long, were the opposing armies mingled
together in one undistinguishable mass, waging an equal
fight. Now it would sway toward the one side, and now
toward the other, heaving and bending as a field of ripe
grain to the fitful breeze. Fausta sat with clenched
hands and straining eye, watching the doubtful fight, and
waiting the issue in speechless agony. A deep silence,
as of night and death held the whole swarming multitude
of the citizens, who hardly seemed as if they dared
breathe while what seemed the final scene was in the
act of being performed.
Suddenly a new scene, and more terrific because
nearer, burst upon our sight. At a signal given by Zenobia
from the high tower which she occupied, the gates
flower of the Palmyra cavalry poured forth, followed
closely from this and the other gates by the infantry.
The battle now raged between the walls and the Roman
entrenchments as well as beyond. The whole plain was
one field of battle and slaughter. Despair lent vigor and
swiftness to the horse and foot of Palmyra — rage at the
long continued contest — revenge for all they had lost
and endured, nerved the Roman arm, and gave a double
edge to its sword. Never before, my Curtius, had I beheld
a fight in which every blow seemed so to carry with
it the whole soul, boiling with wrath, of him who gave it.
Death sat upon every arm.
`Lucius!' cried Fausta. I started, for it had been long
that she had uttered not a word.
`Lucius! unless my eye grows dim and lies, which the
Gods grant, the Persians! look! they give way — is it not
so? Immortal Gods forsake not my country!'
`The battle may yet turn,' I said, turning my eyes
where she pointed, and seeing it was so — `despair not,
dear Fausta. If the Persians yield — see Zabdas has
mounted the Roman entrenchments.'
`Yes — they fly,' screamed Fausta, and would madly
have sprung over the battlements, but that I seized and
held her. At the same moment a cry arose that Zabdas
was slain — her eye caught his noble form as it fell backwards
from his horse, and with a faint exclamation `Palmyra
is lost,' she fell lifeless into my arms.
While I devoted myself to her recovery, cries of distress
and despair fell from all quarters upon my ear. And
when I had succeeded in restoring her to consciousness,
the fate of the day was decided — the Persians were
routed — the Palmyrenes were hurrying in wild confusion
before the pursuing Romans, and pressing into the gates.
`Lucius,' said Fausta, `I am sorry for this weakness.
But to sit, as it were chained here, the witness of such
disaster, is too much for mere mortal force. Could I but
have mingled in that fight! Ah, how cruel the slaughter
of those flying troops! Why do they not turn, and at
least die with their faces toward the enemy. Let us now
go and seek Calpurnius and Gracchus.'
`We cannot yet, Fausta, for the streets are thronged
with this flying multitude.'
`It is hard to remain here, the ears rent, and the heart
torn by these shrieks of the wounded and dying. How
horrible this tumult. It seems as if the world were expiring.
There — the gates are swinging upon their
hinges. They are shut. Let us descend.'
We forced our way as well as we could through the
streets, crowded now with soldiers and citizens — the soldiers
scattered and in disorder, the citizens weeping and
alarmed — some hardly able to drag along themselves,
others sinking beneath the weight of the wounded whom
they bore upon their shoulders, or upon lances as upon a
litter. The way was all along obstructed by the bodies
of men and horses who had there fallen and died, their
wounds allowing them to proceed no further, or who had
been run down and trampled to death in the tumult and
hurry of the entrance.
After a long and weary struggle, we reached the
house of Gracchus — still solitary — for neither he nor
Calpurnius had returned. The slaves gathered around us
to know the certainty and extent of the evil. When they
had learned it, their sorrow for their mistress, whom they
loved for her own sake, and whom they saw overwhelmed
with grief, made them almost forget that they only were
suffering these things who had inflicted a worse injury
upon themselves. I could not but admire a virtue which
it was manifested.
Calpurnius had been in the thickest of the fight, but
had escaped unhurt. He was near Zabdas when he fell,
and revenged his death by hewing down the soldier who
had pierced him with his lance.
`Zabdas,' said Calpurnius, when in the evening we
recalled the sad events of the day, `was not instantly
killed by the thurst of the spear, but falling backwards
from his horse, found strength and life enough remaining
to raise himself upon his knee, and cheer me on, as I
flew to revenge his death upon the retreating Roman.
As I returned to him, having completed my task, he had
sunk upon the ground, but was still living, and his eye
bright with its wonted fire. I raised him in my arms,
and lifting him upon my horse, moved toward the gate,
intending to bring him within the walls. But he presently
entreated me to desist.'
`I die,' said he, `it is all in vain, noble Piso. Lay me
at the root of this tree, and that shall be my bed, and its
shaft my monument.'
`I took him from the horse as he desired.
`Place me,' said he, `with my back against the tree,
and my face toward the entrenchments, that while I live
I may see the battle — Piso, tell the Queen that to the
last hour I am true to her. It has been my glory in life
to live but for her, and my death is a happiness, dying for
her. Her image swims before me now, and over her
hovers a winged victory. The Romans fly — I knew it
would be so — the dogs cannot stand before the cavalry
of Palmyra — they never could — they fled at Antioch.
Hark! — there are the shouts of triumph — bring me
my horse — Zenobia! live and reign forever!'
`With these words his head fell upon his bosom, and
a rout, and I was borne along with the rushing throng
toward the gates.'
After a night of repose and quiet, there has come
another day of adversity. The hopes of the city have
again been raised, only again to be disappointed. The
joyful cry was heard from the walls in the morning, that
the Saracens and Armenians with united forces, were in
the field. Coming so soon upon the fatiguing duty of the
last day, and the Roman army not having received
reinforcements from the West, it was believed that the
enemy could not sustain another onset as fierce as that
of the Persians. I hastened once more to the walls—
Fausta being compelled by Gracchus to remain within
the palace — to witness as I believed another battle.
The report I found true. The allied forces of those
nations were in sight — the Romans were already drawn
from their encampment to encounter them. The same
policy was pursued on their part as before. They
awaited the approach of the new enemy just on the outer
side of their works. The walls and towers as far as the
eye could reach were again swarming with the population
of Palmyra.
For a long time neither army seemed disposed to move.
`They seem not very ready to try the fortune of another
day,' said a citizen to me standing by my side. `Nor do
I wonder. The Persians gave them rough handling.
A few thousands more on their side, and the event would
not have been as it was. Think you not the sally
under Zabdas was too long deferred?'
`It is easy afterward,' I replied, `to say how an action
should have been performed. It requires the knowledge
and wisdom of a God never to err. There were different
judgments I know, but for myself I believe the Queen
earlier or later, the event would have been the same.'
`What means that,' suddenly exclaimed my companion,
`see you yonder herald bearing a flag of truce, and proceeding
from the Roman ranks. It bodes no good to
Palmyra. What think you the purpose is?'
`It may be but to ask a forbearance of arms for a few
hours or a day perhaps. Yet it is not the custom of
Rome. I cannot guess.'
`That can I,' exclaimed another citizen on my other
side. `Neither in the Armenians nor yet the Saracens,
can so much trust be reposed as in a Christian or a Jew.
They are for the strongest. Think you they have come
to fight? Not if they can treat to better purpose. The
Romans who know by heart the people of the whole
earth, know them. Mark me they will draw never a
sword. As the chances are now, they will judge the
Romans winners, and a little gold will buy them.'
`The Gods forbid,' cried the other, `that it should be
so, they are the last hope of Palmyra. If they fail us we
must e'en throw open our gates, and take our fate at the
mercy of Aurelian.'
`Never while I have an arm that can wield a sword,
shall a gate of Palmyra swing upon its hinge to let in an
enemy.'
`Food already grows short,' said the first, `better yield
than starve.'
`Thou, friend, art in no danger for many a day, if, as
is fabled of certain animals, thou canst live on thine own
fat. Or if it came to extremities, thou wouldst make a
capital stew or roast for others.'
At which the surrounding crowd laughed heartily,
while the fat man, turning pale, slunk away and disappeared.
`That man,' said one, `would betray a city for a full
meal.'
`I know him well,' said another, `he is the earliest at
the markets, where you may always see him feeling out
with his fat finger the parts of meats that are kindred to
himself. His soul, could it be seen, would be of the form
of a fat kidney. His riches he values only as they can
be changed into food. Were all Palmyra starved, he,
were he sought, would be found in some deep down vault,
bedded in the choicest meats — enough to stand a year's
siege, and leave his paunch as far about as 't is to-day.
See, the Queen betrays anxiety. The Gods shield her
from harm.'
Zenobia occupied the same post of observation as before.
She paced to and fro with a hasty and troubled step
the narrow summit of the tower, where she had placed
herself.
After no long interval of time, the Roman herald was
seen returning from the camp of the Armenians. Again
he sallied forth from the tent of Aurelian, on the same
errand. It was too clear now that negotiations were going
on which might end fatally for Palmyra. Doubt, fear,
anxiety, intense expectation kept the multitude around
me in breathless silence, standing at fixed gaze, like so
many figures of stone.
They stood not long in this deep and agonizing suspense,
for no sooner did the Roman herald reach the
tents of the allied armies, and hold brief parley with their
chiefs, than he again turned toward the Roman intrenchments
at a quick pace, and at the same moment the tents
of the other party were struck, and while a part commenced a retreat, another and larger part moved as auxiliaries
to join the camp of Aurelian.
Cries of indignation, rage, grief and despair, then burst
steps they turned from the walls to seek again their homes.
Zenobia was seen once to clasp her hands, turning her
face toward the heavens. As she emerged from the tower
and ascended her chariot, the enthusiastic throngs failed
not to testify their unshaken confidence and determined
spirit of devotion to her and her throne, by acclamations
that seemed to shake the very walls themselves.
This last has proved a heavier blow to Palmyra than
the former. It shows that their cause is regarded by the
neighboring powers as a losing one, or already lost, and
that hope, so far as it rested upon their friendly interposition,
must be abandoned. The city is silent and sad.
Almost all the forms of industry having ceased, the inhabitants
are doubly wretched through their necessary idleness;
they can do little but sit and brood over their present
deprivations, and utter their dark bodings touching the
future. All sounds of gaiety have ceased. They who
obtained their subsistence by ministering to the pleasures
of others, are now the first to suffer — for there are none
to employ their services. Streets, which but a little while
ago resounded with notes of music and the loud laughter
of those who lived to pleasure, are now dull and deserted.
The brilliant shops are closed, the fountains forsaken, the
Portico solitary — or they are frequented by a few who
resort to them chiefly to while away some of the melancholy
hours that hang upon their hands. And those
who are abroad seem not like the same people. Their
step is now measured and slow, the head bent, no salutation
greets the passing stranger or acquaintance, or only
a few cold words of inquiry, which pass from cold lips
into ears as cold. Apathy — lethargy — stupor — seem
fast settling over all.
They would indeed bury all, I believe, were it not that
power, which compels the friends of the Queen to keep
upon the alert. The question of surrender is now openly
discussed. `It is useless,' it is said, `to hold out longer.
Better make the best terms we can. If we save the city
by an early capitulation from destruction, coming off with
our lives and a portion of our goods, it is more than we
shall get if the act be much longer postponed. Every
day of delay adds to our weakness, while it adds also to
the vexation and rage of the enemy, who the more and
longer he suffers, will be less inclined to treat us with indulgence.'
These may be said to have reason on their side, but
the other party are inflamed with national pride and devotion
to Zenobia, and no power of earth is sufficient to
bend them. They are the principal party for numbers—
much more, for rank and political power. They will hold
out till the very last moment — till it is reduced to a
choice between death and capitulation — and on the part
of the Queen and the great spirits of Palmyra, death
would be their unhesitating choice, were it not for the destruction
of so many with them. They will, therefore,
until the last loaf of bread is divided, keep the gates shut
— then throw them open, and meet the terms, whatever
they may be, which the power of the conqueror may
impose.
A formidable conspiracy has been detected, and the supposed
chiefs of it seized and executed. The design was
to secure the person of the Queen — obtain by a violent
assault one of the gates — and sallying out, deliver her
into the hands of the Romans, who, with her in their
power, could immediately put an end to the contest.
There is little doubt that Antiochus was privy to it, although
those who suffered betrayed him not, if that were
favor, that none who suffered would have felt regard
enough for him to have hesitated to sacrifice him, if by
doing so, they could have saved their own lives or others.'
Zenobia displayed her usual dauntless courage, her clemency,
and her severity. The attack was made upon her,
surrounded by her small body guard, as she was returning,
toward evening, from her customary visit of observation to
the walls. It was sudden, violent, desperate; but the loyalty
and bravery of the guards was more than a match for
the assassins, aided, too, by the powerful arm of the Queen
herself, who was no idle spectator of the fray. It was a
well laid plot; and but for an accidental addition which
was made at the walls to the Queen's guard, might have
succeeded. For the attack was made just at the Persian
gate, and the keeper of the gate had been gained over.
Had the guard been overpowered but for a moment, they
would have shot the gate too quickly for the citizens to
have roused to her rescue. Such of the conspirators as
were not slain upon the spot were secured. Upon examination,
they denied the participation of others than themselves
in the attempt, and died—such of them as were executed—involving
none in their ruin. The Queen would
not permit a general slaughter of them, though urged to
do so. `The ends of justice and the safety of the city,' she
said, `would be sufficiently secured, if an example were
made of such as seemed manifestly the chief movers.
But there should be no indulgence of the spirit of revenge.'
Those, accordingly, were beheaded, the others imprisoned.
While these long and weary days are passing away,
Gracchus, Fausta, Calpurnius, and myself are often at
the palace of Zenobia. The Queen is gracious, as she
ever is, but laboring under an anxiety and an inward sorrow,
and reveal themselves in a greater reserve of
manner. While she is not engaged in some active
service she is buried in thought, and seems like one revolving
difficult and perplexing questions. Sometimes she
breaks from these moments of reverie with some sudden
question to one or another of those around her, from
which we can obscurely conjecture the subjects of her
meditations. With Longinus, Otho, and Gracchus she
passes many of her hours, in deep deliberation. At
times, when apparently nature cries out for relief, she
will join us as we sit diverting our minds by conversation
upon subjects as far removed as possible from
the present distresses, and will, as formerly, shed the light
of her penetrating judgment upon whatever it is we discuss.
But she soon falls back into herself again, and
remains silent and abstracted, or leaves us and retreats to
her private apartments.
Suddenly the Queen has announced a project which
fills the city with astonishment at its boldness, and once
more lights up hope within the bosoms of the most desponding.
Soon as her own mind had conceived and matured it,
her friends and councillors were summoned to receive it
from her, and pronounce their judgment. Would that I
could set before you, my Curtius, this wonderful woman
as she stood before us at this interview. Never before did
she seem so great, or of such transcendant beauty — if
under such circumstances such a thought may be expressed.
Whatever of melancholy had for so long a time shed
its gloom over her features was now gone. The native
fire of her eye was restored and doubled, as it seemed, by
the thoughts which she was waiting to express. A spirit
greater than even her own, appeared to animate her, and
the countenance.
She greeted all with the warmth of a friend, and besought
them to hear her while she presented a view of the
present condition of their affairs, and then proposed what
she could not but believe might still prove a means of final
deliverance — at least, it might deserve their careful consideration.
After having gone over the course that had
been pursued and defended it, as that alone which became
the dignity and honor of a sovereign and independent
power — she proceeded thus:
`We are now, it is obvious to all, at the last extremity.
If no new outlet be opened from the difficulties which environ
us, a few days will determine our fate. We must
open our gates and take such mercy as our conquerors may
bestow. The provision laid up in the public granaries is
nearly exhausted. Already has it been found necessary
greatly to diminish the amount of the daily distribution.
Hope in any power of our own, seems utterly extinct.
If any remain, it rests upon foreign interposition
— and of this I do not despair. I still rely upon Persia.
I look with confidence to Sapor — for further and yet
larger succors. In the former instance, it was apprehended
by many — I confess I shared the apprehension,
that there would be on the part of Persia but a parade of
friendship — with nothing of reality. But you well know
it was far otherwise. There was a sincere and vigorous
demonstration in our behalf. Persia never fought a better
field, and with slightly larger numbers, would have accomplished
our rescue. My proposition is, that we sue
again at the court of Sapor — no — not again, for the first
was a free will offering — and that we fail not — I
would go myself my own ambassador, and solicit — what
so solicited — my life upon it, will not be refused. You
during a long reign — of such value as to plead eloquently
in my cause — since the tithe of them would well repay
the Persian for all his kingdom might suffer for our
sakes.'
`What you propose, great Queen,' said Longinus, as
Zenobia paused, `agrees with your whole life. But how
can we who hold you as we do, sit in our places and
allow you alone to encounter the dangers of such an enterprise.
For without danger it cannot be — from the
robber of the desert — from the Roman — from the Persian.
In disguise and upon the road — you may suffer
the common fate of those who travel where, as now, marauders
of all nations swarm — Sapor may, in his capricious
policy, detain you prisoner — Aurelian may intercept.
Let your servants prevail with you to dismiss this
thought from your mind. You can name no one of all
this company who will not plead to be your substitute.'
There was not one present who did not spring upon
his feet, and express his readiness to undertake the
charge.
`I thank you all,' said the Queen, `but claim, in this
perhaps the last act of my reign, to be set free in your indulgence
to hold an unobstructed course. If in your
honest judgments you confess that of all who could appear
at the court of Sapor, I should appear there as the most
powerful pleader for Palmyra, it is all I ask you to determine.
Is such your judgment?'
`It is,' they all responded — `without doubt it is.'
`Then am I resolved. And the enterprise itself you
judge wise and of probable success?'
`We do. The reasons are just upon which it is founded.
It is greatly conceived, and the Gods giving you
safe conduct to Sapor, we doubt not a happy result.'
`Then all that remains is, to contrive the manner of
escape from the city and through the Roman camp.'
`There is first — one thing more,' said the Princess
Julia, suddenly rising from her mother's side, but with a
forced and trembling courage, `which remains for me to do.
If there appear any want of maidenly reserve in what I
say, let the cause, good friends, for which I speak and act,
be my excuse. It is well known to you who are familiar
with the councils of the state, that not many months
past Persia sought through me an alliance with Palmyra.
But in me you have hitherto found an uncomplying daughter
— and you a self-willed Princess. I now seek what
before I have shunned. Although I know not the Prince
Hormisdas — reports speaks worthily of him — but of him
I think not — yet if — by the offer of myself I could now
help the cause of my country — the victim is ready for
the altar. Let Zenobia bear with her not only the stones
torn from her crown, but this which she so often has
termed her living jewel, and if the others, first proffered,
fail to reach the Persian's heart — then, but not till then,
add the other to the scale. If it weigh to buy deliverance
and prosperity to Palmyra — though I can never be
happy — yet — I shall be happy if the cause of happiness
to you.'
`My noble child!' said Zenobia, `I cannot have so
startled the chiefs of Palmyra by a new and unthought of
project, as I am now amazed in my turn. I dreamed not
of this. But I cannot hinder you in your purpose. It
ensures success to your country — and to be the instrument
of that, will be a rich compensation for even the
largest sacrifice of private affections.'
`The councillors and senators who were present expressed
a great, and, I doubt not, sincere unwillingness
that so dangerous a service should be undertaken by
they would shield with their lives from the very shadow of
harm. But they were overcome by the determined spirit
both of the Queen and Julia, and by their own secret
conviction that it was the only act in the power of mortals
by which the existence of the empire and city could be
preserved.
At this point of the interview, Calpurnius, whom we had
missed, entered, and learning what had passed, announced
that by a channel not to be mistrusted, he had received
intelligence of a sudden rising in Persia — of the assassination
of Sapor, and the elevation of Hormisdas to the
throne of his father. This imparted to all the liveliest
pleasure, and seemed to take away from the project of
the Queen every remaining source of disquietude and
doubt. Calpurnius, at the same moment, was besought
and offered himself to serve as the Queen's companion
and guide; — the chosen friend of Hormisdas — and
whose friendship he had not forfeited by his flight — no
one could so well as he advocate her cause with the new
king.
`But how is it,' inquired Longinus, `that you obtain
foreign intelligence, the city thus beset?'
`It may well be asked,' replied Calpurnius. `It is
through the intelligence and cunning of a Jew well known
in Palmyra, and throughout the world I believe, called
Isaac. By him was I rescued from Persian captivity, and
through him have I received letters thence ever since the
city has been besieged. He is acquainted with a subterranean
passage — in the time of Trajan, he has informed
me, a public conduit — but long since much
choked and dry, by which one may pass from the city
under and beyond the lines of the Roman intrenchments,
emerging into a deep ravine or fissure, grown thickly
to admit an elephant with his rider, now, he says, has it
become so obstructed, and in some places fallen in, that
it is with difficulty that a dromedary of but the common
size can force his way through.'
`Through this, then, the Queen may effect her escape,'
said Longinus.
`With perfect case and security,' rejoined Calpurnius.
`At the outlet, Isaac shall be in waiting with the fleetest
dromedaries of the royal stables.'
`We are satisfied,' said Longinus, `let it be as you say.
The Gods prosper the pious service.'
So ended the conversation.
Of the ancient aqueduct or conduit, you have already
heard from me; it is the same by which Isaac has transmitted
my late letters to Portia — which I trust you have
received and read. To Portia alone — be not offended
— do I pour out my whole soul. From her learn more of
what relates to the Princess.
I returned from the palace of Zenobia overwhelmed
with a thousand painful sensations. But this I need not
say.
Fausta, upon learning of the determination of the
Queen, which had been communicated not even to her
— exclaimed — `There, Lucius, I have always told you
Palmyra brought forth WOMEN! Where in the wide world
shall two be found to match Zenobia and Julia? But
when is the time fixed for the flight?'
`To-morrow night.'
`I will to the palace. These may be the last hours
permitted by the Gods to our friendship. I must not lose
one of them.'
I went not there again.
Late on the evening of the following day Fausta returned.
in parting from those two, her bosom friends. It was
long ere she could possess herself so far as to give to
Gracchus and myself a narrative of what had occurred.
To do it, asked but few words.
`We have passed the time,' she said at length, `as
you might suppose those would about to be separated —
forever; yes, I feel that I have seen them for the last
time. It is like a conviction inspired by the Gods. We
did nought till the hour of attiring for the flight arrived,
but sit, look upon each other — embrace and weep. Not
that Zenobia, always great, lost the true command of herself,
or omitted aught that should be done — but that she
was a woman, and a mother, and a friend, as well as a
Queen and a divinity. But I can say no more.'
`Yet one thing,' she suddenly resumed, `alas! I had
well nigh forgotten it — it should have been said first —
what think you? The Indian slave, Sindarina was to
accompany the Queen, but at the hour of departure she
was missing. Her chamber was empty — the Arabian
disguise, in which all were to be arrayed, lying on her
bed — she herself to be found neither there nor any
where within the palace. Another of the Queen's women
was chosen in her place. What make you of it?'
`Treason! — treachery!' cried Gracchus, and springing
from his seat, shouted for a horse.
`The Gods forgive me,' cried the afflicted Gracchus,
that this has been forgotten. Why, why did I not lay to
heart the hints which you dropped.'
`In very truth,' I replied, they were almost too slight
to build even a suspicion upon. The Queen heeded
them not — and I myself had dismissed them from my
mind not less than yourself.'
`Not a moment is to be lost,' said Gracchus, `the
slave must be found, and all whom we suspect seized.'
The night was passed in laborious search, both of the
slave and Antiochus. The whole city was abroad in a
common cause. All the loose companions of Antiochus
and the young princes were taken and imprisoned — the
suspected leaders in the affair, after a scrutinizing search
— and public proclamation, could not be found. The inference
was clear — agonizing as clear, that the Queen's
flight had been betrayed.
Another day has revealed the whole. Isaac, who acted
as guide through the conduit, and was to serve in the
same capacity till the party were secure within a Persian
fortress, not far from the banks of the Euphrates, has, by
a messenger — a servant of the palace — found means
to convey a relation of what befel after leaving Palmyra.
`Soon,' he says, `as the shades of evening fell, the
Queen, the Princess Julia, Nichomachus, a slave, and
Calpurnius, arrayed in the garb of Arabs of the desert,
together with a guard of ten soldiers, selected for their
bravery and strength, met by different routes at the mouth
of the old conduit. So noble a company had I never before
the charge of. Thou wouldst never have guessed
the Queen through the veil of her outlandish garment.
She became it well. Not one was more a man than she.
For the Princess, a dull eye would have seen through her.
Entering a little way in utter darkness, I then bid them
stand while I lighted torches. The Queen was near me
the while, and asked me the length of the passage, and
whether the walls were of that thickness as to prevent the
voice from being heard above.
“`Till we reach one particular spot, where the arch is
and as loud as we please — at that place there will be
need of special caution — as it is directly beneath the
Roman intrenchments. Of our approach thereto I will
give timely warning.'
`I took occasion to say, that I was sorry the Queen of
Palmyra should be compelled to pass through so gloomy
a cavern, but doubtless he who was with Deborah and
Judith, would not forsake her who was so fast a friend to
his people, and who, if rumor might be believed, was
even herself one of them. This, Roman, you will doubtless
think bold, but how could one who was full refrain.
I even added, “Fear not, he who watches over Judah
and Israel, will not fail to appear for one by whose arm
their glories are to be restored.” The Queen at that
smiled, and if a countenance may be read, which I hold
it can, as well as a book, it spoke favorable things for
Jerusalem.
`When our torches were kindled, we went on our way
— a narrow way and dark. We went in silence too,
for I quickly discerned that minds and hearts were too
busy with themselves and their own sorrows and fears to
choose to be disturbed. Ah, Roman, how many times
harder the lot of the high than the low. When we drew
nigh to the fissure in the arch, the torches were again extinguished,
and we proceeded at a snail's pace and with a
hyena's foot while we were passing within a few feet of
the then, as I doubted not, sleeping Romans. As we
came beneath the broken and open part, I was startled
by the sound of voices. Soldiers were above conversing.
As we paused through apprehension, a few words were
distinctly heard.
“`The times will not bear it,” muttered one. 'T is a
vain attempt.”
“`His severity is cruelty,” said another. “Gods, when
before was it heard of, that a soldier, and such a
one, for what every one does whom chance favors,
should be torn limb from limb. The trees that wrenched
Stilcho asunder, ere they grow too stiff, may serve
a turn on `Hand to his sword himself.' He will fatten
on these starved citizens when he climbs over their
walls.”
“`Oh no, by Jupiter,” said the first, “it is far likelier
he will let them off, as he did at Tyana, and we lose our
sport. It is his own soldiers' blood he loves.”
“`He may yet learn,” replied the other, “that soldiers
wear weapons for one purpose as well as another. Hark!
what noise was that?”
“`It is but some rat at work within this old arch.
Come, let us to bed.”
`They moved away, and we, breathing again, passed
along, and soon re-lighted our torches.
`After walking a weary distance from this point, and
encountering many obstacles, we at length reached the long
desired termination. The dromedaries were in readiness,
and mounting them without delay, we ascended the steep
sides of the ravine, and then at a rapid pace sought the
open plains. When they were attained, I considered that
we were out of all danger from the Romans, and had only
to apprehend the ordinary dangers of this route during a
time of war, when freebooters of all the neighboring tribes
are apt to abound. `Here,' I said to the Queen, `we
will put our animals to their utmost speed, as the way
is plain and smooth — having regard only, I added, to
yours and the Princess's strength.' “On, on, in the name
of the Gods,” said they both, “we can follow as fast as
you shall lead.” And on we flew with the speed of the
with such amazing fleetness and sureness of foot did they
shoot over the surface of the earth. The way was wholly
our own. We met none — we saw none. Thrice we
paused to relieve those not accustomed to such speed, or
to the peculiar motion of this animal. But at each resting
place, the Queen, with impatience, hastened us
away, saying, that “rest could be better had at once
when we had crossed the river — and once upon the other
bank, and we were safe.”
The first flush of morning was upon the sky as we
came within sight of the valley of the Euphrates. The
river was itself seen faintly gleaming as we wound down
the side of a gentle hill. The country here was broken,
as it had been for many of the last miles we had rode,
divided by low ridges, deep ravines, and stretches of
wood and bush. So that to those approaching the banks
in the same general direction, many distinct paths offered
themselves. It was here, O Piso, just as we reached the
foot of this little hill, riding more slowly by reason of the
winding road, that my quick ear caught at a distance the
sounds of other hoofs upon the ground beside our own.
My heart sunk within me — a sudden faintness spread
over my limbs. But at the instant I gave the alarm to
our troop, and at greatest risk of life and limb, we put our
beasts to their extreme speed, and dashed toward the
river. I still, as we rode, turning my ear in the direction
of the sound, heard with distinctness the clatter of horses'
hoofs. Our beasts were dromedaries — in that lay my
hope. Two boats awaited us among the rushes on the
river's bank, in the keeping of those who had been sent
forward for that purpose — and off against them, upon the
the other side of the stream, lay a small Persian village
distance, and we were safe. On we flew, and on, I was
each moment conscious, came pursuers, whoever they
might be. We reached the river's edge. “Quick for
your lives,” I cried. “The Queen, the Princess, and
four men in this boat. The packages in the other.” In
a moment and less than that, we were in our boat, a troop
of horse at the same instant sweeping like a blast of the
desert, down the bank of the river. We shot into the
stream — but ere the other could gain the water, the
Romans, as we now too plainly saw them to be, were
upon them. A brief but desperate strife ensued. The
Romans were five for one of the others, and quickly
putting them to the sword, sprung into their boat.
“`Pull! pull!” cried the Queen, the first words she
had uttered, “for your lives and Palmyra's.” They
gained upon us. We had six oars, they eight. But the
strength of three seemed to nerve the arm of Calpurnius.
“`Immortal Gods,” cried he, in inexpressible agony,
`they near us,” and straining with redoubled energy, his
oar snapped, and the boat whirled from her course.
“`All is lost,” ejaculated Zenobia.
`A Roman voice was now heard, “Yield you, and your
lives are safe.”
“`Never,” cried Calpurnius, and as the Roman boat
struck against ours, he raised his broken oar, and aiming
at him who had spoken, lost his balance and plunged
headlong into the stream.
“`Save him — save him,” cried the Queen, but they
heeded her not. “It is vain to contend,” she cried out
again, “we yield, but save the life of him who has
fallen.”
`The light was yet not sufficient to see but to a little
of the water, nor any sound heard.
“`His own rash fury has destroyed him,” said the Roman,
who we now could discern, bore the rank of Centurion.
“`We seek,” said he, turning toward where the Queen
sat, “we seek Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra.”
“`I am Zenobia,” said the Queen.
“`The Gods be praised therefor,” rejoined the Centurion,
“Our commands are to bear you to the tent of
Aurelian.”
“`Do with me as you list,” replied the Queen, “I am
in your power.”
“`To the shore,” exclaimed the Roman, and our boat
fastened to the other, was soon at the place whence but a
moment before it had parted.
“`Who are these,” asked the Centurion, as we reached
the shore, pointing to the Princess, and the slave and secretary
their attendants. “Our orders extend only to the
person of the Queen.”
“`Divide them not,” I said, willing to spare the Queen
the bandying of words with a Roman soldier, “they are
of the Queen's family. They are a part of herself. If
thou takest one take all to thy Emperor.”
“`So be it; and now to your horses, and once more
over the plain. It shall go hard, but that what we carry
with us will make our fortune with Aurelian.”
`Saying this, the whole troop formed, placing Zenobia
and Julia in the midst, and winding up the banks of the
river, disappeared.
`Such, O unhappy Piso, was this disastrous night.
Surely all was done on our part to secure a successful
issue. I can discern no defect or fault. We could not
have been more fleet. Swifter beasts never trod the sands
you, foul play? Whence got the Romans knowledge,
not only of our flight, but of the very spot to which we
aimed? I doubt not there has been treachery — and that
of the very color of hell. Look to it, and let not the
guilty go free.
`One word touching thy brother. Despond not. I
cannot think that he is lost. We were but a furlong from
the shore. My belief is, that seeing the capture of the
Queen was certain, and that to him, if taken with her in
arms against his country, death was inevitable, he, when
he fell, rose again at a safe distance, and will yet be found.
`These things I send in haste by a returning servant
of the palace, I remaining both to secure the dromedaries
now wandering at will along the banks of the river, and
to search diligently for Calpurnius, whom I trust to bear
back with me to Palmyra.'
Here, my Curtius, was food for meditation and grief —
the renowned Queen of this brilliant capital and kingdom,
so late filling a throne that drew the admiration of
the world, sitting there in a proud magnificence that cast
into shade Persia itself, is in one short night shorn of all
her power — a captive at the mercy of a cruel foe —
Julia also a captive — my brother so late redeemed, as I
cannot but suppose, dead. I need not, nor can I tell you
with what emotions I read the fatal letter. The same
messenger who delivered it to me had spread through the
city the news of the Queen's captivity. What related to
Calpurnius I determined to conceal from Fausta, since it
was at least possible by communicating it, I might cause
a useless suffering.
Fausta, upon learning the horrors of the night, which
she first did, from the outcries and lamentations in the
streets, seemed more like one dead than alive. She could
being no other way in which to give vent to the grief that
wrung her soul in every feeling and affection, I trembled
lest reason should be hurled from its seat. She wandered
from room to room, her face of the hue of death —
but indicating life enough in its intense expression of inward
pain — and speechless, save that at intervals in a
low tone `Zenobia! Palmyra!' fell from her scarcely
moving lips. To Gracchus and myself, essaying to divert
her from thoughts that seemed to prey upon her very life,
she said, `Leave me to wrestle alone with my grief,
it is the way to strength. I do not doubt that I shall
find it.'
`She is right,' said Gracchus, `to overcome she must
fight her own battle. Our aid but ministers to her
weakness.'
It was not long before she rejoined us, tears having
brought relief to her over-burdened heart.
Her first inquiry now was for Calpurnius. `I have
feared to ask, for if he too is captive, I know that he is
lost. Now I can hear and bear all. How is it Lucius?'
I answered `that he was not a captive, so much was
known; but where he now was, or what had befallen
him, was not known. I had reason to believe that he
would find his way back, through the guidance of Isaac,
to the city.'
`Alas! I read in your words his fate. But I will not
urge you farther. I will live upon all the hope that I
can keep alive. Yet it is not the death of Calpurnius
— nor yet of Zenobia — or Julia, that wrings the
soul and saps its life, like this bitter, bitter disappointment
— this base treason of Antiochus. To be so near
the summit of our best hopes, only to be cast down into
this deep abyss — that is the sting in our calamity that
no other way, father, in which we can explain the capture
of the Queen? Accident — could it not be accident that
threw the troop of Aurelian in their way?'
`I fear not,' said Gracchus.' `When we add what
rumor has heretofore reported of the aims of Antiochus,
but which we have all too much contemned him to believe
him capable of, to what has now occurred, I think we
cannot doubt that he is the author of the evil, seducing
into his plot the Queen's slave, through whom he received
intelligence of every plan and movement.'
`Ah, cruel treachery! How can one join together the
sweet innocent face of Sindarina and such deep hypocricy.
Antiochus surely must have perverted her by magic
arts. Of that I sure. But what fruit can Antiochus
hope his treason shall bear for him? Can he think that
Palmyra will endure his rule?'
`That,' replied Gracchus, `must be his hope. The
party of the discontented we well know to be large, upon
them he feels that he may rely. Then his treason recommending
him to Aurelian, he builds upon his power to
establish him upon the throne, and sustain him there till
his own strength shall have grown, so that he can stand
alone. That the city will surrender upon the news of
the Queen's captivity, he doubtless calculates upon as
certain,'
`May his every hope,' cried Fausta, `be blasted, and a
little of the misery he has poured without stint into our
hearts wring his own, and when he cries for mercy, may
he find none.'
`One hope,' I said here, `if I know aught of the nature
of Aurelian, and upon which he must chiefly found his
project, will sink under him to his shame and ruin.'
`What mean you?' said Fausta eagerly.
`His belief that Aurelian will reward baseness
though to an enemy. He never did it yet and he
cannot do it. Were there within the thick skull of Antiochus
the brains of a foolish ostrich, he would have read
in the fate of Heraclammon, the rich traitor of Tyana,
his own. If I err not, he has indiscreetly enough thrust
himself into a lion's den. If Aurelian is fierce, his is the
grand and terrific ferocity of the lion.'
`May it be so,' said Fausta. `There were no providence
in the Gods did such villany escape punishment,
still more, did it grow great. But if Aurelian is such as
you describe him, Oh then, is there not reason in the belief
that he will do gently by her. Were it compatible
with greatness, or generosity, and these, you say, belong
to the Emperor, to take revenge upon an enemy, thrown
by such means into his power — and such an enemy
— and that, too, a woman — Julia too! — O immortal
Gods, how bitter past drinking is this cup!'
`Yet must you — must we not lean too confidently
upon the dispositions of Aurelian. He is subject, though
supreme, to the state — nay, and in some sense to the
army, and what he might gladly do of his own free and
generous nature, policy and the contrary wishes, and
sometimes requisitions of his troops, or of the people, compel
him to forbear. The usage of Rome toward captive
princes has been, and is, cruel. Yet the Emperor does
much to modify it, giving it, according to his own temper,
a more or less savage character. And Aurelian has displayed
great independence in his acts, both of people and
soldiers. There is much ground for hope — but it must
not pass into confident expectation.'
`You, Lucius, in former days, have known Aurelian
well before fortune raised him to this high eminence
not' —
`No. I fear with scarce any hope of doing good. My
residence here during all these troubles will, I doubt not,
raise suspicions in the mind of Aurelian which it will not be
easy to allay. But whenever I shall have it in my power
to present myself before him, I shall not fail to press upon
him arguments, which if he shall act freely, cannot, I
think, but weigh with him.'
`Ought not the city now,' said Fausta, addressing
Gracchus, `to surrender, and, if it can do no better,
throw itself upon the mercy of Aurelian? I see not now
what can be gained by longer resistance, and would not
a still protracted refusal to capitulate, and when it must
be without the faintest expectation of ultimate success,
tend merely and with certainty to exasperate Aurelian,
and perhaps embitter him toward the Queen?'
`I can scarcely doubt that it would,' replied Gracchus.
`The city ought to surrender. Soon as the first flood of
grief has spent itself, must we hasten to accomplish it if
possible. Longinus, to whom will now be entrusted the
chief power, will advocate it I am sure — so will Otho
Seleucus, Gabrayas — but the army will, I fear, be opposed
to it, and will, more through a certain pride of their
order than from any principle, incline to hold out. It is
time I sought Longinus.'
He departed in search of the Greek. I went forth
into the streets to learn the opinions and observe the behaviour
of the people.
The shades of night are around me — the palace is still
— the city sleeps. I resume my pen to add a few words
to this epistle, already long — but they are words that
convey so much that I cannot but add them for my own
pleasure not less than yours. They are in brief these,
conjecture of Isaac was a description of the truth. My
brother, knowing well that if apprehended his death were
certain, had in the outset resolved, if attacked, rather to
provoke his death, and insure it in the violence of a conflict,
than be reserved for the axe of the Roman executioner.
But in the short moment in which he fell headlong
into the river, it flashed across his mind — “The
darkness favors my escape — I can reach the shore” —
so swimming a short distance below the surface, and falling
down with the stream and softly rising, concealed
himself among the reeds upon the margin of the stream
Finding the field in a short time wholly in possession of
Isaac, he revealed himself and joined him, returning to
the city as soon as the darkness of the night permitted.
Here is a little gleam of light breaking through Fausta's
almost solid gloom. A smile has once more played over
her features. In the evening after Calpurnius's return,
she tried her harp, but the sounds it gave out only seemed
to increase her sorrow, and she threw it from her. —
`Music,' said Gracchus, `is in its nature melancholy,
and how, my child, can you think to forget or stifle grief,
by waking the strings of your harp, whose tones, of all
other instruments, are the most melancholy. And yet
sometimes sadness seeks sadness, and finds in it its best
relief. But now, Fausta, rather let sleep be your minister
and nurse.'
So we parted. Farewell.
| LETTER XIV. Letters of Lucius M. Piso, from Palmyra, to his friend Marcus Curtius at Rome | |