 | LETTER XVII. Letters of Lucius M. Piso, from Palmyra, to his friend Marcus Curtius at Rome |  |
17. LETTER XVII.
I write again from Palmyra.
We arrived here after a day's hard travel. The sensation
occasioned by the unexpected return of Gracchus seemed
to cause a temporary forgetfulness of their calamities on
the part of the citizens. As we entered the city at the
close of the day, and they recognised their venerated friend,
there were no bounds to the tumultuous expressions of
their joy. The whole city was abroad. It were hard to
say whether Fausta herself was more pained by excess of
pleasure, than was each citizen who thronged the streets
as we made our triumphal entry.
A general amnesty of the past having been proclaimed
by Sandarion immediately after the departure of Aurelian
with the prisoners whom he chose to select, we found
Calpurnius already returned. At Fausta's side he received
us as we dismounted in the palace-yard. I need
not tell you how we passed our first evening. Yet it was
one of very mixed enjoyment. Fausta's eye, as it dwelt
upon the beloved form of her father, seemed to express
unalloyed happiness. But then, again, as it was withdrawn
at those moments when his voice kept not her
attention fixed upon himself, she fell back upon the past
and the lost, and the shadows of a deep sadness would
gather over her. So, in truth, was it with us all — especially,
when at the urgency of the rest, I related to them
the interviews I had had with Longinus, and described
to them his behaviour in the prison and at the execution.
`I think,' said Fausta, `that Aurelian, in the death of
Longinus, has injured his fame far more than by the capture
of Zenobia and the reduction of Palmyra he has
added to it. Posterity will not readily forgive him for
putting out, in its meridian blaze, the very brightest light
of the age. It surely was an unnecessary act.'
`The destruction of prisoners, especially those of rank
and influence, is,' said I, `according to the savage usages
of war — and Aurelian defends the death of Longinus
by saying, that in becoming the first adviser of Zenobia,
he was no longer Longinus the philosopher, but Longinus
the minister and rebel.'
`That will be held,' she replied, `as a poor piece of
sophistry. He was still Longinus. And in killing Longinus
the minister, he basely slew Longinus the renowned
philosopher — the accomplished scholar — the man of
letters and of taste — the great man of the age — for you
lives his equal.'
`Fausta,' said Gracchus, `you are right. And had
Aurelian been any more or higher than a soldier, he
would not have dared to encounter the odium of the act,
but in simple truth he was, I suppose, and is utterly insensible
to the crime he has committed, not against an
individual or Palmyra, but against the civilized world and
posterity — a crime that will grow in its magnitude as
time rolls on, and will forever and to the remotest times,
blast the fame and the name of him who did it. Longinus
belonged to all times and people, and by them will be
avenged. Aurelian could not understand the greatness
of his victim, and was ignorant that he was drawing upon
himself a reproach greater than if he had sacrificed in his
fury the Queen herself, and half the inhabitants of Palmyra.
He will find it out when he reaches Rome. He
will find himself as notorious there, as the murderer of
Longinus, as he will be as conqueror of the East.'
`There was one sentiment of Aurelian,' I said, `which
he expressed to me when I urged upon him the sparing
of Longinus, to which you must allow some greatness to
attach. I had said to him that it was greater to pardon
than to punish, and that for that reason — “Ah,” he replied,
interrupting me, “I may not gain to myself the
fame of magnanimity at the expense of Rome. As the
chief enemy of Rome in this rebellion, Rome requires his
punishment, and Rome is the party to be satisfied, not I.”
`I grant that there is greatness in the sentiment. If
he was sincere, all we can say is, that he misjudged in
supposing that Rome needed the sacrifice. She needed
it not. There were enough heads like mine, of less worth,
that would do for the soldiers — for they are Rome in
Aurelian's vocabulary.'
`Men of humanity and of letters,' I replied, `will, I
suppose, decide upon this question one way, politicians
and soldiers another.'
`That, I believe,' rejoined Gracchus, `is nearly the
truth.'
`When wearied by a prolonged conversation, we
sought the repose of our pillows, each one of us happier
by a large and overflowing measure, than but two days
before we had ever thought to be again.
The city is to all appearance tranquil and acquiescent
under its bitter chastisement. The outward aspect is
calm and peaceful. The gates are thrown open, and the
merchants and traders are returning to the pursuits of
traffic — the gentry and nobles are engaged in refitting
and re-embellishing their rifled palaces. And the common
people have returned in quiet to the several channels
of their industry.
I have made, however, some observations which lead
me to believe that all is not so settled and secure as it
seems to be, and that however the greater proportion of
the citizens are content to sit down patiently under the
rule of their new masters, others are not of their mind. I
can perceive that Antiochus, who, under the general pardon
proclaimed by Sandarion, has returned to the city, is
the central point of a good deal of interest among a certain
class of citizens. He is again at the head of the
same licentious and desperate crew as before — a set of
men, like himself, large in their resources — lawless in
their lives, and daring in the pursuit of whatever object
they set before them. To one who knows the men, their
habits and manners, it is not difficult to see that they are
engaged in other plans than appear upon the surface.
Yet are their movements so quietly ordered as to occasion
no general observation or remark. Sandarion, ignorant
indulge suspicions of one or another. Indeed, from the
smallness of the garrison, from the whole manner both of
the governor and those who are under him, soldiers and
others, it is evident that no thought of a rising on the part
of the populace has entered their minds.
A few days have passed, and Gracchus and Fausta,
who inclined not to give much heed to my observations,
both think with me — indeed, to Gracchus communication
has been made of the existence of a plot to rescue the
city from the hands of Romans, in which he has been
solicited to join.
Antiochus himself has sought and obtained an interview
with Gracchus.
Gracchus has not hesitated to reject all overtures from
that quarter. We thus learn that the most desperate
measures are in agitation — weak and preposterous, too,
as they are desperate, and must in the end prove ruinous.
Antiochus, we doubt not, is a tool in the hands of others,
but he stands out as the head and centre of the conspiracy.
There is a violent and a strong party, consisting
chiefly of the disbanded soldiers — but of some drawn
from every class of the inhabitants, whose object is by a
a sudden attack, to snatch the city from the Roman garrison
— and placing Antiochus on the throne, proclaim
their independence again, and prepare themselves to maintain
and defend it. They make use of Antiochus because
of his connection with Zenobia, and the influence he
would exert through that prejudice, and because of his
sway over other families among the richest and most
powerful, especially the two princes, Herrenianus and
Timolaus — and because of his fool-hardiness. If they
should fail, he, they imagine, will be the only or the chief
sacrifice — and he can well be spared. If they succeed,
his character or measures as their king, should displease
them, and exalt some other and worthier in his room.
`And what Father,' said Fausta, `said you to Antiochus?'
`I told him,' replied Gracchus, `what I thought, that
the plan struck me not only as frantic and wild — but
foolish — that I for myself should engage in no plot of
any kind, having in view any similar object, much less
in such a one as he proposed. I told him that if Palmyra
was destined ever to assert its supremacy and
independence of Rome, it could not be for many years
to come, and then by watching for some favorable juncture
in the affairs of Rome in other parts of the world.
It might very well happen, I thought, that in the process
of years, and when Palmyra had wholly recruited her
strength after her late and extreme sufferings — that
there might occur some period of revolution or inward
commotion in the Roman empire, such as would leave
her remote provinces in a comparatively unprotected
state. Then would be the time for re-asserting our independence
— then we might spring upon our keepers with
some good prospect of overpowering them, and taking
again to ourselves our own government. But now, I tried
to convince him, it was utter madness, or worse, stupidity,
to dream of success in such an enterprise. The Romans
were already inflamed and angry — not half appeased by
the bloody offering that had just been made — their
strength was undiminished — for what could diminish the
strength of Rome — and a rising could no sooner take
place, than her legions would again be upon us, and our
sufferings might be greater than ever. I entreated him
to pause, and to dissuade those from action who were connected
with him. I did not hesitate to set before him a
failure ensued, would be the first victim. I urged moreover,
that a few, as I held his number to be, had no right
to endanger, by any selfish and besotted conduct, the general
welfare, the lives and property of the citizens, that
not till he felt he had the voice of the people with him,
ought he to dare to act — and that although I should not
betray his councils to Sandarion, I should to the people,
unless I received from him ample assurance that no
movement should be made without a full disclosure of the
project to all the principal citizens, as representatives of
the whole city.'
`And how took he all that,' we asked.
`He was evidently troubled at the vision I raised of his
own head borne aloft upon a Roman pike — and not a
little disconcerted at what I labored to convince him
were the rights of us all in the case. I obtained from
him in the end a solemn promise that he would communicate
what I had said to his companions, and that they
would forbear all action till they had first obtained the
concurrence of the greater part of the city. I assured
him, however, that in no case, and under no conceivable
circumstances could he or any calculate upon any cooperation
of mine. Upon any knowledge which I might
obtain of intended action, I should withdraw from the
city.
`It is a sad fate,' said Fausta, `that having just escaped
with our lives and the bare walls of our city and dwellings
from the Romans, we are now to become the prey of
a wicked faction among ourselves. But, can you trust
the word of Antiochus that he will give you timely notice
if they go on to prosecute the affair? Will they not now
work in secret all the more, and veil themselves even
from the scrutiny of citizens?'
`I hardly think they can escape the watchful eyes that
will be fixed upon them,' replied Gracchus, `nor do I
believe that however inclined Antiochus might be to deceive
me, those who are of his party would agree to such
baseness. There are honorable men, however deluded,
in his company.'
Several days have passed, and our fears are almost laid.
Antiochus and the princes have been seen as usual frequenting
the more public streets, lounging in the portico,
or at the places of amusement. And the evenings have
been devoted to gayety and pleasure. Sandarion himself,
and the officers of his legion being frequent visiters
at the palace of Antiochus, and at that of the Cæsars,
lately the palace of Zenobia.
During this interval we have celebrated with all becoming
rites, the marriage of Fausta and Calpurnius,
hastened at the urgency of Gracchus, who feeling still
very insecure of life, and doubtful of the continued tranquillity
of the city, wished to bestow upon Calpurnius the
rights of a husband, and to secure to Fausta the protection
of one. Gracchus seems happier and lighter of
heart since this has been done — so do we all. It was
an occasion of joy, but as much of tears also. An event
which we had hoped to have been graced by the presence
of Zenobia, Julia, and Longinus, took place almost in
solitude and silence. But of this I have written fully to
Portia.
That which we have apprehended has happened. The
blow has been struck, and Palmyra is again, in name at
least, free and independent.
Early on the morning after the marriage of Fausta, we
were alarmed by the sounds of strife and commotion in
the streets — by the cries of those who pursued, and of
those who fled and fought. It was as yet hardly light.
or the parties engaged. We seized our arms, and prepared
ourselves for defence, against whatever party,
Roman or Palmyrene, should make an assault. The
preparation was, however, needless, for the contest was
already decided. The whole garrison, with the brave Sandarion
at their head, has been massacred, and the power
of Palmyra is in the hands of Antiochus and his adherents.
There has been in truth no fighting, it has been
the murder rather of unprepared and defenceless men.
The garrison was cut off in detail while upon their watch,
by overwhelming numbers. Sandarion was despatched
in his quarters, and in his bed, by the very inhuman
wretches at whose tables he had just been feasted, from
whom he had but a few hours before parted, giving and
receiving the signs of friendship. The cowardly Antiochus
it was who stabbed him as he sprung from his
sleep, encumbered and disabled by his night clothes.
Not a Roman has escaped with his life.
Antiochus is proclaimed king, and the streets of the
city have resounded with the shouts of this deluded
people, crying, `long live Antiochus.' He has been
borne in tumult to the great portico of the temple of the
Sun, where, with the ceremonies prescribed for the occasion,
he has been crowned king of Palmyra and of the
East.
While these things were in progress — the new king
entering upon his authority, and the government forming
itself, Gracchus chose and acted his part.
`There is little safety,' he said, `for me now, I fear,
anywhere — but least of all here. But were I secure of
life, Palmyra is now to be a desecrated and polluted place,
and I would fain depart from it. I could not remain in
it, though covered with honor, to see Antiochus in the
I must go as I respect myself, and as I desire life. Antiochus
will bear me no good will, and no sooner will he
have become easy in his seat and secure of his power,
than he will begin the work for which his nature alone
fits him, of cold-blooded revenge, cruelty and lust. I
trust indeed that his reign will end before that day shall
arrive — but it may not — and it will be best for me and
for you, my children, to remove from his sight. If he
sees us not he may forget us.'
We all gladly assented to the plan which he then proposed.
It was to withdraw privately as possible to one
of his estates in the neighborhood of the city, and there
await the unfolding of the scenes that remained yet to be
enacted. The plan was at once carried into effect. The
estate to which we retreated was about four Roman miles
from the walls, situated upon an eminence, and overlooking
the city and the surrounding plains. Soon as the
shadows of the evening of the first day of the reign of
Antiochus had fallen, we departed from Palmyra, and
within an hour found ourselves upon a spot as wild and
secluded as if it had been within the bosom of a wilderness.
The building consists of a square tower of stone,
large and lofty, built originally for purposes of war and
defence, but now long occupied by those who have
pursued the peaceful labors of husbandry. The wildness
of the region, the solitariness of the place, the dark and
frowning aspect of the impregnable tower had pleased the
fancy of both Gracchus and Fausta, and it has been used
by them as an occasional retreat at those times when
wearied of the sound and sight of life, they have needed
perfect repose. A few slaves are all that are required
to constitute a sufficient household.
Here, Curtius, notwithstanding the troubled aspect of
enjoyment. Had there been no other, it would have
been enough to sit and witness the happiness of Calpurnius
and Fausta. But there have been and are
other sources of satisfaction as you will not doubt. We
have now leisure to converse at such length as we please
upon a thousand subjects which interest us. Seated upon
the rocks at nightfall, or upon the lofty battlements of the
tower, or at hot noon reclining beneath the shade of the
terebinth or palm, we have tasted once again the calm
delights we experienced at the Queen's mountain palace.
In this manner have we heard from Calpurnius accounts
every way instructive and entertaining, of his life while
in Persia; of the character and acts of Sapor; of the
condition of that empire, and its wide spread population.
Nothing seems to have escaped his notice and investigation.
At these times and places too, do I amuse and
enlighten the circle around me by reading such portions
of your letters and of Portia's as relate to matters generally
interesting — and thus too do we discuss the times,
and speculate upon the events with which the future
labors in relation to Palmyra.
In the mean time we learn that the city is given up to
festivity and excess. Antiochus himself possessing immense
riches, is devoting these, and whatever the treasury
of the kingdom places within his reach, to the entertainment
of the people with shows and games after the
Roman fashion, and seems really to have deluded the
mass of the people so far as to have convinced them that
their ancient prosperity has returned, and that he is the
father of their country, a second Odenatus. He has succeeded
in giving to his betrayal of the Queen the character
and merit of a patriotic act, at least with the
creatures who uphold him — and there are no praises so
upon the people in proclamations and edicts. The
ignorant — and where is it that they are not the greater
part — stand by, wonder and believe. They cannot penetrate
the wickedness of the game that has been played
before them, and by the arts of the king and his minions,
have already been converted into friends and supporters.
The defence of the city is not, we understand, wholly
neglected. But having before their eyes some fear of
retribution, troops are again levied and organized, and
the walls beginning to be put into a state of preparation.
But this is all of secondary interest — and is postponed to
any object of more immediate and sensual gratification.
But there are large numbers of the late Queen's truest
friends, who with Gracchus look on in grief, and terror
even, at the order of things that has arisen, and prophecying
with him a speedy end to it, either from interior and
domestic revolution, or a return of the Roman armies,
accompanied in either case of course by a wide spread
destruction — have with him also secretly withdrawn from
the city, and fled either to some neighboring territory, or
retreated to the fastnesses of the rural districts. Gracchus
has not ceased to warn all whom he knows and
chiefly esteems of the dangers to be apprehended, and
urge upon them the duty of a timely escape.
Messengers have arrived from Antiochus to Gracchus,
with whom they have held long and earnest conference,
the object of which has been to induce him to return to
the city, and resume his place at the head of the Senate,
the king well knowing that no act of his would so much
strengthen his power as to be able to number Gracchus
among his friends. But Gracchus has not so much as
wavered in his purpose to keep aloof from Antiochus and
all concern with his affairs. His contempt and abhorrence
his serving his country, were he not persuaded that in so
short a time violence of some sort from without or within
would prostrate king and government in the dust.
It was only a few days after the messengers from Antiochus
had paid their visit to Gracchus, that as we were
seated upon a shaded rock, not far from the tower, listening
to Fausta as she read to us, we were alarmed by the
sudden irruption of Milo upon our seclusion, breathless,
except that he could just exclaim, `The Romans! The
Romans!' As he could command his speech, he said that
the Roman army could plainly be discerned from the
higher points of the land, rapidly approaching the city, of
which we might satisfy ourselves by ascending the tower.'
`Gods! can it be possible,' exclaimed Gracchus, `that
Aurelian can himself have returned? He must have been
well on his way to the Hellespont ere the conspiracy broke
out.'
`I can easily believe it,' I replied, as we hastened
toward the old tower, `from what I have known and witnessed
of the promptness and miraculous celerity of his
movements.'
As we came forth upon the battlements of the tower,
not a doubt remained that it was indeed the Romans
pouring in again like a flood upon the plains of the now
devoted city. Far as the eye could reach to the west,
clouds of dust indicated the line of the Roman march,
while the van was already within a mile of the very gates.
The roads leading to the capital, in every direction, seemed
covered with those, who, at the last moment, ere the
gates were shut, had fled and were flying to escape the
impending desolation. All bore the appearance of a city
taken by surprise and utterly unprepared—as we doubted
not was the case from what we had observed of its actual
approach.
`Now,' said Fausta, `I can believe that the last days
of Palmyra have arrived. It is impossible that Antiochus
can sustain the siege against what will now be the tenfold
fury of Aurelian and his enraged soldiers.'
A very few days will suffice for its reduction, if long
before it be not again betrayed into the power of the
assailants.
We have watched with intense curiosity and anxiety the
scene that has been performing before our eyes. We are
not so remote but what we can see with considerable distinctness
whatever takes place, sometimes advancing and
choosing our point of observation upon some nearer eminence.
After one day of preparation and one of assault the city
has fallen, and Aurelian again entered in triumph. This
time in the spirit of revenge and retaliation. It is evident,
as we look on horror-struck, that no quarter is given, but
that a general massacre has been ordered, both of soldier
and citizen. We can behold whole herds of the defenceless
populace escaping from the gates or over the walls,
only to be pursued — hunted — and slaughtered by the
remorseless soldiers. And thousands upon thousands have
we seen driven over the walls, or hurled from the battlements
of the lofty towers to perish, dashed upon the rocks
below. Fausta cannot endure these sights of horror, but
retires and hides herself in her apartments.
No sooner had the evening of this fatal day set in, than
a new scene of terrific sublimity opened before us, as we
beheld flames beginning to ascend from every part of the
city. They grew and spread till they presently appeared
to wrap all objects alike in one vast sheet of fire. Towers,
pinnacles and domes, after glittering awhile in the
general ruin. The Temple of the Sun stood long untouched,
shining almost with the brightness of the sun
itself, its polished shafts and sides reflecting the surrounding
fire with an intense brilliancy. We hoped that it
might escape, and were certain that it would, unless fired
from within — as from its insulated position the flames
from the neighboring buildings could not reach it. But
we watched not long ere from its western extremity the
fire broke forth, and warned us that that peerless monument
of human genius, like all else, would soon crumble
to the ground. To our amazement, however, and joy,
the flames, after having made great progress, were suddenly
arrested, and by some cause extinguished — and
the vast pile stood towering in the centre of the desolation,
of double size, as it seemed, from the fall and disappearance
of so many of the surrounding structures.
`This,' said Fausta, `is the act of a rash and passionate
man. Aurelian, before to-morrow's sun has set, will himself
repent it. What a single night has destroyed, a century
could not restore. This blighted and ruined capital,
as long as its crumbling remains shall attract the gaze of
the traveller, will utter a blasting malediction upon the
name and memory of Aurelian. Hereafter he will be
known not as conqueror of the East, and the restorer of
the Roman Empire, but as the executioner of Longinus
and the ruthless destroyer of Palmyra.'
`I fear that you prophecy with too much truth,' I replied.
Rage and revenge have ruled the hour, and have committed
horrors which no reason and no policy, either of
the present or of any age, will justify.'
`It is a result ever to be expected,' said Gracchus, `so
long as mankind will prefer an ignorant, unlettered soldier
as their ruler. They can look for nothing different from
whose vulgar mind has never been illuminated by study
and the knowledge of antiquity. Such an one feels no reverence
for the arts, for learning, for philosophy, or for man
as man — he knows not what these mean — power is all
he can comprehend, and all he worships. As long as the
army furnishes Rome with her emperors, so long may she
know that her name will, by acts like these, be handed
down to posterity covered with the infamy that belongs to
the polished savage — the civilized barbarian. Come,
Fausta, let us now in and hide ourselves from this sight
— too sad and sorrowful to gaze upon.'
`I can look now, father, without emotion,' she replied;
`a little sorrow opens all the fountains of grief — too much
seals them. I have wept till I can weep no more. My
sensibility is, I believe, by this succession of calamities,
dulled till it is dead.'
Aurelian, we learn, long before the fire had completed
its work of destruction, recalled the orders he had given,
and labored to arrest the progress of the flames. In this,
he to a considerable extent succeeded, and it was owing to
this that the great temple was saved, and others among
the most costly and beautiful structures.
On the third day after the capture of the city and the
massacre of the inhabitants, the army of the `conqueror
and destroyer' withdrew from the scene of its glory, and
again disappeared beyond the desert. I sought not the
presence of Aurelian while before the city, for I cared not
to meet him drenched in the blood of women and children.
But as soon as he and his legions were departed,
we turned toward the city, as children to visit the dead
body of a parent.
No language which I can use, my Curtius, can give
you any just conception of the horrors which met our
more than a mile before we reached the gates, the roads,
and the fields on either hand, were strewed with the bodies
of those who, in their attempts to escape, had been overtaken
by the enemy and slain. Many a group of bodies
did we notice, evidently those of a family, the parents and
the children, who, hoping to reach in company some place
of security, had all — and without resistance apparently —
fallen a sacrifice to the relentless fury of their pursuers.
Immediately in the vicinity of the walls and under them,
the earth was concealed from the eye by the multitudes
of the slain, and all objects were stained with the one hue
of blood. Upon passing the gates and entering within
those walls which I had been accustomed to regard as embracing
in their wide and graceful sweep, the most beautiful
city of the world, my eye met naught but black and
smoking ruins, fallen houses and temples, the streets
choked with piles of still blazing timbers and the half-burned
bodies of the dead. As I penetrated farther
into the heart of the city, and to its better built and more
spacious quarters, I found the destruction to be less —
that the principal streets were standing, and many of the
more distinguished structures. But every where — in the
streets — upon the porticos of private and public dwellings
— upon the steps and within the very walls of the
temples of every faith — in all places, the most sacred as
well as the most common, lay the mangled carcases of
the wretched inhabitants. None, apparently, had been
spared. The aged were there, with their bald or silvered
heads — little children and infants — women, the young,
the beautiful, the good — all were there, slaughtered
in every imaginable way, and presenting to the eye spectacles
of horror and of grief enough to break the heart
and craze the brain. For one could not but go back to
these innocent thousands a part of what they suffered,
when the gates of the city giving way, the infuriated soldiery
poured in, and with death written in their faces and
clamoring on their tongues, their quiet houses were invaded,
and resisting or unresisting, they all fell together
beneath the murderous knives of the savage foe. What
shrieks then rent and filled the air — what prayers
of agony went up to the Gods for life to those whose ears
on mercy's side were adders' — what piercing supplications
that life might be taken and honor spared. The
apartments of the rich and the noble presented the most
harrowing spectacles, where the inmates, delicately nurtured
and knowing of danger, evil, and wrong only by
name and report, had first endured all that nature most abhors,
and then there where their souls had died, were slain
by their brutal violators with every circumstance of most
demoniac cruelty. Happy for those who, like Gracchus,
foresaw the tempest and fled. These calamities have
fallen chiefly upon the adherents of Antiochus; but
among them, alas! were some of the noblest and most
honored families of the capital. Their bodies now lie
blackened and bloated upon their door-stones — their own
halls have become their tombs.
We sought together the house of Gracchus. We found
it partly consumed, partly standing and uninjured. The
offices and one of the rear wings were burned and
level with the ground, but there the flames had been arrested,
and the remainder, comprising all the principal
apartments, stands as it stood before. The palace of Zenobia
has escaped without harm — its lofty walls and insulated
position were its protection. The Long Portico,
with its columns, monuments and inscriptions, remains
also untouched by the flames and unprofaned by any violence
the poorer quarters of the city, where the buildings were
composed in greater proportion of wood, and spared
most of the great thoroughfares, principal avenues,
and squares of the capital, which, being constructed
in the most solid manner of stone, resisted effectually
all progress of the flames, and though frequently
set on fire for the purpose of their destruction, the fire
perished from a want of material, or it consumed but the
single edifice where it was kindled.
The silence of death and of ruin rests over this once
and but so lately populous city. As I stood upon a high
point which overlooked a large extent of it, I could discern
no signs of life, except here and there a detachment
of the Roman guard dragging forth the bodies of the
slaughtered citizens, and bearing them to be burned or
buried. This whole people is extinct. In a single day
these hundred thousands have found a common grave.
Not one remains to bewail or bury the dead. Where are
the anxious crowds, who, when their dwellings have been
burned, eagerly rush in as the flames have spent themselves,
to sorrow over their smoking altars, and pry with
busy search among the hot ashes, if perchance they may
yet rescue some lamented treasure, or bear away, at least
the bones of a parent or a child, buried beneath the ruins?
They are not here. It is broad day, and the sun shines
bright, but not a living form is seen lingering about these
desolated streets and squares. Birds of prey are already
hovering round, and alighting without apprehension of disturbance
wherever the banquet invites them; and soon
as the shadows of evening shall fall, the hyena of the desert
will be here to gorge himself upon what they have left,
having scented afar off upon the tainted breeze the fumes
of the rich feast here spread for him. These Roman
the ground to contend with them for their prize. O, miserable
condition of humanity! Why is it that to man have
been given passions which he cannot tame, and which
sink him below the brute! Why is it that a few ambitious
are permitted by the Great Ruler, in the selfish pursuit of
their own aggrandizement, to scatter in ruin, desolation,
and death, whole kingdoms—making misery and destruction
the steps by which they mount up to their seats of
pride! O, gentle doctrine of Christ! — doctrine of love
and of peace, when shall it be that I and all mankind
shall know thy truth, and the world smile with a new happiness
under thy life-giving reign!
Fausta, as she has wandered with us through this wilderness
of woe, has uttered scarce a word. This appalling
and afflicting sight of her beloved Palmyra — her pride
and hope — in whose glory her very life was wrapt up —
so soon become a blackened heap of ruins — its power
departed — its busy multitudes dead, and their dwellings
empty or consumed — has deprived her of all but tears.
She has only wept. The sensibility which she feared was
dead she finds endued with life enough — with too much
for either her peace or safety.
As soon as it became known in the neighboring districts
that the army of Aurelian was withdrawn, and that the
troops left in the camp and upon the walls were no longer
commissioned to destroy, they who had succeeded in
effecting their escape, or who had early retreated from
the scene of danger, began to venture back. These were
accompanied by great numbers of the country people,
who now poured in either to witness with their own eyes
the great horror of the times, or to seek for the bodies of
children or friends, who, dwelling in the city for purposes
of trade or labor, or as soldiers, had fallen in the common
ruins be seen covered with crowds of men and women, who
weeping sought among the piles of the yet unburied
and decaying dead, dear relatives, or friends, or lovers,
for whom they hoped to perform the last offices of unfailing
affection; a hope that was, perhaps, in scarce a single
instance fulfilled. And how could any but those in whom
love had swallowed up reason, once imagine that where the
dead were heaped fathoms deep, mangled by every shocking
mode of death, and now defaced yet more by the
processes of corruption, they could identify the forms
which they last saw beautiful in all the bloom of health.
But love is love; it feels and cannot reason.
Cerronius Bassus, the lieutenant of Aurelian, has with
a humane violence laid hold upon this curious and gazing
multitude, and changed them all into buriers of the dead
they came to seek and bewail. To save the country from
pestilence, himself and his soldiers, he hastens the necessary
work of interment. The plains are trenched, and into
them the bodies of the citizens are indiscriminately
thrown. There now lie in narrow space the multitudes
of Palmyra.
The mangled bodies of Antiochus, Herrenianus and
Timolaus have been found among the slain.
We go no longer to the city, but remain at our solitary
tower — now however populous as the city itself. We
converse of the past and the future — but most of my
speedy departure for Rome.
It is the purpose of Gracchus to continue for a season
yet in the quiet retreat where he now is. He then will
return to the capital, and become one of those to lay
again the foundations of another prosperity.
`Nature,' he says, `has given to our city a position and
resources which, it seems to me, no power of man can
upon this same spot, a large population. Circumstances
like the present may oppress and overwhelm
for a time, but time will again revive and rebuild, and
embellish. I will not for one sit down in inactivity or
useless grief, but if Aurelian does not hinder, shall
apply the remainder of my days to the restoration of Palmyra.
In Calpurnius and Fausta I shall look to find my
lieutenants, prompt to execute the commissions entrusted
to them by their commander.'
`We shall fall behind,' said Calpurnius, `I warrant
you, in no quality of affection or zeal in the great task.'
`Fausta,' continued Gracchus, `has as yet no heart
but for the dead and the lost. But, Lucius, when you
shall have been not long in Rome, you will hear that she
lives then but among the living, and runs before me and
Calpurnius in every labor that promises advantage to
Palmyra.'
`It may be so,' replied Fausta, `but I have no faith
that it will. We have witnessed the death of our country;
we have attended the funeral obsequies. I have no
belief in any rising again from the dead.'
`Give not way my child,' said Gracchus, `to grief and
despair. These are among the worst enemies of man.
They are the true doubters and deniers of the Gods and
their providence, who want a spirit of trust and hope. Hope
and confidence are the best religion, and the truest worship.
I who do not believe in the existence of the Gods
am therefore to be commended for my religion more than
many of the staunchest defenders of Pagan, Christian, or
Jewish superstitions, who too often, it seems to me, feel
and act as if the world were abandoned of all divine care,
and its affairs and events the sport of a blind chance.
What is best for man and the condition of the world,
possessor of the world — be they one or many. Can we
doubt which is best for the remaining inhabitants of Palmyra,
and the provinces around which are dependent
upon her trade — to leave her in her ruin finally and
utterly to perish, or apply every energy to her restoration?
Is it better that the sands of the desert should within a
few years heap themselves over these remaining walls and
dwellings, or that we who survive should cleanse, and
repair, and rebuild, in the confident hope, before we in
our turn are called to disappear, to behold our beloved
city again thronged with its thousands of busy and laborious
inhabitants? Carthage is again populous as in the
days of Hamilcar. You, Fausta, may live to see Palmyra
what she was in the days of Zenobia.'
`The Gods grant it may be so!' exclaimed Fausta, and
a bright smile at the vision her father had raised up
before her, illuminated her features. She looked for a
moment as if the reality had been suddenly revealed to
her, and had stood forth in all its glory.
`I do not despair,' continued Gracchus, `of the Romans
themselves doing something toward the restoration
of that which they have wantonly and foolishly detroyed.'
`But they cannot give life to the dead, and therefore it
is but little that they can do at best,' said Fausta. `They
may indeed rebuild the temple of the Sun, but they cannot
give us back the godlike form of Longinus, and
kindle within it that intellect that shed light over the
world; they may raise again the walls of the citizen's
humble dwelling, but they cannot reanimate the bodies
of the slaughtered multitudes, and call them out from
their trenches to people again the silent streets.'
`They cannot indeed,' rejoined Gracchus; `they cannot
they will, and that the Emperor himself, when reason returns,
will himself set the example. And from you
Lucius, when once more in Rome, shall I look for substantial
aid in disposing favorably the mind both of Aurelian
and the Senate.'
`I can never be more happily employed,' I replied,
`than in serving either you or Palmyra. You will have
a powerful advocate also in Zenobia.'
`Yes,' said Gracchus, `if her life be spared, which
must for some time be still quite uncertain. After gracing
the triumph of Aurelian, she, like Longinus, may be
offered as a new largess to the still hungering legions.'
`Nay, there I think Gracchus, you do Aurelian hardly
justice. Although he has bound himself by no oath, yet
virtually is he sworn to spare Zenobia — and his least
word is true as his sword.'
Thus have we passed the last days and hours of my
residence here. I should in vain attempt, my Curtius,
to tell you how strongly I am bound to this place — to
this kingdom and city, and above all to those who survive
this destruction. No Palmyrene can lament with more
sincerity than I, the whirlwind of desolation that has
passed over them, obliterating almost their place and
name — nor from any one do there ascend more fervent
prayers that prosperity may yet return, and these wide
spread ruins again rise and glow in their ancient
beauty. Rome has by former acts of unparalleled
barbarism covered her name with reproach — but by
none has she so drenched it in guilt as by this wanton
annihilation — for so do I regard it — of one of the fairest
cities and kingdoms of the earth. The day of Aurelian's
triumph, may be a day of triumph to him, but to Rome it
will be a day of never forgotten infamy.
| LETTER XVII. Letters of Lucius M. Piso, from Palmyra, to his friend Marcus Curtius at Rome | |