Produced by MFR, Craig Kirkwood, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) Transcriberâs Notes: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_), text enclosed by equal signs is in bold (=bold=), and ^{} encloses superscripted material. Additional Transcriberâs Notes are at the end. * * * * * THE CHALDEAN MAGICIAN _AN ADVENTURE IN ROME_ IN THE REIGN OF THE EMPEROR DIOCLETIAN BY ERNST ECKSTEIN Author of âQuintus Claudius,â etc. FROM THE GERMAN BY MARY J. SAFFORD NEW YORK WILLIAM S. GOTTSBERGER, PUBLISHER 11 MURRAY STREET 1886 * * * * * Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1886 BY WILLIAM S. GOTTSBERGER in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington _Press of William S. Gottsberger New York_ * * * * * THE CHALDEAN MAGICIAN. CHAPTER I. A cloudless October day, A. D. 299, was drawing to a close; the western sky behind the crest of Mt. Janiculum still glowed with crimson light, but the population in the streets and squares of the worldâs capital were already moving in a bluish twilight and yellow-red lamps shone, veiled by smoke, from the taverns of the many-gabled Subura. A youth with a white toga thrown over his shoulders, coming from the Querquetulanian Gate, turned into the Cyprian Way. His manner of walking was somewhat peculiar. Sometimes he rushed hastily forward, like a man impatiently striving to reach his destination; at others he glanced hesitatingly around or stopped a few seconds as though repenting his design. Passing the Baths of Titus he perceived, only a few yards distant, another youth who had entered the Cyprian Way from a side street on the left and with bowed head was pursuing the same direction over the lava stones of the pavement. Looking more closely, he recognized a friendâs countenance in the new-comerâs pallid features. It was nearly six weeks since he had seen pleasant Lucius Rutilius; for the two young menâs paths in life were entirely different. While Rutilius, the son of a wealthy senator, was fond of moving in the most select circles of the capital, visiting the theatres, the races and combats in the arena, and during the summer spending his time alternately at his country estate in Etruria, the waterfalls of Tibur, the shore of the gulf of Baiae, or the strand of Antium, Caius Bononius, the son of a knight, led a somewhat secluded existence in the solitude of his study, allowing himself at the utmost a short trip during the hottest months to the world-renowned Dianaâs Mirror, the lovely secluded lake in the neighboring Alban Hills, where he owned a modest little garden. Spite of this diversity in external circumstances, the two young men cherished a deeply-rooted friendship for each other. Lucius Rutilius valued the comprehensive knowledge, insatiable thirst for information, and proud independence possessed by Caius Bononius; while the latter knew that Rutilius beheld the splendor of life in the great capital, not with the eyes of the coarse man of pleasure, but with those of the poet; that he revelled in the pomp of color, the luxury of eternal Rome, as the creative artist rejoiced in the effects of light and shade in a landscape; that amid this seething whirlpool he had preserved a warm heart, a noble unselfishness of nature. At Caiusâ call Lucius Rutilius raised his head, covered with black, curling locks, as though startled from a deep reverie. A crimson flush, visible even in the gathering twilight, mounted to his brow, as if the other had caught him in forbidden paths. âIs it you, Bononius?â he stammered. âAre you, too, to be met in the crowd of pedestrians? True, itâs lonely enough here in the aristocratic Cyprian Way to allow you to indulge your taste for seclusion even while walking.â âI have really avoided all society during the last few weeks,â replied Caius Bononius, âstrange problems have engrossed my attention. But you--what brings you, without any companion, to this quarter of silence at this hour of the day? You used at this time to be reclining at table--with roses from Paestum in your hair and your glowing lips pressed to an exquisitely-polished murrhine cup, if not on the neck of some radiant young beauty.â Lucius blushed again. âThings are different now,â he replied with his eyes bent on the ground. âHow?â asked Caius Bononius in surprise. âHas my Lucius renounced the delights of the revel and the lustre of flower-wreathed triclinia?â âNot entirely--but your remark about a young beauty--you neednât smile, Caius! In perfect truth: during the last month a change has taken place in this respect, which--how am I to say...?â âHow are you to speak? As you think! The confusion in your words distinctly shows how hard you are trying to conceal rather than disclose your thoughts. Come, Lucius! Have you so completely forgotten that we did not vow faith and friendship to each other only over the golden Falernian, that our relations have a deeper root? If things have occurred that influence your character, your views of the world, let me know what has affected you; for as a sincere, though half-superfluous friend, I have a right to your implicit confidence. As I live, you give me the impression that some important matter is in question. Speak, my Lucius! Have you, in contradiction to your whole past, thrown yourself into the study of philosophy? Have you come in contact with some saint of the sect of the Nazarenes and thus acquired a taste for the beautiful legends of the East?â âNothing of the sort,â sighed Lucius, taking his friend by the arm and drawing him slowly along with him in the direction of the Subura. âYou will laugh at me when you learn how your invincible Epicurean has fared at last.... Yes, you are right, Caius; it would be foolish if I wished to conceal from you, my faithful friend, what your penetration would nevertheless discover.... So know--but donât accuse me of weakness--I am desperately in love, not only with my eyes, as before, but body and soul, a second Troilus, a Leander who would breast the surges of every sea to at last clasp his Hero in his arms.â âYou have often talked so,â said Caius smiling. âTalked, but never felt. The best proof of the genuineness of my emotions--to myself--is the ardor with which I long to lead the beloved maiden across my threshold as my wife. You know âmarriageâ used to be a terrible word to me, Caius: now, since I have seen Hero--her name is really Hero, and she is the daughter of an aristocratic Sicilian--since that time I have known nothing sweeter than Hymenâs torch, and longingly await the moment which, spite of all difficulties and disasters, must at last unite us.â âDifficulties?â repeated Bononius, pausing. âDoes Hero deny her Leander the ardently-desired love? Has the handsome Rutilius for the first time wooed in vain?â Lucius Rutilius gazed at the western sky as if he were examining the position of the stars. âThere is still time,â he murmured, then turning to Bononius, added: âWooed in vain? No--yet it is almost the same thing. Does this contradiction seem to you an enigma? If you wish, you shall learn all--only not here, where the passers-by are growing more numerous and a listener might misuse my words. I have business on the northern slope of the Quirinal in about an hour--until then let us stay in my uncle Publius Calpurniusâ house, here on the right of the Patrician Way. He is Caius Deciusâ guest to-day: we can walk up and down the portico undisturbed--and to be frank, I long to pour out my heart to you, receive your counsel.â Bononius hesitated. He seemed to be secretly making a hasty calculation. âWell,â he said at last, âif it wonât occupy too much time.... You wonât take it amiss, if I tell you that I, too, in an hour at latest....â âOh--I can explain everything in ten minutes.â Turning to the right, he drew his friend along with him, and a short time after they knocked at the door of a spacious mansion. The porter drew back the bolt, bowed, and ushered the two youths through the passage into the atrium. The residence of Publius Calpurnius was one of the huge, luxurious edifices, which seemed to vie in extent with the immense palaces erected by the emperor Diocletian in Salona and Nicomedia. Of no unusual external magnificence and with a moderate faÃ§ade, it developed directly behind the atrium the most surprising size, stretching on the right and left over the ground naturally belonging to the neighboring houses and spreading towards the slope of the hill. Caius Bononius, who almost intentionally avoided the homes of Roman grandees, often as Lucius--at least in former days--had endeavored to draw his friend into the life and bustle of the capital, scanned with surprise and curiosity the magnificently-decorated structure, the halls of the two court-yards where a dozen gaily-clad slaves were just lighting the candelabra, the brilliant-hued paintings on the walls, the portrait-statues--men in somewhat un-Roman sleeved garments, and women with extremely realistic styles of hair-dressing which looked as if the latest coiffure of a fashionable visitor to the circus had served the sculptor for a model. In fact, Lucius asserted that these styles of arranging the hair were removable, and could be taken from the statuesâ heads and exchanged for modern ones as fashion required--a triumph of the plastic art, as he ironically added. So they walked through the second pillared court-yard to the garden. The dusky avenues of trees, whose spreading boughs still permitted enough of the fading daylight to enter to reveal the box-bordered gravelled paths, invited thoughtful, pleasant strolls, and the watchman at the back of the house afforded a sufficient guarantee that no intruder would steal after the youths. CHAPTER II. âAt the end of last month,â Lucius Rutilius began, âHero had firmly resolved to unite her life with mine. I made her acquaintance at Tibur, where her father had purchased Juniusâ Gelliusâ villa--it adjoins my own, you know--after the death of its first owner. Wandering through the park, I saw the bewitching girlish figure on the opposite side of the wall that divides Gelliusâ grounds from mine. Hero was standing in the shade of a laurel-bush, her fair hair adorned simply with a rose, scattering with her dainty little hands crumbs or corn, which she held gathered in her robe, to a fluttering cloud of sparrows. Concealed behind the pedestal of a goddess of autumn, I could watch her quietly without having my presence suspected. âAh, my dear Caius, I should vainly try to describe the subtle charm, childlike innocence, and enchanting grace revealed to me in that quarter of an hour! How she chatted with her protÃ©gÃ©s, repelled the bold and encouraged the timid ones, how she jested and laughed, how her loose tunic slipped from her snowy shoulder--it was bewitching! In short, those fifteen minutes decided my fate. For the first time during a life of twenty-six years I experienced at the sight of a girl who charmed me a feeling of sacred reserve, a sort of reverence that made any wanton thought seem a crime. In my ardent dreams, which instantly twined with eager longing around this lovely apparition, I saw her only as the presiding mistress of my house, the ruler of my life....â âIt really appears to be a serious matter,â murmured Caius Bononius. âDoes the night-breeze rustling through the boughs deceive me, or what is it that makes your voice tremble so?â âDo not doubt!â replied Rutilius. âWhat I feel for Hero is sacred enough to fill my heart with the emotions that seize devout worshippers at the presence of the goddess. Now hear the rest. Wholly absorbed by one thought, I returned to the house and pondered in solitude over the problem how I might succeed in reaching the desired goal. Usually--as you know--I was not embarrassed when in the society of beautiful girls and women; but here the often-tested art of crafty plans seemed to leave me in the lurch. After twenty absurdly tasteless ideas I resolved to ask Agathon--who also lived at Tibur--to take me with him as an uninvited guest to the next banquet given by her father, Heliodorus. A pretended desire to talk with him about the sale of a small grove would serve for an excuse. Agathon cast a strange glance at me when I informed him of my wish. Perhaps this sort of introduction was not the best, though I thought it so; for you, too, will some day learn, spite of all the wisdom that now fills your soul, that love makes even the most experienced people unskilful.â âOn the contrary,â replied Bononius, âI believe great passions render us inventive.â âWe wonât argue the point. Inventive perhaps in what is decisive, but foolish in every other respect.--Agathon consented, and on the third day the opportunity offered. Heliodorus received me with the manners of a polished man of the world, greeting me as a neighbor whose acquaintance he had long desired to make. As to the grove, about which I incoherently stammered a few words, he would consider the matter, and if he could really oblige me, would willingly make a sacrifice. âThe banquet passed without my even obtaining a glimpse of the object of my ardent longing; yet I might well be satisfied. From this hour the wall between our two estates was as it were demolished; an intercourse began, which after a short time developed into friendly relations, and now of course Hero, who had retired from the sight of the guests at the noisy drinking-bout, was visible at any hour of the day to the neighbor who came as it were clad in a tunic,[1] to see her father. âLet me say nothing about how it all happened. A hundred details gradually wove the certainty that the worthy Sicilianâs daughter favored me, and one evening in the park, on the very spot under the laurel-bush where I had first beheld her, I kissed the words of consent from her quivering lips. âThose were happy days, Bononius! We still kept our love concealed; not that we had reason to doubt her fatherâs consent, but there was an indescribable charm in this mystery; I might say: we feared to profane our happiness, if we should draw aside the veil too soon. True, our relations did not wholly escape the excellent Heliodorusâ notice. More than once, while wandering by Heroâs side through the colonnades of the peristyle, I met his sympathizing smile, which seemed to say: âFriend, I see through you, but am not angered by your secret suit.â âThen one evening--we had formed the resolution the day before to appear on the following Friday, October 1st, Heliodorusâ birthday, hand in hand before him and reveal everything--Hero received me with an agitated expression that greatly alarmed me. Her father had gone to Rome on business and was not expected to return till late. Hero had been alone all day with Lydia, a young relative with whom she was educated, had refused old Septimia, her grey-haired confidante, admission to her apartments, neglected to eat, and did not dress until the hour I usually came, when she waited for me on the stone bench under the colonnade of the peristyle. Lydia--a charming creature, by the way, only she reminds one a little too much of our highly-painted fashionable ladies to compare with Heroâs divine simplicity--was sitting beside her when I entered. My sweet, sorrowful love was holding a triangular paper in her hand; Lydia, frowning, clenched in her dainty fist a parchment covered with red letters. After long questioning I learned the following details. âThe two girls were walking in the grounds just after sunrise, as they usually did in the morning. Suddenly a hideously-ugly old woman, dressed in rags, stood before the unsuspecting maidens, called three times in a shrill voice, with the expression of a Gorgon, a prophetic âwoe!â, threw a roll at my trembling Heroâs feet, and hastily vanished. âThe girls, as if spellbound by this mysterious apparition, took the roll from the ground and untied its fastenings. The contents consisted of a written parchment and a triangular piece of blank paper. The purport of the parchment was as follows: ââOlbasanus the Chaldean, the investigator of the future and warner of blinded humanity, writes this to Hero, the daughter of Heliodorus. The gods have announced to us that, inflamed with love for Lucius Rutilius, you cherish the design of accepting him for a husband. Olbasanus warns you against this intention, for his eye has read in the stars what horrible misfortunes threaten you and yours, especially Lucius Rutilius himself, if you carry out your resolve. As you might not believe my warning, I send you with this letter a sacred leaf from the book of the god Amun. Carry the page to the hearth, lay it on the stone flags, but so that the flames cannot reach it; bow thrice with clasped hands and await the divine revelation. Amun himself, with invisible finger, will write upon this page from his book and announce what is impending if you despise his sacred will.â âThis was the purport of the parchment Lydia convulsively clenched in her fingers.â During the last few moments Caius Bononius had pressed his friendâs arm more closely and showed other tokens of increasing interest. âOlbasanus?â he now asked, as Lucius Rutilius paused a moment to take breath. âThe Chaldean on the Quirinal?â âThe same. His name had already reached my ears, but I now learned for the first time his ghost-like influence and his power.â âGo on! go on!â urged Bononius. âWell,â continued the other, âthis paper had been enough to throw the two girls into the utmost excitement. Lydia--an exception to her sex--had hitherto made no attempt to pry into her friendâs secret, although she, too, had long since perceived our relations. Now, when the affair was so suddenly and unexpectedly revealed, she forgot the usual questions, amazement, congratulations. In her heartfelt anxiety she pressed into the rooms occupied by the head cook, impetuously sent away all the slaves, and told her friend to do what Olbasanus had directed. Hero, almost bereft of her senses, bowed thrice over the mysterious page and, after a few seconds, perceived with mysterious horror the black characters that were to announce what barred her happiness. She read: âTo the father, madness, to the daughter, blindness, to Lucius Rutilius, death.ââ âUnprecedented!â cried Caius Bononius. âAnd a strange coincidence!â âWhat do you mean by that?â asked Rutilius. âAfterwards, my dear fellow! Let me first hear the end of your adventure! True, I scarcely need an explanation of the result of the affair. What reply did you make when the young girls had shown you the page from the book of Amun?â âI tried to doubt--but the spectral letters and my sorrowful Heroâs troubled eyes spoke only too distinctly. The fact that this was some strange marvel, an inexplicable miracle, apparently sent by the gods themselves--never wavered. At first I was painfully moved, but in the course of our conversation, as Hero seemed to grow calmer, I regained a certain degree of confidence, and when in the middle of the first vigil[2] I entered my house, was disposed, spite of the still unsolved enigma, to regard the whole matter rather as a strange adventure than a misfortune. âThe next day was to undeceive me bitterly. Going into the street at the time of the second breakfast, I saw two large travelling-carriages before the door of the next house. As I was about to ask one of the slaves who held the horses the object of these preparations, Heliodorus and the two young girls crossed the threshold. The Sicilian greeted me and said that he was on his way, with Hero and Lydia, to bid me farewell. Hero, who, as I knew, was a little tyrant, had suddenly declared that she detested Tibur from the very bottom of her soul and longed to go back to Rome, so as it was now so late in the season that he, Heliodorus, had no real reason for opposing this wish, he had decided with his usual promptness. âOf course I knew that Heroâs suddenly awakened longing was connected with Olbasanus. She wanted to seek him, learn farther particulars about the strange prophecy, and if possible appease by prayers and sacrifices the hostile powers that opposed our happiness. âEre fifteen minutes had passed the whole party, including old Septimia and some of the household slaves, were seated among the cushions, and preceded by three horsemen, rolling along the road to Rome. âYou will not be surprised, dear Bononius, when I tell you that I, too, left Tibur that very day and returned to the seven-hilled city. With a heavy heart I approached the next morning the superb Hellenic dwelling on the northern side of the Caelian Hill, occupied by Heliodorus. The Sicilian received me cordially and kindly, though with a somewhat anxious air. Seating myself by his side, I learned that Hero seemed to be ill. Shortly after her arrival she had entered her litter, accompanied by Lydia, returning at a late hour with every sign of agitation. Since then she had lain dejectedly on her couch, scarcely answering a question, but gazing fixedly, with a pallid face, into vacancy. Once she had burst into violent sobs, her whole frame shaken by emotion; then increased depression and exhaustion followed until at last, long after midnight, she fell asleep. âOf course I guessed what had happened. Hero had been to Olbasanus and had heard from the soothsayerâs lips the same thing the inscription had predicted. Nay, it seemed as if the manner of this confirmation had been far more terrible and demoniac than the first warning by the page from the book of the god Amun. I was utterly at a loss and, stammering my regret in incoherent words, left the house, begging the Sicilian to inform me when his daughterâs health was so far restored that I might repeat my visit without being intrusive. âOn the next evening,â continued Rutilius,--âit was the very Friday we had chosen for the disclosure of our secret, but in my excitement I had entirely forgotten Heliodorusâ birthday--I received a few lines from Hero that almost drove me to despair. ââWe must part,â she wrote, âpart forever. I had hoped the cruel warning that terrified me at Tibur was only the expression of some hidden resentment which might be appeased. But now I know that the gods themselves bar our way with their destroying curse. I have visited Olbasanus twice: day before yesterday at the dinner hour and yesterday at the commencement of the first vigil. This man--do not doubt it--holds intercourse with the gods, demons, and the dead; he has been given power over all the realms of spirits! I have heard it with these ears, seen it with these eyes! When, after manifold proofs of his omnipotence, I still doubted--alas, only because I shrank from despair--at a sign from the terrible man the goddess of death, Hecate herself, appeared to me in the clouds of the night heavens, and in a voice like the roaring of the storm, repeated the awful words I had read on the page of Amun. We must part, Lucius, not for my sake--oh! how gladly would I bear the curse of blindness, if I might win in you a higher, purer light--but for yours, to whom cruel Hecate predicts death, and for love of my dear father, whose mind is threatened with darkness. Farewell, dear Lucius! May you learn to forget more easily than I!â âThese were the words engraved upon my heart in indelible, torturing characters, as if written by a red-hot stylus. I now learned from my slave Gaipor, that Olbasanus was really considered by thousands of people the most powerful conjurer among all the Chaldeans of the seven-hilled city. Gaipor himself, before I bought him, had been sent to the magician by his mistress, a lady from Neapolis, to enquire about the future, and had beheld with his own eyes, like Hero, the terrible apparition of Hecate, who, surrounded by flames, soared across the starry sky. You know, Caius, I am not very credulous. Iâve often laughed at our augurs[3] and soothsayers, and paid the homage of my sincere respect to that general in the time of the Republic, who when the sacred chickens would not eat, flung them into the sea. But here conviction pressed upon me with such power that I succumbed to its force....â âHecate!â murmured Caius Bononius. âThis marvel was attested to me also, not by one or two persons who had beheld it, but by twenty. Know, Rutilius, that for months I have been reckoning what this Olbasanus accomplishes by means of his league with gods and demons.... But you had not finished your story. Go on, Lucius; but make haste!â âI have finished,â replied the youth. âThereâs only one thing more to add. Amid the dull, heart-corroding grief that mastered me, the desire to visit in the hall of his incantations, the man who had destroyed my future--though with kind intentions--daily became more uncontrollable. I, too, wished to ask the terrible queen of the underworld a question. Every effort to see my beloved Hero again was unavailing. Heliodorus, too, seemed completely transformed--his frank bearing had become so timid and constrained. The impossibility of speaking to Hero, or even Lydia, drove me to carry my desire into execution. Nay, I conquered my repugnance to any contact with the supernatural--and now, oh! Caius, you behold me on my way to Olbasanus, firmly resolved to see with my own eyes what the gods have allotted and at least to bear away the one consolation that lies in the consciousness of immutability and eternally predestined fate.â âOn your way to Olbasanus!â cried Caius Bononius passionately. âWell, then, let us not delay! I, too, am about to seek him. I sent my Glabrio yesterday, and Olbasanus appointed the second hour after sunset....â âYou, too?â asked Lucius in surprise. âYes, I, too--though from different motives, my dear Rutilius. I am a philosopher, you know. For years I have searched and investigated; I am acquainted with the manifold appearances of animate and inanimate nature; I donât believe in this conjurorâs wonderful phantasmagoria. No matter, the testimony of many truthful men lies before us, I cannot doubt that they have faithfully and honestly related what they heard and saw. So a torturing contradiction results. Either I am mistaken in denying, with Pliny and Lucretius, the interference of demons in the affairs of men, or all these truthful people deceive themselves and are the victims of base, unprincipled fraud. Impelled by my curiosity, I am determined, so far as possible, to decide this question one way or another. So come, that I may not miss the hour Olbasanus has appointed.â Lucius Rutilius felt a thrill of joyful fear. A gleam of hope flashed through his soul, for his friendâs words, spite of their measured reserve, expressed strong confidence. âLet us hurry!â he said, trembling with impatience. So the two friends went back into the house, and passing around the Viminal Hill by the side of the Tullian wall, turned towards Olbasanusâ dwelling. FOOTNOTES: [1] The Romans wore the toga on occasions of ceremony. [2] The Romans divided the time from sunset to sunrise into four night-watches (_vigiliae_). [3] Priests paid by the government, who predicted future events. CHAPTER III. Not far from the enormous Baths which the Emperor Diocletian,--as if to atone for preferring to reside in Nicomedia or Salona rather than in Rome,--had had built on the northeastern slope of the Viminal as far as the spot where the height merges into the Quirinal, there stood near the Collina Gate a singular structure, almost recalling in the ponderous splendor of its brilliantly-painted faÃ§ade the royal palaces of Assyria and Persia, yet as fresh and new as if it had just emerged from the hands of architect and workmen, an architectural embodiment of the taste of an age which had a fancy for cleverly imitating the style of by-gone times, not only in the weak creations of a degenerate literature, but in other departments of human activity. True, in this instance it had not been the architectâs whim or his employerâs taste, but a definite, practical purpose that had replaced the simple faÃ§ade of the Roman dwelling by this fantastic luxury of the East. Behind the ponderous pillars adorned with heads of animals, Olbasanus, the Chaldean enchanter and conjuror of evil spirits, the declared favorite of the Roman ladies, practised his mysterious arts,--and thus the exterior of the spacious structure harmonized with the strange events that occurred within. The foreign aspect of the front might be regarded as a preparation for the chosen ones whom Olbasanus permitted to cross the threshold of his secret sanctuary. Lucius Rutilius and Caius Bononius reached the door at the very moment it was opened from within, allowing a tall, thin figure, wrapped in a thick paenula, to pass into the street. Spite of the mild weather, the stranger had drawn over his head the hood worn as a protection from the rain. Stepping a little aside, the two youths made room for the disguised figure. âI ought to know that gait and bearing,â said Lucius Rutilius, looking after the hurrying form; but he vainly strove to recollect. Meantime the porter had not closed the door, but holding a lantern of chased silver with panes of oiled papyrus, admitted the two visitors. Caius Bononius gave him a silver coin and asked if the Chaldean could be seen, according to his appointment. The porter beckoned to one of the seven bearded Ethiopians who, clad in long robes confined around the hips by wide girdles inscribed with strange characters, stood waiting at the entrance of the corridor, and the man thus summoned silently led the new arrivals through the wainscoted ante-room. As he moved forward almost without a sound, the train of his cowl-like robe rustling softly over the floor, holding in his right hand a torch that cast spectral shadows on the countless joints and projections of the masonry, he himself seemed a supernatural being, well calculated to make a mysterious, agitating impression upon sensitive souls. The way led through a double row of short, heavy columns to a staircase whose basalt steps extended downward to a subterranean passage, just high enough to permit a tall man to walk upright under the ragged arch cut in the forms of stalactites. The smoke from the torch floated in horrible shapes along the roof. A heavy, oppressive atmosphere prevailed. On the right and left, in black cavities, lay an endless number of skulls. After a time the corridor turned; a second gallery opened, from which branched a third and fourth. At last the young men lost all idea of the direction in which they were going. Lucius Rutilius thought they must have long since reached the other side of the hill; Caius Bononius, on the contrary, was disposed to believe that the staircase which now led them into a spacious, dimly-lighted room, was not very far from the entrance flight at the end of the pillared corridor. The apartment they entered was a masterpiece in the effective use of architectural, plastic, and decorative ornament. When the Ethiopian had retired with his blazing torch and let down the iron trap-door at the top of the stairs, the two youths at first supposed themselves to be in total darkness. True, a tiny pale-blue flame was burning at the back of the room in a candelabrum about the height of a man; but the rays it shed through the vast chamber were not sufficient to show eyes dazzled by the torch-glare anything more than the glimmering outlines of huge, ponderous masses. By degrees, however, their vision became accustomed to this feeble light, and Caius and Lucius discovered the elliptical arrangements of huge pillars, behind which ran a deep corridor that looked almost black. Only a pallid glimmer between the shadows of the columns showed that on the other side of this corridor extended a wall, following the line of the room within. Twelve of the pillars--that is, one-third of the whole number--which were directly opposite to the entrance, were artistically draped with countless floating black hangings, between which hung all kinds of chains, cords for suspending lamps, and other accessories, carefully arranged in such a manner as not to weaken the impression of height and space. The ceiling of the room was slightly arched, but its construction, owing to the extreme height, could not be distinguished. At the end of the apartment, in front of the candelabrum, was a large square altar, also hung with dark cloth. Tripods, brazen monopodia[4] covered with all kinds of strange utensils, low stools, and various unrecognizable articles were arranged in symmetrical order on both sides. In the centre of the floor lay a rug about thirty feet square, painted or interwoven with mysterious figures; on each corner stood a candlestick even taller than the candelabrum at the end. The young men had about five minutesâ time in which to examine their surroundings by the dim light of the livid flame, then there was a sound like the distant notes of an Aeolian harp and, without their knowing how and whence he came, Olbasanus stood behind the cloth-draped altar. âYou do not come alone, Caius Bononius!â he said, in a musical voice. âNo matter--I know. Most mortals cherish scruples about approaching, relying solely on their own strength, the rooms where the gods are to reveal themselves directly and indirectly. Let your companion, whoever he may be, also draw near; his quiet, devout presence will not disturb the Chaldeanâs work.â âYou are mistaken, Olbasanus,â replied Caius Bononius, âthe person accompanying me is the one who longs to address a question to the goddess. I, Caius Bononius, only sent my messenger to you in behalf of this youth; for, I confess, I never felt a desire to lift the veil from the future.â âI am mistaken,â replied Olbasanus. âThat is the lot of all human beings, and mine also, so long as I speak to you only as a feeble and perishable man. The favor of the gods, when I appeal to them, first casts into my soul the light that renders any error impossible. Well! Olbasanus is disposed to grant your wish, though as a man he cannot understand what could induce you to use this evasion.â âThe reasons are of small importance,â replied Bononius. âThen you probably desire to have your companionâs name remain concealed from the prophet?â Caius Bononius exchanged a hasty glance with his friend, then turning to Olbasanus, replied: âIf it is agreeable to you, yes!â The Chaldean seemed to hesitate a few seconds. âGreater power is required of the magicianâs art when the questioner conceals his name,â he said slowly; âbut since you earnestly desire....â âWe beseech it!â replied Bononius. The Chaldean now came with measured pace from behind the altar. âGranted!â he said solemnly. Then he stretched out his hand, in which gleamed a small ivory wand. Instantly the spacious room glowed with a light as bright as that of day. Lamps not only burned in all the candelabra--but even between the pillars flames seemed to spring from the ground; shallow vessels appeared in which jets of light blazed steadily. The two youths were almost blinded by the spectacle of this transformation. Lucius pressed his hand to his brow as if bewildered; Caius stood motionless, apparently scrutinizing, considering, examining. At last a smile of satisfaction flitted over his face. He seemed to have found the solution of this enigma, while Rutilius was still enthralled by the impression the miracle produced. âApproach,â said the Chaldean in sonorous tones. âStranger, what do you desire to know?â Again the youths exchanged a glance; then Rutilius said: âI would fain learn what the gods have allotted to me, in case I fulfil the most momentous and important design of my life.â Olbasanus delayed his answer as before. At last he replied: âI fear that is more vague than the gods permit. Can you not put your question more clearly; mention, without reserve, the design of which you speak?â Rutilius felt Bononius secretly touch his arm. âNo,â he said quietly. âI beg you to try whether an answer cannot be obtained, even without a more exact definition.â Olbasanus looked upward. A ray like a flash of lightning darted down. âGranted,â he said, turning to Rutilius. âBy all the terrors of the nether world, you are a favorite of the gods; they bestow such marked kindness only on the chosen ones whom they wish to bless. They usually punish distrust of their interpreter by perpetual silence.â The two youths were growing more excited every instant; Lucius, because the Chaldeanâs grave, dignified manner seemed a warrant for the earnestness and truth of what he was about to announce; Caius Bononius, because he was greatly disappointed,--he had been perfectly sure the magician would say that Luciusâ wish was not allowable. Olbasanus now touched the altar with his wand. A clear note, like that produced by striking metal, echoed through the room, and a boy clad in white entered through the curtains at the right. He carried a brazier filled with red-hot coals, which he placed on one of the brass stools beside Olbasanus. âBring in the victim,â said the Chaldean. The lad withdrew. Olbasanus seized a shovel, filled it with burning coals and carried it to one of the tripods, on which he carefully spread them, then returning to the altar raised his hands. âHecate!â he said in a hollow tone, âMistress of the Nether World, Princess of Darkness and Shadows, Ruler of Demons and Departed Spirits, omnipotent, awful goddess! Neither primeval fate, nor any of the higher gods opposes what we design. So I implore thee to graciously grant what Olbasanus timidly whispers. Disclose the future to this youth, quench his thirst for the unfathomable, fill his eyes with clear vision, and teach him what ghosts and demons from east to west impart to thee. If thou art disposed to favor him who, like so many hundred others, appeals to thee, stir thy sacred element; let thy spirit fan the fiery flame and animate it with thy immortal breath!â After these words he advanced a few steps to the tripod and gazed intently at the glowing coals. Lucius and Caius had also approached. Suddenly the bits of coal began to move slowly. There was a surging and seething, as if the force of some unknown vitality pervaded the blazing brands, until at last the movements grew weaker and finally ceased. The Chaldean stepped back, folded his arms, and bowed. The white-robed boy now appeared, leading a black lamb by a rope that glistened like silver. Binding the animal firmly to the altar, he approached the two youths and offered them an onyx dish. His attitude was unmistakable. Lucius took some gold coins from the purse hanging at his belt and placed them in the vessel. The boy thanked him and again retired behind the curtain. Olbasanus, holding his magic wand in his right hand and pressing the left on his heart, lowered his eyes, saying to Lucius Rutilius: âKneel, my son. According to ancient custom we will slaughter a black animal to the goddess of the Under World. Pray that the holy rite may succeed! The entrails of the beast, inspired by Hecateâs divine breath, will announce to us what we are striving to know--not in mysterious symbols, which require interpretation, but in plain characters that are familiar to human eyes. Victim of Hecate, die!â He raised the wand over his head. The black lamb fell as if struck by lightning. Directly after, two attendants on the sacrificial rites appeared--pallid youths clad in Greek chitons and Persian trousers, with gay kerchiefs bound about their heads. âStranger,â--Olbasanus turned to Lucius,--âapproach and touch the animal which has succumbed to the attack of my helpful demons.â Lucius Rutilius, who was growing more timid and faint-hearted every moment, advanced. The animalâs limbs were already stiff. As the youth grasped the woolly fleece, the lambâs head fell back, showing the glazed eyes. The attendants removed the rug from the altar-slab and laid the victim on it; while Lucius Rutilius held the beastâs forefoot clasped in his left hand, one of the youths gave the Chaldean the knife. The lamb was opened and Olbasanus, muttering all sorts of magic formulas, removed the heart and the liver. The next moment the animal was taken away and the altar cleansed from the blood by large linen cloths dyed black. Olbasanus held the heart and liver in his outstretched left hand until the slaves had put a brazen plate on the altar, then laying the entrails on the metal, he waved his wand and said to Lucius: âApproach and read!â At these words a sound like the roll of thunder echoed through the room. Lucius Rutilius, with a throbbing heart, bent over the plate. There, in the centre of the still-smoking liver, appeared in distinct Greek letters: ÎÎÎÎÎ¤ÎÎ£--Death. The young patrician staggered back. âDeath!â he murmured, as if benumbed. Caius Bononius had also advanced to read the large, somewhat irregular characters of the prophecy. Panting for breath, he gnawed his lips, frowned, and clenched his fist, as if he needed some physical means to help him resist the impression of this incomprehensible miracle. He acknowledged to himself that he lacked any explanation for it; yet his clear, unprejudiced reason rebelled against what his eyes could not deny. He touched the writing with his finger--it did not wipe off. That Olbasanus had not written it himself, either before or while he placed the liver on the metal plate, Caius Bononius could swear by all the gods. Already a troubled âIf it should be true?â was darting through his mind, when glancing aside he detected the almost imperceptible smile with which the magician was watching the sceptical examination of the inscription. To the young manâs penetration this smile contained a singular meaning. It was not the lofty expression of pity and divinely-bestowed power, which in the full possession of its sacred might looks condescendingly down upon the bewildered doubter; but the crafty smile of the Greek who has succeeded in defrauding his foe of a piece in the game of draughts, or the daring adventurer who has accomplished a bold deed and successfully effaced every trace of his action. Thus, in this strange fashion, the philosopher, where logic left him in the lurch, drew fresh power of resistance from the domain of feeling; the instinct that led him to consider the affair trivial because the person was suspicious. âDo you still doubt, Caius?â whispered Lucius with quivering lips. âCome; I know enough now. How I shall bear it remains in the hands of the gods.â âI doubt more than ever,â replied Bononius. âThe day will come when I shall unravel this mystery. Now, I beseech you, donât desert me and above all yourself and your hopes so unceremoniously. Put more questions to him, ask for other signs! They say he makes the goddessâs voice speak from a skull; and Heliodorusâ daughter herself wrote to you that the magician brought Hecateâs flaming form from the night-heavens. Outweigh his marvels with gold, but let him do what he can, for the sake of truth and the prosperity of your happy future. I now long more than ever to behold--and be able to despise--all his arts.â âYou are blaspheming, Caius!â said the startled Lucius. âSuppose the terrible goddess, the destroyer of my life, should punish you!â âPunish me? For what? If it _is_ she, she ought to be grateful to me for revealing the abuse of her name; but it is not, otherwise she would have dragged yonder fellow into the eternal gulf long ago.â A pause ensued. Olbasanus seemed to be secretly gloating over the impression his prophecy had produced on the two young men, for he imagined that Caius Bononiusâs whispered words were the expression of wondering anxiety. âThe Mistress of Night has prophesied death to me,â Rutilius at last began. âBut one thing still weighs on my mind. May I be permitted to question farther?â âQuestion,â replied Olbasanus. âThen I would fain know whether this destiny can be averted by no sacrifice, no deed of expiation. If it is in your power, let me learn this. Implore the goddess to pronounce the oracle to the questioner in her own terrible voice.â As before the Chaldean looked upward; as before lightning flashed; and raising his wand he exclaimed: âGranted!â Again he drew from the altar the mysterious metallic sound that summoned the white-robed boy. At an unintelligible order from the Chaldean, the lad went to a monopodium that stood near and took from it a little casket set with gems, which he placed beside the magician. Then the onyx vessel again appeared, and Lucius Rutiliusâs gold coins fell rattling within. Directly after the dark curtain between the two pillars behind the altar was drawn aside, revealing a semicircular niche lighted by a bluish lamp. The wizard took from the casket a small vessel, whose contents he burned on the brazier of coals. A fragrant smoke rose to the ceiling, and at the same moment all the lights went out except the bluish lamp, whose glimmering rays showed a grinning skull on the floor of the niche. Olbasanus beckoned to the questioner. Resting both hands on the altar, Lucius Rutilius was to gaze into the ghostly niche and hear the decree of the terrible goddess. As Caius Bononius also wished to see and hear, he, too, was obliged to grasp the edge of the altar with his right hand. âBe silent and vanish, ye spirits and demons,â the Chaldean now began in a mysterious tone. âBe silent and vanish, for Hecate, the Inscrutable, will herself speak to this creature of the dust through the symbol of her omnipotence, the skull on the floor of her sanctuary. The fleshless, brainless skeleton, once the seat of thought, the extinct lamp of a long-forgotten human life, will serve the Invisible One for an abode when she rises from the depths of the nether-world. Announce to me, Omnipotent One, has the breath of thy divine life entered this mouldering shell?â A hollow, horrible: âThou sayest it,â echoed from the lofty forehead of the skull. Lucius Rutilius started violently. Caius Bononius thought himself deceived in the direction from which the voice came, and leaning forward listened breathlessly. Olbasanus had bowed his face upon the altar, as if the presence of the immortal goddess bent his head in timid reverence. Now he slowly rose. âBe merciful unto us, Thou Mistress of all!â he said, extending his hands towards the niche as if imploring protection. âThis youth desires to know whether the destiny thy sternness predicts is as inevitable as a decree of fate, and if not--what he must do to avert the terrible doom.â After a pause the voice again echoed from the skull: âHis fate is inevitable if he executes what he has planned,â came from the horrible cavity in a whisper so distinct that even Bononius could no longer doubt. âIn resignation lies the sole salvation of his life. This, Hecate, who removes all that her breath has touched, announces to him.â With these words a terrible peal of thunder resounded through the hall. The skull in the niche began to stir, and--incredible marvel--grow smaller, like a cloud in the evening sky which gradually melts into nothing. The two young men gazed fixedly at the mysterious phenomenon. Two minutes more, and the skull had entirely vanished from the shining floor--it had not sunk into the earth, but, as it were, fallen to pieces, blown away, dissolved in smoke like a phantom. When Caius Bononius looked up, he saw his friend lying apparently lifeless on the altar steps. âIt is all over,â he murmured, pale with horror, as Bononius touched him on the shoulder. For a time Caius left the sorrowing youth to his despair. Olbasanus, who was probably accustomed to such scenes, waited silently a few steps off. âLucius,â the young sage began after a little hesitation, âconsider only one thing! The gods, if they exist, must be regarded as the incarnation of everything that is sublime. But the nobler, purer, and therefore more akin to the gods a manâs nature is, the more decidedly he is repelled by the horrible and ghostly. The very idea of divinities, even of a deity ruling the realm of death, forbids us to believe incidents such as we have just witnessed to be the expression of their will. I, too, cannot guess this
{'title': 'The Chaldean Magician by Ernst Eckstein', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}