The Death of the Gods

The army was marching along the left bank of the Euphrates; on the broad plain, level as the sea, and covered with silvery wormwood, not a tree was in sight. On all sides lay grass and sweet-smelling bushes. From time to time, troops of wild asses appeared on the horizon, raising clouds of dust. Ostriches were seen running; and the soldiers used to roast the delicate flesh of the bustard at their camp-fires. Jests and songs lasted till night-fall. The desert received these soldiers, hungry for glory, booty, and blood, with mute caresses, starry nights, gentle dawns and sunsets, night-coolnesses breathing the bitter smell of wormwood. Deeper and deeper they plunged into the solitudes, without meeting the enemy. Hardly had they passed when calm descended on the plain, as on the sea over a sunken ship; and the grass, trampled by the legionaries, lifted up anew its soft spears.

Suddenly the desert became menacing. Clouds hid the sky; rains began; and a soldier watering his horses was killed by lightning. At the end of April came the heats. Soldiers envied their comrades who marched in the shadow of a dromedary or of a wagon. The men of the north, Gauls and Sicambri, began to die of sunstroke. The plains became sad, bare, tufted here and there with scorched grass, and every step sank into the sand. Fierce gusts of wind assailed the army, tearing the standards from their poles, and blowing away tents. Then again a calm was restored which in its strangeness and profundity, seemed to the frightened soldiers more terrible than tempest. Raillery and marching-songs ceased; but the march went on, day after day; and yet they never caught a glimpse of the enemy.