Chapter XXIX: Pons Trajani

“_Ihr Pass, meine Herren! Ihr Pass!_” cried a ferocious Roumanian official, speaking German with an unquestionably foreign accent, as we disembark from the steamer at Szörény.

It is the first time we have been asked to show our passport on the arrival at a frontier since leaving England; but we are now in Roumania, and beyond the pale of Western civilisation.

There is also a strict examination of our luggage here; and whilst these ceremonies are proceeding, numerous beggars arrive upon the scene, who whine and supplicate and show their wounds and hideous deformities, thrusting them--when the size and nature of them permit--through the bars of the gates which shut us in. There is considerable competition in the profession, and it is not easy to see which carries off the palm. There are beggars of all sorts, shapes, and sizes; beggars whose shrunk and shrivelled limbs, bound with ragged and dirty bandages, are suggestive of the malady from which _he_ suffered who lay “at the rich man’s door;” beggars with deformed hands, arms, and legs; beggars with no arms at all; whilst in the distance we catch sight of a wretched specimen of humanity, cantering along on all fours, and whining at the top of his voice, but who, with all his speed, only arrives in the nick of time to add his supplication to that of his brethren for “kreuzers, for the love of Heaven.”

Considerable delay was caused here on account of András having failed to provide himself with a passport. The necessity for his doing so had never occurred to us; but there was so much fuss and palaver made about the matter that we began to think it would either end in his being kept for a time in durance vile, or sent back whence he had come. Since the Treaty of Berlin, Roumania together with Servia has obtained its independence, and no longer owns allegiance to Turkey. The Government, however, of the former province is exceedingly afraid of Russian spies, and is also suspicious of its neighbour Austria. Its frontier regulations with regard to passports are consequently very strict.

The incident above narrated caused no small excitement amongst the bystanders. The gendarmes instantly surrounded us with their bayonets, all of whom were barbarous but handsome-looking fellows dressed in a uniform of coarse grey cloth turned up with white, and wearing black lamb’s wool caps with long peaks hanging down behind; whilst the beggars, suddenly taken off their guard, and forgetting for once their respective infirmities, entirely changed their characters. They no longer whined and wept, but spoke to each other quite cheerily in their natural voices. Arms, legs, and feet which had previously been doubled up or turned the wrong way, now assumed their legitimate position; even the man on “all fours” managed to stand upright, and peer through the gates; so great and absorbing was the interest one and all manifested in the dispute that was taking place within. At length, after much expenditure of lungs on our part, and vociferation and gesticulation on that of the Roumanian officials, we succeeded in making them comprehend the harmless and inoffensive nature of András’s vocation and the precise relation in which he stood to us as our guide, and he was permitted to accompany us across the frontier; for which act of grace I feel sure we were indebted to our having an English passport.

We had already encountered a rather unpleasant episode before landing. András, thinking we might find it difficult to obtain anything to eat here, had thoughtfully laid in a little stock of cold provisions from the steward’s larder; the charge for which was so exorbitant that the two came to high words on the subject. The steward was a German, and the epithet “_Swab_,” and other opprobrious titles of a similar nature, were showered upon him by András, together with the favourite but by no means complimentary Magyar sentence, “_hunczfut a német_,” signifying “thief,” “rogue,” etc.; till, failing to make any impression upon the delinquent by these epithets, he at length appealed to the passengers, declaring before them all that as a Magyar--and here the little man drew himself up to his fullest height--he neither could nor would allow foreigners, much less an _Ángolok_, to be so imposed on. Looking over the bill we certainly did think the steward had been rather over-reaching, having not only charged three florins for a bottle of very ordinary wine, but a florin for a small quantity of biscuits, and other things after the same rate. The public exposure, however, of his exorbitant charges soon brought the recalcitrant steward to reason, who at once deducted half the amount. But the usually calm and even temper of a Magyar once aroused is not easy to subdue, and we began to fear that ere long András would get us into real difficulty, for a third _contretemps_ occurred just as we were at length leaving the custom-house.

Our intention, on arrival at Szörényi, was to hire some sort of conveyance, and, driving to the station of the Bucharest and Orsova line, to leave our luggage there, whilst we made a short excursion to Turnu Severin to see the remains of Trajan’s noblest work, the bridge across the Danube; after which, returning to the station, we purposed picking up our luggage and proceeding to Orsova by train.

The only thing on wheels visible outside the _Douane_ was an indescribably old and battered phaeton, to which a pair of small, lean horses were attached.

We were just about to enter the ancient vehicle, when the driver, in an insolent tone of voice, demanded his fare, viz., five gulden. This, of course, was also a gross imposition, and proved far too much for our guide’s present state of excitability. Finding the driver unwilling to listen to remonstrance, he wrenched the whip out of his hand, and laid it vigorously across his shoulders.

Unaccustomed to take the law into our own hands in so violent a fashion, and dreading the consequences in a country like this, we expostulated with him severely on his behaviour, informing him that if he was no longer able to keep his temper under control he must forthwith leave our service. The little man replied quite calmly, assuring us that, “with all due deference to the august _Ángolok_--his sweet master and mistress”--the mode of reasoning he had adopted in the present instance was not the result of any ebullition of temper whatsoever, but was the only method that ever had the slightest effect upon a Roumanian Jew; and his words proved correct, for our Israelitish Jehu, instead of resenting the assault as we expected, folded his hands, and in the most abject manner begged us to mount, offering to take us for two gulden thirty kreuzers, that being rather less than half the sum he had first demanded.

Contrary to our expectations, no one took the slightest notice of the assault. The delinquent was “only a Jew,” a people cruelly persecuted in Roumania, where the popular feeling against them is scarcely less marked than that which existed in England and other countries in the Middle Ages.

Our luggage deposited in the crazy vehicle, the miserable horses, regardless of holes and ruts, took us up the steep hill at a hand-gallop, during which not only we but our belongings also were more than once threatened with a serious upset.

Having, however, survived the perils and dangers of the way, and seen our _impedimenta_ safely locked up in a little cobwebby office at the station, we drove to Turnu Severin, about a quarter of a mile further down the river, where, climbing a conical mound, upon which still stands a ruined tower of undoubted Roman origin--supposed to have been built by Trajan to defend the passage of the bridge--we threw ourselves down beneath its cool shadow, and partook of our well-earned meal with very _Trojan_ appetites. Beneath us flowed the Danube, at this point more than half a mile broad; while from the “Iron Gate Pass” came the steady but peaceful roar of the cataracts, mingling with the metallic and incessant “clack, clack,” of the _cicadas_ fluttering in the bushes around us. But our leafy retreat proved rather a failure: for mosquitoes of a most venomous species made a violent raid upon us, and, our repast ended, we hastened to the banks of the river, where we were safer from their attacks.

It was just at this point that that noble structure of antiquity, Trajan’s Bridge, was erected, the length of which is said to have been three thousand nine hundred Roman feet--a Roman foot being rather in excess of that of our English measure. Beneath the surface of the water the remains of thirteen truncated piers still exist, which once supported the arches. These piers, which are situated 170 feet apart, are visible at rare intervals when the river is unusually low, seven others being covered with a sandy deposit which in the course of ages has collected round them, and which now forms hillocks in the river’s bed.

A full description of this bridge was written by Dion Cassius, who was Governor of Pannonia during the reign of Hadrian, Trajan’s successor, and who wrote the history of Rome up to the beginning of the first century. Although the greater part of this valuable history has been lost, including that portion of it which described the building of the bridge, an epitome of his writings is still extant containing a short description of this great work, in addition to which it has also been described by Merivale.

This noblest of all Trajan’s achievements, however, was not permitted to be of long duration. Built in A.D. 103, it had virtually ceased to exist in 120, having been destroyed in that year by Hadrian, in order, as he affirmed, to prevent the incursions of barbarians, who might take advantage of the bridge to cross over into the Thracian Provinces. He is, however, generally believed to have been moved to destroy it by a jealous dislike to the architect Apollodorus of Damascus, who erected Trajan’s Column at Rome, as well as the Forum Trajanum, and who when a young soldier in the Roman camp offended the dignity of the Emperor; for, soon after Hadrian’s accession to the throne, he not only overthrew this most ambitious of all Apollodorus’s works, but, on some very slight pretext, caused him to be put to death.

Little exists in the present day above the surface of the water of any interest to the ordinary observer, except the ruined walls on each side rising just above the banks, and which must originally have formed the piers from which the first arches sprang. But how even these shapeless masses of masonry link the past to the present, and bring before us, in living memory, the valour and energy of this great people!

The climate of Europe must have been much colder at that period than now; for we frequently read of Tartars and other barbarian hordes from the surrounding steppes making use of the Danube, in the second century, for the transport from one shore to the other of their infantry, cavalry, and waggons, from which it would appear that the river in winter formed a solid bridge of ice. It seldom freezes now, and even when it does so in exceptionally severe winters the ice lasts only for a very short time.

Not far from Trajan’s Bridge is a hilly promontory belonging to Servia, which stretches out into the Danube, and through which it is proposed to cut a canal to enable ships to pass down the river at low water.

After leaving the banks of the classic stream, we climbed a steep hill through a herd of formidable-looking buffaloes grazing the arid pasture on its slopes, and found ourselves in the town of Turnu Severin, a newly established Roumanian colony situated on the left bank of the river, a mile and a half from the “Iron Gate Pass,” containing extensive docks belonging to the Danube Steam Navigation Company. From this place may be seen, standing on the shore of the river, the Tower of Severus; whilst on the opposite side lies Skela-Gladova, with its Turkish fortifications, and its slender minarets rising above the walls. Twenty years ago Turnu Severin consisted of merely a few houses, but it is now growing quite an important place. On the promenade the beauty and fashion of the town are taking their early evening stroll, dressed in the very extreme of Parisian toilettes, and in skirts so absurdly tight that it is a marvel how they ever get into them; and, as we looked towards the buffaloes with their long horns and outstretched necks, between which and them there existed no fence whatever, we could not help wondering whether, in the event of one of those animals taking it into its head to run after them, the “crack of doom” would immediately supervene to release them from their bondage, or whether the fair ones would double up entirely, and succumb to the attack without making any attempt at flight. Oh, how I longed to see them run! It was evidently with great difficulty that they managed to put one foot before the other, and the simple act of walking appeared to be a laborious process--at least with anything like grace--as they shuffled along in twos and threes, prattling their soft Neo-Latin, and looking at us wonderingly with their long almond-shaped eyes.

We reach the station just as the train from Bucharest draws up to the platform, but its departure is considerably delayed, on account of a search amongst the passengers for a man who was supposed to have stolen three thousand ducats. The Roumanian gendarmes did their very best to look ferocious and important, as they stood at the door of the carriages to prevent egress, whilst others inside were endeavouring to take note of the passengers and find the delinquent, of whom a full description had been telegraphed. But whether he succeeded in eluding the search, or had travelled by some other train, no one seemed to know. At any rate the gendarmes had not the satisfaction of capturing him, and we were permitted to take our seats.

Our only fellow traveller was a Greek priest, an effeminate looking man, with long black hair, which he kept on endeavouring to twist up under his high stiff cap. As we did not know Roumanian we addressed him in Latin; but the only phrase he seemed capable of uttering in that language was “_Non intelligo_.” The priests of the Greek Church are supposed to study theology in Latin; but, as I have elsewhere said, they are very ill-educated men, and I doubt whether he knew much of either one or the other.

At Gladova there is another long delay: two ambassadors are in the train and they must needs have lunch. Extensive preparations have been made for them, and the restaurant is prettily decorated with flowers, whilst waiters in white gloves tear about madly, a young woman in a very pretty costume of red and white, who also waited on the illustrious travellers, being the only person who appeared not to have quite lost her head, and but for whom I suspect they would have had but a sorry chance of any refreshment whatever.

At length we reach our destination and for the third time in the course of the day have not only to show our passports but submit to an examination of luggage.

It was our intention on arriving at Orsova to have gone to the Hotel “_König von Ungarn_;” but the station is some distance from the old town, and the only carriage we found waiting at the place of exit was harnessed to such miserably lean horses, that we could not make up our minds to get into it. Their cheeks had fallen in and their heads were like those of skeletons. Nor was this all: their flanks were bleeding either from ill-usage or friction against the rope-harness, and we could not find it in our hearts to subject the poor creatures to another journey.--So observing a few hundred yards from the station a small one-storied inn, bearing the imposing title, in colossal letters, of “Hôtel Tivoli,” we decided to make it our headquarters, at any rate for the night.

As we leave the station and walk across to the Hôtel Tivoli--which proves on nearer acquaintance to be about the size of a mouse-trap, nothing in connection with it being large but the name--the sun is setting behind the blue mountains which form the boundary of the Danube. Snake-like vapours are ascending from the river, the air is chill and so suggestive of ague that we are glad to take shelter anywhere till twilight is past. In this climate it is dangerous to be out of doors at sunset. Later in the evening, when night may be said to have fairly set in, one may go out with impunity, for then the air is again warm. It is only when the last touch of the sun’s golden finger has faded upon the highest mountain, and those blue shadows have wrapped the earth in their sombre mantle, that that peculiar chill in the air is felt which I have so frequently described, and which is so dangerous to the traveller to encounter.