I heard of another cave also associated with Æsculapius in the peninsula of Ragusa Vecchia itself, and as there is a strange fascination about caverns, with or without legendary associations, I hastened to explore it. A corps of observation was soon organised among the natives, so that, guided by a party armed with candles and torches, I presently found myself at the opening of the cavern. To arrive at the actual entrance you have to drop a few feet into a crevice of the rocks, which are overgrown with a profusion of beautiful true maidenhair fern.[324] We then penetrated through a narrow mouth, and the light of the torches revealed a spacious rock chamber with a rapidly descending floor. The descent was now rather risky; the men had to feel carefully every step, as the slightest slip sets in motion a miniature avalanche, and pebbles set rolling bound down to an unfathomed pool below, in which several people have been drowned. We were not able to reach the water, but it is quite possible that there exist other once accessible pools, the avenues to which have been blocked up with breccia. If so, this may well have been the cavern from which, in the fourth century, the Epidauritans (whose aqueduct we may suppose had already been cut off by earthquakes or barbarian foes) were wont to obtain their supply of fresh water. In that case I had been exploring the haunts of another most terrific serpent—this time of Christian mythology.
About the year of grace 365—St. Jerome be my witness!—Epidaurus and its inhabitants were in a very bad way.
Now hard-by Epidaurus was a certain cave called Scipum, in which they of that city were wont to draw water. And in this cave a grievous dragon[325] called Boas had taken his abode, and wrought much slaughter both of men and cattle. And it came to pass that St. Hilarion entered the city, and when he saw that they of that place quaked and feared, for the dragon was of huge and monstrous size, he bade them be of good heart, for that he would slay the fiend. Now Epidaurus was yet pagan. Therefore St. Hilarion gat him to the mouth of the cavern, and having made the sign of the holy cross, he cried with a loud voice and saith unto the monster, ‘Come forth.’ But when the dragon Boas heard the voice of the holy man, then quailed his heart within him, and he came forth. Then saith St. Hilarion unto the dragon, ‘Follow me.’ And the dragon followed him, and he went on foot till he came to a place called ‘the mills,’ which is distant from the city three miles and fifty paces. And when they were come there, St Hilarion saith unto them of Epidaurus that went with him, ‘Make now a pyre that we may consume the monster and his works.’ And the pyre being now made, St. Hilarion saith unto the dragon Boas, ‘Get thee on to the pyre.’ And the dragon gat him on to the pyre. Then was fire set to the pyre that the dragon was utterly consumed. But they of Epidaurus, when they saw what salvation was wrought for them by the holy man, rejoiced in spirit. And at that spot which is called ‘the mills’ they built a temple to the honour and praise of St. Hilarion. And once in every year, at a set season, there went thither much people from Epidaurus, and offered worship unto St. Hilarion, singing pagan hymns, and before sundown returned to their own city.
So much for the true and faithful legend of St. Hilarion; and if anyone doubts its veracity, let him know that the mills are to be seen unto this day, and that the village hard-by them, S. Ilarione, preserves the name[326] of the saintly dragon-slayer, who, I may add, is still held in great veneration by the Ragusan church. But how interesting is this personified triumph of Christianity over the Cadmean and Æsculapian serpent-worship of earlier Epidaurus!—how suggestive is this annexation of local mythology by the new religion!
It may be believed that after this miracle the faith grew in Epidaurus, especially when, twenty years afterwards, St. Hilarion followed up his first success by once more appearing as saviour of the city. In the year 385, we are told there was a grievous earthquake, and the waves were piled up like mountains, and threatened to engulf Epidaurus. But the saint graved three crosses in the sand of the seashore, and the ocean, which hearkened not to Cnut, obeyed Hilarion. Christian bishops of Epidaurus are mentioned in the sixth and seventh centuries, and we hear of one nine years before the final overthrow and transplantation of the city. I did not notice any Christian monuments on the site of Epidaurus of Roman date; but I was pleased to find in a cottage of Ragusa Vecchia, built into the interior wall of an upper room, a very beautiful monument of mediæval Christian art, which I have here attempted to represent. It was known to the cottagers as the ‘Bambino,’ and represents the Mother and Child; but the influence of classical art is strongly marked, and though the tenderness of the whole design is Italian, the head of the Virgin might have been mistaken for a heathen goddess.
Virgin and Child.
As early as A.D. 550 the Sclaves had begun to annoy Epidauras, but it was not till the year 656 that the city finally yielded, it is said to a combined attack, on land by the heathen Narentines and Terbunians, and from the sea by Saracen corsairs from Africa. Then it was that the survivors of the Roman population fled to the rocky site on the other horn of the gulf on which Ragusa stands. Every morning the same migration from Old to New Ragusa takes place on a smaller scale. A bevy of bright Canalese market-women, in their clean white crenellated caps, and their more sombre husbands—who, with their black turbans, jackets, and trouser-leggings, look like Turks in mourning—embark before dawn in the broad trabaccolo, that they may sell their fruit and vegetables in the Ragusan market. In their company I will return to Ragusa and her history.
The rock on which the refugees from Epidaurus laid the foundations of what is now Ragusa, is said originally to have been an island, though it is now only a peninsula. Ragusa herself owes her name, according to Constantine Porphyrogenitus,[327] to the Greek word Λαῦ, signifying ‘rock,’ and the fact that the rock on which the original city was built was known long afterwards as ‘Lavve’ is rather favourable to the Byzantine etymology. Thus, both her name and origin are representative of the rôle which the city was to play throughout her earlier history, and to which she owes so much of her greatness. Like ancient Rome, Ragusa began life as an asylum. She was at first a rock of refuge for the survivors from the wrecks of Roman coast-cities of Dalmatia. The fugitives from Epidaurus obtained citizen recruits from those inhabitants of Salona who, when their city was destroyed, did not trust to the walls of Diocletian’s palace for security, or could not find room there. Later on, when the Roman cities that occupied the sites of the present towns of Rizano, Cattaro, Budua, and other places on the Bocche di Cattaro and the Albanian coast, were ravaged by the Saracen corsairs, a new influx of Roman refugees set in to Ragusa.