_The Reign of the Sword_
[Sidenote: The Track of Invasion]
At the close of a weary day we reached our final station, upon the hill
of Scopas, seven furlongs from Jerusalem. Bitter memory was busy with
me there. From the spot on which I flung myself in heaviness of heart,
huddled among a crowd of miserable captives, and wishing only that the
evening gathering over me might be my last, I had once looked upon the
army of the oppressors marching into my toils and exulted in the secure
glories of myself and my country.
But the prospect now beneath the eye showed only the fiery track of
invasion. The pastoral beauty of the plain was utterly gone. The
innumerable garden-houses and summer dwellings of the Jewish nobles,
gleaming in every variety of graceful architecture, among vineyards and
depths of aromatic foliage, were leveled to the ground; and the gardens
were turned into a sandy waste, cut up by trenches and military works
in every direction. In the midst rose the great Roman rampart, which
Titus, in despair of conquering the city by the sword, drew round it,
to extinguish its last hope of provisions or reenforcements—a hideous
boundary, within which all was to be the sepulcher.
I now saw Jerusalem only in her expiring struggle.[43] Others have given
the history of that most memorable siege. My knowledge was limited
to the last hideous days of an existence long declining, and finally
extinguished in horrors beyond the imagination of man.
[Sidenote: A Fight in a Tempest]
I knew her follies, her ingratitude, her crimes; but the love of the city
of David was deep in my soul; her lofty privileges, the proud memory of
those who had made her courts glorious, the sage, the soldier, and the
prophet, lights of the world, to which the boasted illumination of the
heathen was darkness, filled my spirit with an immortal homage. I loved
her then—I love her still.
To mingle my blood with that of my perishing country was the first wish
of my heart. But I was under the rigor of the confinement inflicted on
the Jewish prisoners. My rank was soon known; but while it produced
offers of new distinction from my captors, it increased their vigilance.
To every temptation I gave the same denial, and occupied my hours
in devices for escape. Meanwhile I saw with terror that the wall of
circumvallation was closing, and that a short period must place an
impassable barrier between me and the city.
I was aroused at midnight by the roaring of one of those tempests which
sometimes break in so fiercely upon an Eastern summer. The lightning
struck the tower in which I was confined, and I found myself riding on a
pile of ruins. Escape, in the midst of a Roman camp, seemed as remote as
ever. But the storm which shook walls made its way at will among tents,
and the whole encampment was broken up. A column of infantry passed where
I was extricating myself from the ruins. They were going to reenforce
the troops in the trenches, against the chance of an attack during
the tempest. I followed them. The night was terrible. The lightning
that blazed with frightful vividness, and then left the sky to tenfold
obscurity, alone led us through the lines. The column was too late, and
it found the besieged already mounted upon the wall of circumvallation,
and flinging it down in huge fragments. The assault and defense were
alike desperate. At the moment of our arrival the night had grown pitchy
dark, and the only evidence that men were round me was the clang of arms.
[Sidenote: Salathiel Rescues Constantius]
A sudden flash showed me that we had reached the foot of the rampart.
The besieged, carried away by their native impetuosity, poured down in
crowds. Their leader, cheering them on, was struck by a lance and fell.
The sight rallied the Romans. I felt that now or never was the moment
for my escape. I rushed in front, and called aloud my name. At the voice
the wounded leader uttered a cry which I well knew. I caught him from
the ground. A gigantic centurion darted forward and grasped my robe.
Embarrassed with my burden, I was on the point of being dragged back; the
centurion’s sword glittered over my head. With my only weapon, a stone, I
struck him a furious blow on the forehead. The sword fell from his grasp;
I seized it, and keeping the rest at bay, and in the midst of shouts from
my countrymen, leaped the trench, with the nobler trophy in my arms—I had
rescued Constantius!
Jerusalem was now verging on the last horrors. I could scarcely find
my way through her ruins. The noble buildings were destroyed by
conflagration and the assaults of the various factions. The monuments of
our kings and tribes were lying in mutilation at my feet. Every man of
former eminence was gone. Massacre and exile had been the masters of the
higher ranks; and even the accidental distinctions into which the humbler
were thrown by the few past years, involved a fearful purchase of public
hazard. Like men in an earthquake, the elevation of each was only a sign
to him of the working of an irresistible principle of ruin. But the most
formidable characteristic was the change wrought in the popular mind.
A single revolution may be a source of public good, but a succession of
great political changes is always fatal, alike to public and private
virtue. The sense of honor dies in the fierce pressures of personal
struggle. Humanity dies in the sight of hourly violences. Conscience
dies in the conflict where personal safety is so often endangered that
its preservation at length usurps the mind. Religion dies where the
religious man is so often the victim of the unprincipled. Violence and
vice are soon found to be the natural instruments of triumph in a war of
the passions; and the more relentless atrocity carries the day, until
selfishness—the mother of treachery, rapine, and carnage—is the paramount
principle. Then the nation perishes, or is sent forth in madness and
misery, an object of terror and infection, to propagate evil through the
world.
[Sidenote: The Wrecks of Pillage]
The very features of the popular physiognomy were changed. The natural
vividness of the countenance was there, but hardened by habitual
ferocity. I was surrounded by a multitude, in each of whom I was
compelled to see the assassin. The keen eye scowled with cruelty; the
cheek wore the alternate flush and paleness of desperate thoughts. The
hurried gatherings, the quick quarrel, the loud blasphemy, told me the
infuriate temper that had fallen, for the last curse, on Jerusalem.
Scarcely a man passed me of whom I could not have said: “There goes one
from a murder or to a murder.”
But even more open evidences startled me, accustomed as I was to scenes
of military violence. I saw men stabbed in familiar greetings in the
streets; mansions set on fire and burned in the face of day, with their
inmates screaming for help, and yet unhelped; hundreds slain in rabble
tumults, of which no one knew the origin. The streets were covered with
the wrecks of pillage, sumptuous furniture plundered from the mansions of
the great, and plundered for the mere love of ruin; mingled with the more
hideous wrecks of man—unburied bodies, left to whiten in the blast or to
be torn by the dogs.
Three factions divided Jerusalem, even while the Roman battering-rams
were shaking her colossal towers; three armies fought night and day
within the city. Streets undermined, houses battered down, granaries
burned, wells poisoned, the perpetual shower of death upon each other
from the roofs, made the external hostility trivial; and the Romans
required only patience to have been bloodless masters of a city which yet
they would have found only a tomb of its people.
[Illustration: “I had rescued Constantius.”
[_see page 355._
Copyright, 1901, by Funk & Wagnalls Company, N. Y. and London.]
[Sidenote: Salathiel Apostrophizes]
I wandered day by day, an utter stranger, through Jerusalem. All the
familiar faces were gone. At an early period of the war, many of the
higher ranks, foreseeing the event, had left the city; at a later, my
victory over Cestius, by driving back the enemy, had given a free passage
to a crowd of others. It was at that time remarked that the crowd were
chiefly Christians, and a singular prophecy of their Master was declared
to be the warning of their escape. It is certain that of His followers,
including many even of our priests and learned men, scarcely one
remained.[44] They said that the evil day, menaced by the divine Wisdom,
through Moses (may he rest in glory!) was come; that the death of their
Master was the consummate crime; and that the Romans, the predicted
nation of destroyers, the people “of a strange speech,” flying on “eagle
wings from the ends of the earth,” were already commissioned against a
land stained with the blood of the Messiah.
Fatally was the word of the great prophet of Israel accomplished;
fearfully fell the sword, to smite away root and branch; solemnly, and
by a hand which scorned the strength of man, was the deluge of ruin let
loose against the throne of David. And still through almost two thousand
years, the flood of desolation is at the full; no mountain-top is seen
rising above; no spot is left clear for the sole of the Jewish foot; no
dove returns with the olive.
Eternal King, shall this be forever? Wilt Thou utterly reject the
children of him whom thy right hand brought from the land of the
idolater? Wilt Thou forever hide Thy glory from the tribes whom it led
through the burning wilderness? Wilt Thou never raise the broken kingdom
of Thy servant Israel? Still we wander in darkness, the tenants of a
prison, whose chains we feel at every step; the scoff of the idolater,
the captive of the infidel. Have we not abided without king or priest, or
ephod or teraphim, “many days”—when are those days to be at an end?
Yet is not the captivity at last about to close? Is not the trumpet at
the lip to summon Thy chosen? Are not the broken tribes now awaiting
but Thy command to come from the desert, from the dungeon, from the
mine, like the light from darkness? I gaze upon the stars and think,
countless and glorious as they are, such shall yet be thy multitude and
thy splendor, people of the undone! The promise of the King of Kings is
fulfilling, and even now, to my withered eyes, to my struggling prayer,
to the deeper agonies of a supplication that no tongue can utter, there
is a vision and an answer. On the flint, worn by kneeling, I hear the
midnight voice; and weeping, wait for the day that will come, tho heaven
and earth shall pass away.