THE PLACE OF SACRIFICE
Suddenly Aziel, looking up from his reverie, saw the Phœnician bowing
before him, cap in hand.
“May the Prince live for ever,” he said, “yet if he suffer melancholy
to overcome him thus, his life, however long, will be but sad.”
“I was only thinking, Metem,” answered Aziel with a start.
“Of the lady Elissa, whom you rescued, Prince? Ah! I guessed as much.
She is beautiful, is she not—I have never seen the equal of those
dreamy eyes and that mysterious smile—and learned also, though myself,
in a woman I prefer the beauty without the learning. It is a pity now
that she should chance to be a priestess of our worship, for that will
not please the holy Issachar whom, I fear, Prince, you find a stern
guide for the feet of youth.”
“Your business, merchant?” broke in Aziel.
“I crave your pardon, Prince,” answered the Phœnician, spreading out
his hands in deprecation. “I struck a good bargain for my wares this
morning, and drank wine to seal it, therefore, let me be forgiven if I
have spoken too freely in your presence, Prince. This is my business:
Yonder in the temple they celebrate a service which it is lawful for
strangers to witness, and as the opportunity is rare, I thought that,
having heard something of our mysteries in the grove last night, you
might wish to see the office. If this be so, I am come to guide you.”
“Aziel’s first impulse was to refuse to go; indeed, the words of
dismissal were on his lips when another purpose entered his mind. For
this once he would look upon these abominations and learn what part
Elissa played in them, and thus be cured for ever of the longings that
had seized him.
“What is the ceremony?” he asked.
“A sacrifice for the recovery of the lady Baaltis who is sick, Prince.”
“And what is the sacrifice?” asked Aziel.
“A dove, as I am told,” was the indifferent answer.
“I will come with you, Metem.”
“So be it, Prince. Your retinue awaits you at the gate.”
At the main entrance to the palace Aziel found his guard and other
servants gathered there to escort him. With them was Issachar, whom he
greeted, asking him if he knew the errand upon which they were bent.
“I do, Prince; it is to witness the abomination of a sacrifice of these
heathens.”
“Will you then accompany me there, Issachar?”
“Where my lord goes I go,” answered the Levite gravely. “Moreover,
Prince, if you have your reasons for wishing to see this devil-worship,
I may have mine.”
Then they set out, Metem guiding them. At the north gate of the temple,
which was not more than a yard in width, the Phœnician spoke to the
guards on duty, who drew back to let them pass. In single file, for the
passages were too narrow to allow of any other means of progression,
they threaded the tortuous and mazy paths of the great building,
passing between huge walls built of granite blocks laid without mortar,
till at length they reached a large open space. Here the ceremony had
already begun. Almost in the centre of this space, which was paved with
blocks of granite, stood two conical towers, the larger of which
measured thirty feet in height and the smaller about half as much.
These towers, also built of blocks of stone, were, as Metem informed
them, sacred to and emblematical of the gods El and Baaltis. In front
of them was a platform surmounted by a stone altar, and between them,
built in a pit in the ground, burned a great furnace of wood. All the
centre of the enclosure was occupied by the marshalled ranks of the
priests and priestesses. Without this sacred ring stood the closely
packed masses of spectators, amongst whom Aziel and his following were
given place, though some of the more pious worshippers murmured audibly
at the admission of these Jews.
When they entered, the companies of priests and priestesses were
finishing a prayer, the sentences of which they chanted alternately
with strange effect. In part it was formal, and in part an improvised
supplication to the protecting gods to restore health to that woman or
high-priestess who was known as the lady Baaltis. The prayer ended, a
beautiful bold-faced girl advanced to an open space in front of the
altar, and with a sudden movement threw off her white robe, revealing
herself to the spectators in a many-coloured garment of gauze, through
which her fair flesh gleamed.
The black hair of this woman was adorned with a coronet of scarlet
flowers and hung loose about her; her feet and arms were naked, and in
each hand she held a knife of bronze. Very slowly she began to dance,
her painted lips parted as though to speak, and her eyes, brightened
with pigments, turned up to heaven. By degrees her movements grew more
rapid, till at length, as she whirled round, her long locks streamed
out straight upon the air and the crown of flowers looked like a
scarlet ring. Suddenly the bronze knife in her right hand flashed, and
a spot of red appeared above her left breast; then the knife in the
left hand flashed, and another spot appeared over the right breast. At
each stroke the multitude cried, “_Ah!_” as with one voice, and then
were silent.
Now the maddened dancer, ceasing her whirlings, leapt high into the
air, clashing the knives above her head and crying, “Hear me, hear me,
Baaltis!”
Again she leapt, and this time the answer that came from her lips was
spoken in another voice, which said, “I am present. What seek you?”
A third time the priestess leapt, replying in her own voice, “Health
for thy servant who is sick.” Then came the answer in the second
voice—“I hear you, but I see no sacrifice.”
“What sacrifice would’st thou, O Queen? A dove?”
“Nay.”
“What then, Queen?”
“One only, the first-born child of a woman.”
As this command, which they supposed to be divine and from above,
issued out of the lips of the gashed and bleeding Pythoness, the
multitude that hitherto had listened in perfect silence, shouted aloud,
while the girl herself, utterly exhausted, fell to the earth swooning.
Now the high priest of El, who was named the Shadid, none other indeed
than the husband of her who lay sick, sprang upon the platform and
cried:—
“The goddess has spoken by the mouth of her oracle. She who is the
mother of all demands one life out of the many she has given, that the
Lady Baaltis, who is her priestess upon earth, may be recovered of her
sickness. Say, who will lay down a life for the honour of the goddess,
and that her regent in this land may be saved alive?”
Now—for all this scene had been carefully prepared—a woman stepped
forward, wearing the robe of a priestess, who bore in her arms a
drugged and sleeping child.
“I, father,” she cried in a shrill, hard voice, though her lips
trembled as she spoke. “Let the goddess take this child, the
first-fruit of my body, that our mother the Lady Baaltis may be cured
of her sickness, and that I, her daughter, may be blessed by the
goddess, and through me, all we who worship her.” And she held out the
little victim towards him.
The Shadid stretched out his arms to take it, but he never did take it,
for at that moment appeared upon the platform the tall and bearded
figure of Issachar clad in his white robes.
“Hold!” he cried in a loud, clear voice, “and touch not the innocent
child. Spawn of Satan, would you do murder to appease the devils whom
you worship? Well shall they repay you, people of Zimboe. Oh! mine eyes
are open and I see,” he went on, shaking his thin arms above his head
in a prophetic frenzy. “I see the sword of the true God, and it flames
above this city of idolaters and abominations. I see this place of
sacrifice, and I tell you that before the moon is young again it shall
run red with the blood of you, idol worshippers, and of you, women of
the groves. The heathen is at your gates, ye followers of demons, and
my God sends them as He sends the locusts of the north wind to devour
you like grass, to sweep you away like the dust of the desert. Cry then
upon El and Baaltis, and let El and Baaltis save you if they can. Doom
is upon you; Azrael, angel of death, writes his name upon your
foreheads, every one of you, giving your city to the owls, your bodies
to the jackals, and your souls to Satan——”
Thus far the priests and the spectators had listened to Issachar’s
denunciations in bewildered amazement not unmixed with fear. Now with a
roar of wrath they awoke, and suddenly he was dragged from the platform
by a score of hands and struck down with many blows. Indeed, he would
then and there have been torn to pieces had not a guard of soldiers,
knowing that he was Sakon’s guest and in the train of the prince Aziel,
snatched him from the maddened multitude, and borne him swiftly to a
place of safety without the enclosure.
While the tumult was at its height, a Phœnician, who had arrived in the
temple breathless with haste, might have been seen to pluck Metem by
the sleeve.
“What is it?” Metem asked of the man, who was his servant.
“This: the lady Baaltis is dead. I watched as you bade me, and, as she
had promised to do, in token of the end, her woman waved a napkin from
the casement of that tower where she lies.”
“Do any know of this?”
“None.”
“Then say no word of it,” and Metem hurried off in search of Aziel.
Presently he found him seeking for Issachar in company with his guards.
“Have no fear, Prince,” Metem said, in answer to his eager questions,
“he is safe enough, for the soldiers have borne the fool away. Pardon
me that I should speak thus of a holy man, but he has put all our lives
in danger.”
“I do not pardon you,” answered Aziel hotly, “and I honour Issachar for
his act and words. Let us begone from this accursed place whither you
entrapped me.”
Before Metem could reply a voice cried, “Close the doors of the
sanctuary, so that none can pass in or go out, and let the sacrifice be
offered.”
“Listen, Prince,” said Metem, “you must stay here till the ceremony is
done.”
“Then I tell you, Phœnician,” answered Aziel, “that rather than suffer
that luckless child to be butchered before my eyes I will cut my way to
it with my guards, and rescue it alive.”
“To leave yourself dead in place of it,” answered Metem sarcastically;
“but, see, a woman desires to speak with you,” and he pointed to a girl
in the robe of a priestess, whose face was hidden with a veil, and who,
in the tumult and confusion, had worked her way to Aziel.
“Prince,” whispered the veiled form, “I am Elissa. For your life’s sake
keep still and silent, or you will be stabbed, for your words have been
overheard, and the priests are mad at the insult that has been put upon
them.”
“Away with you, woman,” answered Aziel; “what have I to do with a girl
of the groves and a murderess of children?”
She winced at his bitter words, but said quietly:—
“Then on your own head be your blood, Prince, which I have risked much
to keep unshed. But before you die, learn that I knew nothing of this
foul sacrifice, and that gladly would I give my own life to save that
of yonder child.”
“Save it, and I will believe you,” answered the prince, turning from
her.
Elissa slipped away, for she saw that the priestesses, her companions,
were reforming their ranks, and that she must not tarry. When she had
gone a few yards, a hand caught her by the sleeve, and the voice of
Metem, who had overheard something of this talk, whispered in her ear:—
“Daughter of Sakon, what will you give me if I show you a way to save
the life of the child, and with it that of the prince, and at the same
time to make him think well of you again?”
“All my jewels and ornaments of gold, and they are many,” she answered
eagerly.
“Good; it is a bargain. Now listen: The lady Baaltis is dead; she died
a few minutes since, and none here know it save myself and one other,
my servant, nor can any learn it, for the gates are shut. Do you be,
therefore, suddenly inspired—of the gods—and say so, for then the
sacrifice must cease, seeing that she for whom it was to be offered is
dead. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” she answered, “and though the blasphemy bring on me the
vengeance of Baaltis, yet it shall be dared. Fear not, your pay is
good,” and she pressed forward to her place, keeping the veil wrapped
about her head till she reached it unobserved, for in the general
confusion none had noticed her movements.
When the noise of shouting and angry voices had at length died away,
and the spectators were driven back outside the sacred circle, the
priest upon the platform cried:—
“Now that the Jew blasphemer has gone, let the sacrifice be offered, as
is decreed.”
“Yea, let the sacrifice be offered,” answered the multitude, and once
more the woman with the sleeping child stepped forward. But before the
priest could take it another figure approached him, that of Elissa,
with arms outstretched and eyes upturned.
“Hold, O priest!” she said, “for the goddess, breathing on my brow,
inspires me, and I have a message from the goddess.”
“Draw near, daughter, and speak it in the ears of men,” the priest
answered wondering, for he found it hard to believe in such
inspiration, and indeed would have denied her a hearing had he dared.
So Elissa climbed the platform, and standing upon it still with
outstretched hands and upturned face, she said in a clear voice:—
“The goddess refuses the sacrifice, since she has taken to herself her
for whom it was to have been offered—the Lady Baaltis is dead.”
At this tidings a groan went up from the people, partly of grief for
the loss of a spiritual dignitary who was popular, and partly of
disappointment because now the sacrifice could not be offered. For the
Phœnicians loved these horrible spectacles, which were not, however,
commonly celebrated by daylight and in the presence of the people.
“It is a lie,” cried a voice, “but now the Lady Baaltis was living.”
“Let the gates be opened, and send to see whether or no I lie,” said
Elissa, quietly.
Then for a while there was silence while a priest went upon the errand.
At length he was seen returning. Pushing his way through the crowd, he
mounted the platform, and said:—
“The daughter of Sakon speaks truth; alas! the lady Baaltis is dead.”
Elissa sighed in relief, for had her tidings proved false she could
scarcely have hoped to escape the fury of the crowd.
“Ay!” she cried, “she is dead, as I told you, and because of your sin,
who would have offered human sacrifice in public, against the custom of
our faith and city and without the command of the goddess.”
Then in sullen silence the priests and priestesses reformed their
ranks, and departed from the sanctuary, whence they were followed by
the spectators, the most of them in no good mood, for they had been
baulked of the promised spectacle.