WOE, WOE TO JERUSALEM
Two more years went by, two dreadful, bloody years. In Jerusalem the
factions tore each other. In Galilee let the Jewish leader Josephus,
under whom Caleb was fighting, do what he would, Vespasian and his
generals stormed city after city, massacring their inhabitants by
thousands and tens of thousands. In the coast towns and elsewhere
Syrians and Jews made war. The Jews assaulted Gadara and Gaulonitis,
Sebaste and Ascalon, Anthedon and Gaza, putting many to the sword. Then
came their own turn, for the Syrians and Greeks rose upon them and
slaughtered them without mercy. As yet, however, there had been no
blood shed in Tyre, though all knew that it must come. The Essenes, who
had been driven from their home by the Dead Sea and taken refuge in
Jerusalem, sent messengers to Miriam warning her to flee from Tyre,
where a massacre was being planned; warning her also not to come to
Jerusalem, which city they believed to be doomed, but to escape, if
possible over sea. Nor was this all, for her own people, the
Christians, besought her to fly for her life’s sake with them to the
city of Pella, where they were gathering from Jerusalem and all Judæa.
To both Miriam answered that what her grandsire did, that she must do.
If he fled, she would fly; if he stayed at Tyre, she would stay; if he
went to Jerusalem, she would go; for he had been good to her and she
had sworn that while he lived she would not desert him. So the Essene
messengers went back to Jerusalem, and the Christian elders prayed with
her, and having blessed her and consigned her to the care of the Most
High and His Son, their Lord, departed to Pella, where, as it was
fated, through all those dreadful times not a hair of their heads was
touched.
When she had parted from them, Miriam sought out her grandfather, whom
she found pacing his chamber with a troubled air.
“Why do you look so sad, Miriam?” he asked. “Have some of your friends
warned you that new sorrows are afoot?”
“Yes, grandfather,” and she told him all.
“I do not believe them,” he said passionately. “Say, do you? Where is
their authority? I tell you that we shall triumph. Vespasian is now
Emperor in Rome, and there will forget this little land; and the rest,
those enemies who are of our own house and those without it, we will
conquer and kill. The Messiah will come, the true Messiah. Many signs
and wonders declare that he is at hand. Ay! I myself have had a vision
concerning him. He will come, and he will conquer, and Jerusalem shall
be great and free and see her desire upon her enemies. I ask—where is
your authority for these croakings?”
Miriam drew a roll from her robe and read: “But when ye see Jerusalem
compassed with armies, then know that her desolation is at hand. Then
let them which are in Judæa flee unto the mountains; and let them which
are in the midst of her depart out; and let not them that are in the
country enter therein. For these are days of vengeance, that all things
that are written may be fulfilled. Woe to them that are with child and
to them that give suck in those days! for there shall be great distress
upon the land and wrath unto this people. And they shall fall by the
edge of the sword, and shall be led captive into all the nations; and
Jerusalem shall be trodden down of the Gentiles until the times of the
Gentiles be fulfilled.”
Benoni listened patiently until she had done. Then he answered with
contempt:
“So says the book of your Law, but mine tells me otherwise. Well,
child, if you believe it and are afraid, begone with your friends, the
Christians, and leave me to meet this storm alone.”
“I do believe it,” she answered quietly, “but I am not afraid.”
“That is strange,” he said, “since you must then believe also that you
will come to a cruel death, which has terrors for the young and fair.”
“Not so, grandfather, for this same writing promises that in these
troubles not one of us Christians shall perish. It is for you that I
fear, not for myself, who will go where you go, and bide where you
bide. Therefore, once more, and for the last time, I pray you to be
wise and fly—who otherwise must be slain”; and as Miriam said the words
her blue eyes filled with tears.
Benoni looked at her and for a moment his courage was shaken.
“Of your book I take no account,” he said, “but in the vision of your
pure spirit I am tempted to believe. Perhaps the things that you
foresee will happen, so, child, fly. You will not lack an escort and I
can give you treasure.”
She shook her head. “I have said that I will not go without you.”
“Then I fear that you here must bide, for I will not leave my wealth
and home, even to save my life, and still less will I desert my people
in their holy war. Only, Miriam, if things fall out ill for us,
remember that I entreated you to depart, and do not reproach me.”
“That I shall never do,” she answered, smiling, and coming to the old
man kissed him tenderly.
So they abode on in Tyre, and a week later the storm burst.
For many days it had not been safe for Jews to show themselves in the
streets of the city, since several who crept out about their business,
or to fetch water or provisions, had been set upon and beaten to death
by the mob, stirred up to the work by Roman emissaries. This time
Benoni had employed in putting his house, which was part of an ancient
fortress that had stood many a siege, into a state of defence, and in
supplying it with an ample store of victuals. Also he sent messengers
to Caleb, who was said to be in command of the Jewish force at Joppa,
telling him of their peril. Because it was so strong many of the
principal Jews in Tyre, to the number of over a hundred indeed, had
flocked into Benoni’s palace-fortress, together with their wives and
children, since there was no other place in their power in the town
which could be so easily defended. Lastly, in the outer courts and
galleries were stationed fifty or more faithful servants and slaves who
understood the use of arms.
Thus things remained, the Syrians threatening them through the gates or
from the windows of high houses, and no more, till one night Miriam was
awakened by a dreadful sound of screaming. She sprang from her bed and
instantly Nehushta was at her side.
“What happens?” she gasped as she dressed herself hastily.
“Those Syrian dogs attack the Jews,” answered Nehushta, “on the
mainland and in the lower city. Come to the roof, whence we can see
what passes,” and hand in hand they ran to the sea-portico and up its
steep steps.
The dawn was just breaking, but looking from the walled roof they had
no need of its light, since everywhere in the dim city below and in
Palætyrus on the mainland, houses flared like gigantic torches. In
their red glare they could see the thousands of the attackers dragging
out their inmates to death, or thrusting them back into the flames,
while the night was made horrible with the shouts of the maddened mob,
the cries of the victims and the crackling roar of burning houses.
“Oh! Christ have mercy on them,” sobbed Miriam.
“Why should He?” asked Nehushta. “They slew Him and rejected Him; now
they pay the price He prophesied. May He have mercy on us, His
servants.”
“He would not have spoken thus,” said Miriam indignantly.
“Nay, but justice speaks. Those who take the sword shall perish by the
sword. Even so have these Jews done to the Greeks and Syrians in many
of the cities—they who are blind and mad. Now it is their hour, and
mayhap ours. Come, lady, these are no sights for you, though you might
do well to learn to bear them, since if you escape you may see many
such. Come, and if you wish we will pray for these Jews, especially for
their children, who are innocent, and for ourselves.”
That day at noon, most of the poorer and least protected Jews of the
city having been killed, the Syrians began their attack upon the
fortified palace of Benoni. Now it was that the defenders learned that
they had to deal with no mere rabble, but with savage hordes, many
thousands strong, directed by officers skilled in war. Indeed these men
might be seen moving among them, and from their armour and appearance
it was easy to guess that they were Romans. This, in fact, was the
case, since Gessius Florus, the wicked, and after him other officers,
made it part of their policy to send Romans to stir up the Syrians
against the Jews and to assist them in their slaughter.
First an attack was made upon the main gates, but when it was found
that these were too strong to be taken easily, the assailants retreated
with a loss of a score of men shot by the defenders from the wall. Then
other tactics were adopted, for the Syrians, possessing themselves of
the neighbouring houses, began to gall the garrison with arrows from
the windows. Thus they drove them under cover, but did little more,
since the palace was all of marble with cemented roofs, and could not
be fired with the burning shafts they sent down upon it.
So the first day passed, and during the night no attack was made upon
them. When dawn came they learned the reason, for there opposite to the
gates was reared a great battering-ram; moreover, out at sea a huge
galley was being rowed in as close to their walls as the depth of water
would allow, that from her decks the sailors might hurl stones and
siege arrows by means of catapults and thus break down their defences
and destroy them.
Then it was that the real fight began. The Jews posted on the roof of
the house poured arrows on the men who strove to work the ram, and
killed many of them, till they were able to push the instrument so
close that it could no longer be commanded. Now it got to work and with
three blows of the great baulk of timber, of which the ram was
fashioned, burst in the gates. Thereon the defenders, headed by old
Benoni himself, rushed out and put those who served it to the sword;
then before they could be overcome, retreated across the ditch to the
inner wall, breaking down the wooden bridge behind them. Now, since the
ram was of no further use, as it could not be dragged through the
ditch, the galley, that was anchored within a hundred paces, began to
hurl huge stones and arrows at them, knocking down the walls and
killing several, including two women and three children.
Thus matters went on till noon, the besiegers galling them with their
arrows from the land side and the galley battering them from the sea,
while they could do little or nothing in return, having no engines.
Benoni called a council and set out the case, which was desperate
enough. It was evident, he said, that they could not hold out another
day, since at nightfall the Syrians would cross the narrow protecting
ditch and set up a battering-ram against the inner wall. Therefore,
they must do one of two things—sally out and attempt to cut their way
through and gain open country, or fight on and at the last kill the
women and children and rush out, those that were left of them, to be
hacked down by the besieging thousands. As the first plan gave no hope,
since, cumbered as they were with helpless people, they could not
expect to escape the city, in their despair they decided on the second.
All must die, therefore they would perish by each other’s hands. When
this decision was known, a wail went up from the women and the children
began to scream with fright, those of them who were old enough to
understand their doom.
Nehushta caught Miriam by the arm.
“Come to the highest roof,” she said; “it is safe from the stones and
arrows, and thence, if need be, we can hurl ourselves into the water
and die an easy death.”
So they went and crouched there, praying, for their case was desperate.
Suddenly Nehushta touched Miriam and pointed to the sea. She looked and
saw another galley approaching fast as oars and sails could bring her.
“What of it?” she asked heavily. “It will but hasten the end.”
“Nay,” replied Nehushta, “this ship is Jewish; she does not fly the
Eagles, or a Phœnician banner. Behold! the Syrian vessel is getting up
her anchors and preparing for fight.”
It was true enough, for now the oars of the Syrian shot out and she
forged ahead towards the newcomer. But just then the current caught
her, laying her broadside on, whereon the Jewish ship, driven by the
following wind, shifted her helm and, amidst a mighty shouting from sea
and shore, drove down upon her, striking her amidships with its beak so
that she heeled over. Then there was more tumult, and Miriam closed her
eyes to shut out the horrid sight.
When she opened them again the Syrian galley had vanished, only the
water was spotted with black dots which were the heads of men.
“Gallantly done!” screamed Nehushta. “See, she anchors and puts out her
boats; they will save us yet. Down to the water-gate!”
On their way they met Benoni coming to seek them, and with him won the
steps which were already crowded with fugitives. The two boats of the
galley drew near and in the bow of the first of them stood a tall and
noble-looking figure.
“It is Caleb,” said Miriam, “Caleb who has come to save us.”
Caleb it was indeed. At a distance of ten paces from the steps he
halted his boat and called aloud:
“Benoni, Lady Miriam and Nehushta, if you still live, stand forward.”
They stood forward.
“Now wade into the sea,” he cried again, and they waded out until the
water reached their armpits, when they were seized one by one and
dragged into the boat. Many followed them and were also dragged in,
until that boat and the other were quite full, whereon they turned and
were rowed to the galley. Having embarked them, the two boats went back
and again were filled with fugitives, for the most part women and
children.
Again they went, but as they laded for the third time, the ends of
ladders appeared above the encircling walls of the steps, and Syrians
could be seen rushing out upon the portico, whence they began to lower
themselves with ropes. The end of that scene was dreadful. The boats
were full, till the water indeed began to overflow their gunwales, but
many still remained upon the steps or rushed into the water, women
screaming and holding their children above their heads, and men
thrusting them aside in the mad rush for life. The boats rowed off,
some who could swim following them. For the rest, their end was the
sword. In all, seventy souls were rescued.
Miriam flung herself downwards upon the deck of the galley and burst
into tears, crying out:
“Oh! save them! Can no one save them?” while Benoni seated at her side,
the water running from his blood-stained garment, moaned:
“My house sacked; my wealth taken; my people slain by the Gentiles!”
“Thank God Who has saved us,” broke in old Nehushta, “God and Caleb;
and as for you, master, blame yourself. Did not we Christians warn you
of what was to come? Well, as it has been in the beginning, so it shall
be in the end.”
Just then Caleb appeared before them, proud and flushed with triumph,
as he well might be who had done great things and saved Miriam from the
sword. Benoni rose and, casting his arms about his neck, embraced him.
“Behold your deliverer!” he said to Miriam, and stooping down, he drew
her to her feet.
“I thank you, Caleb. I can say no more,” she murmured; but in her heart
she knew that God had delivered her and that Caleb was but His
instrument.
“I am well repaid,” answered Caleb gravely. “For me this has been a
fortunate day, who on it have sunk the great Syrian galley and rescued
the woman—whom I love.”
“Oath or no oath,” broke in Benoni, bethinking him of what he had
promised in the past, “the life you saved is yours, and if I have my
way you shall take her and such of her heritage as remains.”
“Is this a time to speak of such things?” said Miriam, looking up. “See
yonder,” and she pointed to the scene in progress on the seashore.
“They drive our friends and servants into the sea and drown them,” and
once more she began to weep.
Caleb sighed. “Cease from useless tears, Miriam. We have done our best
and it is the fortune of war. I dare not send out the boats again even
if the mariners would listen to my command. Nehushta, lead your lady to
the cabin and strip her of these wet garments lest she take cold in
this bitter wind. But first, Benoni, what is your mind?”
“To go to my cousin Mathias, the high priest at Jerusalem,” answered
the old man, “who has promised to give me shelter if in these days any
can be found.”
“Nay,” broke in Nehushta, “sail for Egypt.”
“Where also they massacre the Jews by thousands till the streets of
Alexandria run with their blood,” replied Caleb with sarcasm; adding,
“Well, to Egypt I cannot take you who must bring this ship to those who
await her on this side of Joppa, whence I am summoned to Jerusalem.”
“Whither and nowhere else I will go,” said Benoni, “to share in my
nation’s death or triumph. If Miriam wills it, I have told her she can
leave me.”
“What I have said before I say again,” replied Miriam, “that I will
never do.”
Then Nehushta took her to the cabin, and presently the oars began to
beat and the great galley stood out of the harbour, till in the silence
of the sea the screams of the victims and the shouts of the victors
died away, and as night fell naught could be seen of Tyre but the flare
from the burning houses of the slaughtered Jews.
Save for the sobs and cries of the fugitives who had lost their friends
and goods the night passed in quiet, since, although it was winter, the
sea was calm and none pursued their ship. At daybreak she anchored, and
coming from the cabin with Nehushta, in the light of the rising sun
Miriam saw before her a ridge of rocks over which the water poured, and
beyond it a little bay backed by a desolate coast. Nehushta also saw
and sighed.
“What is this place?” asked Miriam.
“Lady, it is the spot where you were born. On yonder flat rock lay the
vessel, and there I burned her many years ago. See those blackened
timbers half buried in the sand upon the beach; doubtless they are her
ribs.”
“It is strange that I should return hither, and thus, Nou,” said Miriam
sighing.
“Strange, indeed, but mayhap there is a meaning in it. Before you came
in storm to grow to womanhood in peace; now, perchance, you come on a
peaceful sea to pass through womanhood in storm.”
“Both journeys began with death, Nou.”
“As all journeys end. Blackness behind and blackness in front, and
between them a space of sunshine and shadow—that is the law. Yet have
no fear, for dead Anna, who had the gift of prophecy, foretold that you
should live out your life, though with me, whose days are almost done,
it may be otherwise.”
Miriam’s face grew troubled.
“I fear neither life nor death, Nou, who am willing to meet either as
may chance. But to part with you—ah! that thought makes me fear.”
“I think that it will not be yet awhile,” said Nehushta, “for although
I am old, I still have work to do before I lay me down and sleep. Come,
Caleb calls us. We are to disembark while the weather holds.”
So Miriam entered the boat with her grandfather and others who had
escaped, for the faces of all of them were set towards Jerusalem, and
was rowed to the shore over that very rock where first she drew her
breath. Here they found Jews who had been watching for the coming of
the galley. These men gave them a kind reception, and, what they needed
even more, food, fire and some beasts of burden for their journey.
When all were gathered on the beach Caleb joined them, having handed
over the galley to another Jew, who was to depart in her with those
that waited on the shore, upon some secret mission of intercepting
Roman corn-ships. When these men heard what he had done at Tyre, at
first they were inclined to be angry, since they said that he had no
authority to risk the vessel thus, but afterwards, seeing that he had
succeeded, and with no loss of men, praised him and said that it was a
very great deed.
So the galley put about and sailed away, and they, to the number of
some sixty souls, began their journey to Jerusalem. A little while
later they came to a village, the same where Nehushta had found the
peasant and his wife, whose inhabitants, at the sight of them, fled,
thinking that they were one of the companies of robbers that hunted the
land in packs, like wolves, plundering or murdering all they met. When
they learnt the truth, however, these people returned and heard their
story in silence, for in those days such tales were common enough. As
it came to an end a withered, sunburned woman advanced to Nehushta,
and, laying one hand upon her arm, pointed with the other at Miriam,
saying:
“Tell me, friend, is that the babe I suckled?”
Then Nehushta, knowing her to be the nurse who had travelled with them
to the village of the Essenes, greeted her, and answered “Yea,”
whereupon the woman cast her arms about Miriam and embraced her.
“Day by day,” she said, “have I thought of you, little one, and now
that my eyes have seen you grown so sweet and fair, I care not—I whose
husband is dead and who have no children—how soon they close upon the
world.” Then she blessed her, and called upon her angel to protect her
yonder in Jerusalem, and found her food and an ass to ride; and so they
parted, to meet no more.
As it happened, they were fortunate upon that journey, since, with the
armed guard of twenty men who accompanied Caleb, they were too strong a
party to be attacked by the wandering bands of thieves, and, although
it was reported that Titus and his army had already reached Cæsarea
from Egypt, they met no Romans. Indeed, their only enemy was the cold,
which proved so bitter that when, on the second night, they camped upon
the heights over against Jerusalem, having no tents and fearing to
light fires, they were obliged to walk about till daylight to keep
their blood astir. Then it was that they saw strange and terrible
things.
In the clear sky over Jerusalem blazed a great comet, in appearance
like a sword of fire. It was true that they had seen it before at Tyre,
but never before had it shown so bright. Moreover, there it had not the
appearance of a sword. This they thought to be an ill omen, all of them
except Benoni, who said that the point of the sword stretched out over
Cæsarea, presaging the destruction of the Romans by the hand of God.
Towards dawn, the pale, unnatural lustre of the comet faded, and the
sky grew overcast and stormy. At length the sun came up, when, to their
marvelling eyes, the fiery clouds took strange shapes.
“Look, look!” said Miriam, grasping her grandfather by the arm, “there
are armies in the heavens, and they fight together.”
They looked, and, sure enough, it seemed as though two great hosts were
there embattled. They could discern the legions, the wind-blown
standards, the charging chariots, and the squadrons of impetuous horse.
The firmament had become a battle-ground, and lo! it was red as with
the blood of the fallen, while the air was full of strange and dreadful
sounds, bred, perhaps, of wind and distant thunder, that came to them
like the wail of the vanquished and the dull roar of triumphant armies.
So terrified were they at the sight, that they crouched upon the ground
and hid their faces in their hands. Only old Benoni standing up, his
white beard and robes stained red by the ominous light, cried out that
this celestial scene foretold the destruction of the enemies of God.
“Ay!” said Nehushta, “but which enemies?”
The tall Caleb, marching on his round of the camp, echoed:
“Yes, which enemies?”
Suddenly the light grew, all these fantastic shapes melted into a red
haze, which sank down till Jerusalem before them seemed as though she
floated in an ocean of blood and fire. Then a dark cloud came up and
for a while the holy Hill of Zion vanished utterly away. It passed, the
blue sky reappeared, and lo! the clear light streamed upon her marble
palaces and clustered houses, and was reflected from the golden roofs
of the Temple. So calm and peaceful did the glorious city look that
none would have deemed indeed that she was already nothing but a
slaughter-house, where factions fought furiously, and day by day
hundreds of Jews perished beneath the knives of their own brethren.
Caleb gave the word to break their camp, and with bodies shivering in
the cold and spirits terrified by fear, they marched across the rugged
hills towards the Joppa gate, noting as they passed into the valley
that the country had been desolated, for but little corn sprang in the
fields, and that was trodden down, while of flocks and herds they saw
none. Reaching the gate they found it shut, and there were challenged
by soldiers, wild-looking men with ferocious faces of the army of Simon
of Gerasa that held the Lower City.
“Who are you and what is your business?” these asked.
Caleb set out his rank and titles, and as these did not seem to satisfy
them Benoni explained that the rest of them were fugitives from Tyre,
where there had been a great slaughter of the Jews.
“Fugitives always have money; best kill them,” said the captain of the
gate. “Doubtless they are traitors and deserve to die.”
Caleb grew angry and commanded them to open, asking by what right they
dared to exclude him, a high officer who had done great service in the
wars.
“By the right of the strong,” they answered. “Those who let in Simon
have to deal with Simon. If you are of the party of John or of Eleazer
go to the Temple and knock upon its doors,” and they pointed mockingly
to the gleaming gates above.
“Has it come to this, then,” asked Benoni, “that Jew eats Jew in
Jerusalem, while the Roman wolves raven round the walls? Man, we are of
no party, although, as I think, my name is known and honoured by all
parties—the name of Benoni of Tyre. I demand to be led, not to Simon,
or to John, or to Eleazer, but to my cousin, Mathias, the high priest,
who bids us here.”
“Mathias, the high priest,” said the captain; “that is another matter.
Well, this Mathias let us into the city, where we have found good
quarters, and good plunder; so as one turn deserves another, we may as
well let in his friends. Pass, cousin of Mathias the high priest, with
all your company,” and he opened the gate.
They entered and marched up the narrow streets towards the Temple. It
was the hour of the day when all men should be stirring and busy with
their work, but lo! the place was desolate—yes, although so crowded, it
still was desolate. On the pavement lay bodies of men and women slain
in some midnight outrage. From behind the lattices of the windows they
caught sight of the eyes of hundreds peeping at them, but none gave
them a good-morrow, or said one single word. The silence of death
seemed to brood upon the empty thoroughfares. Presently it was broken
by a single wailing voice that reached their ears from so far away that
they could not catch its meaning. Nearer and nearer it came, till at
length in the dark and narrow street they caught sight of a thin,
white-bearded figure, naked to the waist as though to show the hideous
scars and rod-weals with which its back and breast were scored, still
festering, some of them. This was the man who uttered the cries, and
these were the words he spoke:
“A voice from the East! a voice from the West! a voice from the four
Winds! a voice against Jerusalem and against the Temple! a voice
against the bridegrooms and the brides! a voice against the whole
people! Woe, woe to Jerusalem!”
Now he was upon them, yes, and marching through them as though he saw
them not, although they shrank to one side and the other of the narrow
street to avoid the touch of this ominous, unclean creature who
scarcely seemed to be a man.
“Fellow, what do these words mean?” cried Benoni in angry fear. But,
taking no heed, his pale eyes fixed upon the heavens, the wanderer
answered only, “Woe, woe to Jerusalem! Woe to you who come up to
Jerusalem!”
So he passed on, still uttering those awful words, till at length they
lost sight of his naked form and the sound of his crying grew faint and
died away.
“What a fearful greeting is this!” said Miriam, wringing her hands.
“Ay!” answered Nehushta, “but the farewell will be worse. The place is
doomed and all in it.”
Only Caleb said, striving to look unconcerned:
“Have no fear, Miriam. I know the man. He is mad.”
“Where does wisdom end and madness begin?” asked Nehushta.
Then they went on towards the gates of the Temple, always through the
same blood-stained, empty streets.