THE DEATH-STRUGGLE OF ISRAEL
Now the light began to grow, but that morning no sun rose upon the
sight of the thousands who waited for its coming. The whole heaven was
dark with a gray mist that seemed to drift up in billows from the sea,
bringing with it a salt dampness. For this mist Miriam was thankful,
since had the sun shone hotly she knew not how she would have lived
through another day. Already she grew very weak, who had suffered so
much and eaten so little, and whose only drink had been the dew, but
she felt that while the mist hid the sun her life would bide with her.
To others also this mist was welcome. Under cover of it Caleb
approached the gateway, and although he could not ascend it, as the
doors were locked and guarded, he cast on to its roof so cleverly, that
it fell almost at Miriam’s feet, a linen bag in which was a leathern
bottle containing wine and water, and with it a mouldy crust of bread,
doubtless all that he could find, or buy, or steal. Kneeling down,
Miriam loosed the string of the bag with her teeth and devoured the
crust of bread, again returning thanks that Caleb had been moved to
this thought. But from the bottle she could not drink, for her hands
being bound behind her, she was able neither to lift it nor to untie
the thong that made fast its neck. Therefore, as, notwithstanding the
dew which she had lapped, she needed drink sorely and longed also for
the use of her hands to protect herself from the tormenting attacks of
stinging gnats and carrion flies, she set herself to try to free them.
Now the gilt spike that crowned her pillar was made fast with
angle-irons let into the marble and the edge of one of these irons
projected somewhat and was rough. Looking at it the thought came into
Miriam’s mind that it might serve to rub through the cord with which
her hands were bound. So standing with her back to the pillar she began
her task, to find that it must be done little by little, since the
awkward movement wearied her, moreover, her swollen arms chafing
against the marble of the column became intolerably sore. Yet, although
the pain made her weep, from time to time she persevered. But night
fell before the frayed cord parted.
In the mist also the Romans came near to the gate, notwithstanding the
risk, for they were very curious about her, and called to her asking
why she was bound there. She replied in the Latin language, which was
understood by very few of the Jews, that it was because she had rescued
a Roman from death. Before they could speak again those who questioned
her were driven back by a shower of arrows discharged from the wall,
but in the distance she thought that she saw one of them make report to
an officer, who on receipt of it seemed to give some orders.
Meanwhile, also under cover of the mist, the Jews were preparing
themselves for battle. To the number of over four thousand men they
gathered silently in the Court of Israel. Then of a sudden the gates
were thrown open, and among them that of Nicanor. The trumpets blew a
signal and out they poured into the Court of Women, driving in the
Roman guards and outposts as sticks and straws are driven by a sudden
flood. But the legionaries beyond were warned, and locking their
shields together stood firm, so that the Jews fell back from their iron
line as such a flood falls from an opposing rock. Yet they would not
retreat, but fought furiously, killing many of the Romans, until at
length Titus charged on them at the head of a squadron of horse and
drove them back headlong through the gates. Then the Romans came on and
put those whom they had captured to the sword, but as yet they did not
attempt the storming of the gates. Only officers advanced as near to
the wall as they dared and called to the Jews to surrender, saying that
Titus desired to preserve their Temple and to spare their lives. But
the Jews answered them with insults, taunts, and mockery, and Miriam,
listening, wondered what spirit had entered into these people and made
them mad, so that they chose death and destruction rather than peace
and mercy. Then she remembered her strange visions of the night, and in
them seemed to find an answer.
Having repulsed this desperate sally the Roman officers set thousands
of men to work to attempt to extinguish the flaming cloisters, since,
notwithstanding the answer of the Jews, Titus still desired to save the
Temple. As for its defenders, beyond guarding the walls of the Court of
Israel, they did no more. Gathering in such places as were most
protected from the darts and stones thrown by the engines, they
crouched upon the ground, some in sullen silence, some beating their
breasts and rending their robes, while the women and children wailed in
their misery and hunger, throwing dust upon their heads. The Gate of
Nicanor, however, was still held by a strong guard, who suffered none
to approach it, nor did any attempt to ascend to its roof. That Caleb
still lived Miriam knew, for she had seen him, covered with dust and
blood, driven back by the charge of Roman horse up the steps of the
gateway. This, indeed, he was one of the last to pass before it was
closed and barred to keep out the pursuing Romans. After that she saw
no more of him for many a month.
So that day also, the last of the long siege, wore away. At nightfall
the thick mist cleared, and for the last time the rich rays of sunset
shone upon the gleaming roof and burning pinnacles of the Temple and
were reflected from the dazzling whiteness of its walls. Never had it
looked more beautiful than it did in that twilight as it towered, still
perfect, above the black ruins of the desolated city. The clamour and
shouting had died away, even the mourners had ceased their pitiful
cries; except the guards, the Romans had withdrawn and were eating
their evening meal, while those who worked the terrible engines ceased
from their destroying toil. Peace, an ominous peace, brooded on the
place, and everywhere, save for the flames that crackled among the
cedar-wood beams in the roofs of the cloisters, was deep silence, such
as in tropic lands precedes the bursting of a cyclone. To Miriam who
watched, it seemed as though in the midst of this unnatural quiet
Jehovah was withdrawing Himself from the house where His Spirit dwelt
and from the people who worshipped Him with their lips, but rejected
Him in their hearts. Her tormented nerves shuddered with a fear that
was not of the body, as she stared upwards at the immense arch of the
azure evening sky, half expecting that her mortal eyes would catch some
vision of the departing wings of the Angel of the Lord. But there she
could see nothing except the shapes of hundreds of high-poised eagles.
“Where the carcase is there shall the eagles be gathered together,” she
muttered to herself, and remembering that these foul birds were come to
feast upon the bones of the whole people of the Jews and upon her own,
she shut her eyes and groaned.
Then the light died on the Temple towers and faded from the pale slopes
of the mountains, and in place of the wheeling carrion birds bright
stars shone out one by one upon the black mantle of the night.
Once again, setting her teeth because of the agony that the touch of
the marble gave to her raw and swollen flesh, Miriam began to fret the
cords which bound her wrists against the rough edge of the angle-iron.
She was sure that it was nearly worn through, but oh! how could she
endure the agony until it parted? Still she did endure, for at her feet
lay the bottle, and burning thirst drove her to the deed. Suddenly her
reward came, and she felt that her arms were free; yes, numbed, swollen
and bleeding, they fell against her sides, wrenching the stiffened
muscles of her shoulders back to their place in such a fashion that she
well-nigh fainted with the pain. Still they were free, and presently
she was able to lift them, and with the help of her teeth to loose the
ends of the cord, so that the blood could run once more through her
blackened wrists and hands. Again she waited till some feeling had come
back into her fingers, which were numb and like to mortify. Then she
knelt down, and drawing the leather bottle to her, held it between her
palms, while, with her teeth, she undid its thong. The task was hard,
for it was well tied, but at length the knots gave, and Miriam drank.
So fearful was her thirst that she could have emptied the bottle at a
draught, but this she, who had lived in the desert, was too wise to do,
for she knew that it might kill her. Also when that was gone there was
no more. So she drank half of it in slow sips, then tied the string as
well as she was able and set it down again.
Now the wine, although it was mixed with water, took hold of her who
for so long had eaten nothing save a mouldy crust, so that strange
sounds drummed in her ears, and sinking down against the column she
became senseless for a while. She awoke again, feeling somewhat
refreshed and, though her head seemed as though it did not belong to
her, well able to think. Her arms also were better and her fingers had
recovered their feeling. If only she could loose that galling chain,
she thought to herself, she might escape, for now death, however strong
her faith, was very near and unlovely; also she suffered in many ways.
To die and pass quick to Heaven—that would be well, but to perish by
inches of starvation, heat, cold, and cramped limbs, with pains within
and without and a swimming sickness of the head, ah! it was hard to
bear. She knew that even were she free she could not hope to descend
the gateway by its staircase, since the doors were locked and barred,
and if she passed them it would be but to find herself among the Jews
in the vaulted chambers beneath. But, so she thought, perhaps she could
drop from the roof, which was not so very high, on to the paving in
front of the first stair, and then, if she was unhurt, run or crawl to
the Romans, who might give her shelter.
So Miriam tried to undo the chain, only to find that as well might she
hope to pull down the Gate Nicanor with her helpless hands. At this
discovery she wept, for now she grew weak. Well for Miriam was it that
she could not have her wish, for certainly had she attempted to drop
down from the gateway to the marble paving, or even on to the
battlements of the walls which ran up to it on either side, her bones
would have been shattered like the shell of an egg and she must have
perished miserably.
While she grieved thus, Miriam heard a stir in the Court of Israel, and
by the dim starlight saw that men were gathering, to do what she knew
not. Presently, as she wondered, the great gates were opened very
softly and out poured the Jews upon their last sally. Miriam was
witnessing the death-struggle of the nation of Israel. At the foot of
the marble steps they divided, one-half of them rushing towards the
cloister on the right, and the other to that upon the left. Their
object, as it seemed to her, was to slay those Roman soldiers, who, by
the command of Titus, were still engaged in fighting the flames that
devoured these beautiful buildings, and then to surprise the camp
beyond. The scheme was such as a madman might have made, seeing that
the Romans, warned by the sortie of the morning, had thrown up a wall
across the lower part of the Court of Women, and beyond that were
protected by every safeguard known to the science of ancient war. Also
the moment that the first Jew set his foot upon the staircase, watching
sentries cried out in warning and trumpets gave their call to arms.
Still, they reached the cloisters and killed a few Romans who had not
time to get away. Following those who fled, they came to the wall and
began to try to force it, when suddenly on its crest and to the rear
appeared thousands of those men whom they had hoped to destroy, every
one of them wakeful, armed and marshalled. The Jews hesitated, and,
like a living stream of steel, the Roman ranks poured over the wall.
Then, of a sudden, terror seized those unhappy men, and, with a
melancholy cry of utter despair, they turned to flee back to the Court
of Israel. But this time the Romans were not content with driving them
away, they came on with them; some of them even reached the gate before
them. Up the marble steps poured friend and foe together; together they
passed the open gate, in their mad rush sweeping away those who had
stayed to guard it, and burst into the Court of Israel. Then leaving
some to hold the gate and reinforced continually by fresh companies
from the camps within and without the Temple courts, the Romans ran on
towards the doors of the Holy House, cutting down the fugitives as they
went. Now none attempted to stand; there was no fight made; even the
bravest of the Jewish warriors, feeling that their hour was come and
that Jehovah had deserted His people, flung down their weapons and
fled, some to escape to the Upper City, more to perish on the Roman
spears.
A few attempted to take refuge in the Holy House itself, and after
these followed some Romans bearing torches in their hands. Miriam,
watching terrified from the roof of the Gate Nicanor, saw them go, the
torches floating on the dusky air like points of wind-tossed fire. Then
suddenly from a certain window on the north side of the Temple sprang
out a flame so bright that from where she stood upon the gate, Miriam
could see every detail of the golden tracery. A soldier mounted on the
shoulders of another and not knowing in his madness that he was a
destroying angel, had cast a torch into and fired the window. Up ran
the bright, devouring flame spreading outwards like a fan, so that
within some few minutes all that side of the Temple was but a roaring
furnace. Meanwhile the Romans were pressing through the Gate Nicanor in
an unending stream, till presently there was a cry of “Make way! Make
way!”
Miriam looked down to see a man, bare-headed and with close-cropped
hair, white-robed also and unarmoured, as though he had risen from his
couch, riding on a great war-horse, an ivory wand in his hand and
preceded by an officer who bore the standard of the Roman Eagles. It
was Titus itself, who as he came shouted to the centurions to beat back
the legionaries and extinguish the fire. But who now could beat them
back? As well might he have attempted to restrain the hosts of Gehenna
burst to the upper earth. They were mad with the lust of blood and the
lust of plunder, and even to the voice of their dread lord they paid no
heed.
New flames sprang up in other parts of the vast Temple. It was doomed.
The golden doors were burst open and, attended by his officers, Titus
passed through them to view for the first and last time the home of
Jehovah, God of the Jews. From chamber to chamber he passed, yes, even
into the Holy of Holies itself, whence by his command were brought out
the golden candlesticks and the golden table of shewbread, nor, since
God had deserted His habitation, did any harm come to him for that
deed.
Now the Temple which for one thousand one hundred and thirty years had
stood upon the sacred summit of Mount Moriah, went upwards in a sheet
of flame, itself the greatest of the sacrifices that had ever been
offered there; while soldiers stripped it of its gold and ornaments,
tossing the sacred vessels to each other and tearing down the silken
curtains of the shrine. Nor were victims lacking to that sacrifice, for
in their blind fury the Romans fell upon the people who were crowded in
the Court of Israel, and slew them to the number of more than ten
thousand, warrior and priest, citizen and woman and child together,
till the court swam with blood and the Rock of Offering was black with
the dead who had taken refuge there. Yet these did not perish quite
unavenged, for many of the Romans, their arms filled with priceless
spoils of gold and silver, the treasures of immemorial time, sank down
overcome by the heat, and where they fell they died.
From the Court of Israel went up one mighty wail of those who sank
beneath the sword. From the thousands of the Romans went up a savage
shout of triumph, the shout of those who put them to the sword. From
the multitude of the Jews who watched this ruin from the Upper City
went up a ceaseless scream of utter agony, and dominating all, like the
accompaniment of some fearful music, rose the fierce, triumphant roar
of fire. In straight lines and jagged pinnacles the flames soared
hundreds of feet into the still air, leaping higher and ever higher as
the white walls and gilded roofs fell in, till all the Temple was but
one gigantic furnace, near which none could bide save the dead, whose
very garments took fire as they lay upon the ground. Never, was such a
sight seen before; never, perhaps, will such a sight be seen again—one
so awesome, yet so majestic.
Now every living being whom they could find was slain, and the Romans
drew back, bearing their spoil with them. But the remainder of the
Jews, to the number of some thousands, escaped by the bridges, which
they broke down behind them, across the valley into the Upper City,
whence that piercing, sobbing wail echoed without cease. Miriam watched
till she could bear the sight no longer. The glare blinded her, the
heat of the incandescent furnace shrivelled her up, her white dress
scorched and turned brown. She crouched behind the shelter of her
pinnacle gasping for breath. She prayed that she might die, and could
not. Now she remembered the drink that remained in the leathern bottle,
and swallowed it to the last drop. Then she crouched down again against
the pillar, and lying thus her senses left her.
When they came back it was daylight, and from the heap of ashes that
had been the Temple of Herod and the most glorious building in the
whole world, rose a thick cloud of black smoke, pierced here and there
by little angry tongues of fire. The Court of Israel was strewn so
thick with dead that in places the soldiers walked on them as on a
carpet, or to be rid of them, hurled them into the smouldering ruins.
Upon the altar that stood on the Rock of Sacrifice a strange sight was
to be seen, for set up there was an object like the shaft of a lance
wreathed with what seemed to be twining snakes and surmounted by a
globe on which stood a golden eagle with outspread wings. Gathered in
front of it were a vast number of legionaries who did obeisance to this
object. They were offering worship to the Roman standards upon the
ancient altar of the God of Israel! Presently a figure rode before them
attended by a glittering staff of officers, to be greeted with a mighty
shout of “Titus _Imperator_! Titus _Imperator_!” Here on the scene of
his triumph his victorious legions named their general Cæsar.
Nor was the fighting altogether ended, for on the roofs of some of the
burning cloisters were gathered a few of the most desperate of the
survivors of the Jews, who, as the cloisters crumbled beneath them,
retreated slowly towards the Gate Nicanor, which still stood unharmed.
The Romans, weary with slaughter, called to them to come down and
surrender, but they would not, and Miriam watching them, to her horror
saw that one of these men was none other than her grandfather, Benoni.
As they would not yield, the Romans shot at them with arrows, so that
presently every one of them was down except Benoni, whom no dart seemed
to touch.
“Cease shooting,” cried a voice, “and bring a ladder. That man is brave
and one of the Sanhedrim. Let him be taken alive.”
A ladder was brought and reared against the wall near the Gate Nicanor
and up it came Romans. Benoni retreated before them till he stood upon
the edge of the gulf of advancing fire. Then he turned round and faced
them. As he turned he caught sight of Miriam huddled at the base of her
column upon the roof of the gate, and thinking that she was dead, wrung
his hands and tore his beard. She guessed his grief, but so weak and
parched was she, that she could call no word of comfort to him, or do
more than watch the end with fascinated eyes.
The soldiers came on along the top of the wall till they feared to
approach nearer to the fire, lest they should fall through the burning
rafters.
“Yield!” they cried. “Yield, fool, before you perish! Titus gives you
your life.”
“That he may drag me, an elder of Israel, in chains through the streets
of Rome,” answered the old Jew scornfully. “Nay, I will not yield, and
I pray God that the same end which you have brought upon this city and
its children, may fall upon your city and its children at the hands of
men even more cruel than yourselves.”
Then stooping down he lifted a spear which lay upon the wall and hurled
it at them so fiercely, that it transfixed the buckler of one of the
soldiers and the arm behind the buckler.
“Would that it had been your heart, heathen, and the heart of all your
race!” he screamed, and lifting his hands as though in invocation,
suddenly plunged headlong into the flames beneath.
Thus, fierce and brave to the last, died Benoni the Jew.
Again Miriam fainted, again to be awakened. The door that led from the
gate chambers to its roof burst open and through it sped a figure
bare-headed and dishevelled, his torn raiment black with blood and
smoke. Staring at him, Miriam knew the man for Simeon—yes, Simeon, her
cruel judge, who had doomed her to this dreadful end. After him,
gripping his robe indeed, came a Roman officer, a stout man of middle
age, with a weather-beaten kindly face, which in some dim way seemed to
be familiar to her, and after him again, six soldiers.
“Hold him!” he panted. “We must have one of them to show if only that
the people may know what a live Jew is like,” and the officer tugged so
fiercely at the robe that in his struggles to be free, for he also
hoped to die by casting himself from the gateway tower, Simeon fell
down.
Next instant the soldiers were on him and held him fast. Then it was
for the first time that the captain caught sight of Miriam crouched at
the foot of her pillar.
“Why,” he said, “I had forgotten. That is the girl whom we saw
yesterday from the Court of Women and whom we have orders to save. Is
the poor thing dead?”
Miriam lifted her wan face and looked at him.
“By Bacchus!” he said, “I have seen that face before; it is not one
that a man would forget. Ah! I have it now.” Then he stooped and
eagerly read the writing that was tied upon her breast:
_“Miriam, Nazarene and traitress, is doomed here to die as God shall
appoint before the face of her friends, the Romans.”_
“Miriam,” he said, then started and checked himself.
“Look!” cried one of the soldiers, “the girl wears pearls, and good
ones. Is it your pleasure that I should cut them off?”
“Nay, let them be,” he answered. “Neither she nor her pearls are for
any of us. Loosen her chain, not her necklet.”
So with much trouble they broke the rivets of the chain.
“Can you stand, lady?” said the captain to Miriam.
She shook her head.
“Then I needs must carry you,” and stooping down he lifted her in his
strong arms as though she had been but a child, and, bidding the
soldiers bring the Jew Simeon with them, slowly and with great care
descended the staircase up which Miriam had been taken more than sixty
hours before.
Passing through the outer doors into the archway where the great gate
by which the Romans had gained access to the Temple stood wide, the
captain turned into the Court of Israel, where some soldiers who were
engaged in dividing spoil looked up laughing and asked him whose baby
he had captured. Paying no heed to them he walked across the court,
picking his way through the heaps of dead to a range of the southern
cloisters which were still standing, where officers might be seen
coming and going. Under one of these cloisters, seated on a stool and
employed in examining the vessels and other treasures of the Temple,
which were brought before him one by one, was Titus. Looking up he saw
this strange procession and commanded that they should be brought
before him.
“Who is it that you carry in your arms, captain?” he asked.
“That girl, Cæsar,” he answered, “who was bound upon the gateway and
whom you have orders should not be shot at.”
“Does she still live?”
“She lives—no more. Thirst and heat have withered her.”
“How came she there?”
“This writing tells you, Cæsar.”
Titus read. “Ah!” he said, “Nazarene. An evil sect, worse even than
these Jews, or so thought the late divine Nero. Traitress also. Why,
the girl must have deserved her fate. But what is this? ‘Is doomed to
die as God shall appoint before the face of her friends, the Romans.’
How are the Romans her friends, I wonder? Girl, if you can speak, tell
me who condemned you.”
Miriam lifted her dark head from the shoulder of the captain on which
it lay and pointed with her finger at the Jew, Simeon.
“Is that so, man?” asked Cæsar. “Now tell the truth, for I shall learn
it, and if you lie you die.”
“She was condemned by the Sanhedrim, among whom was her own
grandfather, Benoni; there is his signature with the rest upon the
scroll,” Simeon answered sullenly.
“For what crime?”
“Because she suffered a Roman prisoner to escape, for which deed,” he
added furiously, “may her soul burn in Gehenna for ever and aye!”
“What was the name of the prisoner?” asked Titus.
“I do not remember,” answered Simeon.
“Well,” said Cæsar, “it does not greatly matter, for either he is safe
or he is dead. Your robes, what are left of them, show that you also
are one of the Sanhedrim. Is it not so?”
“Yes. I am Simeon, a name that you have heard.”
“Ah! Simeon, here it is, written on this scroll first of all. Well,
Simeon, you doomed a high-born lady to a cruel death because she saved,
or tried to save, a Roman soldier, and it is but just that you should
drink of your own wine. Take him and fasten him to the column on the
gateway and leave him there to perish. Your Holy House is destroyed,
Simeon, and being a faithful priest, you would not wish to survive your
worship.”
“There you are right, Roman,” he answered, “though I should have been
better pleased with a quicker end, such as I trust may overtake you.”
Then they led him off, and presently Simeon appeared upon the gateway
with Miriam’s chain about his middle and Miriam’s rope knotted afresh
about his wrists.
“Now for this poor girl,” went on Titus Cæsar. “It seems that she is a
Nazarene, a sect of which all men speak ill, for they try to subvert
authority and preach doctrines that would bring the world to ruin. Also
she was false to her own people, which is a crime, though one in this
instance whereof we Romans cannot complain. Therefore, if only for the
sake of example it would be wrong to set her free; indeed, to do so,
would be to give her to death. My command is, then, that she shall be
taken good care of, and if she recovers, be sent to Rome to adorn my
Triumph, should the gods grant me such a thing, and afterwards be sold
as a slave for the benefit of the wounded soldiers and the poor.
Meanwhile, who will take charge of her?”
“I,” said that officer who had freed Miriam. “There is an old woman who
tends my tent, who can nurse her in her sickness.”
“Understand, friend,” answered Titus, “that no harm is to be done to
this girl, who is my property.”
“I understand, O Cæsar,” said the officer. “She shall be treated as
though she were my daughter.”
“Good. You who are present, remember his words and my decree. In Rome,
if we live to reach it, you shall give account to me of the captive
lady, Miriam. Now take her away, for there are greater matters to be
dealt with than the fortunes of this girl.”