“TO YOUR TENTS, O ISRAEL!”
During the massacre instigated by Florus, a massacre that numbered no
less than three thousand six hundred victims, Crispus, by nature of the
case, had been compelled to look helplessly on.
Side with the Roman troops he could not; to side with the Jews would
have been unpatriotic. His attempt at mediation met, like that of
Berenice, with an insulting repulse from the procurator. Burning with
indignation, he retired to the Turris Antonia and addressed to his
father a letter describing the disgrace that had been brought upon the
Roman name by Florus, and urging the Legate to come at once with a
legion and restore order in Jerusalem by the only method possible, the
deposition of the wicked procurator. This letter, when finished, he
dispatched to Antioch by the hand of a swift courier.
Florus, having given ample ground for rebellion, proceeded, in
pursuance of the same sinister policy, to take his departure,
withdrawing all his troops save one cohort, and that a divided one,
half being allotted to the Prætorium, and half to Antonia.
Never did the baseness of Florus’ character appear more than in this,
the final act of his official career. He knew that, in the present
excited state of the city, garrisons so slender would offer an
irresistible temptation to the seditious. But what cared he for the
Romans whom he was leaving behind? If the garrisons were massacred,
why, so much the better for his purpose.
As Florus looked back upon the city he was leaving he might have said
with a nobler Roman than himself, “Mischief, thou art afoot; take what
course thou wilt.”[14]
Among the troops ordered to leave Jerusalem upon this occasion was
the Italian Cohort of Rufus, who, however great his dislike of the
procurator, had, as a loyal soldier, no other course than to do as he
was bidden.
Crispus, determined to remain in the city, betook himself to the
Prætorium, and offered his services to its commandant Metilius, who was
glad to welcome any auxiliary, and especially one like Crispus, whose
suggestions for the defense of the palace were not only original, but,
what is more, practicable.
To Metilius’ lament that, owing to the lack of the requisite missiles,
the balistæ and other machines of like character would have to remain
idle, Crispus laughingly replied:
“If it comes to that, we can discharge these statues upon the heads of
the mob.”
He was standing at the time in a magnificent hall decorated with
sculpture, and, happening to cast a casual eye over the marble
masterpieces around him, was so much attracted by one of them that he
walked up to it and examined it with an attention that set Metilius
wondering.
The statue represented a beautiful maiden clothed to the feet in
a graceful stole. Upon the pedestal was sculptured the one word,
_Pythodoris_.
“Pythodoris?” murmured Crispus. “Were not that name graven here I
should have called it Vashti.”
For indeed, the statue, both in face and figure, was so like the Hebrew
maiden that anyone acquainted with her might very well have supposed
that it was intended for no other person.
“Pythodoris?” said Crispus reflectively. “The name is new to me. Who is
she, or perhaps I ought to say, who was she?”
Metilius confessed himself unable to satisfy the curiosity of Crispus.
He, too, had never heard the name.
“This much I know about the statue,” remarked he; “that it is a recent
addition to this gallery, and was, I believe, a gift of King Polemo.”
The introduction of the Pontic king’s name added not a little to
Crispus’ perplexity.
“The lady evidently is, or was, a queen,” observed Metilius, pointing
to the Oriental diadem upon the head of the figure.
Surveying the statue more closely, Crispus saw engraved upon the sandal
in minute letters, ΛΑΣΟΣ ΕΠΟΙΕΙ.
“‘The workmanship of Lasus,’” said he, reading the name of a sculptor
well known at the beginning of the first century. “’Tis fifty years ago
since he died, so we may conclude that this is the image of a queen no
longer living. How to account for her resemblance to Vashti? But,” he
added suddenly, cutting the matter short, “we do wrong to stand musing
here, when there are graver matters to attend to.”
Herein Crispus spoke truly. The seditiously-disposed among the Jews had
noted with secret joy that Florus had left the city all but denuded of
troops. What could the two slender garrisons of three hundred each do
against the whole city? To neglect such a golden opportunity for the
recovery of freedom was a contravening of the will of Elohim, who must
surely have brought about this arrangement for the good of the holy
seed.
Day by day affairs grew more threatening; in the temple-courts and
in the synagogues, fiery Zealots from the mountains, and wild-eyed
prophets from the desert, declared to the credulous multitude that all
the signs of the times pointed to the near advent of the long-promised
Messiah, when the Jewish nation should not only be free, but should
reign supreme over all the children of the earth from the rising of
the sun to the setting thereof.
Vainly did Agrippa and Berenice seek to deter the infatuated populace
from a course certain to end in the ruin of the Jewish state.
“To your tents, O Israel!” was the answer of the Zealots. “What
dealings have we with Cæsar, or what is our portion in Rome?”
* * * * *
It was eventide, and the silver trumpets were sounding the signal for
the closing of the temple-gates, as two figures mounted the stairs
leading to the roof of Solomon’s Colonnade.
The one was Eleazar, the captain of the temple, the other Simon of
Gerasa, who, during several days, had been living in a secret chamber
of the sanctuary; for Eleazar could not refuse the right of asylum to a
patriot whose stores of wealth, acquired by brigandage, had always been
sent by secret and devious methods to the temple treasury.
As the two paced the roof they talked, and seldom in the history of the
world has talk been more momentous in its consequences.
“The people are ripe for war,” said Eleazar with a fierce, exultant
smile. “We’ll set them to attack the garrisons in Antonia and the
Prætorium.”
“Whence shall we obtain the necessary arms?”
“You know Masada?” asked Eleazar.
It would indeed have been strange if Simon had not known the name,
at least, of the famous stronghold, emphatically named Masada--“THE
FORTRESS”--built by Jonathan Maccabæus upon a precipitous cliff,
fifteen hundred feet in height, overhanging the waters of the Dead Sea,
a fastness in which the treasures of Jerusalem had been deposited for
security during the troubled times of the Asamonean monarchy.
“It contains arms for ten thousand men,” continued Eleazar.
“With a Roman garrison to guard them.”
“Tush! the garrison is but a slender one, and, aware of this, I have
sent off a band to attack the place.”
Simon received this startling news with a grim joy.
“’Tis a declaration of war,” remarked he.
“’Tis meant for such. One must make a beginning.”
“But Masada!” remonstrated Simon. “Art mad? The fortress is
impregnable.”
“And therefore the more easily surprised. An impregnable fortress
always renders its garrison careless.”
“Who heads this daring expedition?”
“Manahem, the son of Judas of Galilee.”
“The traitor who bought from Florus the license to plunder!” exclaimed
Simon wrathfully; for he and Manahem had long been jealous rivals.
“Shall I repel a man who offers me his services?” answered Eleazar.
“Four nights ago he descended from the mountains with his guerilla
band, and sought me out, bidding me tell him to do something for the
cause. I bade him go and take Masada.”
“If he succeed, he will indeed be a Manahem,” sneered Simon, playing
upon his rival’s name, which in Hebrew signifies Comforter.
Overhead hung a dark-blue firmament sparkling with stars, by whose
light the nearer hills that “stand round about Jerusalem” were clearly
visible; beyond them, appearing far off on the horizon, was the mount
known from old time as Beth-haccerem, whose conspicuous peak had marked
it as a suitable station for signaling tidings to Jerusalem by that
primitive mode of telegraph, the beacon-fire.
Eleazar’s eyes were set upon Beth-haccerem, and Simon, following his
companion’s gaze, was surprised to see a light springing into being
upon the dark summit of the distant peak. No evanescent flash, but
a light that continued to sparkle and glow; evidently a signal, the
meaning of which was known to the priest, if one must judge by the
satisfaction that gleamed from his dark countenance.
“Sooner than I durst hope,” he murmured. “The impregnable fortress has
fallen.”
“_Masada?_” gasped Simon with a mingled feeling of amazement and
jealousy.
“So is yon light to be interpreted,” replied Eleazar. “The armory of
Masada is now in our hands, and to-morrow a train of wagons will come
rolling towards Jerusalem laden with weapons for the people.”
“How will your father and the Sanhedrim take this deed of yours?”
“Leave me to deal with them,” replied Eleazar with a hard smile.
On the next day a meeting of the Sanhedrim was convened by Matthias,
the high priest, for the purpose of considering the course to be
observed by that body, should the common people persist in their
outspoken determination to take up arms against the Romans.
At this gathering--held in the temple within the walls of the famous
_Lishcath Ha-Gazith_ or Hall of Squares, so named from its checkered
pavement--Eleazar came out with a new and startling proposition, upon
which he desired a vote should be taken.
“It hath been the custom in our temple since the days of Herod,” said
he, “to offer daily a sacrifice for the safety and welfare of the
reigning Cæsar. But why should we pray for our enemy? why pray for an
uncircumcized heathen? why pray for Nero, who in claiming Divine honors
insults the name of the Most High? In praying that the life of this
blasphemer may be prolonged, what are we doing but praying for the
continuance of blasphemy? Brethren and fathers, this must not be. My
voice is that from to-day the sacrifice for Cæsar shall cease.”
As soon as Eleazar had resumed his seat, Ananias rose to oppose the
daring innovation propounded by his son.
“However agreeable this proposal may be to our secret inclination,”
said he, “the question for us is, in what light would Nero regard
it, for it will not escape his knowledge. He would take it as an
affront--nay, more, as a declaration of war.”
“Let him take it as such,” said Eleazar, boldly.
“Now you reveal your true aim,” answered Ananias, “which is to act as
a mover of sedition. You would have the Sanhedrim declare war against
Rome.”
“War is certain to come--nay, is here now--and there is no other course
left for the Sanhedrim but to side with the multitude in their struggle
for liberty.”
“Not so,” cried some, loudest among them being Ananias.
“O then, you will fight on the side of the Romans--a noble act for
patriotic Jews!”
“There is a third course--to remain neutral,” said Simeon ben Gamaliel.
“That way death lies. The people--the fight once begun--will have no
neutrals among them. Their cry will be, ‘He that is not with us is
against us.’”
“We can leave Jerusalem,” said Johanan ben Zacchai. “Not without
cutting yourself off from God. The sacrifices through which He is alone
accessible--can they be offered anywhere but in that place where He
has chosen to put His name? Dare we as priests live apart from the
temple? No! And, since we cannot prevent the war, we must seek to guide
its course by putting ourselves at the head of the national movement,
unless we would see ourselves set aside and relegated to obscurity,
and even, it may be, given over to prison and to death. It is clear
that----”
But at this point the council, at the instigation of Ananias, lifted up
their voices in dissent, so loud and so prolonged, that the orator was
compelled to come to an end.
At the first lull, Ananias bade Matthias put the question to the vote,
and, this being done, the proposition for the abolition of the Cæsarean
sacrifice was defeated by a considerable majority.
“So ends your treason!” sneered Ananias, addressing his son.
Eleazar rose, somewhat pale, but with a defiant smile on his lips.
“The vote is of no consequence----” he began.
“Hark to him!” cried Ananias.
“As captain of the temple, I decree that from to-day no more sacrifices
shall be offered on behalf of Cæsar.”
“And how will you effect your decree?” laughed Ananias.
“Why, thus,” replied Eleazar coolly, placing a ram’s horn to his lips,
and blowing one sharp, shrill note.
At that sound every door opening into the hall Gazith flew wide
revealing a sudden blaze of arms. Then, marching with slow and majestic
pace, there filed into the chamber a tall and stately band of Nethinim
clad in glittering mail. Moving with admirable order, they ranged
themselves along the four walls of the chamber, and then stood, shield
and spear at their back, as silent and motionless as statues.
These Nethinim formed a part of the temple guards, servants of Eleazar,
who, independently of their oath of obedience to their captain, were
for other reasons devotedly attached to his person. Whatever he should
bid them do, that would they do.
And what was his bidding to be? The silent Sanhedrim waited in wonder,
indignation, fear.
“The vote of to-day has taught me,” said Eleazar, “who are the friends
and who are the foes of Israel. Let those who are on my side,” he
continued, “move to the right.”
The invitation was accepted by not more than a dozen members, among
them being Matthias the President, and Simeon ben Gamaliel.
“From to-day,” continued Eleazar, “the temple becomes the seat of
a holy war, the abode of the Lord’s host, a citadel in the service
of freedom. Henceforth, its gates open only to the true worshipers
of Israel, whose foes ye are,” he added, turning to his Sanhedrist
opponents. “Withdraw, ere the scourges of the Nethinim quicken your
steps.”
The fierce storm of indignant protest that burst from Ananias and his
party met with a savage laugh from Eleazar.
“You dare threaten us with expulsion from the temple?” cried Ananias,
his eyes blazing with wrath.
“This is no place for the friends of Cæsar. What! ye will not budge?
Guards, drive these traitors forth.”
As if the command were a joy to them, the Nethinim rushed forward,
at the same time drawing forth scourges and whips which they applied
without more ado to the bodies of the immovable Sanhedrists.
Then ensued a strange scene. From the Sanhedrim came screams of pain
and fierce protests, undignified scufflings and even oaths.
Their feeble resistance was soon overborne; without weapons, and
inferior in numbers and strength to their more youthful opponents, they
were thrust forth from the Hall of Squares, and driven across the wide
court of the Gentiles.
A sight so unusual at once attracted the attention of the multitude,
who were at first disposed to side with the struggling Sanhedrim,
but the magical words, “Friends of the Romans,” quickly turned their
sympathies into the opposite scale, so that they readily joined the
Nethinim in the work of expulsion; and the end of it all was that the
venerable fathers found themselves outside the temple, indignant and
breathless, disheveled and bleeding.
After a brief consultation, they took their way across the Tyropæon
Bridge to the Upper City, and entered the palace of Ananias. From its
flat roof they could see something of what was passing in the temple.
Every part of the holy house was glittering with arms. Eleazar was
making good his word; the temple was being garrisoned, in the interests
not of Rome, but of Israel.
Aware of the hatred with which his pro-Roman sympathies were regarded
by the mob, Ananias, in conjunction with a large body of Jewish
loyalists, deemed it prudent, before the day was out, to take refuge
with the soldiers in the Prætorium.
Late that same night, Berenice escorted by a small retinue made her
way to this palace; and, while her guards waited without, she herself
entered to take a farewell of Crispus.
She came with startling tidings. Simon the Black was in the city,
and, resorting to a master-stroke of policy, had freed all the poor
debtors--and they were a very numerous body in Jerusalem--by persuading
them to set fire to the Archeion in Ophel, the building in which
were registered all monetary loans contracted by private citizens,
such official registration constituting the only legal proof of the
transaction. Having thus involved the multitude in an irrevocable act
of sedition, Simon had next led them forth to Olivet, where the Zealots
of Manahem, returning in triumph from the conquest of Masada, were now
engaged, by the torches’ glare, in making a free distribution of arms
to all who were willing to fight.
With signs of the liveliest agitation, the princess told how it was the
intention of the mob on the following morning to storm the two Roman
strongholds, and massacre the garrisons by way of retaliation for the
butchery wrought by Florus.
“Will you not leave the city with me, ere it be too late?” she asked of
Crispus in earnest tones.
“’Tis not the fashion of Romans to desert their post, however numerous
the foe,” returned Crispus.
“Your departure will not be desertion, for no one has ordered _you_ to
fight. Your station here is a voluntary one.”
“I will not leave my fellow-countrymen to their fate! That your people
have good cause for insurrection is, alas! but too true. But, for all
that, my way is clear. I am a patriot and a Cestius, and it is my duty
to keep the Roman eagle supreme in this city, or die in the attempt.”
Berenice was silent for a moment; then, laying her hand upon his arm,
she said in tender tones:
“Let me stay here to help you; you may become wounded, and who is there
to nurse you? And if you die, which heaven forbid, I--I will die with
you.”
Crispus could not but be touched with this expression of sympathy
on her part. Forgetting the incident in the synagogue, he felt that
he could love her, if she were always like this. And as he had
once thought Vashti’s face to be like Berenice’s, so now did he
think Berenice’s face like Vashti’s, as he beheld it at this moment
transfigured with a beautiful and heroic light.
“Princess, this is no place for you,” said he gently.
He conducted the reluctant and sorrowful Berenice to her palanquin at
the palace gate. As he parted from her some tempting spirit bade him
whisper tenderly:
“Farewell, _Athenaïs_.”
He might not have pronounced that name had he foreseen its effect.
Her sweet and lovable expression vanished in a moment, to be replaced
by a cold, suspicious look that repelled him as much as the other had
attracted.
“Why do you call me by that name?” she asked, seeming to shrink from
him.
“Perhaps I am trying an experiment, princess,” said he, significantly.
Evidently it was an experiment that did not please Berenice. She looked
for all the world like a woman detected in a secret. With a glance
that might be interpreted as one almost of fear, she sank back on the
cushions of the palanquin, and, without another word to him, gave the
order for the bearers to proceed.
In pensive mood, Crispus watched her departure. Whether she were
Athenaïs, or whether she were not, it was difficult to see why the
simple mention of the name should act so strangely upon her. That he
had not lost her favor, however, was evidenced by the arrival, during
the night, of three thousand Jewish cavalry. They were the troops of
King Agrippa, and had been sent by him to bring his sister safely out
of the troubled city; meeting them on the way, Berenice had bidden
them go on to the help of the little garrison in the Prætorium. It can
readily be imagined how gladly these new auxiliaries were welcomed
by Metilius, but when Crispus suggested that one-half of them should
proceed to Antonia, Darius, the master of the horse, declined, on the
ground that the princess’ orders were that he should fight for the
Prætorium only.