ON THE DAMASCUS ROAD
With the solid soil of the ancient Roman road beneath his horse's feet,
Marsyas rode north, between the hills of Judea, with the head of Mt.
Ephraim before him. The early morning of the second day broke over
him, fresh on the long straight road, leading over the border into
Samaria, past the Well of Jacob, and through the city of Samaria. At
noon the third day he turned at the parting of the ways, and rode east,
along the southern edge of the Plains of Esdraelon, until, through a
crevice in the hills, he saw the Jordan sparkling in its valley below.
It was an old familiar way, thence, north once more, fording a hundred
mountain brooks that fed the river of the Holy Land. The narrow
fertile strip that lay between the hills and waters of the Sea of
Galilee, unto Tiberias, he accomplished after night. At dawn he
entered Magdala, at mid-morning Capernaum, and, leaving the margin of
the beautiful lake, he passed north into the rocks, ridges and forests
once more. Through marshes and sedge, with the waters of the Jordan in
the heart of it, he forded the south arm of Lake Huleh and entered
Itrurea.
The country changed but the road did not. It was still the same
compact ribbon of stone and soil in the marsh as it was in the hills,
as it was in the fertile lowlands. Ahead of him, through the hills it
stretched, through the oaks of Bashan, under cliffs surmounted by
castles, or hillsides marked by temples. And when the oaks left off,
and the hills fell back and the streams dried into dead, sapless beds
watered only by infrequent rains, the road continued on.
The fifth dawn, he rode down a pass, through a rocky defile, and the
Syrian desert was before him.
He had bought provisions for two days' journey at the last village in
the fertile lands; his horse was freshened after a night's feeding on
the herbage in the hills, and Marsyas' heart was resolute.
Even the road no longer led him on, but he touched his horse with his
hand and passed into the wilderness.
At a huddle of huts for goat-tenders, he found that Saul and his party
had passed at noon the day previous. The Arabs there besought him to
remain until the evening, for none traveled under a Syrian noonday and
escaped evil consequences. But Marsyas wrapped his head in his mantle,
watered his horse and pressed on. He had no time to lose.
The Antilibanus, a glaring ridge of chalk, heightened at intervals into
peaks that held up their blistering cold winds from the heat-blasted
day, and swept them down by night to confound the stunned earth with
ice. The shale from their easternmost slopes sprawled out on the
desert and scarred it with rock and gravel until the blowing sands
buried it. Far to the east, the lap of the desert dropped down into
emptiness, marked by a level of intervening atmosphere. Beyond that
were bald hills outlined against the horizon.
Between was a cruel waste, tufted here and there by gray-green, scrubby
growth, half-buried in sand and rooted in gravel. There was color, but
it was the dye of chemicals, not refractions; chalks, not rainbows.
The drop of water has only the true range of the spectrum and its
merging grades, but sands may be erratic, chaotic. Thus, the wadies,
sallow meanderings in the trembling distance, were bordered with dull
fawn and dull lavender--ashes of scarlet and purple; wherever hummocks
arose there were ground-swells of lifeless gray and saffron--burned-out
blue and gold. Over it all were sown burnished fleckings of myriads of
mica particles, like white-hot motes from the face of the sun itself.
The air was flame; the sky a livid arch that no man dared look upon.
At high noon, Marsyas hid from the deadly sun in a crevice in a narrow
canyon; but pressed on while yet the scorching air burned his nostrils.
At night, he rode through bitter winds, or broke his fast with the inky
outlines of jackals squatting about the rim of the immediate landscape.
He met no man, and had no desire for companionship with the burden of
his stern thoughts to attend him.
He did not have the murderer's heart in him; he did not go forward in a
whirl of passion and fury; it did not once occur to him to ambush the
Tarsian; he did not ponder on a plan of action when the moment should
arrive; not once did he strike the fatal blow, in his imagination, nor
speak with Saul, nor follow himself after the deed was done. His ideas
were largely in retrospect, or centered upon the necessity of his work.
His love of Lydia, his love of life, his natural impulses toward
generous things were put away from him with firmness, as things which
had no place at such a time. His composure was almost resignation. He
knew then, that which he had never been able to understand,--how men of
great souls and previous noble lives could in all calmness kill another
by design.
A glittering white ridge had shaped itself out of the pale blue sky of
an early morning, while yet he rode in the hills. It was Hermon, with
the unmelted snows of the winter covering its crown. Opposite it, he
came upon another miserable cluster of hovels, the abode of pestilence,
want and superstition, and there found that Saul had passed through the
village at high noon that day. Marsyas purchased water for his horse
and rode on. Saul was now only a half-day's journey ahead of him.
He had come far, without rest. Even now, with the crisis of his long
journey at hand, he labored under prostrating weariness and a torturing
desire to sleep. He had periods of mental blankness from which he
aroused with a start. But as the night's cold deepened, after the day
of withering heat, the sharp change added to the weakening influences.
He meditated on the Feast of Junia and the succession of Classicus,
until his body became a column finishing the front of Agrippa's palace,
at which a mob at Baiae threw stones. He flinched, and the night on the
desert of Syria passed across his vision once more. But it was good to
lie down on the couch at the triclinum of Caligula, restful, indeed, if
it were sinful. But not for long, because Lydia was beside him, and he
spent hours imploring her to give up Jove and pour libations to Jehovah
instead, for since Saul of Tarsus was Caesar, she would be chained to a
soldier under sentence in the Praetorium. Even now there approached a
decurion with manacles thrown over his shoulder!
Again, he saw the drooping head of his horse before him in the dark,
the pallid stretch of sand, and felt the sweep of harsh winds on his
face.
But Lollia Paulina had laid her sesterces on this worn-out animal, when
she knew that Cneius Domitius' horses were the best in the Circus! Why
did the woman insist on sitting with him, when she wanted so much to be
with the Roman? But nobody was good. Even Stephen had died in heresy,
and Lydia, for whom he had lost his soul, was an apostate! The
multitude had her! Classicus turned his back upon her! Flaccus stood
within twenty paces of her and leveled a pilum at her breast! And Saul
bound his arms! Help! Mercy--
But a brambly desert shrub had caught at his garments, and its sharp
dead thorns had pierced him.
The next mid-morning he rode up a chalky ridge and saw the picture that
had brought praise to the lips of the prophets of despair, when Israel
was a captive with no hope.
It was a vale so enchanting, so perfect, so golden that he doubted his
eyes and feared that it was an unreality the desert had fashioned to
lure him on to destruction--or another but kindlier dream.
Yellow roadways, slender and winding, wandered hither and thither
through emerald oceans of young grain, past ancient vineyards and
orchards of olives, and citrons, and groves of walnuts. Yonder was a
cluster of palms, pilasters of silver with feathery capitals, and under
it was builded a little town--a hive of soft-colored houses, half
smothered in delicate green.
Beyond, the roads spread out again, from their convergence in the
little settlement, and ran abroad once more between hedges of roses and
oleanders, across the River Pharbar, curving midway across the vale
like a simitar dropped in the green, through crowding gardens, among
low-lying roofs, past spreading villas of the rich, on to a glittering
vision of towers, walls, cupolas, white as frost on the head of Mount
Tabor in the morning.
At his feet was Caucabe the Star; in the distance was Damascus.
Marsyas drew up his jaded horse and looked, not at the beauty of the
scene, for he did not wish to see it now, but down the roads. Over
every yellow ribbon his gaze passed until, beyond the limits of the
white-towered town, he saw a cluster of small moving figures.
"O rememberer of no wrongs," he said to his horse, "only a little way
and thou shall rest and I shall rest!"
He pressed on, past Caucabe the Star, down the hedges of roses between
the emerald oceans of young grain and the odorous shade of orchards.
The sun climbed higher, more heated, more merciless; the oleanders gave
up their fast fragrance until the night fell again; the vineyards
curled, leaf by leaf, the young grain drooped and wilted, the orchards
pent in the heat under their boughs, the yellow roads became streaks of
brass and the tyrant of the desert stood at its meridian.
Another stadium, and Marsyas drew up his horse sharply.
Sixty paces ahead was a wayside pool, overshadowed by tall trees--an
irresistible invitation to the traveler seeking refuge from the sun. A
lean, bowed figure in rabbinical robes stood beside a mule that drank
of the spring. Half a dozen men in the garments of Levites stood by
their own beasts with rein in hand while they drank.
Marsyas felt in his belt for his knife, and curbing his thirsty horse
lowered down on Saul of Tarsus. In his association with hardy pagans,
athletae and the exquisite Herod, he had in a measure forgotten the
feebleness of Saul.
"He is weak!" he said to himself. "But what mercy hath he shown the
weak?"
He recalled the terrible desert, remembered that Saul had sworn to
bring back the Nazarenes to Jerusalem for trial--back across that
empire of death! And Lydia, gentle and without hardihood, against whom
he could not bear to think of the wind blowing strongly, was to go that
way!
The Levites watched the Pharisee narrowly; one of them, whom Marsyas
recognized as Joel, made tentative movements toward unpacking the
supplies from one of the burden-bearing beasts. But the Pharisee drew
up the bridle of his mule and led it to the roadside toward a stone by
which he could mount. The eyes of the Levites followed him in a
troubled manner, and Joel sat down as if to show that he believed the
rabbi would not proceed in the noon.
"Up!" said Saul calmly, "we shall continue to Damascus."
The troubled Levites stared at him, and Joel presently objected:
"But--but it is the noon! And the heat is cruel!"
"We can proceed, nevertheless," was the reply.
The stupefied Levite stumbled to his feet, and the party led their
beasts out into the sun. Marsyas with a fierce word dismounted and
strode toward them.
At his second step he faltered. Silence dropped upon the blazing plain
of Damascus--silence so sudden, so absolute that his footfall startled
him. He saw that the movement of Saul's party had been arrested. Arm
lifted, or foot put forward, stayed in the attitude. The utter
stillness seized them as a commanding hand. Then all the noon grew
dim, not from the abatement of the sun's light, but by the coming of a
radiance infinitely brighter. Descending from above, instantly
intensifying as if the source that shed it approached as fast as stars
move, a single ray, purer than the glitter on Mount Hermon, and more
inscrutable than the face of the Syrian sun, stood among them.
Its presence was not violent but all-compelling. The group at the pool
fell down in the dust and lay still.
Silence such as never before and never again lay on the plain of
Damascus, brooded about them.
Out of it a single voice issued, low, trembling, filled with fear and
reverence. It was Saul of Tarsus, speaking:
"Who art Thou, Lord?"
Presently he spoke again, eagerly, humbly, and still afraid:
"Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do?"
[Illustration: "Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do?" (missing from
book)]
After a long time, the hot breeze made a whispering sound in the sand
of the roadway; the leaves in the hedge at hand stirred and fluttered.
Joel, the boldest of the Levites, cautiously raised his head, and
presently got upon his feet. His fellows, taking heart, rose, one by
one.
A young stranger in the robes of an Essene was kneeling among them with
large dark eyes fixed in pity upon Saul.
The rabbi had made an attempt to raise himself, but had paused
transfixed. Humility made an actual light on his forehead; his pinched
features were stunned with helplessness.
The terrified Levites crept closer to one another, but Joel finally wet
his dry lips and spoke in a half-whisper:
"Rabbi?"
There was no answer in words, but slow tears rose, brimmed over the
lids and crept down the sun-burned hollow cheeks.
The young stranger came quickly and knelt beside the rabbi and laid a
kindly hand on his shoulder.
"Brother Saul?" he whispered.
The face of the rabbi came round, but the gaze missed its mark and
wandered over the men about him. There was no vision in the eyes.
"He is blind!" a Levite whispered.
The young stranger slipped the hand from the shoulder around the bowed
figure, and, supporting Saul in his arm, looked down with infinite
sorrow and concern at the darkened eyes.
"We will abide here," he said at last, to the Levites, "until the noon
passeth."
The Levites looked in a little fear at the spot where they had been so
mysteriously overwhelmed, but Marsyas lifted Saul and bore him back
into the shade he had left to continue unto Damascus.
All of his own passion and purpose had been swept away, leaving his
mind to the tenantry of the sweetest content he had ever known. Though
he had seen no man nor heard a voice, he knew that the Lord had visited
Saul, and that the eye of the Lord beheld Saul's work.
After that reverent translation of the supernatural event, he troubled
himself no more concerning the vision.
Absolute relief possessed his soul; rest of spirit so all-comprehensive
that it strengthened his body, peace so whole that it bordered on
gladness, and confidence, new, delicious and simple, embraced all his
being. The old restless ambition was so stilled and soothed that it
seemed to have been fulfilled; the old Essenic cynicism that had
slandered all the world, tinctured his friendships with distrust and
his love with fear, was dissipated like a distorting illusion; his
hates, his thirst for revenge, his impatience with the deliberation of
God, and his self-dependence were things unremembered. He did not
understand his change and did not seek after its meaning; his feelings
did not even hark back to the old love for Saul. Pity and filial
solicitude, sensations that on a time he could not have believed
possible as shown to Saul, made the strength of his arm gentle and his
service reverential. He thought now of Lydia, with worshipful,
marvelous homage, as if his soul knelt to her. He had ceased to be
afraid for her or to fear that he would not find her. Everything good
became possible; the prospering of virtue, the fidelity of Agrippa, the
prevention of Flaccus and the favor of Caesar, even the restoration of
his beloved, seemed to be things absolutely assured.
He did not say these things to himself; they were simple convictions
that made themselves felt in a tender blending which amounted to
perfect waiting on the Lord.
He did not know that his face had become beautiful, or that Joel looked
askance at him or that the other Levites wondered if he had come to
them in the great light. So when the sun stood three hours above the
horizon, he raised Saul from the shade of the walnut grove and passed
on to Damascus.
The golden haze reddened over the glorious Damascene plain, the
distance became obscured; the purple triumphed; then the royal color
over the world began to run out into plum shades, and the sudden night
came up from the east.
But before this hour at one of the north gates of Damascus, the halting
group of Levites, the stricken man among them, and the silent, kindly
young stranger appeared before Aretas' wiry black Arab sentry that held
that post.
They did not know the ways of the Pearl of the Orient, and they wished
to find Via Recta--Straight Street. There Judas, a Pharisee of wealth
and power, expected to entertain Saul.
Though the Caesars possessed the city's fealty, exacted tribute,
installed Jupiter in the temples and the eagle on its standard, it was
still the dominion of Rimmon, vassal of Nimrud, high place of the sons
of Uz. It had submitted to Alexander of Macedon as placidly as it
suffered the wolfish Roman, who would pass, likewise. It notched its
calendar by the rise and fall of nations, and marked its days by the
sway of kings. It had propitiated Time, hence there was no death for
Damascus; it steeped itself in the oils of the Orient and so was spiced
against decay. There were Romanized colonnades along the streets, but
the winged bulls of the dromoes, the stucco-work and the tiles, the
swaying of carpets from balconies obscured their influence. Architects
of Caesar's extravagances scowled at the giant structures that were old
in Baalbec's time and looked their defeat; Chaldean philosophers
contemplated the trenches worn in the rock pavements by the feet of men
and held their peace; olives, as old as Troy, cast their leaves down on
the heads of Greeks who shook them off impatiently, but the sons of
Abraham could point to a mound of clay and say: "This was a temple
which our father builded unto God, before you all!"
The Jewish tincture had never been abated even, much less worked out.
Therefore, as the agitated travelers from Jerusalem passed through the
gate they went with their own kind by legions. The slow mule was
there, outnumbering the Arab's troops of horses, which were mettled,
nervous creatures, caparisoned like kings; there were Israel's camels,
bearing howdahs, rich as thrones; tall stalking dromedaries in tasseled
housings and tinkling harnesses, passing as ships pass over
ground-swells, with undulations dizzying in their ease; and these,
mounted by the sons of Abraham, were more in number than the Hindu
palanquins, Roman lecticae, Greek litters, and Gentiles afoot.
Marsyas glanced about for the eye of a citizen whom he might approach
and ask his way, but the turmoil for the moment confused him. Into the
gate or out of it passed wealthy travelers, faring in state; itinerant
merchants; squads of Aretas' soldiery, and through and among these,
eddying and swarming, shouting, hurrying and trading were venders,
beggars, carriers, slaves, citizens, Jews in gowns, Arabs in burnooses,
Greeks in chitons, Romans in tunics, idlers, actors, scribes, notaries,
priests and magistrates--of twenty nationalities, of every rank and age.
Marsyas met face to face a Pharisee of erect and imposing figure, with
flowing beard and aggressive features, who drew his spotless linen
draperies away from contact with the ceremonially unclean horde at the
gate. The man had stopped and was gazing from his commanding height
over the rush of pilgrims flowing into the walls of Damascus.
Marsyas approached him.
"I seek Judas, a Pharisee, which dwelleth in Straight Street!"
"I am he," the Pharisee interrupted, examining the young man for some
familiar feature which might justify the Essene's initiatory.
"Thou art well-met, sir; we bring unto thee, thy guest, Saul of Tarsus,
stricken by a vision on the roads and blind!"
"Even am I here, awaiting him," the Pharisee exclaimed. "Thou bringest
me evil tidings! Lead me to him, I pray thee."
The Levites stood with Saul outside the path of the exit to the
gateway, and Marsyas led Judas to the stricken rabbi. Hebrew servants
followed respectfully after their master.
"Brother Saul," Marsyas said, "I bring thee thy host; he will care for
thee."
The sightless eyes of the rabbi turned toward the speaker, and Marsyas
thought that a shadow crossed the forehead.
"Woe is me!" Judas exclaimed, "that thou shouldst come thus afflicted,
brother! But perchance the vision was a blessing on thee!"
"He does not speak," Marsyas explained. "I do not belong to his party.
I joined them to offer aid."
"Then the God of Abraham and of Isaac and of Jacob reward thee," Judas
said. He signed to his servants, who brought forward a litter in which
Judas had meant his guest should proceed to Straight Street. Saul was
lifted into it; Judas climbed in beside him; the servants shouldered
the litter, and, with the Levites following, bore it away into the city.
Marsyas looked after it until the narrow ways between the high
unsightly mud walls hid it.
Then he put his hands together and smiled.
"The Nazarene bade me ask for Ananias!" he whispered.