All night long, Vasda, the swiftest of Artaban’s horses, had been
waiting, saddled and bridled, in her stall, pawing the ground
impatiently, and shaking her bit as if she shared the eagerness of her
master’s purpose, though she knew not its meaning.
Before the birds had fully roused to their strong, high, joyful chant
of morning song, before the white mist had begun to lift lazily from the
plain, the Other Wise Man was in the saddle, riding swiftly along the
high-road, which skirted the base of Mount Orontes, westward.
How close, how intimate is the comradeship between a man and his
favourite horse on a long journey. It is a silent, comprehensive
friendship, an intercourse beyond the need of words.
They drink at the same way-side springs, and sleep under the same
guardian stars. They are conscious together of the subduing spell of
nightfall and the quickening joy of daybreak. The master shares his
evening meal with his hungry companion, and feels the soft, moist lips
caressing the palm of his hand as they close over the morsel of bread.
In the gray dawn he is roused from his bivouac by the gentle stir of a
warm, sweet breath over his sleeping face, and looks up into the eyes
of his faithful fellow-traveller, ready and waiting for the toil of the
day. Surely, unless he is a pagan and an unbeliever, by whatever name he
calls upon his God, he will thank Him for this voiceless sympathy,
this dumb affection, and his morning prayer will embrace a double
blessing--God bless us both, the horse and the rider, and keep our feet
from falling and our souls from death!
Then, through the keen morning air, the swift hoofs beat their tattoo
along the road, keeping time to the pulsing of two hearts that are moved
with the same eager desire--to conquer space, to devour the distance, to
attain the goal of the journey.
Artaban must indeed ride wisely and well if he would keep the appointed
hour with the other Magi; for the route was a hundred and fifty
parasangs, and fifteen was the utmost that he could travel in a day. But
he knew Vasda’s strength, and pushed forward without anxiety, making the
fixed distance every day, though he must travel late into the night, and
in the morning long before sunrise.
He passed along the brown slopes of Mount Orontes, furrowed by the rocky
courses of a hundred torrents.
He crossed the level plains of the Nisaeans, where the famous herds
of horses, feeding in the wide pastures, tossed their heads at Vasda’s
approach, and galloped away with a thunder of many hoofs, and flocks
of wild birds rose suddenly from the swampy meadows, wheeling in great
circles with a shining flutter of innumerable wings and shrill cries of
surprise.
He traversed the fertile fields of Concabar, where the dust from the
threshing-floors filled the air with a golden mist, half hiding the huge
temple of Astarte with its four hundred pillars.
At Baghistan, among the rich gardens watered by fountains from the rock,
he looked up at the mountain thrusting its immense rugged brow out over
the road, and saw the figure of King Darius trampling upon his fallen
foes, and the proud list of his wars and conquests graven high upon the
face of the eternal cliff.
Over many a cold and desolate pass, crawling painfully across the
wind-swept shoulders of the hills; down many a black mountain-gorge,
where the river roared and raced before him like a savage guide; across
many a smiling vale, with terraces of yellow limestone full of vines
and fruit-trees; through the oak-groves of Carine and the dark Gates of
Zagros, walled in by precipices; into the ancient city of Chala, where
the people of Samaria had been kept in captivity long ago; and out again
by the mighty portal, riven through the encircling hills, where he saw
the image of the High Priest of the Magi sculptured on the wall of rock,
with hand uplifted as if to bless the centuries of pilgrims; past the
entrance of the narrow defile, filled from end to end with orchards of
peaches and figs, through which the river Gyndes foamed down to meet
him; over the broad rice-fields, where the autumnal vapours spread their
deathly mists; following along the course of the river, under tremulous
shadows of poplar and tamarind, among the lower hills; and out upon
the flat plain, where the road ran straight as an arrow through the
stubble-fields and parched meadows; past the city of Ctesiphon, where
the Parthian emperors reigned, and the vast metropolis of Seleucia
which Alexander built; across the swirling floods of Tigris and the many
channels of Euphrates, flowing yellow through the corn-lands--Artaban
pressed onward until he arrived, at nightfall on the tenth day, beneath
the shattered walls of populous Babylon.
Vasda was almost spent, and Artaban would gladly have turned into the
city to find rest and refreshment for himself and for her. But he knew
that it was three hours’ journey yet to the Temple of the Seven Spheres,
and he must reach the place by midnight if he would find his
comrades waiting. So he did not halt, but rode steadily across the
stubble-fields.
A grove of date-palms made an island of gloom in the pale yellow sea. As
she passed into the shadow Vasda slackened her pace, and began to pick
her way more carefully.
Near the farther end of the darkness an access of caution seemed to fall
upon her. She scented some danger or difficulty; it was not in her heart
to fly from it--only to be prepared for it, and to meet it wisely, as a
good horse should do. The grove was close and silent as the tomb; not a
leaf rustled, not a bird sang.
She felt her steps before her delicately, carrying her head low, and
sighing now and then with apprehension. At last she gave a quick breath
of anxiety and dismay, and stood stock-still, quivering in every muscle,
before a dark object in the shadow of the last palm-tree.
Artaban dismounted. The dim starlight revealed the form of a man lying
across the road. His humble dress and the outline of his haggard face
showed that he was probably one of the Hebrews who still dwelt in great
numbers around the city. His pallid skin, dry and yellow as parchment,
bore the mark of the deadly fever which ravaged the marsh-lands in
autumn. The chill of death was in his lean hand, and, as Artaban
released it, the arm fell back inertly upon the motionless breast.
He turned away with a thought of pity, leaving the body to that strange
burial which the Magians deemed most fitting--the funeral of the desert,
from which the kites and vultures rise on dark wings, and the beasts of
prey slink furtively away. When they are gone there is only a heap of
white bones on the sand.
But, as he turned, a long, faint, ghostly sigh came from the man’s lips.
The bony fingers gripped the hem of the Magian’s robe and held him fast.
Artaban’s heart leaped to his throat, not with fear, but with a dumb
resentment at the importunity of this blind delay.
How could he stay here in the darkness to minister to a dying stranger?
What claim had this unknown fragment of human life upon his compassion
or his service? If he lingered but for an hour he could hardly reach
Borsippa at the appointed time. His companions would think he had given
up the journey. They would go without him. He would lose his quest.
But if he went on now, the man would surely die. If Artaban stayed, life
might be restored. His spirit throbbed and fluttered with the urgency of
the crisis. Should he risk the great reward of his faith for the sake
of a single deed of charity? Should he turn aside, if only for a moment,
from the following of the star, to give a cup of cold water to a poor,
perishing Hebrew?
“God of truth and purity,” he prayed, “direct me in the holy path, the
way of wisdom which Thou only knowest.”
Then he turned back to the sick man. Loosening the grasp of his hand, he
carried him to a little mound at the foot of the palm-tree.
He unbound the thick folds of the turban and opened the garment above
the sunken breast. He brought water from one of the small canals near
by, and moistened the sufferer’s brow and mouth. He mingled a draught of
one of those simple but potent remedies which he carried always in his
girdle--for the Magians were physicians as well as astrologers--and
poured it slowly between the colourless lips. Hour after hour he
laboured as only a skilful healer of disease can do. At last the man’s
strength returned; he sat up and looked about him.
“Who art thou?” he said, in the rude dialect of the
country, “and why hast thou sought me here to bring back my life?”
“I am Artaban the Magian, of the city of Ecbatana, and I am going to
Jerusalem in search of one who is to be born King of the Jews, a great
Prince and Deliverer of all men. I dare not delay any longer upon my
journey, for the caravan that has waited for me may depart without me.
But see, here is all that I have left of bread and wine, and here is a
potion of healing herbs. When thy strength is restored thou canst find
the dwellings of the Hebrews among the houses of Babylon.”
The Jew raised his trembling hand solemnly to heaven.
“Now may the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob bless and prosper the
journey of the merciful, and bring him in peace to his desired haven.
Stay! I have nothing to give thee in return--only this: that I can tell
thee where the Messiah must be sought. For our prophets have said that
he should be born not in Jerusalem, but in Bethlehem of Judah. May the
Lord bring thee in safety to that place, because thou hast had pity upon
the sick.”
It was already long past midnight. Artaban rode in haste, and Vasda,
restored by the brief rest, ran eagerly through the silent plain
and swam the channels of the river. She put forth the remnant of her
strength, and fled over the ground like a gazelle.
But the first beam of the rising sun sent a long shadow before her
as she entered upon the final stadium of the journey, and the eyes of
Artaban, anxiously scanning the great mound of Nimrod and the Temple of
the Seven Spheres, could discern no trace of his friends.
The many-coloured terraces of black and orange and red and yellow and
green and blue and white, shattered by the convulsions of nature, and
crumbling under the repeated blows of human violence, still glittered
like a ruined rainbow in the morning light.
Artaban rode swiftly around the hill. He dismounted and climbed to the
highest terrace, looking out toward the west.
The huge desolation of the marshes stretched away to the horizon and the
border of the desert. Bitterns stood by the stagnant pools and jackals
skulked through the low bushes; but there was no sign of the caravan of
the Wise Men, far or near.
At the edge of the terrace he saw a little cairn of broken bricks, and
under them a piece of papyrus. He caught it up and read: “We have waited
past the midnight, and can delay no longer. We go to find the King.
Follow us across the desert.”
Artaban sat down upon the ground and covered his head in despair.
“How can I cross the desert,” said he, “with no food and with a spent
horse? I must return to Babylon, sell my sapphire, and buy a train of
camels, and provision for the journey. I may never overtake my friends.
Only God the merciful knows whether I shall not lose the sight of the
King because I tarried to show mercy.”