MOLOCH CLAIMS HIS SACRIFICE
Artemisia and Thais looked from their window at the scud of flying
clouds and beneath them the Macedonian fleet assembling south of the
city. Thais' eyes danced with excitement, and Artemisia's cheeks were
flushed.
"This time we shall win!" Thais exclaimed, throwing her arms about her
companion. "You are beautiful this morning, Artemisia; Clearchus will
be pleased with you."
The color in Artemisia's cheeks deepened and a happy smile parted her
lips.
"I shall make him leave the army," she said. "Of course I am proud of
his bravery; but, after all, there are better things than to be always
killing other men."
She raised her chin with a charming affectation of pride. "He is an
Athenian, you know," she added.
Thais frowned. She found in Artemisia's words an implied reflection
upon Chares.
"Don't be silly," she replied. "Do you want to make him one of those
curled idiots who spend their time in company with philosophers,
chasing shadows or trying to find out why crabs walk sidewise? You
would wake up some day and find that one of them had proved to him that
there is no such thing as love. Or perhaps you would rather have him a
dandy, with race-horses and a score of dancing girls to amuse himself
with! Let him be a man, Artemisia; let him love you and fight his
enemies with all his heart. For my part, if Chares talks of deserting
Alexander, he may look elsewhere for some one to love him; for I shall
not."
Artemisia listened to this outburst; but she shook her head, and a soft
light shone in her eyes.
"You want power and splendor," she said "but I would rather be alone
with Clearchus in a desert than sit beside him upon the throne of
Darius. I will have no rival in his heart."
"And with half a dozen children around you," Thais said scornfully.
"You might as well complete the picture."
"Yes," Artemisia answered bravely, though she blushed as she said it,
"if the Gods permit it; and if the first is a boy, he shall be named
Chares."
Thais turned swiftly and kissed her, all her anger gone in a moment.
"There, sister, I did not mean it," she said. "May the Gods give us
both our hearts' desire!"
She clapped her hands, and the tiring women who had been awaiting the
summons entered.
"Give me my saffron chiton," she cried, "and my topaz necklace. We
shall have visitors to-day, girls."
She seated herself before a large mirror while the women dressed her
hair and robed her as she had directed. They could not hide their
admiration when their task was finished and she stood before them like
a living image of gold.
But Artemisia chose a linen robe of pure white, unrelieved by color.
The spotless purity of her dress set off the delicate flush upon her
cheeks and the soft brown of her hair.
So eager were the young women that they were scarcely able to taste the
fruit and cakes that the servants set before them. They kept jumping
up and running to the window to see what progress the Macedonian fleet
was making, and whether the attack had begun.
"What a storm!" Artemisia exclaimed. "I wish it would stop; it hides
the ships."
"Zeus is fighting on our side to-day," Thais replied gayly, as a long
growl of thunder shook the walls of the house. "Tell me, what is going
on in the city?" she added, turning to a Cretan maiden among the women.
The girl was beautiful in face and figure, although her expression was
one of sadness. She had once ruled as favorite of Phradates, and it
was whispered in the household that she still loved him, in spite of
the fact that she had had a score of successors since her brief day of
ascendency.
"They are preparing a sacrifice to Baal-Moloch," she replied, "in the
hope of persuading him to aid them."
"What is this sacrifice? I have never seen one," Thais asked.
"I do not know," the girl said. "There has been none since I came to
Tyre."
"I know, mistress," another of the women volunteered. She was a
Syrian, with a supple figure and bright black eyes, who had been a
slave from her infancy.
"Describe it, then," Thais said.
"Baal-Moloch is the most powerful God in the world," the woman said
volubly. "His image is made of iron, and is terrible to look upon."
She shivered as she spoke. "I never saw it but once, and that was when
the Babylonian king threatened to make war upon us. We offered
sacrifice to prevent it, and Moloch would not permit him to come. The
priests went about the city and took the children--even the little
babies--and carried them away to the temple. When the doors were
opened, we could see Baal sitting there in the darkness. There was a
fire inside of him, and his eyes glowed at us. He reached his hands
down, and the priests gave him the children, one by one, and he lifted
them up and devoured them. It was awful to think of those little
children!"
Artemisia listened with an expression of horror on her face.
"I do not see where they are going to get the children now," Thais
remarked. "They have all been sent away."
"They are taking the children of the Israelites who remained here," the
Syrian explained, "and they say--at least, Mena says--they are going to
sacrifice a virgin, too. Ugh! I don't want to see it."
"Little good will it do them!" Thais exclaimed. "Not even Baal can
save their city now."
"Hush!" the Syrian said, affrighted. "He is a great God."
Sounds of commotion and of hurried footsteps in the lower halls of the
house interrupted them. Thais listened.
"Go and see what it is," she commanded.
The Syrian went, and in a moment came flying back into the room with
terror on her face.
"Oh, my mistress!" she cried. "Why did you speak so of Moloch? His
priests are in the house! Save us!"
"Silence!" Thais exclaimed, rising to her feet. "You shall not be
harmed."
She raised her head proudly and faced the doorway, while the slave
women huddled behind her with frightened eyes. Artemisia stood beside
her, trying to emulate her courage; but a strange sinking laid hold
upon her heart, and a mist swam before her eyes.
There was a rush of feet outside, and four black-robed men, followed by
a guard of soldiers, entered. Their leader was a man of stern and
grave expression, whose eyes seemed to glow in his pale face with the
power of his compelling will. He was Hiram, who had been chosen
hastily to act as chief priest when Esmun failed to return from the
royal palace. His ascetic countenance contrasted strongly with the
gross faces of his followers, brutalized by self-indulgence. The other
priests both feared and hated him, for it was said that Baal had
endowed him with powers that were beyond the understanding of man.
"What seek ye here?" Thais demanded, flashing a haughty glance at the
zealot.
He paid no heed to her and made no answer. His dark eyes caught those
of her companion and held them.
"Artemisia!" he said, in a solemn voice that sounded like a summons,
"our Lord, Baal-Moloch, the Saviour, awaits thee! Come with us to his
temple."
To Artemisia the words sounded far away; yet she heard them distinctly,
and they seemed to leave her no choice but to obey. A deep sense of
peace crept over her as she looked into the fathomless eyes of the
priest, that were fixed steadfastly upon hers, and from which she could
not withdraw her own. Dimly she felt that never again should she see
Clearchus or behold the land of Attica. Never should she hear his
beloved voice or feel his arms around her, clasping her close to his
breast. It was the will of the Gods. Everything earthly seemed to
recede and fall away from her as in a dream, leaving her alone with the
grim priest, her master. They two were floating upon a mighty current
that was bearing them, she knew not whither. She was at peace, and all
was ended. The terror she had felt a few moments before had left her.
It seemed remote and long ago, and she smiled to think of it and of how
foolish it had been.
Hiram saw her form droop and her muscles relax, and these signs of his
victory did not escape him. The expression of his face did not change,
however, and he still kept his eyes fastened upon hers. The sombre
figures of his subordinates stood motionless beside him, and the
soldiers of his guard, lean and weather-worn, blocked the doorway,
glancing now at the two young women and now at the slave girls cowering
in the background.
"Come with me!" Hiram said quietly, stretching his strong hand toward
Artemisia.
She made an uncertain step toward him, but Thais caught her by the arm
and drew her back.
"What do you mean by this mummery?" she cried, with blazing eyes. "Get
thee gone and tell thy God that Artemisia is not for him!"
"Chafe not, daughter," Hiram replied calmly. "The will of Baal must be
obeyed. There can be no escape."
"You shall not have her!" Thais cried. "Your creed demands a willing
sacrifice!"
"And she is willing," the priest said, in the same even tone.
"She is not!" Thais said.
"Follow me!" Hiram exclaimed, slightly raising his voice.
Artemisia made a feeble effort to obey, and Thais felt the arm that she
held draw away from her grasp.
"Sorcerer!" she cried desperately, retaining her hold, "she is not
willing of her own will. Release her from thy spell!"
"She is willing," Hiram repeated, "and thou shalt see her place herself
voluntarily in the hands of the Giver of Life."
He made a slight sign, and the three priests who followed him stepped
forward. One of them twisted Thais' hand from Artemisia's arm,
retaining her wrist in his clutch, while another seized her on the
opposite side, rendering her helpless. The third took Artemisia gently
by the hand. She offered no resistance, but suffered herself to be led
down the marble stairs with wide-open eyes that seemed to see nothing.
Thais followed between her captors. Her face was pale to the lips, and
yellow flames danced in her eyes.
"Priest of Baal!" she said, "thou hast shown no mercy and none shalt
thou receive--neither thou nor thy God!"
"Blaspheme not," Hiram said; "the vengeance of our Lord is bitter."
"More bitter still shall be the vengeance of men," Thais exclaimed in
her despair, "and they are now beating at the walls who shall make thee
feel it!"
Hiram made no reply. If he felt a misgiving, his face did not betray
it. He led the way with measured tread down the staircase, followed by
his two captives and by the guard.
"Artemisia!" Thais cried in anguish, "speak to me!"
Artemisia made no response, nor did she turn her head. It was evident
that she had not heard. Laying aside her pride, Thais determined to
make a final effort. When they reached the deserted entrance hall, she
raised her voice.
"Phradates! Phradates!" she cried. "Save us from these men!"
Her cry echoed through the recesses of the hall, but it brought no
response.
"Phradates!" Thais called again as the outer doors swung back,
revealing the wind-swept street.
This time a figure emerged from the marble columns. It was that of
Mena the Egyptian, who advanced with a malicious smile upon his sharp
face.
"My master is upon the walls," he said impudently, though he bowed low.
"He is fighting to save the city from your friends."
Something of the suppressed triumph in his bearing struck the attention
of Thais, agitated as she was.
"Is this thy work?" she demanded, looking at him between narrowing
eyelids. "Thou shalt pay for it, slave, upon the cross, to the last
drop of thy blood!"
"Thou dost me too much honor," Mena replied, bowing again in mock
humility.
"Come," said one of Thais' captors, roughly. "Baal must not be kept
waiting."
The slanting rain smote their faces as they emerged into the street,
where throngs of men and women were crowding toward the Temple of
Moloch. On this side, as yet, nothing could be seen of the fierce
conflict that was raging for the possession of the children in the
Hebrew quarter. The sounds of it were lost in the rushing of the wind
and the crashing of the thunder.
The people of Tyre hastened forward in silence and with bowed heads. A
nameless dread possessed them. Amid the confusion wrought by man and
the elements, friends and neighbors touched shoulders without a glance
of recognition. A weight of oppression seemed to dull their minds and
restrict their lungs. They were like creatures that listen furtively
in hidden terror to catch the forewarning of some catastrophe, the
nature of which they know not. All bonds were dissolved. Husbands
became separated from their wives in the press and made no attempt to
rejoin them.
Even the priests of Moloch who followed Hiram were affected by the
universal uneasiness, and Thais felt the hands that clasped her wrists
tremble. Hiram himself walked gravely and slowly, apparently oblivious
of what was going on about him. He seemed indifferent alike to the
pelting of the storm and the danger from falling stones. A mass of
rock plunged into the crowd close before him, crushing a man beneath
its ponderous weight. The step of the pontiff did not waver, and he
passed the spot without so much as a glance at the mangled body pinned
down by the missile. His consciousness of the protection of Moloch
freed him from all sense of personal danger.
The people made way for him in silence, huddling to the sides of the
street and closing in after the soldiers had passed. Artemisia walked
with her eyes upon the sombre figure that strode before her. Her face
was as colorless as the linen chiton that clung to her figure in the
rain, disclosing the maidenly outline of her bosom. Her breathing was
even and regular, as though she were sleeping with open eyes.
Anger raged in Thais' breast as in that of a lioness, bound with
chains, which sees her cubs taken from her. She knew the hopelessness
of struggling with her captors, for even if she could free herself, she
would still be powerless to rescue Artemisia.
Around the gloomy temple stood thousands of men and women, mournfully
and silently waiting in the rain for the procession to enter. The
great bronze doors stood open, revealing the dark interior of the
building, where a few torches cast a flickering light upon the face of
the monstrous idol, whose cruel features seemed to be twisting
themselves with hideous grimaces.
Streamers of pale blue smoke were drawn through the apertures over the
head of the image by the wind, and the inside of the temple was filled
with a smoky haze that increased the obscurity. This came from the
fire of scented wood that the priests had kindled in the body of the
idol. They fed it continually from behind; and the faint smoke, rising
from carefully disposed openings in the breast and shoulders of the
figure, partially veiling its face, added to the mystery and solemnity
of the ceremony.
As Hiram approached the entrance, two lines of black-robed priests
issued silently to right and left, pushing back the crowd and forming a
lane which led up the two flights of shallow stone steps to the
doorway. The spectators reverently bowed their heads. Their faith in
the power of Baal, bred in them from infancy, was strong upon them, and
deep was their fear of his wrath. Many times had he listened to their
prayers, and more than once had he refused to listen, permitting the
calamity that they besought him to avert. But never since he had
become their God, at a time beyond the limit of tradition, had they
gone to him in such dreadful extremity. Would he intervene, or would
he leave them to their fate?
All eyes were turned to the impassive face of Hiram, searching there
for an answer to the question that was in every mind. The chief priest
gave no sign. He paced slowly into the open space between the ranks of
the priests, his black vestments fluttering about him in voluminous
folds. His eyes looked straight forward into the temple, seeking the
face of Baal. In his footsteps walked Artemisia, her head now drooping
slightly, like a flower cut from its stem. The priests began a slow
chant, so low that its words of praise could hardly be understood.
Halfway up the second flight of steps, behind the row of priests,
Pethuel appeared in the crowd. He had managed somehow to reach the
temple in advance of his flock. The rain glistened upon his white hair
and snowy beard. Pressing forward as Hiram advanced, he raised his
voice above the mystic words of the chant.
"Priest of Baal!" he cried to his rival, "thy God is fled! Behold, his
image shall be broken in thy temple. The wrath of the Lord God of
Hosts is upon you; for the cup of Tyre's iniquities runneth over!"
He ceased and a murmur ran through the crowd; but no hand was raised
against the old man. The priests looked at Hiram, who passed on
without so much as turning his eyes, and they continued their chant.
Not even when the brother who walked beside Artemisia was struck down
by an arrow on the threshold of the temple did Hiram pause. The shaft,
falling obliquely, buried itself between its victim's shoulders, and he
fell upon his face in his death agony. His comrades lifted him quickly
and bore him out of sight; but the people continued to gaze at the
stain of blood upon the stones where he had fallen.
As Artemisia and Thais vanished in the doorway, the sounds of conflict
caused by the rising of the Hebrews reached the temple.
"It is Alexander!" said one to another in the crowd, and because of the
words of Pethuel, the cry was more easily believed. Panic seized upon
the multitude. Thousands of those who had assembled fled back to their
homes. Others ran toward the royal palace, and still others sought the
harbors. Scores found refuge in the temple, fighting with each other
to enter first through the wide doorway. The dread that had weighed
them down had taken shape. The evil was upon them.