THE PASSING OF A GOD
Inside the Temple of Baal-Moloch the chant of the priests swelled to a
triumphant hymn of praise. The throbbing of drums and the droning of
strange musical instruments increased the volume of sound. It drowned
the uproar of the conflict between the guards and the Israelites, who
had reached the gardens of the temple, and it rose above the wailing of
the infants destined for the sacrifice. The children were held by the
priests, who formed in a deep semicircle before the idol. The throng
of devotees filled the body of the temple beyond their line and the dim
reaches of the arcades behind the rows of columns.
The pungent smell of smoke from the sacrificial fire was mingled with
the odor of incense that floated from censors swung by neophytes clad
in robes of scarlet.
Amid the crowd that burst into the temple in such numbers as to forbid
all semblance of the usual ceremonial order, rose the image of the
Giver of Life and its Destroyer, gigantic and terrible. Its broad
breast glowed dull red, and a spurt of flame issued from its sneering
lips like a fiery tongue. The terror that had driven the people into
the temple gave way to awe when they found themselves in the presence
of the God. Many of the votaries fell upon their faces before the
colossal figure; others stretched their hands toward it in an agony of
supplication. Sharp cries pierced the maddening pulsations of the
music. The gusts of the storm, entering through the opening in the
temple roof, drove the smoke in eddies through the obscurity.
Hiram walked straight to the idol and prostrated himself upon the
lowest of the steps that rose to the platform on which it stood. He
remained for a moment in silent prayer, and then, rising, he stretched
forth his arms and repeated the ancient formula that always preceded
the sacrifice, calling upon the God by the numerous titles that
signified his manifold attributes.
Artemisia stood behind him, within the half-circle of priests who held
back the eager crowd. Her white garments gleamed pure and spotless
against the background of their sombre official robes. Her head was
slightly bowed, and her hands were clasped lightly before her. She
seemed utterly oblivious of her surroundings and the terrible fate that
awaited her. Thais, firmly held by the priests who had brought her to
the temple, was stationed by her captors on the left hand of Baal, in a
position that prevented her eyes from meeting Artemisia's gaze. The
angry color had faded from her cheeks. She realized at last that
Artemisia was lost and that she herself must endure the agony of seeing
her perish. Her face had grown haggard and drawn.
"Spare her, priest of Moloch!" she cried desperately, as Hiram ended
his invocation. "Her death cannot save thy city. Give her back to me,
and I promise thee thy safety and the safety of thy order. If thou
needs must sacrifice a woman, let me be the victim. I am fairer than
she, and I will be more acceptable to thy God. See, I beg her life at
thy hands!"
She would have thrown herself upon her knees, but the priests
restrained her. Hiram made no reply and paid no heed to her appeal.
Ascending the steps with a firm tread, he stood between the feet of the
idol and turned to the multitude, extending his hands over Artemisia's
head with the palms downward. The chant ceased and the music died
away. Only the frightened sobbing of the infants, whom the assistants
sought in vain to quiet, broke the silence within the temple. Hiram
began to speak in a solemn and impressive voice.
"We bring thee, O Lord, a maiden, pure in heart," he said. "We have
sinned against thee in our pride; upon her head we place our sins; take
thou her and forgive!"
He paused, and a wailing cry of supplication rose throughout the temple.
"We have neglected thy worship," Hiram went on. "Upon her head be our
neglect; take her and forgive! We have done those things that are
forbidden; upon her head be our disobedience to thy law; take her and
accept our atonement! We have disregarded our oaths; upon her head be
our perfidy; receive her in quittance of our debt to thee. Pardon us,
O Lord, in this our sacrifice to thee, all our many sins against thee,
and protect us out of thy mercy in this hour of our great peril!"
At the conclusion of the recital, he turned again to the God. The arms
of the idol slowly sank and extended themselves until the outstretched
palms were brought together before the iron knees a few feet from the
floor.
"Artemisia!" the chief priest called imperatively.
With faltering steps she obeyed his command, advancing slowly until she
stood before the broad palms that seemed to tremble with impatience to
clasp her form. In the deadly hush of expectancy, the fierce cries of
the Israelites, struggling with the soldiers outside the temple, could
be distinctly heard. Hiram saw that haste was necessary if the
sacrifice was to be accomplished.
"Dost thou give thyself willingly for the sins of Tyre?" he demanded,
confident of his power.
Before she could answer a shriek rang through the temple.
"Deny him, Artemisia, my sister!" Thais cried. "He is a sorcerer. Do
not--"
Her voice was roughly stifled by the priests, her captors, but a
questioning murmur rose from the crowd.
"Answer!" Hiram said sternly, bending all the strength of his merciless
will upon her.
"Artemisia! Do not answer!" cried another voice. It was the voice of
a man, and it rang strong and clear, though it vibrated with anxiety.
It seemed to issue from the dark recesses behind the idol. A stir of
astonishment broke the spell that had imposed silence upon the
worshippers. Every eye strove to pierce the gloom of the sanctuary.
Hiram started, and his pallid face grew a shade paler.
"Artemisia!" came the clear voice again. "Dost thou not hear me?"
Artemisia's eyes left those of the chief priest and looked beyond him
eagerly into the darkness. The mask of impassiveness faded from her
face. Her lips parted.
"Clearchus!" she cried. "Where art thou? Save me! Save me!"
She threw up her arms with a despairing gesture, and sank upon the
platform beneath the terrible hands that were stretched to seize her.
"Alexander! Alexander!" shouted Chares out of the darkness. "Down
with the dogs!"
The words were followed by a cry of mortal agony from one of the
priests whose duty it was to feed the fire that roared inside the idol.
The Tyrians heard the sound of a brief commotion in the rear of the
temple, they saw the gleam of armor and of weapons, and the dark
hangings that veiled the innermost shrine were rent from the walls.
Armed men rushed across the platform and leaped down among the priests,
hewing at the holy ministers with flashing swords.
In the obscurity, the Tyrians fancied that an entire company of
Macedonians was upon them. Those who had sought refuge there from the
Hebrew mob forgot the dangers that awaited them outside and surged
toward the entrance. But the Israelites had scattered the soldiers in
the gardens, and they charged the doors just as the assemblage
attempted to force its way out. The fugitives from the terrors of the
temple were struck down in heaps upon the threshold.
Hiram alone retained his presence of mind. He had implicit faith in
the power of the terrible deity, in whose service he had spent the
greater part of his life, and absolute confidence in the efficacy of
sacrifice. When he saw Artemisia fall and heard Chares' battle-cry, he
knew that all was lost unless the offering could be consummated.
Unmindful of his own danger, he bounded forward and raised the slim,
unconscious form in his arms. Quickly he laid it upon the iron palms,
with a muttered prayer. There was a sound of creaking chains, and the
hands ascended slowly, bearing upward the slender figure. One bare,
white arm hung inertly between the iron fingers, and the snowy chiton
shone through the smoke against the dark bulk of the monstrous image.
Clearchus sprang out of the darkness and saw Artemisia raised aloft in
that pitiless grasp. She was already beyond his reach. A cold sweat
broke out upon his body. He stood for an instant transfixed with
dread, unable even to cry out. Every heart-beat brought her nearer to
that glowing metal surface, whose terrible heat he could feel upon his
face where he stood.
Hiram stepped forward to the edge of the platform and stretched out his
arms. The glare of religious madness shone in his eyes.
"Peace, peace!" he cried to the struggling and shrieking mob, frantic
with fear. "Baal-Moloch accepts the sacrifice. Peace! Profane not
his temple!"
His voice was drowned in a crash of thunder that seemed to rend the sky
across from mountain to sea. Before it died, a huge mass of rock,
hurled from an engine of the Macedonian fleet, crashed through one of
the openings in the dome of the temple. The ponderous missile struck
the masonry and bounded backward and downward in a shower of dislodged
stones upon the inclined head of the idol.
Moloch seemed to rise from his throne, as though about to stride from
the platform. His iron arms flew apart, and the grim colossus lurched
forward down the steps, and fell with a clang of metal upon the marble
floor.
A sharp cry rose from the struggling crowd. Those who witnessed the
downfall of the sacred image stood in doubt, unable to believe their
eyes. The Israelites, unaware of what had happened, took advantage of
the moment to overcome the slight opposition of the Tyrians who still
faced them. They rushed into the temple, crying aloud for the
restoration of their children.
In the wild confusion of their onslaught, many of the infants were
trampled to death. Others were killed by the priests, who seemed
crazed by the fall of their idol. At first they stood stupefied.
Hiram's voice was no longer heard. They called upon him in vain.
Finally one of them ran to the fragments of the prostrate image.
Bending above it, he saw the distorted face of the chief priest gazing
up into his own. The unfortunate man had been caught beneath the
breast of the God to whom he had offered so many innocents, and his
crushed body was being slowly roasted under the red-hot metal.
"Moloch has taken him!" the priest shouted, tossing his arms in the air.
He ran into the crowd, and, seizing one of the infants by the heels,
dashed out its brains against a pillar. His example was followed by
others no less frantic than himself.
"Strike, brothers!" he cried. "Baal has fallen! The end is at--"
Before he could finish the sentence, Leonidas' sword pierced his
throat, and he fell upon the body of the child that he had slain.
Down the dim arcade, behind the pillars, strode the Spartan and Chares,
hacking and thrusting at the black-robed minions of Moloch. They
showed no mercy. Neither prayer nor entreaty availed. They sought the
priests through the terrified crowd, and dragged them from every place
of concealment, until of all who had been in the temple not one
remained alive.
With the crash of the stone as it smote the idol, Clearchus realized
what had happened. He saw the iron arms drop, and he leaped forward in
time to snatch Artemisia from their embrace. The hot iron grazed his
body as the image fell. Artemisia's pale, sweet face lay upon his
shoulder, and he clasped her close to his breast. In the revulsion
from his despair he felt his muscles endowed with strength.
He smiled to see his friends dash past him, and he looked smilingly
upon the clamorous crowd in which every man fought for his life. One
of the priests, whose face had been gashed to the bone, rushed upon
him, with hands extended, and tried to tear Artemisia from his arms.
The man was unarmed, and Clearchus thrust him through the breast. He
sank and died without a moan.
Amid the fragments of Moloch's image, the fire that had been kindled in
the iron bosom flickered with blue and crimson tongues of flame.
Suddenly the crowd was split by a rush from the great doorway, and
Clearchus saw Nathan leading the Israelites into the temple. With the
name of Jehovah upon their lips, the swarthy, black-eyed Hebrews poured
in, smiting the Tyrians and beating them down with merciless strokes in
the delirium of their exaltation. They swept through the temple like
wolves through a sheepfold. The floor was heaped with the dead, and
the stones were slippery with blood. Nathan recognized the Athenian
and sprang to his side, shouting to his followers to strike and spare
not.
Into the midst of the confusion rushed the Hebrew women, seeking the
children who had been taken from them. The uproar of conflict gave way
to the lamentations of mothers whose infants had been slaughtered.
Others, more fortunate, sat with their babes in their arms, kissing
them and feeling them over to discover whether they had been hurt. One
young wife sat upon the steps at Clearchus' feet with her first-born
and only child. Nathan recognized her as the woman who had been struck
down by the priest in the market-place. The baby had been strangled
and was dead.
"Hush!" she said, in a crooning voice, and, covering the child's head
with her garment, she pressed its lips to her breast. For an instant
she sat there, but the chill of the waxen mouth struck through her
heart. She gave a startled glance at the baby's face, and then sprang
up with a scream of despair and rushed out of the temple into the
tempest, with the poor little body clasped in her arms.
Nathan called to Chares and Leonidas. "Alexander is on the wall," he
said. "The streets are filled with the Tyrians. We must escape as we
came. Listen!"
He held up his hand, and the Greeks became aware of a dull roaring that
filled the city like the humming of a gigantic hive of bees.
"Even here we shall not be safe," Nathan continued. "Let us seek the
secret passage."
"Chares!" cried one from among the women, and Thais ran forward, with
her saffron robe torn so that half her perfect breast was exposed. She
carried a dagger in her hand, and its blade was red; but her face shone
with joy. The weapon fell from her grasp as she sprang to the Theban,
who lifted her like a child in his arms and kissed her.
"Come," he said, as he set her down, "let us go."
Turning their backs upon the throng of the living and the dead, they
descended into the secret passage and closed the entrance behind them.