Lazarus the chief men at Jerusalem, with two exceptions, have been bent
on the death of Jesus. On the night before the Passover, they sent an
armed force to Gethsemane, where he was praying, arrested him, took him
to the palace of the high-priest, went through a form of trying him for
blasphemy, condemned him (two only objecting), then hurried him to Pilate
the governor; and so importuned and worried and threatened the reluctant
Roman that he at last consented, but not until they had taken on
themselves and their children the whole guilt of the deed, to condemn him
to the cross. Then followed mocking, and buffeting and scourging. Then in
the early morning, accompanied by many weeping and wailing friends and
a mob of howling and exulting enemies, the soldiers took him to Calvary
and there crucified him between two robbers. Oh, the cruel, cruel spikes!
Oh, the more cruel jeers and mockings and tauntings and railings of the
soldiers—and even of his fellow sufferers! They evidently were suffering
far less than he. Those familiar with crucifixions had never before seen
such agony. All the signs of an inexpressible anguish were in both face
and form. And once he uttered a cry so terrible that Nicodemus, who
heard it, said that it would haunt him to his dying day. He had never
heard the like before: never could bear to hear the like again. He is
fully persuaded that the sun in all his circuits had never looked down
on such mortal agony, because it was the agony of Him on whom ‘God laid
the iniquities of us all.’ In fact, the sun refused at length to look on
the awful scene any longer. He had climbed over the eastern hills, and
up to the zenith, with undimmed face, when, all at once, he disappeared.
For three hours the darkness of God was over the whole land. Men could
hardly see one another. But the darkness of men was still greater than
the darkness of God. They still continued to cast at Jesus through the
lurid dimness the stones of their derision and insult until the end. At
the ninth hour the great Victim died—praying for his enemies. Then the
earth quaked mightily. Ancient rocks that had defied men and time broke
in pieces before the silent cross. The veil of the temple was rent in
twain by unseen hands. Even dead men came from their graves, to meet
Jesus as he descended into his. ‘_Truly_,’ said the centurion who had the
crucifixion in charge, ‘_truly this was the Son of God!_’
“When all was over, the disciples smote their breasts and returned to the
city, filled with horror and almost despair. Who could have thought it!
Is there really no humanity on earth, and no divinity in Heaven! Is this
the end of their hopes—this the end of their long and fondly expected
kingdom of God! From the towering summits of faith to the depths of doubt
and misery—what a fall! My mother was not able to see the more immediate
disciples for two or three days; for she was crushed in both body and
heart: but Nicodemus kept her informed as to everything. Besides, she
knew how they were feeling from knowing how she felt herself. She was
prostrated before the awful mystery. She was dazed and almost incapable
of thought under the mighty shock. And yet she had at the bottom of
her heart a feeling that this could not be the end. God _cannot_ be so
defeated by man.
“So much for the tragedy. Had this been all that my mother wrote I could
never have smiled again. Her account filled me with shame and horror and
wrath. It seemed to me that God would have been just if he had at once
smitten those murderers into the lowest Tophet. God forgive me! but I
almost felt as if I could do it myself. I felt as if I belonged to an
accursed and doomed race. Yes, I felt as if I could never smile again.
But you see that I can (and her face wet with tears shone out upon him,
with bewildering radiance); and it is because the tragedy has a triumph
for its sequel.
“On the third day after the crucifixion Nicodemus came home in great
excitement, saying that the Roman guard which Pilate, at the solicitation
of the Jewish chiefs, had set about the tomb where the body of Jesus had
been placed, came into the city early in the morning and reported to the
chiefs with scared faces and trembling lips that One with a form bright
as the lightning had flashed down from the sky in their sight, rolled
away the stone from the door of the sepulchre, and sat upon it. They
fell to the earth, and became as dead men. When they came to themselves
they found the angel gone and the tomb open and empty. Great was the
perplexity of the leaders on hearing this; but they finally resolved,
Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea protesting, to fortify one crime by
another, and gave a large sum of money to the soldiers to say that the
body was stolen while they slept. This recalled vividly to my mother’s
mind what Jesus had once said, but which, in common with the other
disciples, she had taken as having some figurative meaning, ‘_And the
third day I will rise again_.’
“Soon after, one of the maids of the house, who also was a disciple and
had been out at the market, came hastily home, saying that some of the
apostles and others had seen angels at the sepulchre who told them that
Jesus had risen—had even seen Jesus himself and spoken with him. My
mother could no longer restrain herself, but hurried away to a place
where the disciples were wont to gather; and found many assembled. The
room was in a fever of restless pacings to and fro, of eager questionings
and answerings. Seen him? Spoken with him? Sure there is no mistake?
Peter and certain women were in great request, for they could say _Yes_
to all such questions. The joy of assured conviction shone in some
faces; a hope that still feared in others. It seemed too good to be
true. Thomas, one of the Twelve, declared it could not be true: there
must be some delusion in it—either of the senses, or the nerves, or
the imagination. He would not believe without the concurrent witness
of at least three senses. He had scarcely said this, when, though the
doors were closed, they saw Jesus himself standing among them with the
well-known form and features and voice; and he said to Thomas, ‘Reach
hither thy finger and behold my hands; and reach hither thy hand and
thrust it into my side; and be not faithless but believing.’ Thomas broke
down at once. Doubt was impossible. Not a ray of hesitation remained
with any. None understood the sublime march of events; none knew what
prodigies were yet to come, whether his enemies would now be swept away
and a visible Divine Kingdom set up, or not; but of this all were sure
that he who had died on the cross was again alive among them. And they
rejoiced with exceeding great joy—though the joy yet felt the swell and
tossing of the just departed storm.
“Since then my mother has seen the Messiah several times. But he never
shows himself to the people at large. It is now understood among the
disciples that in a short time, after meeting them in Galilee, he will
return to Heaven—leaving his disciples to preach in his name forgiveness
of sins to all nations who will repent and believe.”
“I think I will read to you,” added Rachel, “the last page or two of
the letter, that you may see what views are now being held by those
immediately about Jesus as to his person and work.” She read:
“Now we all know that my thought was right—that his death was an
atonement for the sins of all men; and that the victims which have been
offered from the beginning were only types of this great Victim. And I
say to myself, What must be the nature and dignity of him whose death can
atone for all human sin? Must he not be Divine as well as human? Must
he not be God manifest in the flesh? Who else could make so mighty an
expiation?—who else save he of whom it is written, ‘And the government
shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful,
Counsellor, the mighty God, the Everlasting Father,’ and who has said of
himself, ‘I and my father are one?’
“I cannot return home just yet—much as I wish to see you and others.
This great opportunity of seeing and hearing for a brief time longer the
Redeemer of the world is too precious to be sacrificed. Besides, the
successive tides of grief and joy have so shaken me that I am unfit to
travel.
“Read what I have written to your dear grandfather. Oh, that he were
here—his fairness of mind and penetration would be sure to place him on
the side of Jesus.
“Of course I have written the same things to your dear father and
brothers at Rome—hoping that amid their great schemes of business and
ambition they will find room for faith, _my_ faith. May they not be among
‘The rulers who take counsel together against the Lord and against his
Anointed?’ As to you I have no doubt, even though the lot of Esther”—the
maiden broke off abruptly with a flush and a shudder, and busied herself
for a little in adjusting the leaves of the manuscript.
This letter led to a long conversation; I should say to long
conversations. Daily, for many days, Aleph came to his friends; and daily
the great theme was Jesus the Christ. Seti never failed to be present,
and never failed to be silent—save when a brief inquiry could bring
light. But, the day before the trials were to begin, he was absent,
arranging last things with his lawyer. Miriam also was absent.
The unfailing and unwearying topic of topics again came up; and after a
delightful talk about the past and the future of the Messianic history,
Aleph inquired about the attitude of Seti.
“My own impression has been,” said he, “that it was better for a mind
like his, so fair and penetrating and judicial, to be left largely to
feel its own way to the truth. So I have made no formal effort to commend
our own faith to him—save by shaping my inquiries of Miriam and our talks
with each other so as to furnish answers to questions which a great and
philosophic mind would naturally ask on its way to a just conviction.
Have I been right in this?”
“I think so,” she answered. “Such men, my father says, must convince
themselves. The most we can do is to get the material for judgment within
their reach. And I think we have done this successfully in the case of my
grandfather. His mind is open to evidence from all quarters. He has no
national or race prejudices. He married a Caucasian princess; and was
willing that my mother should marry a Hebrew. Signs are not wanting to me
that his judgment is slowly but surely settling in favor of Jesus, not
only as a divine messenger, but even as an incarnation of the One God.
And yet I do not think that he has any idea of relinquishing his position
as primate of the Egyptians.”
“I see no reason why he should,” returned Aleph. “He holds the original
Egyptian position in matters of faith; also that of the higher priesthood
all through the Egyptian history. He fairly represents the religion of
the land as it was when his office was established: his predecessors have
wrongfully used their power to change the ancient faith and practice; he
can rightfully use his power to restore it. Meanwhile, he is acting no
part; he is perfectly frank and outspoken as to his views and objects;
his function requires of him no endorsement of idolatry or even a refusal
of the Hebrew Scriptures and their Messiah. He could, to-day, say to his
College of Priests, not only that, like the far-back fathers, he believes
in one Infinite God who only is to be worshipped with Divine honors, but
also that he believes that this God has just appeared in the person of
Jesus—he could freely say all this and his subordinate priests would not
be stumbled. So I think that no law, human or divine, requires him to
surrender the advantages of his position in favor of some one who would
promote the national apostasy instead of reforming it.... But I could
wish to see him pronounced in favor of Jesus before I leave the country.”
“That, I trust, will not be soon?” said Rachel, with a startled look.
“As soon as these trials are fairly over, I suppose.”
“What!” she exclaimed with a look of dismay, “I thought you would remain
a long time, studying our institutions, enlarging your knowledge of the
Western World, especially getting an inside view of our University life
and teachings. Be persuaded to remain—a long, very long time. Seti had
rather lose all the rest of the University. I do not think he could be
persuaded to part with you at all. And I think,” she stammered, “all your
friends here feel very much the same.”
He replied, “My father did not propose for me a long stay in this city.
Through my Greek preceptor I was already considerably acquainted with
the matters you mention. They have been merely collaterals to two main
purposes—which were, first, to learn what could be learned about the
Messiah who, as my father believed, was born at Bethlehem some thirty
years ago; and, second, to investigate the proceedings of Malus. As
side issues my father wished me to get such improvement as a young man
might from seeing the world, and from being under the necessity of
judging and acting for himself among all sorts of men and under all
sorts of conditions. And as soon as the great objects of my visit could
be accomplished he wished me to return. I am an only child: the father
wishes to see his son, and the son wishes to see the father. And if I
can return through Judea and see the Messiah, and carry away from him
to my parents a blessing, I shall consider my mission accomplished. But
it will cost me something—very much indeed—to go away, even though it
be homeward. I never expected to find such friends in Alexandria as I
have found; and, as the day approaches for me to say farewell to them,
I find I am approaching one of the greatest trials of my life. What
wonderful kindness they have shown the nameless stranger who could not,
consistently with his father’s wishes, furnish the commonest letter of
introduction! And what delightful hours have I spent in this house with
one whose views and feelings on the most important of all subjects have
harmonized so completely with my own! Yes, it will cost me much to go
away—I did not know how much till I received yesterday a letter of recall
from my father (his lip quivered); and I doubt whether I have even now a
full sense of the bitterness that will come in saying last words. But, if
they must be said, it is doubtless better that they be said a week hence
than at some remoter time. I feel that my heart is less and less under my
control with every passing day. You see (he added with a sad smile) that,
if there were no other reasons, I must go away to escape from you: Rachel
is too mighty for Aleph the Chaldean. When one cannot conquer it is best
to leave the field.”
“Flight is disgraceful,” exclaimed Rachel with sparkling eyes. “Better
die on the field. But I will be merciful to my captive. He shall live.”
“To be dragged at your chariot wheels—to grace the triumph of her at
whose feet lies the empire of the West?” He rose.
She also rose and came toward him. “You are quoting; or you are thinking
of a distant somebody of whom you have heard and whom you have despised.
Surely you are not thinking of _me_. It is true, if I must say it, that
I have been offered the Roman purple in the person of the heir-apparent;
and that to-day the elders of my people have been here to urge my
acceptance of the proposals—for the public good. I listened to what they
had to say and was silent—following the counsel of my grandfather. But to
you I will not be silent. I have never seen Germanicus, and never want to
see him. The empire of the West will have to wait long at my feet before
I take it up. I will have none of it. I had rather die.”
She hesitated a moment and then went on, while a celestial blush spread a
new loveliness over every feature, “So you see that you need not go away
to escape from me. The daughter of Alexander was glad, beyond measure, to
hear that she was beloved by Aleph the Chaldean. She accepts his love and
gives him as large in return.”
Even Aleph could be transfigured. And it was nothing less than
a transfiguration that now took place in his face at this frank
declaration. Rachel had seen that face in many moods of thoughtfulness,
watchfulness, resolve, pity, gratitude, command; but she had never before
seen it radiant with joy. Now she saw it—wonderingly and blissfully saw
it. All the flood gates of the morning seemed suddenly opened in his
face. Such eloquence beamed upon her from that illuminated page that she
needed no voice to interpret it. But a voice came—with a curious accent
of surprise and inquiry.
“Can it be that I hear aright? Can it be that the greatest good fortune
of my life thus far has come to me to-day; and that the maiden for whose
favor princes strive can give her heart and hand to one who is to her
merely Aleph the Chaldean—the unknown?”
“You are _not_ unknown,” she replied with a face as radiant and
transfigured as his own. “It is true that I do not know whether you
are rich or poor, whether prince or peasant, but this I know, that in
yourself alone you deserve the warmest love that woman can give; and I
give it. You shall be my emperor.”
“What will Seti say?”
“He will say as I do—proud old Pharaoh as he is.”
“What will your father say—the rich, the ambitious?”
“He will say as Seti says till he comes to know you better; and then
he will say as I do. Much as he values money, I happen to know that he
values merit more.”
“What will the city say? That the Gem of Alexandria, who might have
chosen the greatest and best in the land, and even been mistress of the
West, has thrown herself away on a nameless adventurer?”
“Perhaps. But I do not propose to marry to suit the city.”
In a moment she found herself in his arms, and felt his warm, lingering
lips on her forehead. She looked up at him archly and said:
“And what will _your_ father say?”
“Ah, that is a very serious question!” he answered with a smile; “but
fortunately I can answer it better to-day than I could have done
yesterday. This morning I saw Cimon, and, on my telling him my feelings
toward you, he surprised me by saying that it was my father’s hope that
during my absence I might find among the chosen people some suitable
maiden to share my lot and be to him a daughter—that his wandering Jacob
might somewhere find a Rachel. And Cimon, from whom I have kept nothing,
is satisfied—nay, more, is delighted. So thus I answer your question. My
father will say as Cimon does, and Cimon will say as I do.”
How long Aleph tarried at this unwatered wine I do not know; but I happen
to know that he did not become so intoxicated but that he could hold a
long business consultation afterward with Piso and Seti about the trials
that were to begin the next day.
He was driving the chariot of the sun; but he held the fiery coursers
well in hand.
XVI.
THE BASILICA.
Οί δὲ δίκας ξείνοιο καὶ ενδήμοισι διδοῦσιν, τοῖσι τεθηλε πόλις.
HESIOD, _Works_, 223.
_Those who administer the laws with justice to foreigners and
natives—by these the city flourishes._
1. Before the courts.
2. Is Themis blind?
3. Fiat justitia.
4. Buat cælum.
XVI.
THE BASILICA.
The courts of Alexandria were held in the great Basilica at the
intersection of Emporium Street with the Street of Canopus.
Among the Romans, subject peoples were, as far as possible, left to be
governed by their own laws and customs. Accordingly all suits between
persons of the same nation were first tried by their own judges. An
appeal could be taken from these to a Roman court. Also, the case went to
a Roman court if the judges failed to agree on a verdict.
The suit of Malus against the two brothers, Shaphan and Nathan, for the
non-payment of the sum they had agreed to give for his rights in their
khan-business, together with interest on the same for nearly thirty years
(time did not outlaw debts in Alexandria), being between Jew and Jew,
came before Jewish judges, who happened to be equally divided between the
two chief synagogues.
In suits of this kind, and indeed of almost every kind, it was customary
for the more immediate friends of either party to give him moral support
by taking seat with him in the court-room. Of course Malus was not
unprovided with sympathizers. Nor were Shaphan and Nathan. On their side
of the room sat Seti and Aleph, as well as some of the principal men of
the Diapleuston.
I do not propose to give a detailed account of proceedings. Those who are
curious about the formalities of ancient courts, Jewish or Roman, must
seek for them in other works. I touch only _fastigia verum_.
The advocate of Malus first stated briefly the accusation. Then Malus
made oath that the statement was correct. Next the defendants made oath
to the contrary. Then Piso, as advocate for the defendants, proceeded
to question Malus. Was it not possible that he had long ago received
payment, but had gradually, through press of affairs of much greater
consequence, lost sight of the fact? Malus replied that he was not apt
to be forgetful in business matters: besides, he distinctly remembered
having made an annual application in writing at the beginning of each
year for the sum due him, to say nothing of many personal applications.
He was prepared to furnish witnesses to the fact of such applications,
both written and oral, during a full quarter of a century.
Piso inquired why he had not brought suit before. Malus replied that he
had not been pressed for money; but that the leading motive for his long
delay had been _mercy_. He hated to push matters to extremities; but
had at last come, very reluctantly, to feel that forbearance with such
unscrupulous persons was no longer a virtue, but rather an encouragement
to wrong-doing.
Here his advocate suggested that he probably was in the habit of giving a
receipt for moneys paid him.
“I _always_ do it,” he said promptly. “Of course a receipt is always
expected and demanded in case of large payments. If the defendants had
paid me the money due they would have demanded a receipt and I should
have given it. Let them produce my receipt.”
Malus indulged himself with what he meant for a smile, which was broadly
imitated by his party.
“Do you recognize this?” inquired Piso, producing a discolored sheet of
papyrus, and handing it to Malus. The man’s hand visibly trembled as he
took it; and as his eye glanced along the page he could not prevent a
ripple of dismay from passing across his features. But it was gone in an
instant.
“A very clever forgery!” he sneered.
Piso took back the paper and handed it to the judges, together with some
letters which he himself had received from Malus in course of years on
business matters.
“The honorable judges will perceive,” said he, after a few moments had
been allowed for a comparison of the papers, “that if the receipt is a
forgery, it is an exceedingly clever one—perhaps will perceive that it is
so clever that none but an expert scribe, who has made a close study of
the plaintiff’s handwriting in many specimens, could possibly have done
it. This is what the leading scribes in the city tell me, and are here to
testify. But Shaphan and Nathan are _not_ skillful scribes—as you may see
from these specimens received from them in course of business,”—and he
passed over to the judges a parcel.
After a few moments he resumed. “But the honorable judges should further
notice that the receipt bears the signatures of two witnesses, as was
customary years ago in transactions of such magnitude. These witnesses
have given me some trouble. They left the city shortly after signing
this document, and I could not find any one who knew where they were.
The probability was that they were dead; for they were not young when
they disappeared, and thirty years make havoc with old people. But
yesterday, without concert and from opposite directions, they for the
first time returned to the city—each drawn by a mysterious feeling that
he was wanted and _must_ not stay away. They are in this room now; can
be identified by persons here present who formerly knew them well; will
testify to their own signatures, and anew to the well-remembered fact
that Malus received his money in their presence.”
Turning again to Malus, Piso said, “You say that this receipt is a
forgery—to whom do you attribute the forgery?”
“Of course to those who could hope for advantage from it—to Shaphan and
Nathan.”
“The honorable judges and all here present will please notice,” exclaimed
Piso, “that Malus has publicly charged my clients with the crime of
forgery; a charge which I deny in their name, against which their general
repute testifies, and for which I propose to bring suit against him at
fitting opportunity. He shall _prove_ what he now asserts, or suffer the
penalty prescribed by law to false accusers. Meanwhile, my clients are
held innocent by the law as not yet having been proved guilty; and this
case must be decided on the assumption that they have _not_ committed a
forgery.”
Of course the advocate on the other side was voluble and shrewd. He had
not practiced in the school of Malus many years in vain; but had his ways
of making the worse appear the better—pushing some things to the front,
others to the rear; throwing a shadow here and a glare there; slurring
over this and dwelling on that; magnifying little things and dwarfing
great ones—all after the manner of unscrupulous advocates in every age
The result was that the four judges were equally divided—the Diapleuston
pair deciding for the brothers, the others for Malus. So the case went
the next day to the Roman Court held in another room of the same Basilica.
Malus was not discouraged by this. He counted on the Flaccan influence
being in his favor; and, quite as much, on his reputation of being on
good terms with the Roman authorities. He hoped to see some Romans of
standing, who might be supposed inspired by Flaccus, occupying seats on
his side of the house; also to get from the judges, as they came in and
took their seats, some furtive glances of recognition and encouragement.
He was disappointed. Still, official people have to be prudent in showing
their favoritism; and he still hoped that the powerful magnates at
Bruchium were surely, though secretly, at work for him.
The case was reviewed, the arguments for and against were repeated
without material change, the same testimonies were given as before—save
that Piso was now able to bring forward witnesses to show that, when his
clients informed Malus of the loss of the receipt and asked for another,
he did not deny having given one, but deferred giving a duplicate just
then because of press of business.
The verdict was against the plaintiff.