The Coming of the King
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Bernie Babcock >> The Coming of the King
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"Of what other use are they?" and a mild expression of interest showed
on Zador's face.
"Hast thou forgotten the song?"
"Song? Hear the woman, Lazarus, my friend! But a moment ago she did
put a value on hearts. Now songs have a value. The heart of a woman
and the song of a bird! Are they worth shekels or talents, my fair
Mary?"
"The love of the heart is priceless," she replied, "and there is music
of value more than gold talents."
"Are not the silver trumpets of the Temple music enough for thee?"
"Such music is indeed sweet. But there is yet other music."
After Mary had excused herself and gone into the garden a few moments
later, Martha said, "She hath gone to feed her nestlings."
"Then will I show you the rare gift I brought thy sister," and from a
leather case taken from inside his cloak Zador drew a delicately
wrought anklet of gold set thick with shining green chalcedony. From
it hung bangles, like bits of fine gold lace, carrying, each in the
center, a precious stone of changing color. At sight of it Martha gave
an exclamation of delight, and Lazarus and Joel looked at it with
interest. "My betrothal gift to Mary," Zador Ben Amon said with
undisguised admiration as he turned it about and shook it so that the
tinkling of the bangles sounded. "From Ceylon came the garnets and the
emerald from Ethiopian mines. When hath man given his betrothed so
rich a gift? Proud will thy fair sister be to receive it."
"I would have Mary come," Lazarus said, and leaving the house, he went
into the garden. At the far end Mary was sitting under a glossy green
pomegranate which was in full crimson blossom. Clad in white and with
her silver bound veil falling softly about her, she made a picture
worth pausing a moment to view. She held the nest of young birds in
one hand and moved the other slowly over them, until, roused by the
wing-like motion, they opened wide their yellow mouths for the food she
dropped in. Lazarus watched a moment before seating himself near her.
"Mary, my sister," he said, "Zador Ben Amon is an Israelite high and
mighty and hath set his heart on thee."
"Nay. Nay," she replied quickly. "He is a heathen and his heart is
set on shekels and talents."
"He hath brought thee a betrothal gift."
Mary was silent until she had closed her hand over the crying
nestlings. Then she turned to Lazarus. "Dost thou want me to leave
thee, my brother?"
"Nay, nay, Mary. Not so. I would keep thee always if thou wouldst.
Yet there cometh a time when a woman's heart goeth out to another man
than her brother. Thou art different from Martha and setteth much
store on things not sold in market places. Let not thy answer come
from the mouth of a nightingale. When thy arms grow hungry for little
ones and thy breast casts about for him who shall be father to them,
Zador Ben Amon--"
Further words were cut short by an exclamation from Mary who drew back
in horror.
"What is it?" and Lazarus looked about. "What abominable thing cometh
nigh thee?"
For a moment Mary made no reply. With her brother's reference to
little ones which should come of her union with the money-changer, she
had felt again the passion unspeakable that had for the moment gripped
her at touch of the Bedouin baby's lips. Yet as it swept through her
now it was the passion of utter revulsion, such passionate revulsion as
had stamped itself on her face when her brother looked about for some
ugly, creeping reptile. "Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings
cometh wisdom," she seemed to hear the Rabbi say again, and without
understanding the mystery of the wisdom, she knew it had come through
the mouth of the Bedouin baby. "Not from the mouth of a nightingale
shall my answer come," said Mary. "But if thou lovest me, speak no
more forever of wedding me with this Jew. It hath been revealed to me
there is no wisdom in it."
"He will press the matter with thee. He is a guest under my roof and a
Sadducee of power. Choose well thy way."
"I have already made choice. To the home of Anna do I go for the
night. She hath called me, for her father is in Jerusalem."
"Is this wisdom?" asked Lazarus thoughtfully.
"It is a favor to Anna, and Zador Ben Amon will not miss a foolish
lover of songs when he doth lay hold of Martha's choice meat."
Together Mary and Lazarus walked toward the house. When they reached
the big stone bench, Zador stood waiting. Lazarus passed on, and
because he insisted, Mary sat beside the Temple money-maker. He put
the cloak carefully over the back of the seat and from its folds drew
the anklet. Uncovering it, he thrust it suddenly before her, watching
eagerly for her first impression.
"What thinkest thou? Is this not a fit betrothal gift for a Roman
noblewoman?"
"It is most beautiful," she answered quietly.
"It is thine, my Israelitish princess--my Mary!" he exclaimed with all
the interest she had not shown. "Draw up thy skirt for with my own
hand would I fit it to thy white and shapely ankle," and his narrow
black eyes shone with the anticipated pleasure.
Mary drew away saying, "Nay, nay. I wear no anklets."
"See," and he held it toward her. "Its jewels will tinkle on thy skirt
like the silver bells on the High Priest's robe. What soundeth more
pleasant to the ears of a woman?"
"But I care not for wagging nose rings and tinkling anklets," she
replied.
"And thou wouldst have another gift than this?" Zador asked, his
disappointment apparent.
"Nay. No gift would I have. When there is no betrothal what need of a
gift?"
Zador Ben Amon turned his eyes on Mary. "No betrothal!" he exclaimed.
"No betrothal! Thou dost jest. Where is the woman who would do less
than be betrothed to Zador Ben Amon? Take thou the gift. As the price
of thy heart was it fashioned and I make my oath that no other woman
shall possess it. Here," and he held it toward her. She made no move.
He placed it carefully on the wide stone arm of the bench. "There is
thy gift and palsied be my arm if my hand toucheth it again. It is
thine." And Zador waited for Mary to speak. "Thou dost disturb me
much!" And his voice suggested anger when she made no move to take the
gift, and arising he went to the pool beside which he stood with bowed
head.
After watching him a moment, Mary's hand sought the border of his
cloak. Her fingers felt the loose thread in the wide hem. Lifting the
anklet, she slipped it inside the hem and pushed it around to one side
of the garment.
"On the morrow when he mends the rent he will find that I neither took
it nor must his arm suffer palsy for withholding it from me," and she
smiled. Then she arose. "Zador Ben Amon," she said, "I go to the home
of Anna whose father doth not return from Jerusalem to-night.
Farewell."
With a start he turned his face to her. A few quick steps brought him
to her side and he would have thrown his arms about her but she
gathered her veil tightly and said, "Touch me not!"
"Touch thee not? Am I a god of wood?" and before she had stepped aside
his fingers touched her.
"My brother sitteth just behind the lattice. Wilt thou that I call
him?" Zador Ben Amon stopped. Mary cast one swift glance at him.
"Devourer of songs unsung," she said slowly, turning her back on him.
He watched her cross the court and pass through the gate into the yard
of Simon the Leper. When she was beyond sight he stepped hurriedly
back to the bench. He glanced cautiously toward the house. He ran his
hand over the stone where he had placed the anklet. He shook his
cloak. He dropped on his hands and knees and searched the grass
carefully. "The woman hath taken it and I have me no recourse," he
muttered angrily. "A curse upon her! But this is not the end of it!"
CHAPTER VIII
STRANGE TALES ARE ABOUT
The palace occupied by Pilate, Roman Procurator of Judea, during his
visitations to the once Jewish capital, was one of the gorgeous and
perpetual monuments to the architectural skill of Herod the Great and
his almost inconceivable expenditure of gold. Had Pilate built it for
himself it could not have been more to his liking, containing as it did
apartments in size from the closet of a slave maiden to halls of state
large enough to banquet whole companies. The favorite state apartment
of Pilate was always first set in order. A palace within a palace was
it, pillared into twelve compartments which yet made one whole. The
frieze of the twelve compartments was surmounted with the twelve signs
of the Zodiac and paintings of meat eaters. The side walls were
decorated with fauns and naked bacchantes carrying vases of flowers.
The gleaming pillars that reached to a ceiling of great height were
entwined with carved ivy and vine branches. There were couches, one of
bronze ornamented with tortoise shell and gold, the cushions of which
were Gallic wool dyed purple; another near it was of ivory and gold and
across it was thrown a wolf skin robe. Corinthian vases nobly wrought
of fine brass were filled with palms tied with gay ribbons, such as
were waved in the Roman circus. Back of the couch covered with wolf
skin was a pedestal wreathed with fresh flowers, and the fragrance of
incense from cunningly wrought metal lamps perfumed the air.
With the coming of Pilate came a retinue of servants and soldiers, and
always guards stood at all entrances inside and out of the palace. In
the palace of Pilate all was in readiness for the Passover guests
certain to be on hand, for Rome sent many visitors annually to
Jerusalem. Claudia, wife of the Procurator, herself enjoyed the
impressive crowds that gorged the great city and was out sight-seeing
daily. On the third day before the great Feast, she returned to the
palace before the time of Pilate's arrival, and pushing aside one of
the magnificent hangings that lent a touch of barbaric color to the
gorgeous apartment, she entered and looked about.
"Margara! Zenobe!" she called. At sound of her voice, from behind
another hanging, two slave maidens appeared. "Take thou my cloak,
Zenobe," she said, uncovering a splendid gown heavy with spangles of
silver and rare lace, "and bring back the jewels that have been under
guard since we left Rome. And thou, Margara, freshen my hair while I
sit and rest, for Pilate doth come shortly."
"Aye, Pilate doth come shortly--and for Pilate doth Claudia dress her
hair." The words were spoken softly.
"Yea," Claudia said, laughing, "for Pilate doth bring guests from the
Senate at Rome. In the court of Caesar have these men oft dined, and
Roman women wear jewels the gods envy. But so hath Claudia jewels,
rare jewels that have been handed down to her from her grandfather
Augustus and her mother Julia."
Zenobe returned shortly with a closed casket which she handed to
Claudia with a key. From it ornaments and strings of jewels were taken
and handed to the maid.
"On my arms fasten thy bands and make my throat to sparkle, and when
Margara hath dressed my hair, twine it thick with shining stones."
Claudia rested herself on the wolf skin couch and as the two slaves
dressed her hair and ornamented her body, she talked with them.
"Strange sights I saw in Jerusalem this day. The city is packed with
odd peoples from every land. Indian princes saw I from beyond the
Ganges. African lion hunters, their black bodies bare save for strings
of golden nuggets; Arabians swinging on crimson decked camels;
chieftains from Assyria whose purple cloth was gay with blue and yellow
stones; Scythian savages whose garments were no more than suns and
moons and fishes marked upon their knees, all these I saw. Aye,
strange peoples making a strange show and a strange babel."
"Yea, and strange tales are about," Zenobe half whispered.
"What tales hast thou heard?"
"No more than that the dead are turned to life."
"A strange tale indeed--too strange, my little maid."
"It doth come from a Roman centurion."
"Hath a centurion died?"
"Nay, but his servant, sick unto death, was restored by a wonder
worker."
"Whence came this wonder worker?"
"He is a Jew. I know not more, but the centurion telleth it broadly."
"Whence got thou the story?"
"From thy scarred eunuch, my mistress."
"From my scarred eunuch? And where got he the story?"
"I know not save he hath it."
"Call thou my eunuch to me."
With flying feet Zenobe hastened to obey. Meantime Margara finished
her work of hair dressing, exclaiming, "Thy hair is most beautiful!"
Claudia arose, arranged the folds of her luxurious train and twisted
several strings of jewels over her bare arms. She had started across
the shining mosaic floor when Zenobe returned followed by a large and
finely shaped slave with a scarred face. His swarthy body was scantily
attired. Claudia gave him recognition, and stopping in front of her he
made low obeisance and then stood straight and rigid as a statue.
"To-day," Claudia said, "I stood in the portico of the Tower of Antonio
from which watch is kept over the Temple of the Jews, and gazed upon
the surging crowds. Saw I all manner of mankind from infants to
giants, black, brown, red and Roman, and of every kind methought. Yet
doth my maiden tell me there is one I have not seen--a wonder worker
that is a Jew. Hast thou heard aught of this?"
"Yea. A wonder worker is Jesus of Nazareth."
"Never did I hear his name. Whence came the Jew?"
"From Galilee. There liveth the centurion who told of him."
"Galilee? Galilee? It is somewhere I know not of. Whence got thou
the story?"
"A slave of the centurion chanced to be in thy palace garden. He did
tell much."
"How went the story?"
"The servant of the centurion was ill unto death. The Jew did turn
death to life. To turn mourning into joy, they say, hath he come into
the world."
"To turn mourning into joy. A glad mission. Hast thou heard aught
else?"
"The centurion's slave did tell much."
"What?"
"That the Jews are a strange people. Long before thy mighty Rome was
dreamed of by the gods, most noble mistress, was the Kingdom of the
Jews great. In this same Jerusalem was there a temple of pure gold
which did throw back the sun itself into the sun's face for brightness.
And a king sat on a throne of gold. Wealth had this king surpassing
that of every nation, and wisdom had he so that among the wise of all
the earth none had such wisdom. Also, had this great people seers and
prophets from whose eyes the veil of time was lifted so that clear as
noonday did their vision behold that which was to be. And, lo, most
noble mistress, out of the mouths of three soothsayers hath a prophecy
been recorded of a king who shall restore again the throne of their
glory. This do the Jews believe, aye, as they believe in sun and air.
And it is whispered, most noble mistress, that this wonder worker from
Galilee is the long looked for king. Ah, that his kingdom might come!"
"What mattereth his kingdom to thee?"
"It doth hold promise of liberty to those in bondage and freedom to
those sore wounded. It would let men be free, as Rome doth not. Such
a king would be a saviour, and I would love him, even as I hate Rome!"
"As thou hatest Rome? Fear'st thou not to speak thus?"
The eunuch moved a step nearer Claudia and threw back his shoulders,
exclaiming, "What have I to fear at the hand of Rome? Nothing save my
life hath Rome left me, and this I scorn. By sword or cross or
ravening beast may Rome take my life and I would smile in her face.
Ah, have I not sore scars to speak my hatred? Here"--and he drew his
finger over a long scar on his face--"here is where the sword of Rome
lay open my face, yea, wide open as the lips of a crying child. And on
my back, most noble mistress, thou mightest hide thy white fingers in
the welts cut by the stinging thong. And seest thou my arm? Here is
flesh cooked sere as the shell of a tortoise. Thus have blade and
thong and branding iron of Rome marked me with wounds and commanded my
lips to silence. Yet have these scars each one a thousand silent
tongues crying ever 'Hate! Hate! Hate!' But here," and he threw back
his tunic and placed three fingers over a scar on his breast, "here is
a scar I love. My life it is--my satisfaction--my victory over Rome
which Rome hath no power to take. Aye, the victory of this scar, most
noble mistress, Rome with her armies, her spears, her torch nor her
power of stretching writhing bodies on hewn trees, hath no power to
take! In this I glory! This is my victory and sweet is the scar to
the heart of thy scarred eunuch."
Claudia moved near the slave and looked closer at the scar. "It doth
lie snugly near thy heart," she said. "Thou art a strange scarred
eunuch to call such a one sweet--aye, to call a wound in thy flesh a
victory."
"There is a story, most noble mistress."
"My scarred eunuch hath a story? I have thought so since Pilate made
thee mine."
"Yea, a story. Would that my lips might tell into the ear of the noble
Claudia the story of the scar thy late-bought slave doth bear."
"There is yet time before Pilate cometh. Tell on."
CHAPTER IX
SWEET IS THE SCAR
"Where the blue Aegean washes the shores of sunny Thrace," the eunuch
began, with a far-away look in his eye. "Yea, in the land of
Sparticus, that bravest of all fighters for the freedom of mankind,
there lived my people and there lived I save when to gain knowledge I
attended the schools of Greece. Fields had my people where the vine
hung purple as the sky at midnight and grain did we garner golden as
the belly of the tiger hide beside our hearthstones. Rich was my
father's house in fields, and rich were his sons in wine and stores and
flocks. Golden were my arms with cunningly wrought bracelets and
around my neck hung gems from far lands.
"But richer than purple wine, or golden bands, or jewels, was the look
of her whom I loved. White were the arms she hung around my neck, as
milk and ivory. Pink like the first flush of the morning were the
cheeks my lips pressed. Dark was her hair and soft like smoke in the
evening, and her eyes shone like stars on the bosom of the sea. Blue
as the summer sky were the veins that lay like tender lace over her
virgin bosom. Her breath was fragrant like flowers behind damp stones
and sweet was her voice as the music of waves when rainbow foam kisses
rainbow foam and is lost in one embrace. And she was mine; and I was
hers and a cot at the foot of a violet hill was ours.
"The sun shone. The breezes blew. The flowers bloomed. The clusters
hung purple. The grain stood golden. And then--aye, then came
Rome--Rome the scourge! Rome the curse! Rome the wolf! With fire,
sword, rapine, murder--came Rome! When the invading army crossed the
bounds we took refuge in a walled city. Soon we were surrounded by a
forest of glittering spears. I was an archer on the wall, and we
showered the brutes that hid under the bristling steel. But their
shields made a phalanx which did toss back our arrows as a bull tosses
stubble. Against the wall did they hurl mighty stones which did come
with fierce fury, and with a great beam did they batter our walls as a
ram doth batter a thin hedge. For days did we withstand. I fought
with mad fierceness, for she whom I loved cheered me from beneath the
wall.
"Then did the enemy without the city throw balls of burning pitch. Our
men did fight the fire until their hands were blistered, yet came those
balls of fire. And when flames were consuming us, the gates of the
city were broken and the hand of Rome did have us in its power. With
many of my fellows was I taken away and made fast to a great tree near
by the tent where a Roman chieftain did collect spoil. Of the lithe of
limb who were taken captive, some were to be made gladiators, but the
fierce screams of others of my countrymen, mingled with Roman curses,
told of a more ignominious fate than the arena. For this was I marked.
Fierce was the passion of my bosom that my heritage of the gods should
be sacrificed on the bloody edge of a Roman knife. While yet I stood
chained did my eye catch a sight that did freeze my boiling blood fast
in my veins, steep my breath in curses and turn my vision to mad
blackness, for into the tent of the Roman chief I saw her carried whom
I loved--she who was mine.
"I tore at the chain until blood did ooze from my flesh. Aye, and the
gods did see my plight. My weapons had the hand of Rome taken save a
knife hid in my tunic. Shortly was I to be taken to the chief to be
robbed of my armlets. Then did all the gods show me favor, for as I
went into the tent the chief was called out. Save for the time an eye
doth twinkle was he called out. Yet I rushed behind the curtains which
did hide the maiden. Swift were my words as the falcon flies and
gleaming was my blade in my hand ere the words did pass my lips. And
swift as light falls, bared she her bosom, and here, on the spot where
we had dreamed a little head would lie which should be ours, I drove
the keen blade in deep--deep drove I the blade, kissing her lips. And
she did laugh--laugh like a happy child and press her lips to mine. I
drew the dagger dripping red from the heart of my Thracian love and
stuck it to my bosom bidding her strike it hard. But the stroke fell
short. Even as the first blood met the blade was I struck low by the
sword of Rome which lay open my face. Aye, seest thou? Seest thou the
face of thy slave? And when he beheld blood bubbling from my face and
pumping from my breast, did the Roman chieftain laugh.
"Aye, how Rome doth love blood! Rivers of blood! Seas of blood! With
the blood of my face dripping on to the blood of my breast I looked
into the face of him who had laughed at my blood, and I did
laugh--laugh in the face of Rome and shout with victorious shouting,
'My blood may'st thou have! Aye, from a thousand wounds may thou steal
it--shout over it--drink it, if thou wilt! But never shall the hand of
Rome pollute her whom I loved! Never shall the feverish lips of thy
foul lust stain her sweet breathing!' Again did the chieftain smite me
across the head, and darkness came. When I awoke blood was there from
a third wound, yea, most noble mistress, that wound which did rob me of
man's most sacred possession. Yet again did I laugh in the face of
Rome, laugh with the joy of a victor and praise the gods, for around
the neck of him who had smitten me would never twine the ivory arms of
her I loved. Neither would the hand that had made me a thing of wood,
caress the blue veined breast of her who was mine. For this I love the
scar! Sweet is the scar, most noble mistress, of thy eunuch's sore
scarred love! Sweet is the scar!"
During the recital of her slave's tragic story, Claudia had shown much
interest. "Is there more?" she asked, when he paused.
"Yea, that which doth delight the heart of Rome--the Triumph. When as
captives we first saw Rome, great was the rejoicing in the city whose
sword rules the world. With garlands were the buildings gay. The
streets were strewn with flowers, and the populace was robed in white.
The victor came in a golden chariot with its four white horses and its
stately lictors. Proud was he in purple robe and crown of laurel and
he smiled as the trumpet tones of the heralds rang out and the populace
shouted praise in thunderous tones. With the captives and the spoils
of war came I, chained, and the rabble did shout in my face. So also
did my heart shout. For far from the marble courts and gilded palaces
that hid the polluted couches of helpless maidens, she who was mine
rested in the dust of Thrace with the winds of the Aegean sobbing where
she lay. And as these desecrators did exult, so did my heart thank the
gods for the steel of my blade, the strength of my arm and the pale
dead face of my love! Most noble mistress, I have done. Dost thou
understand?"
"I understand thou hast been cruelly robbed," she answered.
"Yet have I not been robbed of that which maketh a man to think."
"Hast thou thoughts? What is the wisdom of thy thinking?"
"On the shores of the sea have I seen the storm make mountains of
water, yet the depths were not moved from their holdings. Down from
the mountains hath the wind raged and hath fought me for my mantle,
which ever I held tighter. From the hand of Rome comes the sword which
doth scar and rob and pollute. Yet it doth not subdue."
"This thou hast observed. What meaning hath it?"
"Even this. What the storm can not do with much thundering, the tide
doeth at will. What the wind can not do with loud battling, the sun
doeth in silence. What the sword can not do though blood be spilled
like water, the mind of man can accomplish."
"Thou speakest wisdom. But how doth this put a light on thy scarred
face?"
"A vision hath been given of a kingdom greater than that of Caesar's,
wherein the bruised and beaten and scarred who toil and starve that
idlers may gorge, shall be accounted greater than those who rule by the
might of the sword."
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