Pearl-Maiden: Chapter 16

Chapter 16

THE SANHEDRIM

The Jewish soldiers haled Miriam roughly through dark and tortuous
streets, bordered by burnt-out houses, and up steep stone slopes deep
with the d�bris of the siege. Indeed, they had need to hasten, for, lit
with the lamp of flaming dwellings, behind them flowed the tide of war.
The Romans, driven back from this part of the city by that day's furious
sally, under cover of the night were re-occupying in overwhelming
strength the ground that they had lost, forcing the Jews before them and
striving to cut them off from their stronghold in the Temple and that
part of the Upper City which they still held.

The party of Jews who had Miriam in their charge were returning to the
Temple enclosure, which they could not reach from the north or east
because the outer courts and cloisters of the Holy House were already in
possession of the Romans. So it happened that they were obliged to make
their way round by the Upper City, a long and tedious journey. Once
during that night they were driven to cover until a great company of
Romans had marched past. Caleb wished to attack them, but the other
captains said that they were too few and weary, so they lay hid for
nearly three hours, then went on again. After this there were other
delays at gates still in the hands of their own people, which one by one
were unbolted to them. Thus it was not far from daylight when at length
they passed over a narrow bridge that spanned some ravine and through
massive doors into a vast dim place which, as Miriam gathered from the
talk of her captors, was the inner enclosure of the Temple. Here, at the
command of that captain who had ordered her to be slain, she was thrust
into a small cell in one of the cloisters. Then the men in charge of her
locked the door and went away.

Sinking exhausted to the floor, Miriam tried to sleep, but could not,
for her brain seemed to be on fire. Whenever she shut her eyes there
sprang up before them visions of some dreadful scene which she had
witnessed, while in her ears echoed now the shouts of the victors, now
the pitiful cry of the dying, and now again the voice of the wounded
Marcus calling her "Most Beloved." Was this indeed so, she wondered?
Was it possible that he had not forgotten her during those years of
separation when there must have been so many lovely ladies striving to
win him, the rich, high-placed Roman lord, to be their lover or their
husband? She did not know, she could not tell: perhaps, in such a
plight, he would have called any woman who came to save him his Most
Beloved, yes, even old Nehushta, and even then and there she smiled a
little at the thought. Yet his voice rang true, and he had sent her the
ring, the pearls and the letter, that letter which, although she knew
every word of it, she still carried hidden in the bosom of her robe. Oh!
she believed that he did love her, and, believing, rejoiced with all her
heart that it had pleased God to allow her to save his life, even at the
cost of her own. She had forgotten. There was his wound--he might die of
it. Nay, surely he would not die. For her sake, the Essenes who knew him
would treat him well, and they were skilful healers; also, what better
nurse than Nehushta could be found? Ah! poor Nou, how she would grieve
over her. What sorrow must have taken hold of her when she heard the
rock door shut and found that her nursling was cut off and captured by
the Jews.

Happy, indeed, was it for Miriam that she could not witness what had
chanced at the further side of that block of stone; that she could not
see Nehushta beating at it with her hands and striving to thrust her
thin fingers to the latch which she had no instrument to lift, until the
bones were stripped of skin and flesh. That she could not hear Marcus,
come to himself again, but unable to rise from off his knees, cursing
and raving with agony at her loss, and because she, the tender lady whom
he loved, for his sake had fallen into the hands of the relentless
Jews. Yes, that she could not hear him cursing and raving in his utter
helplessness, till at length the brain gave in his shattered head, and
he fell into a fevered madness, that for many weeks was unpierced by any
light of reason or of memory. All this, at least, was spared to her.

Well, the deed was done and she must pay the price, for without a doubt
they would kill her, as they had a right to do, who had saved a Roman
general from their clutches. Or if they did not, Caleb would, Caleb
whose bitter jealousy, as her instinct told her, had turned his love to
hate. Never would he let her live to fall, perchance, as his share of
the Temple spoil, into the hands of the Roman rival who had escaped him.

It was not too great a price. Because of the birth doom laid upon her,
even if he sought it, and fortune brought them back together again, she
could never be a wife to Marcus. And for the rest she was weary, sick
with the sight and sound of slaughter and with the misery that in these
latter days, as her Lord had prophesied, was come upon the city that
rejected him and the people who had slain Him, their Messiah. Miriam
wished to die, to pass to that home of perfect and eternal peace in
which she believed; where, mayhap, it might be given to her in reward of
her sufferings, to watch from afar over the soul of Marcus, and to make
ready an abode for it to dwell in through all the ages of infinity. The
thought pleased her, and lifting his ring, she pressed it to her lips
which that very night had been pressed upon his lips, then drew it off
and hid it in her hair. She wished to keep that ring until the end, if
so she might. As for the pearls, she could not hide them, and though she
loved them as his gift--well, they must go to the hand of the spoiler,
and to the necks of other women, who would never know their tale.

This done Miriam rose to her knees and began to pray with the vivid,
simple faith that was given to the first children of the Church. She
prayed for Marcus, that he might recover and not forget her, and that
the light of truth might shine upon him; for Nehushta, that her sorrow
might be soothed; for herself, that her end might be merciful and her
awakening happy; for Caleb, that his heart might be turned; for the dead
and dying, that their sins might be forgiven; for the little children,
that the Lord of Pity would have pity on their sufferings; for the
people of the Jews, that He would lift the rod of His wrath from off
them; yes, and even for the Romans, though for these, poor maid, she
knew not what petition to put up.

Her prayer finished, once more Miriam strove to sleep and dozed a
little, to be aroused by a curious sound of feeble sighing, which seemed
to come from the further side of the cell. By now the dawn was streaming
through the stone lattice work above the doorway, and in its faint light
Miriam saw the outlines of a figure with snowy hair and beard, wrapped
in a filthy robe that had once been white. At first she thought that
this figure must be a corpse thrust here out of the way of the living,
it was so stirless. But corpses do not sigh as this man seemed to do.
Who could he be, she wondered? A prisoner like herself, left to die, as,
perhaps, she would be left to die? The light grew a little. Surely there
was something familiar about the shape of that white head. She crept
nearer, thinking that she might be able to help this old man who was
so sick and suffering. Now she could see his face and the hand that lay
upon his breast. They were those of a living skeleton, for the bones
stood out, and over them the yellow skin was drawn like shrivelled
parchment; only the deep sunk eyes still shone round and bright. Oh! she
knew the face. It was that of Theophilus the Essene, a past president
of the order indeed, who had been her friend from earliest childhood and
the master who taught her languages in those far-off happy years which
she spent in the village by the Dead Sea. This Theophilus she had found
dwelling with the Essenes in their cavern home, and none of them had
welcomed her more warmly. Some ten days ago, against the advice of
Ithiel and others, he had insisted on creeping out to take the air and
gather news in the city. Then he was a stout and hale old man, although
pale-faced from dwelling in the darkness. From that journey he had not
returned. Some said that he had fled to the country, others that he had
gone over to the Romans, and yet others that he had been slain by some
of Simon's men. Now she found him thus!

Miriam came and bent over him.

"Master," she said, "what ails you? How came you here?"

He turned his hollow, vacant eyes upon her face.

"Who is it that speaks to me thus gently?" he asked in a feeble voice.

"I, your ward, Miriam."

"Miriam! Miriam! What does Miriam in this torture-den?"

"Master, I am a prisoner. But speak of yourself."

"There is little to say, Miriam. They caught me, those devils, and
seeing that I was still well-fed and strong, although sunk in years,
demanded to know whence I had my food in this city of starvation. To
tell them would have been to give up our secret and to bring doom upon
the brethren, and upon you, our guest and lady. I refused to answer,
so, having tortured me without avail, they cast me in here to starve,
thinking that hunger would make me speak. But I have not spoken. How
could I, who have taken the oath of the Essenes, and been their ruler?
Now at length I die."

"Oh! say not so," said Miriam, wringing her hands.

"I do say it and I am thankful. Have you any food?"

"Yes, a piece of dried meat and barley bread, which chanced to be in my
robe when I was captured. Take them and eat."

"Nay, Miriam, that desire has gone from me, nor do I wish to live, whose
days are done. But save the food, for doubtless they will starve you
also. And, look, there is water in that jar, they gave it me to make
me live the longer. Drink, drink while you can, who to-morrow may be
thirsty."

For a time there was silence, while the tears that gathered in Miriam's
eyes fell upon the old man's face.

"Weep not for me," he said presently, "who go to my rest. How came you
here?"

She told him as briefly as she might.

"You are a brave woman," he said when she had finished, "and that Roman
owes you much. Now I, Theophilus, who am about to die, call down the
blessing of God upon you, and upon him also for your sake, for your
sake. The shield of God be over you in the slaughter and the sorrow."

Then he shut his eyes and either could not or would not speak again.

Miriam drank of the pitcher of water, for her thirst was great. Crouched
at the side of the old Essene, she watched him till at length the door
opened, and two gaunt, savage-looking men entered, who went to where
Theophilus lay and kicked him brutally.

"What would you now?" he said, opening his eyes.

"Wake up, old man," cried one of them. "See, here is flesh," and he
thrust a lump of some filthy carrion to his lips. "Smell it, taste it,"
he went on, "ah! is it not good? Well, tell us where is that store of
food which made you so fat who now are so thin, and you shall have it
all, yes, all, all."

Theophilus shook his head.

"Bethink you," cried the man, "if you do not eat, by sunrise to-morrow
you will be dead. Speak then and eat, obstinate dog, it is your last
chance."

"I eat not and I tell not," answered the aged martyr in a voice like a
hollow groan. "By to-morrow's sunrise I shall be dead, and soon you
and all this people will be dead, and God will have judged each of us
according to his works. Repent you, for the hour is at hand."

Then they cursed him and smote him because of his words of ill-omen, and
so went away, taking no notice of Miriam in the corner. When they had
gone she came forward and looked. His jaw had fallen. Theophilus the
Essene was at peace.

Another hour went by. Once more the door was opened and there appeared
that captain who had ordered her to be killed. With him were two Jews.

"Come, woman," he said, "to take your trial."

"Who is to try me?" Miriam asked.

"The Sanhedrim, or as much as is left of it," he answered. "Stir now, we
have no time for talking."

So Miriam rose and accompanied them across the corner of the vast court,
in the centre of which the Temple rose in all its glittering majesty.
As she walked she noticed that the pavement was dotted with corpses, and
that from the cloisters without went up flames and smoke. They seemed to
be fighting there, for the air was full of the sound of shouting,
above which echoed the dull, continuous thud of battering rams striking
against the massive walls.

They took her into a great chamber supported by pillars of white
marble, where many starving folk, some of them women who carried or led
hollow-cheeked children, sat silent on the floor, or wandered to and
fro, their eyes fixed upon the ground as though in aimless search
for they knew not what. On a da�s at the end of the chamber twelve or
fourteen men sat in carved chairs; other chairs stretched to the right
and left of them, but these were empty. The men were clad in magnificent
robes, which seemed to hang ill upon their gaunt forms, and, like those
of the people in the hall, their eyes looked scared and their faces were
white and shrunken. These were all who were left of the Sanhedrim of the
Jews.

As Miriam entered one of their number was delivering judgment upon
a wretched starving man. Miriam looked at the judge. It was her
grandfather, Benoni, but oh! how changed. He who had been tall and
upright was now drawn almost double, his teeth showed yellow between his
lips, his long white beard was ragged and had come out in patches, his
hand shook, his gorgeous head-dress was awry. Nothing was the same about
him except his eyes, which still shone bright, but with a fiercer fire
than of old. They looked like the eyes of a famished wolf.

"Man, have you aught to say?" he was asking of the prisoner.

"Only this," the prisoner answered. "I had hidden some food, my
own food, which I bought with all that remained of my fortune. Your
hy�na-men caught my wife, and tormented her until she showed it them.
They fell upon it, and, with their comrades, ate it nearly all. My wife
died of starvation and her wounds, my children died of starvation, all
except one, a child of six, whom I fed with what remained. Then she
began to die also, and I bargained with the Roman, giving him jewels and
promising to show him the weak place in the wall if he would convey the
child to his camp and feed her. I showed him the place, and he fed her
in my presence, and took her away, whither I know not. But, as you know,
I was caught, and the wall was built up, so that no harm came of my
treason. I would do it again to save the life of my child, twenty times
over, if needful. You murdered my wife and my other children; murder me
also if you will. I care nothing."

"Wretch," said Benoni, "what are your miserable wife and children
compared to the safety of this holy place, which we defend against the
enemies of Jehovah? Lead him away, and let him be slain upon the wall,
in the sight of his friends, the Romans."

"I go," said the victim, rising and stretching out his hands to the
guards, "but may you also all be slain in the sight of the Romans, you
mad murderers, who, in your lust for power, have brought doom and agony
upon the people of the Jews."

Then they dragged him out, and a voice called--"Bring in the next
traitor."

Now Miriam was brought forward. Benoni looked up and knew her.

"Miriam?" he gasped, rising, to fall back again in his seat, "Miriam,
you here?"

"It seems so, grandfather," she answered quietly.

"There is some mistake," said Benoni. "This girl can have harmed none.
Let her be dismissed."

The other judges looked up.

"Best hear the charge against her first?" said one suspiciously, while
another added, "Is not this the woman who dwelt with you at Tyre, and
who is said to be a Christian?"

"We do not sit to try questions of faith, at least not now," answered
Benoni evasively.

"Woman, is it true that you are a Christian?" queried one of the judges.

"Sir, I am," replied Miriam, and at her words the faces of the Sanhedrim
grew hard as stones, while someone watching in the crowd hurled a
fragment of marble at her.

"Let it be for this time," said the judge, "as the Rabbi Benoni says, we
are trying questions of treason, not of faith. Who accuses this woman,
and of what?"

A man stepped forward, that captain who had wished to put Miriam to
death, and she saw that behind him were Caleb, who looked ill at ease,
and the Jew who had guarded Marcus.

"I accuse her," he said, "of having released the Roman Prefect, Marcus,
whom Caleb here wounded and took prisoner in the fighting yesterday, and
brought into the Old Tower, where he was laid till we knew whether he
would live or die."

"The Roman Prefect, Marcus?" said one. "Why, he is the friend of Titus,
and would have been worth more to us than a hundred common men. Also,
throughout this war, none has done us greater mischief. Woman, if,
indeed, you let him go, no death can repay your wickedness. Did you let
him go?"

"That is for you to discover," answered Miriam, for now that Marcus was
safe she would tell no more lies.

"This renegade is insolent, like all her accursed sect," said the judge,
spitting on the ground. "Captain, tell your story, and be brief."

He obeyed. After him that soldier was examined from whose hand Miriam
had struck the lantern. Then Caleb was called and asked what he knew of
the matter.

"Nothing," he answered, "except that I took the Roman and saw him laid
in the tower, for he was senseless. When I returned the Roman had gone,
and this lady Miriam was there, who said that he had escaped by the
doorway. I did not see them together, and know no more."

"That is a lie," said one of the judges roughly. "You told the captain
that Marcus had been her lover. Why did you say this?"

"Because years ago by Jordan she, who is a sculptor, graved a likeness
of him in stone," answered Caleb.

"Are artists always the lovers of those whom they picture, Caleb?" asked
Benoni, speaking for the first time.

Caleb made no answer, but one of the Sanhedrim, a sharp-faced man, named
Simeon, the friend of Simon, the son of Gioras, the Zealot, who sat
next to him, cried, "Cease this foolishness; the daughter of Satan is
beautiful; doubtless Caleb desires her for himself; but what has that
to do with us?" though he added vindictively, "it should be remembered
against him that he is striving to hide the truth."

"There is no evidence against this woman, let her be set free,"
exclaimed Benoni.

"So we might expect her grandfather to think," said Simeon, with
sarcasm. "Little wonder that we are smitten with the Sword of God when
Rabbis shelter Christians because they chance to be of their house, and
when warriors bear false witness concerning them because they chance to
be fair. For my part I say that she is guilty, and has hidden the man
away in some secret place. Otherwise why did she dash the light from the
soldier's hand?"

"Mayhap to hide herself lest she should be attacked," answered another,
"though how she came in the tower, I cannot guess."

"I lived there," said Miriam. "It was bricked up until yesterday and
safe from robbers."

"So!" commented that judge, "you lived alone in a deserted tower like
a bat or an owl, and without food or water. Then these must have been
brought to you from without the walls, perhaps by some secret passage
that was known to none, down which you loosed the Prefect, but had no
time to follow him. Woman, you are a Roman spy, as a Christian well
might be. I say that she is worthy of death."

Then Benoni rose and rent his robes.

"Does not enough blood run through these holy courts?" he asked, "that
you must seek that of the innocent also? What is your oath? To do
justice and to convict only upon clear, unshaken testimony. Where is
this testimony? What is there to show that the girl Miriam had any
dealings with this Marcus, whom she had not seen for years? In the Holy
Name I protest against this iniquity."

"It is natural that you should protest," said one of his brethren.

Then they fell into discussion, for the question perplexed them sorely,
who, although they were savage, still wished to be honest.

Suddenly Simeon looked up, for a thought struck him.

"Search her," he said, "she is in good case, she may have food, or the
secret of food, about her, or," he added--"other things."

Now two hungry-looking officers of the court seized Miriam and rent her
robe open at the breast with their rough hands, since they would not be
at the pains of loosening it.

"See," cried one of them, "here are pearls, fit wear for so fine a lady.
Shall we take them?"

"Fool, let the trinkets be," answered Simeon angrily. "Are we common
thieves?"

"Here is something else," said the officer, drawing the roll of Marcus's
cherished letter from her breast.

"Not that, not that," the poor girl gasped.

"Give it here," said Simeon, stretching out his lean hand.

Then he undid the silk case and, opening the letter, read its first
lines aloud. "'To the lady Miriam, from Marcus the Roman, by the hand of
the Captain Gallus.' What do you say to that, Benoni and brethren?
Why, there are pages of it, but here is the end: 'Farewell, your ever
faithful friend and lover, Marcus.' So, let those read it who have the
time; for my part I am satisfied. This woman is a traitress; I give my
vote for death."

"It was written from Rome two years ago," pleaded Miriam; but no one
seemed to heed her, for all were talking at once.

"I demand that the whole letter be read," shouted Benoni.

"We have no time, we have no time," answered Simeon. "Other prisoners
await their trial, the Romans are battering our gates. Can we waste more
precious minutes over this Nazarene spy? Away with her."

"Away with her," said Simon the son of Gioras, and the others nodded
their heads in assent.

Then they gathered together discussing the manner of her end, while
Benoni stormed at them in vain. Not quite in vain, however, for they
yielded something to his pleading.

"So be it," said their spokesman, Simon the Zealot. "This is our
sentence on the traitress--that she suffer the common fate of traitors
and be taken to the upper gate, called the Gate Nicanor, that divides
the Court of Israel from the Court of Women, and bound with the chain to
the central column that is over the gate, where she may be seen both of
her friends the Romans and of the people of Israel whom she has striven
to betray, there to perish of hunger and of thirst, or in such fashion
as God may appoint, for so shall we be clean of a woman's blood. Yet,
because of the prayer of Benoni, our brother, of whose race she is, we
decree that this sentence shall not be carried out before the set
of sun, and that if in the meanwhile the traitress elects to give
information that shall lead to the recapture of the Roman prefect,
Marcus, she shall be set at liberty without the gates of the Temple. The
case is finished. Guards, take her to the prison whence she came."

So they seized Miriam and led her thence through the crowd of onlookers,
who paused from their wanderings and weary searching of the ground
to spit at or curse her, and thrust her back into her cell and to the
company of the cold corpse of Theophilus the Essene.

Here Miriam sat down, and partly to pass the time, partly because she
needed it, ate the bread and dried flesh which she had left hidden in
the cell. After this sleep came to her, who was tired out and the worst
being at hand, had nothing more to fear. For four or five hours she
rested sweetly, dreaming that she was a child again, gathering flowers
on the banks of Jordan in the spring season, till, at length, a sound
caused her to awake. She looked up to see Benoni standing before her.

"What is it, grandfather?" she asked.

"Oh! my daughter," groaned the wretched old man, "I am come here at some
risk, for because of you and for other reasons they suspect me, those
wolf-hearted men, to bid you farewell and to ask your pardon."

"Why should you ask my pardon, grandfather? Seeing things as they see
them, the sentence is just enough. I am a Christian, and--if you would
know it--I did, as I hope, save the life of Marcus, for which deed my
own is forfeit."

"How?" he asked.

"That, grandfather, I will not tell you."

"Tell me, and save yourself. There is little chance that they will take
him, since the Jews have been driven from the Old Tower."

"The Jews might re-capture the tower, and I will not tell you. Also, the
lives of others are at stake, of my friends who have sheltered me, and
who, as I trust, will now shelter him."

"Then you must die, and by this death of shame, for I am powerless to
save you. Yes, you must die tied to a pinnacle of the gateway, a mockery
to friend and foe. Why, if it had not been that I still have some
authority among them, and that you are of my blood, girl though you be,
they would have crucified you upon the wall, serving you as the Romans
serve our people."

"If it pleases God that I should die, I shall die. What is one life
among so many tens of thousands? Let us talk of other things while we
have time."

"What is there to talk of, Miriam, save misery, misery, misery?" and
again he groaned. "You were right, and I have been wrong. That Messiah
of yours whom I rejected, yes, and still reject, had at least the gift
of prophecy, for the words that you read me yonder in Tyre will be
fulfilled upon this people and city, aye, to the last letter. The Romans
hold even the outer courts of the Temple; there is no food left. In the
upper town the inhabitants devour each other and die, and die till none
can bury the dead. In a day or two, or ten--what does it matter?--we
who are left must perish also by hunger and the sword. The nation of the
Jews is trodden out, the smoke of their sacrifices goes up no more, and
the Holy House that they have builded will be pulled stone from stone,
or serve as a temple for the worship of heathen gods."

"Will Titus show no mercy? Can you not surrender?" asked Miriam.

"Surrender? To be sold as slaves or dragged a spectacle at the wheels of
C�sar's triumphal car, through the shouting streets of Rome? No, girl,
best to fight it out. We will seek mercy of Jehovah and not of Titus.
Oh! I would that it were done with, for my heart is broken, and this
judgment is fallen on me--that I, who, of my own will, brought my
daughter to her death, must bring her daughter to death against my will.
If I had hearkened to you, you would have been in Pella, or in Egypt. I
lost you, and, thinking you dead, what I have suffered no man can know.
Now I find you, and because of the office that was thrust upon me, I,
even I, from whom your life has sprung, must bring you to your doom."

"Grandfather," Miriam broke in, wringing her hands, for the grief
of this old man was awful to witness, "cease, I beseech you, cease.
Perhaps, after all, I shall not die."

He looked up eagerly. "Have you hope of escape?" he asked. "Perchance
Caleb----"

"Nay, I know naught of Caleb, except that there is still good in his
heart, since at the last he tried to save me--for which I thank him.
Still, I had sooner perish here alone, who do not fear death in my
spirit, whatever my flesh may fear, than escape hence in his company."

"What then, Miriam? Why should you think----?" and he paused.

"I do not think, I only trust in God and--hope. One of our faith, now
long departed, who foretold that I should be born, foretold also that
I should live out my life. It may be so--for that woman was holy, and a
prophetess."

As she spoke there came a rolling sound like that of distant thunder,
and a voice without called:

"Rabbi Benoni, the wall is down. Tarry not, Rabbi Benoni, for they seek
you."

"Alas! I must begone," he said, "for some new horror is fallen upon us,
and they summon me to the council. Farewell, most beloved Miriam, may
my God and your God protect you, for I cannot. Farewell, and if, by any
chance, you live, forgive me, and try to forget the evil that, in my
blindness and my pride, I have brought upon yours and you, but oh! most
of all upon myself."

Then he embraced her passionately and was gone, leaving Miriam weeping.

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