Читать книгу The Coming of the King - Bernie Babcock - Страница 4

"The fangs of the she-wolf are whetted keen for Galilean flesh and else the wrath of Jehovah palsy the arm of Rome, Galilean soil will run red with blood from scourged backs ere the noon of a new day."

The speaker, a slender woman wearing the garb of a peasant, lowered a water-jar from her shoulder and stood beside the bench of a workman, who paused at his task to get news from the market place.

"The souls for the cross—are they many?" he asked.

"A score of hundred I hear whispered, but at market place and fountain the spear of the soldier presseth hard against the ribs of those who congregate to exchange a word."

The man, who was fashioning a heavy yoke, lifted his bearded face to that of the woman. "A score of hundred!" he exclaimed. "To-morrow's sun will climb over Tabor to the ring of axes cutting green timber for twenty hundred crosses! The mercy of God on the victims!"

"Yea—and to-morrow's sun will set with the breeze of evening wafting one great groan of agony over the hills and vales of Galilee—one great sob of lamentation—one great curse on the barbarians of the city on the Tiber. And this for no crime save that of poverty!"

"Insurrection," the man corrected. "The Gaulonite raised, not a popular revolt, alas. It is but insurrection."

"Insurrection!—and why not insurrection? The Gaulonite may hang on a cross until the black winged ravens pick his bones and wild dogs carry them to desert places, but the Gaulonite speaks the voice of our fathers for verily, verily, the soil of the earth belongs to God, not men, and the toiler should eat of the increase of his labor! Doth not our toil yield the barley harvest, yet are we not ofttimes hungry? Doth not our toil make the vine hang heavy in the vineyard, yet do not our bottles droop empty of wine? Doth not the substance of our bitter toiling go to the tax-gatherer? Aye, Joseph, thou knowest I speak truly. It is tax—tax—tax—land tax, temple tax, poll tax, army tax, court tax—always tax; and when there is to be a great orgy in the banquet halls of Rome, or Herod is to give a mighty feast for that brazen harlot, his brother's wife, are we not reduced to the bran and vinegar fare of slaves to pay the cost? A curse on Rome! A curse on Herod!"

"Hist, Mary, hist! Know'st thou not there may be ears listening even now behind the pomegranate?"

The woman glanced nervously toward the door where a leather curtain hung. She crossed the room, lifted the curtain and looked out into the court. It was empty save for a group of children. She returned to the room and from the wall took several small skin bottles which she placed by the water-jar. Then she called, "Jesu! Jesu!"

In answer a lad of six or eight years appeared from the court.

"Fill the bottles and hang them under the vine where the night breeze will cool them for the morrow."

When the child had done her bidding he stepped to the door. "Mother," he said, "hear thou? There is weeping in the home of Jael's father! Listen! Hear thou—the children calling—calling?"

The woman went to the door. She listened a moment and as the wail of a child sounded over the court she said, "Aye, sore weeping. Why, Jesu?"

"Jael's father went away yester morning and hath not come again. A man saw him with many others driven in chains like cattle. A stain of blood was on his face—and he will not come again. Why did the soldiers take Jael's father?"

"Hist, child. Talk not of Jael's father. Run and play."

* * * * * *

The next morning before the rising sun had climbed above Mount Tabor, little Jesu with his peasant mother left Nazareth, carrying between them a new-made yoke. They had not yet reached the end of the footpath around the slope of the hill to the highway, when they heard a heart-sickening moan.

The child stopped suddenly saying, "Something doth suffer?"

The woman took a few steps forward and looked out into the roadway. Then she too stopped, and with a sharp cry threw her hand across her eyes. Having received no answer to his inquiry the child pushed past her to the highroad. Then he too gave a cry, half fear, half pain, saying, "It is the father of Jael—and, mother—mother—there is a dog." And with a scream he dashed into the roadway. As he did so an animal slunk across his path and disappeared behind a cactus thicket hedging a barley field.

The moan gave way to a feeble call as the child appeared. "Jesu!

Jesu, I thirst!" were the words the parched lips uttered.

Helpless, the man hung crucified. The cross was not more than four feet high, all in this wholesale crucifixion being purposely low that wild dogs and jackals might tear the vitals, the bodies thus exposed emphasizing the power and cruelty of Rome. Naked the crucified one hung, his palms clotted with blood where spikes held them on the green cross-beam, and the wood behind the body stained dark from thong-cuts on the back. His legs lay on the ground. Flies swarmed wherever there was blood and the gray face of the victim was yet grayer from dust cast up by travelers on the roadway.

"Jesu! Jesu! Water for my burning tongue!" the man moaned.

"Give him to drink," the woman said in low tones to the child, who stood before the cross, his large dark eyes fixed on the helpless one in horror and in pity. "Give him water and I will watch that none spy you at the deed. Hasten!"

The child opened his water-bottle and held it toward the lips of the man. Pinioned hands, stiffened shoulders and weakened muscles made the effort to drink difficult. Pulling his kerchief from his neck, the child sopped it with water and held it to the dry lips.

In wavering tones the man, refreshed, said, "Since yester noon have I hung here. With the morning came the dog; thrice came he sniffing. Once, before weakness overcame me, with kicking and fierce screams I frightened the brute. Again, a herdsman drove him far across the field. And now you come, Jesu. Ah, that you might tarry until the numbness creeping over my back where the flies swarm, and into my hands that have burned, reached my brain, that you might stay until the darkness of death hides from me the skulking form waiting to rend my flesh."

"Woman," said the child, raising his dark eyes to his mother's face, "dost fear to leave me?"

"Yea, my little one, lest seeing thee minister to a malefactor some spy or guard might take thee."

"And would they take one young like me, who never did Rome harm?"

"All do Rome harm who cry beneath her heel."

"I fear not. I can hide in the bushes and keep the evil beast away.

And when the road is clear I can wet the dry lips of Jael's father."

The woman hesitated.

"Canst carry the burden alone, woman?" and there was concern in the child's voice. "The way is long, the road rough and the yoke a heavy one."

"The burden is naught save the burden of fear on my heart lest thou meet harm, my beloved one—my little Jesu!"

"Be not afraid. Will not the God of our fathers save me from the soldier's spear as once our father David was saved from the spear of Saul? Find me but a stout club with which to keep the bristled dog from Jael's father."

Throughout the day the child kept watch over the cross and its victim by the dusty wayside. There were passers-by, most of them Galileans muttering curses on the powers that had put him on the cross, but offering no comfort to the malefactor. Twice the gaunt dog came nearer but drew back before the raised club, and with blinking eye and restless tongue, bided his time. As the sun dropped behind the trees, the moaning from the cross grew almost too faint to be heard, and when, after a long stillness, there came a sharp strange cry from the lips of the crucified, the child gave a start and then hastened to offer the wet kerchief. But before he reached the cross the head had fallen limp over the bosom, and the feet lay quiet in the roadside dust.

The child spoke. There was no answer. He went back to his shelter in the bushes. A strange hush seemed to have fallen over the earth. With searching eyes he now watched the long road for a sight of his mother. When he turned his gaze for a moment from the roadway to the cactus hedge he noticed the watching dog had drawn closer and with fierce eagerness eyed the limp body on the cross. Fear now took possession of the child, and he moved nearer the highway and shuddered as he noticed that the dog moved nearer also.

When at last his mother came he buried his face in her breast and sobbed: "His head hangs like a flower broken at the stem. He can not lift it, and he thirsts no more for water."

"Peace be to Jael's father," the mother replied, choking back a sob, "and peace be to thee, my brave little Jesu."

"Nay, I am not brave. I was afraid—afraid!"

"Nay, nay. My little Jesu is not afraid of a dog."

"Nay, not a dog. But after the head of Jael's father fell low, something seemed reaching out long dark arms to gather me in—in to Jael's father—and I feared."

The mother pressed the hand of the child in hers. Reassured by the warm strong clasp, he smiled as his mother said, "It were but childish fear. There is nothing by the roadside reaching dark arms out to you."

"Nay, nothing—nothing, woman," replied the child, laughing at his own fear, "nothing save the shadow of the cross."