The Golden Hope: A Story of the Time of King Alexander the Great

There was a rush of feet outside, and four black-robed men, followed by a guard of soldiers, entered. Their leader was a man of stern and grave expression, whose eyes seemed to glow in his pale face with the power of his compelling will. He was Hiram, who had been chosen hastily to act as chief priest when Esmun failed to return from the royal palace. His ascetic countenance contrasted strongly with the gross faces of his followers, brutalized by self-indulgence. The other priests both feared and hated him, for it was said that Baal had endowed him with powers that were beyond the understanding of man.

"What seek ye here?" Thais demanded, flashing a haughty glance at the zealot.

He paid no heed to her and made no answer. His dark eyes caught those of her companion and held them.

"Artemisia!" he said, in a solemn voice that sounded like a summons, "our Lord, Baal-Moloch, the Saviour, awaits thee! Come with us to his temple."

To Artemisia the words sounded far away; yet she heard them distinctly, and they seemed to leave her no choice but to obey. A deep sense of peace crept over her as she looked into the fathomless eyes of the priest, that were fixed steadfastly upon hers, and from which she could not withdraw her own. Dimly she felt that never again should she see Clearchus or behold the land of Attica. Never should she hear his beloved voice or feel his arms around her, clasping her close to his breast. It was the will of the Gods. Everything earthly seemed to recede and fall away from her as in a dream, leaving her alone with the grim priest, her master. They two were floating upon a mighty current that was bearing them, she knew not whither. She was at peace, and all was ended. The terror she had felt a few moments before had left her. It seemed remote and long ago, and she smiled to think of it and of how foolish it had been.

Hiram saw her form droop and her muscles relax, and these signs of his victory did not escape him. The expression of his face did not change, however, and he still kept his eyes fastened upon hers. The sombre figures of his subordinates stood motionless beside him, and the soldiers of his guard, lean and weather-worn, blocked the doorway, glancing now at the two young women and now at the slave girls cowering in the background.

"Come with me!" Hiram said quietly, stretching his strong hand toward Artemisia.

She made an uncertain step toward him, but Thais caught her by the arm and drew her back.

"What do you mean by this mummery?" she cried, with blazing eyes. "Get thee gone and tell thy God that Artemisia is not for him!"

"Chafe not, daughter," Hiram replied calmly. "The will of Baal must be obeyed. There can be no escape."

"You shall not have her!" Thais cried. "Your creed demands a willing sacrifice!"

"And she is willing," the priest said, in the same even tone.

"She is not!" Thais said.

"Follow me!" Hiram exclaimed, slightly raising his voice.

Artemisia made a feeble effort to obey, and Thais felt the arm that she held draw away from her grasp.

"Sorcerer!" she cried desperately, retaining her hold, "she is not willing of her own will. Release her from thy spell!"

"She is willing," Hiram repeated, "and thou shalt see her place herself voluntarily in the hands of the Giver of Life."

He made a slight sign, and the three priests who followed him stepped forward. One of them twisted Thais' hand from Artemisia's arm, retaining her wrist in his clutch, while another seized her on the opposite side, rendering her helpless. The third took Artemisia gently by the hand. She offered no resistance, but suffered herself to be led down the marble stairs with wide-open eyes that seemed to see nothing. Thais followed between her captors. Her face was pale to the lips, and yellow flames danced in her eyes.

"Priest of Baal!" she said, "thou hast shown no mercy and none shalt thou receive – neither thou nor thy God!"

"Blaspheme not," Hiram said; "the vengeance of our Lord is bitter."

"More bitter still shall be the vengeance of men," Thais exclaimed in her despair, "and they are now beating at the walls who shall make thee feel it!"

Hiram made no reply. If he felt a misgiving, his face did not betray it. He led the way with measured tread down the staircase, followed by his two captives and by the guard.

"Artemisia!" Thais cried in anguish, "speak to me!"

Artemisia made no response, nor did she turn her head. It was evident that she had not heard. Laying aside her pride, Thais determined to make a final effort. When they reached the deserted entrance hall, she raised her voice.

"Phradates! Phradates!" she cried. "Save us from these men!"

Her cry echoed through the recesses of the hall, but it brought no response.

"Phradates!" Thais called again as the outer doors swung back, revealing the wind-swept street.

This time a figure emerged from the marble columns. It was that of Mena the Egyptian, who advanced with a malicious smile upon his sharp face.

"My master is upon the walls," he said impudently, though he bowed low. "He is fighting to save the city from your friends."

Something of the suppressed triumph in his bearing struck the attention of Thais, agitated as she was.

"Is this thy work?" she demanded, looking at him between narrowing eyelids. "Thou shalt pay for it, slave, upon the cross, to the last drop of thy blood!"

"Thou dost me too much honor," Mena replied, bowing again in mock humility.

"Come," said one of Thais' captors, roughly. "Baal must not be kept waiting."

The slanting rain smote their faces as they emerged into the street, where throngs of men and women were crowding toward the Temple of Moloch. On this side, as yet, nothing could be seen of the fierce conflict that was raging for the possession of the children in the Hebrew quarter. The sounds of it were lost in the rushing of the wind and the crashing of the thunder.

The people of Tyre hastened forward in silence and with bowed heads. A nameless dread possessed them. Amid the confusion wrought by man and the elements, friends and neighbors touched shoulders without a glance of recognition. A weight of oppression seemed to dull their minds and restrict their lungs. They were like creatures that listen furtively in hidden terror to catch the forewarning of some catastrophe, the nature of which they know not. All bonds were dissolved. Husbands became separated from their wives in the press and made no attempt to rejoin them.

Even the priests of Moloch who followed Hiram were affected by the universal uneasiness, and Thais felt the hands that clasped her wrists tremble. Hiram himself walked gravely and slowly, apparently oblivious of what was going on about him. He seemed indifferent alike to the pelting of the storm and the danger from falling stones. A mass of rock plunged into the crowd close before him, crushing a man beneath its ponderous weight. The step of the pontiff did not waver, and he passed the spot without so much as a glance at the mangled body pinned down by the missile. His consciousness of the protection of Moloch freed him from all sense of personal danger.

The people made way for him in silence, huddling to the sides of the street and closing in after the soldiers had passed. Artemisia walked with her eyes upon the sombre figure that strode before her. Her face was as colorless as the linen chiton that clung to her figure in the rain, disclosing the maidenly outline of her bosom. Her breathing was even and regular, as though she were sleeping with open eyes.

Anger raged in Thais' breast as in that of a lioness, bound with chains, which sees her cubs taken from her. She knew the hopelessness of struggling with her captors, for even if she could free herself, she would still be powerless to rescue Artemisia.

Around the gloomy temple stood thousands of men and women, mournfully and silently waiting in the rain for the procession to enter. The great bronze doors stood open, revealing the dark interior of the building, where a few torches cast a flickering light upon the face of the monstrous idol, whose cruel features seemed to be twisting themselves with hideous grimaces.

Streamers of pale blue smoke were drawn through the apertures over the head of the image by the wind, and the inside of the temple was filled with a smoky haze that increased the obscurity. This came from the fire of scented wood that the priests had kindled in the body of the idol. They fed it continually from behind; and the faint smoke, rising from carefully disposed openings in the breast and shoulders of the figure, partially veiling its face, added to the mystery and solemnity of the ceremony.

As Hiram approached the entrance, two lines of black-robed priests issued silently to right and left, pushing back the crowd and forming a lane which led up the two flights of shallow stone steps to the doorway. The spectators reverently bowed their heads. Their faith in the power of Baal, bred in them from infancy, was strong upon them, and deep was their fear of his wrath. Many times had he listened to their prayers, and more than once had he refused to listen, permitting the calamity that they besought him to avert. But never since he had become their God, at a time beyond the limit of tradition, had they gone to him in such dreadful extremity. Would he intervene, or would he leave them to their fate?

All eyes were turned to the impassive face of Hiram, searching there for an answer to the question that was in every mind. The chief priest gave no sign. He paced slowly into the open space between the ranks of the priests, his black vestments fluttering about him in voluminous folds. His eyes looked straight forward into the temple, seeking the face of Baal. In his footsteps walked Artemisia, her head now drooping slightly, like a flower cut from its stem. The priests began a slow chant, so low that its words of praise could hardly be understood.

Halfway up the second flight of steps, behind the row of priests, Pethuel appeared in the crowd. He had managed somehow to reach the temple in advance of his flock. The rain glistened upon his white hair and snowy beard. Pressing forward as Hiram advanced, he raised his voice above the mystic words of the chant.

"Priest of Baal!" he cried to his rival, "thy God is fled! Behold, his image shall be broken in thy temple. The wrath of the Lord God of Hosts is upon you; for the cup of Tyre's iniquities runneth over!"

He ceased and a murmur ran through the crowd; but no hand was raised against the old man. The priests looked at Hiram, who passed on without so much as turning his eyes, and they continued their chant. Not even when the brother who walked beside Artemisia was struck down by an arrow on the threshold of the temple did Hiram pause. The shaft, falling obliquely, buried itself between its victim's shoulders, and he fell upon his face in his death agony. His comrades lifted him quickly and bore him out of sight; but the people continued to gaze at the stain of blood upon the stones where he had fallen.

As Artemisia and Thais vanished in the doorway, the sounds of conflict caused by the rising of the Hebrews reached the temple.

"It is Alexander!" said one to another in the crowd, and because of the words of Pethuel, the cry was more easily believed. Panic seized upon the multitude. Thousands of those who had assembled fled back to their homes. Others ran toward the royal palace, and still others sought the harbors. Scores found refuge in the temple, fighting with each other to enter first through the wide doorway. The dread that had weighed them down had taken shape. The evil was upon them.

CHAPTER XLVI

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.