“Peace to you,” one of the newcomers said.
The laborers paused, sat up, wrung the water from their hands, and returned the salutation.
“It is nearly night—time to quit.”
“There is no end to work,” was the reply.
“But there is a time to rest, and—”
“To hear what may be passing,” interposed another.
“What news have you?”
“Then you have not heard?”
“No.”
“They say the Christ is born,” said the newsmonger, plunging into her story.
It was curious to see the faces of the laborers brighten with interest; on the other side down came the jars, which, in a moment, were turned into seats for their owners.
“The Christ!” the listeners cried.
“So they say.”
“Who?”
“Everybody; it is common talk.”
“Does anybody believe it?”
“This afternoon three men came across Brook Cedron on the road from Shechem,” the speaker replied, circumstantially, intending to smother doubt. “Each one of them rode a camel spotless white, and larger than any ever before seen in Jerusalem.”
The eyes and mouths of the auditors opened wide.
“To prove how great and rich the men were,” the narrator continued, “they sat under awnings of silk; the buckles of their saddles were of gold, as was the fringe of their bridles; the bells were of silver, and made real music. Nobody knew them; they looked as if they had come from the ends of the world. Only one of them spoke, and of everybody on the road, even the women and children, he asked this question—‘Where is he that is born King of the Jews?’ No one gave them answer—no one understood what they meant; so they passed on, leaving behind them this saying: ‘For we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.’ They put the question to the Roman at the gate; and he, no wiser than the simple people on the road, sent them up to Herod.”
“Where are they now?”
“At the khan. Hundreds have been to look at them already, and hundreds more are going.”
“Who are they?”
“Nobody knows. They are said to be Persians—wise men who talk with the stars—prophets, it may be, like Elijah and Jeremiah.”
“What do they mean by King of the Jews?”
“The Christ, and that he is just born.”
One of the women laughed, and resumed her work, saying, “Well, when I see him I will believe.”
Another followed her example: “And I—well, when I see him raise the dead, I will believe.”
A third said, quietly, “He has been a long time promised. It will be enough for me to see him heal one leper.”
And the party sat talking until the night came, and, with the help of the frosty air, drove them home.
Later in the evening, about the beginning of the first watch, there was an assemblage in the palace on Mount Zion, of probably fifty persons, who never came together except by order of Herod, and then only when he had demanded to know some one or more of the deeper mysteries of the Jewish law and history. It was, in short, a meeting of the teachers of the colleges, of the chief priests, and of the doctors most noted in the city for learning—the leaders of opinion, expounders of the different creeds; princes of the Sadducees; Pharisaic debaters; calm, soft-spoken, stoical philosophers of the Essene socialists.
The chamber in which the session was held belonged to one of the interior courtyards of the palace, and was quite large and Romanesque. The floor was tessellated with marble blocks; the walls, unbroken by a window, were frescoed in panels of saffron yellow; a divan occupied the centre of the apartment, covered with cushions of bright-yellow cloth, and fashioned in form of the letter U, the opening towards the doorway; in the arch of the divan, or, as it were, in the bend of the letter, there was an immense bronze tripod, curiously inlaid with gold and silver, over which a chandelier dropped from the ceiling, having seven arms, each holding a lighted lamp. The divan and the lamp were purely Jewish.
The company sat upon the divan after the style of Orientals, in costume singularly uniform, except as to color. They were mostly men advanced in years; immense beards covered their faces; to their large noses were added the effects of large black eyes, deeply shaded by bold brows; their demeanor was grave, dignified, even patriarchal. In brief, their session was that of the Sanhedrim.
He who sat before the tripod, however, in the place which may be called the head of the divan, having all the rest of his associates on his right and left, and, at the same time, before him, evidently president of the meeting, would have instantly absorbed the attention of a spectator. He had been cast in large mould, but was now shrunken and stooped to ghastliness; his white robe dropped from his shoulders in folds that gave no hint of muscle or anything but an angular skeleton. His hands, half concealed by sleeves of silk, white and crimson striped, were clasped upon his knees. When he spoke, sometimes the first finger of the right hand extended tremulously; he seemed incapable of other gesture. But his head was a splendid dome. A few hairs, whiter than fine-drawn silver, fringed the base; over a broad, full-sphered skull the skin was drawn close, and shone in the light with positive brilliance; the temples were deep hollows, from which the forehead beetled like a wrinkled crag; the eyes were wan and dim; the nose was pinched; and all the lower face was muffed in a beard flowing and venerable as Aaron’s. Such was Hillel the Babylonian! The line of prophets, long extinct in Israel, was now succeeded by a line of scholars, of whom he was first in learning—a prophet in all but the divine inspiration! At the age of one hundred and six, he was still Rector of the Great College.
On the table before him lay outspread a roll or volume of parchment inscribed with Hebrew characters; behind him, in waiting, stood a page richly habited.
There had been discussion, but at this moment of introduction the company had reached a conclusion; each one was in an attitude of rest, and the venerable Hillel, without moving, called the page.
“Hist!”
The youth advanced respectfully.
“Go tell the king we are ready to give him answer.”
The boy hurried away.
After a time two officers entered and stopped, one on each side the door; after them slowly followed a most striking personage—an old man clad in a purple robe bordered with scarlet, and girt to his waist by a band of gold linked so fine that it was pliable as leather; the latchets of his shoes sparkled with precious stones; a narrow crown wrought in filigree shone outside a tarbooshe of softest crimson plush, which, encasing his head, fell down the neck and shoulders, leaving the throat and neck exposed. Instead of a seal, a dagger dangled from his belt. He walked with a halting step, leaning heavily upon a staff. Not until he reached the opening of the divan, did he pause or look up from the floor; then, as for the first time conscious of the company, and roused by their presence, he raised himself, and looked haughtily round, like one startled and searching for an enemy—so dark, suspicious, and threatening was the glance. Such was Herod the Great—a body broken by diseases, a conscience seared with crimes, a mind magnificently capable, a soul fit for brotherhood with the Caesars; now seven-and-sixty years old, but guarding his throne with a jealousy never so vigilant, a power never so despotic, and a cruelty never so inexorable.
There was a general movement on the part of the assemblage—a bending forward in salaam by the more aged, a rising-up by the more courtierly, followed by low genuflections, hands upon the beard or breast.
His observations taken, Herod moved on until at the tripod opposite the venerable Hillel,