Part 2 (2/2)
Then, as though moved by a sudden impulse, all the mult.i.tude rose shouting: ”The voice of a G.o.d! The voice of a G.o.d! The voice of the G.o.d Agrippa!”
Nor did Agrippa say them nay; the glory of such wors.h.i.+p thundered at him from twenty thousand throats made him drunken. There for a while he stood, the new-born sunlight playing upon his splendid form, while the mult.i.tude roared his name, proclaiming it divine. His nostrils spread to inhale this incense of adoration, his eyes flashed and slowly he waved his arms, as though in benediction of his wors.h.i.+ppers. Perchance there rose before his mind a vision of the wondrous event whereby he, the scorned and penniless outcast, had been lifted to this giddy pinnacle of power. Perchance for a moment he believed that he was indeed divine, that nothing less than the blood and right of G.o.dhead could thus have exalted him. At least he stood there, denying naught, while the people adored him as Jehovah is adored of the Jews and Christ is adored of the Christians.
Then of a sudden smote the Angel of the Lord. Of a sudden intolerable pain seized upon his vitals, and Herod remembered that he was but mortal flesh, and knew that death was near.
”Alas!” he cried, ”I am no G.o.d, but a man, and even now the common fate of man is on me.”
As he spoke a great white owl slid from the roof of the canopy above him and vanished through the unroofed centre of the cavea.
”Look! look! my people!” he cried again, ”the spirit that brought me good fortune leaves me now, and I die, my people, I die!” Then, sinking upon his throne, he who a moment gone had received the wors.h.i.+p of a G.o.d, writhed there in agony and wept. Yes, Herod wept.
Attendants ran to him and lifted him in their arms.
”Take me hence to die,” he moaned. Now a herald cried:
”The king is smitten with a sore sickness, and the games are closed. To your homes, O people.”
For a while the mult.i.tude sat silent, for they were fear-stricken. Then a murmur rose among them that spread and swelled till it became a roar.
”The Christians! The Christians! They prophesied the evil. They have bewitched the king. They are wizards. Kill them, kill them, kill them!”
Instantly, like waves pouring in from every side, hundreds and thousands of men began to flow towards that place where the martyrs sat. The walls and palisades were high. Sweeping aside the guards, they surged against them like water against a rock; but climb they could not. Those in front began to scream, those behind pressed on. Some fell and were trodden underfoot, others clambered upon their bodies, in turn to fall and be trodden underfoot.
”Our death is upon us!” cried one of the Nazarenes.
”Nay, life remains to us,” answered Nehushta. ”Follow me, all of you, for I know the road,” and, seizing Rachel about the middle, she began to drag her towards a little door. It was unlocked and guarded by one man only, the apostate jailer Rufus.
”Stand back!” he cried, lifting his spear.
Nehushta made no answer, only drawing a dagger from her robe, she fell upon the ground, then of a sudden rose again beneath his guard. The knife flashed and went home to the hilt. Down fell the man screaming for help and mercy, and there, in the narrow way, his spirit was stamped out of him. Beyond lay the broad pa.s.sage of the vomitorium. They gained it, and in an instant were mixed with the thousands who sought to escape the panic. Some perished, some were swept onwards, among them Nehushta and Rachel. Thrice they nearly fell, but the fierce strength of the Libyan saved her mistress, till at length they found themselves on the broad terrace facing the seash.o.r.e.
”Whither now?” gasped Rachel.
”Where shall I lead you?” answered Nehushta. ”Do not stay. Be swift.”
”But the others?” said Rachel, glancing back at the fighting, trampling, yelling mob.
”G.o.d guard them! We cannot.”
”Leave me,” moaned her mistress. ”Save yourself, Nou; I am spent,” and she sank down to her knees.
”But I am still strong,” muttered Nehushta, and lifting the swooning woman in her sinewy arms, she fled on towards the port, crying, ”Way, way for my lady, the n.o.ble Roman, who has swooned!”
And the mult.i.tude made way.
CHAPTER III
THE GRAIN STORE
Having pa.s.sed the outer terraces of the amphitheatre in safety, Nehushta turned down a side street, and paused in the shadow of the wall to think what she should do. So far they were safe; but even if her strength would stand the strain, it seemed impossible that she should carry her mistress through the crowded city and avoid recapture. For some months they had both of them been prisoners, and as it was the custom of the inhabitants of Caesarea, when they had nothing else to do, to come to the gates of their jail, and, through the bars, to study those within, or even, by permission of the guards, to walk among them, their appearance was known to many. Doubtless, so soon as the excitement caused by the illness of the king had subsided, soldiers would be sent to hunt down the fugitives who had escaped from the amphitheatre. More especially would they search for her, Nehushta, and her mistress, since it would be known that one of them had stabbed the warden of the gate, a crime for which they must expect to die by torture. Also--where could they go who had no friends, since all Christians had been expelled the city?
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