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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.
"Hush!" she said, in a crooning voice, and, covering the child's head with her garment, she pressed its lips to her breast. For an instant she sat there, but the chill of the waxen mouth struck through her heart. She gave a startled glance at the baby's face, and then sprang up with a scream of despair and rushed out of the temple into the tempest, with the poor little body clasped in her arms.
Nathan called to Chares and Leonidas. "Alexander is on the wall," he said. "The streets are filled with the Tyrians. We must escape as we came. Listen!"
He held up his hand, and the Greeks became aware of a dull roaring that filled the city like the humming of a gigantic hive of bees.
"Even here we shall not be safe," Nathan continued. "Let us seek the secret passage."
"Chares!" cried one from among the women, and Thais ran forward, with her saffron robe torn so that half her perfect breast was exposed. She carried a dagger in her hand, and its blade was red; but her face shone with joy. The weapon fell from her grasp as she sprang to the Theban, who lifted her like a child in his arms and kissed her.
"Come," he said, as he set her down, "let us go."
Turning their backs upon the throng of the living and the dead, they descended into the secret passage and closed the entrance behind them.
CHAPTER XLVII
SYPHAX SQUARES HIS ACCOUNT
King Azemilcus stood at a window of his chamber, with the aged chancellor at his side, looking out across the parapet of the wall. They were alone in the room, for the king had ordered his guard to await his commands in an outer apartment. The window opened directly upon the top of the wall, to which the royal palace was joined. Often during his long reign had the old king stood there, revolving his schemes in his cunning brain, while the salt breeze cooled his temples.
Beneath his feet the stones trembled with the shock of the great battering rams that were enlarging the breach in the wall west of the palace. In his ears sounded the tumult of the attack upon the two harbors, where the Macedonian triremes were seeking to break the barriers of chains. He saw the Tyrian soldiers upon the battlements, fighting against hope, with the valor of desperation.
The roar of falling masonry told him that the rams had done their work. The breach had become a wide gap, extending beyond the ends of the inner wall that had been built to block the assault. The vessels lying in wait drew nearer. Flights of arrows and volleys of stones, great and small, swept the defences. Troop-ships, provided with drawbridges at their prows, closed in at the breach. The bridges fell, and streams of men in armor began to flow across them. They gained the breach and held it. They scaled the slope of fallen blocks and reached the top of the wall. The Tyrians were forced backward or hurled into the sea.
"That must be Alexander," the king remarked, noting the irresistible vigor of the assault.
"Yes," the chancellor replied, "those are his plumes."
Alexander indeed was leading the charge along the wall toward the palace, fighting in the forefront as his custom was, while the shield-bearing guards pressed forward where he led. Their triumphant voices shouted his name. At one of the towers upon the wall, between the breach and the palace, the Tyrians made a stand, seeking to check the advance of their foes. The Macedonians hunted them out and drove them to the next tower. The battle raged in mid-air, and the bodies of the slain fell either into the sea on one side or into the streets of the city on the other.
"They will enter here," Azemilcus said. "I think it is time to go."
"It is time!" the chancellor echoed, gazing upon the slaughter like a man under the spell of a horrible fascination.
The king led the way into the large hall where the guard was stationed. It consisted of a company of a hundred men under the command of a young captain whose bronzed face and steady gaze showed that he was a veteran in service despite his youth. He had been pacing backward and forward before his men, who stood at attention along the wall. At sight of Azemilcus he paused and saluted. The old king placed a thin hand upon his shoulder.
"I am going to the Temple of Melkarth," he said. "Escort me thither."
The young man shook off the royal hand as though he felt contaminated by its touch.
"Does your Majesty really mean to seek refuge with the Alexandrine?" he asked indignantly.
"Yes," the king replied, "and I command you to come with me."
"Then I refuse!" the soldier exclaimed. "I have two brothers yonder on the wall, if they be still alive. The Macedonians will try to enter the palace, and if they succeed, the city is lost. Go you to Melkarth's temple if you will; but you go alone. We remain here."
Azemilcus looked at the handsome face, flushed with anger, and his inscrutable smile played about his lips.
"Thy father was my friend, and I have loved thee," he said. "I would save thee if I could, but youth is hot and hasty; have thy will if thou must."
He began to descend the broad staircase, followed by the trembling chancellor.
"There goes Tyre!" the young captain cried bitterly, "selfish and treacherous to the last. To the windows! We may yet save him honorably, though he does not deserve it."
They reached the seaward side of the palace in time to receive the remnants of the Tyrian companies that had vainly striven to defend the wall. The captain's brothers were not among the fugitives.
It had seemed to the young officer that the entrances to the palace from the wall might be held by a few men against any force that could be brought up; but it was not within human power to resist the onrush of the Macedonians. The captain was slain by Ptolemy; half his men fell with him, and the others fled down through the palace to the streets with the Macedonians at their heels.
The noise of the battle spread from the palace through the city. There was the clash of steel and the hoarse shouting of men at barricades; screams of women in fear and sharp cries of command mingled with the trampling of many feet. Save for the obstinate guard, the palace had been left unprotected by the crafty old king, who was awaiting his conqueror in the sanctuary of Melkarth's temple. Alexander led the way into the city with Hephæstion and Philotas. Ptolemy, Perdiccas, Clitus, Peithon, Glaucias, Meleager, Polysperchon, and a score more of his Companions and captains swept after him, heading the scarred veterans of Philip's wars, – phalangites, archers and javelin throwers, Thessalian cavalry riders, and heavy-armed mercenaries.
Then in the city of Tyre, whose name for centuries had been a synonym for power and pride, began a slaughter which lasted until nightfall. Alexander ordered that the Israelites should not be molested and that none should enter with violence the Temple of Melkarth; but he did not seek to forbid his followers from taking revenge for the rigors and hardships of the long siege.
At first the Tyrians fought desperately from street to street and from square to square, falling back from one barrier to another; but this resistance served only to whet the rage that drove the Macedonians on. Fresh troops constantly landed from the fleet and poured in through the palace. The breach in the wall became a gateway. The pitiless squadrons hunted the defenders from lane and housetop, cutting them to pieces.
In the Sidonian Harbor, seven ships were hastily manned, the chains were let down, and the crews made a dash for the open sea. They were snapped up by the Cretan vessels which lay in wait beyond the breakwater. Three of them were sunk, and the rest were forced to surrender.
In the house of Phradates the terrified slaves locked and barred the doors by direction of Mena. The master was fighting on the walls. More than once parties of Macedonian soldiers demanded that the gates be opened, but when no response was given, thinking perhaps that the house was deserted and tempted by easier spoil, they passed on. At last came a Tyrian cry for admittance. Mena looked from the wicket and saw Phradates, supported by two soldiers. His face was pale and his helmet had been shattered.
"Open!" cried the soldiers. "Your master has been wounded."
Several of the slaves started forward and laid their hands upon the bars, but the Egyptian pushed them back.
"There is no longer master or slave in Tyre," he said. "Each man must think first of himself."
At the suggestion of Phradates the soldiers bore him to the rear of the house, where there was a small door leading to the kitchens. It was opened by a white-haired crone, whose eyes were blinded with tears.
"Bring him in," she cried. "I am his nurse."
"Take him, then," the soldiers said roughly, irritated by the delay. "He owes us fifty darics for bringing him off, and we have our own to save."
Upheld by the trembling arms of the old woman, Phradates staggered across the threshold. He could no longer feel the earth beneath his feet. If he could only rest a little!
"Is it you, mother?" he asked faintly. "I must sleep."
"Yes, yes, master," the old woman replied through her sobs, "but not here. Come to your own chamber."
She tried to urge him toward the banqueting hall, but his steps grew more uncertain and his weight became too great for her feeble strength.
"Mena!" she called. "Mena, here is your master. Come and help him!"
The Egyptian ran in furiously and closed the door that she had left open in her anxiety.
"Do you want to have us all killed?" he demanded, turning upon the old woman. "Take that, my master, for the beatings you have given me!"
He plunged his dagger into the young man's defenceless side, and Phradates sank to the floor.
"Thais!" he muttered, "where art thou?"
The old woman uttered a quivering cry and fell upon her knees beside him, trying with her robe to stop the flow of blood. Mena ran back to the front of the house, leaving her alone with the body.
"Speak to me! Speak to me!" she wailed, not knowing what she said; but Phradates made no reply.
Tyre was in a turmoil of riot and license. The real fighting was at an end, but the soldiers were everywhere pillaging and drinking. Costly fabrics were trampled in the mud of the gutters. Rare vases and priceless statuary were shattered upon the pavements. Rough Thessalians ransacked the houses of rich merchants for gold and gems, destroying with laughter and jests what they did not want. The stifled screams of women mingled with their voices. Here a soldier emerged from a great house with his arms full of rich silks. Another shouted to him that a hoard of gold had been discovered close at hand, and he straightway dropped his burden that he might get his share of the more convenient plunder. There a man who had found a huge tusk of ivory tried to carry it away on his shoulder, while his comrades wrestled with him for it, uttering shouts of laughter as their fingers slipped upon its polished surface. Sometimes swords were drawn and blood flowed over a bag of gold or a necklace of pearls. Bands of mercenaries paraded with wine-skins on their backs, singing the hymns of Dionysus and squirting the precious vintage into each other's faces. Gorged with blood, the army glutted itself in a delirium of indulgence.
In the universal license the baser elements of the city's population joined in the pillage with none to hinder, for the Macedonians were too intent upon their revenge to heed them. Like Mena, slaves rose against their masters, and entire families were slain for the sake of plunder or to requite harsh treatment. The prisons were broken open and their inmates set at liberty. The sailors about the harbors, who had been kept inactive by the blockade of the fleet, desperate men from all quarters of the sea, satisfied their ferocious appetites at will. In the frenzied carnival of lust and slaughter, neither age nor innocence was spared.
