Copyright, 1910, Pacific Press Publishing Association
By Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle
Chapter V. The Slaughter of the Innocents
IT was nearing the ninth hour of the night. The waning moon hung low over the hills of Bethlehem, and a few stars shone faintly in the calm, still sky. The shepherds yet lingered with their flocks in the valleys toward the south. Eastward, the far-away mountains of Moab, dimly discernable against the sky, rose like gigantic sentinels, as if to guard the land given by Jehovah to the tribes of Israel.
Far to the west lay the dark waters of the Great Sea. Toward the north, and almost under the shadow of the walls of the little town, lay the valley where the tomb of Rachel, the best loved of Jacob, had been built more than seventeen centuries before.
Swiftly crossing this valley, the dull thud of their horses' hoofs echoing drearily, and the dim light falling faintly upon their burnished helmets and swords, rode two hundred Roman horsemen. They have come from Jerusalem to fulfil the command of the despot king. Now they have passed the northeastern gate, and are entering the ill-fated city. Already the soldiers are clamoring for entrance at the door of the hospitable inn; and the astonished host Jason, with staring eyes and pallid cheeks, listens to the centurion as he declares his bloody errand:
“Open! in the name of the king, where is He that is born King of the Jews?” and the ugly head of Varro the centurion is thrust into the doorway.
“What wilt thou?” trembling like an aspen, Jason the keeper demands; “verily, I am but a peaceable man, and my guests quiet and law-abiding. Truly we lead no rebellion against Cæsar, neither is Bethlehem in revolt against Herod.”
“I care not for thee, man; cease thy prating. Tell me where hideth the carpenter of Nazareth with the Babe. Surely I have heard that he hideth with thee. And I swear to thee, unless thou deliver him, thou shalt be put to torture;” and Varro straightened his giant form threateningly. Even as he spoke, poor Jason, overcome by horror, fell in the doorway, while the footsteps of the brutal soldiers echoed in every room. Already the screams of little ones in their last agony, the piercing wails of women, and the brutal curses of the soldiers fell upon the ear.
Down the silent streets of the little city, pass the grim executioners of the bloody king. Into every room and darkened chamber they enter. Shouts and groans and imprecations and brutal laughter and cries for mercy are mingled in one awful cyclone of horror and confusion and blood and death. The terrible shouts, “Where is He that is born King of the Jews?” “Where is the carpenter of Nazareth?” “Open, in the name of the king!” echo everywhere.
Finally the bloody feet of the soldiers have found the gate of Cleopas the merchant; and cruel hands seek to unbar the door.
“Ho, Cleopas! they tell us the carpenter of Galilee hideth with thee. We be not sent to harm thee, nor thy wife Abigail, only deliver to us thy guests!”
“The brave soldiers of Herod are too late; the Babe ye seek hath departed!” cries Abigail, snatching a candle and rushing to a room where slept her infant son. But the feet of the soldiers are close behind.
“Ha! I doubt not this is the young King! See, Galleo,” calls the foremost ruffian to his fellow, “shall we not tell Herod that we have done his bidding? By what time the red sun guilds the mountains of Moab, our work will be well done. Look you, woman,” he continues, turning to the trembling mother, “we be no Jews; seest thou not that we be soldiers of Cæsar? If the heart of Herod the Jew knows no pity, why should the legions of Cæsar tremble and weep like women at the sight of blood?” and in another instant the severed head of the babe has fallen at the feet of the murderer.
With a gurgling scream the woman Abigail threw up her hands, and tore madly at the long, black hair which hung over her shoulders, threw herself upon the mangled body of the child, and expired.
But Cleopas, her husband, is already upon the scene; and his tall, supple form looms up in the dimly lighted room. In his younger days, Cleopas the merchant had been a wrestler; and the strength of his good arms has not forsaken him, for he is still scarcely in the prime of manhood. In his strong hand he holds a staff, and in an instant he has hurled himself upon the soldier nearest him. It is an unequal contest; for the room is filled with bloody assassins. However, the errand of the brave soldiers of King Herod this night is not with men, but with helpless babes; and they have already done their awful work in the house of Cleopas, and with cursing and shouting they make their way again into the dismal streets.
But the right arm of the merchant has been cleft to the bone, and hangs limply at his side, with the fingers shattered and broken.
Meanwhile the bloody work goes on, and the streets echo with the wailing cries of women.
“Ho!” calls one of the soldiers, as a band of ruffians enters a goodly apartment where, by the side of his young nurse, sleeps a beautiful infant wrapped in costly robes.
“Ho! What have we here? Surely, Varro, this is the son of the carpenter. See! low lieth the head of the rival of King Herod!” And as he speaks, the headless body of the infant is parried back and forth upon the swords of the brutal soldiers.
“Hold! it is the son of the king, even King Herod!” screams the maid, tearing her hair wildly.
“Back, witch! it is the will of the king. He will have no rival in Bethlehem!” exclaims the centurion, as he thrusts the screaming woman from him, and leads his fellows once again into the streets.
The first gray light of morning is struggling with the mists of the valleys as the soldiers reach the home of Sylvanus the shepherd. Esther awakens from an uneasy slumber. The shouts of the soldiers and the screams of women and children have been mingling with her dreams.
“Where is He that is born King of the Jews? He that would usurp the throne of Herod the Great, king by the power of Cæsar?”
One moment only did Esther hesitate. Her mother heart read as by unerring instinct the import of the awful cries. Quickly snatching up her infant Matthias, and throwing a mantle about her, she rushed out into the streets, lighted faintly by the dim glare of the soldiers' torches, and escapes by an opening in the rear of the house. Wildly she struggled on, fearing lest she awaken the babe at her breast; but fear gave strength to her trembling limbs and courage to her wildly-beating heart. Once she had almost fallen in the street; but she quickly regained her footing, and plunged on, hoping to secrete herself where the shadows were densest. But at last the out-stretched arms of a soldier opened to receive her. With a cry to heaven, she struggled to release herself, and clung wildly to the babe in her arms. But the voice of the centurion Marcus rings above the din: “Let the woman go, Galleo! Herod has had blood enough! I thank the gods I have saved more than one already this night.” And the centurion parried the blow of the brutal soldier, and allowed the almost fainting woman to escape in the gray light of the morning.
Meanwhile, the soldiers at the gate, thinking that the male infant in the house of Sylvanus had been already slain, passed on to finish reaping their awful harvest of blood.
But even as they passed, a shrill cry was heard at the gate, and a young lad clad in simple shepherd's dress rushed, screaming, past them. The lad, Heber, left alone for the night with the charge of the sheep, had been attracted by the unusual confusion in the little town, and the shrill screams of the affrighted inhabitants, and remembering the dream of the eastern princes, “Beware ye of Herod,” had left his sheep, in great dismay, and hurried homeward.
He had arrived in time to see the Roman soldier raise his sword over the head of his poor mother and little Matthias, whom he at once recognized in the dim light of that awful morning.
“Mother, mother! See! Herod has come for the Babe. There is blood everywhere. Look! The skies are growing crimson with it. Blood! blood! the blood of little children, the blood of women, and the blood of babes! Wo, wo to the inhabitants of Bethlehem!” And the frenzied lad rushed shrieking up and down the confused and bloody streets, in almost every house of which lay the murdered and ghastly body of an innocent babe.