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Shiloh: the Man of Sorrows

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Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Sep 6, 1910

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 37, No. 35.

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Shiloh: the Man of Sorrows

By Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

Chapter XXVII.—A King Who Was Slave

TIME: the afternoon of a beautiful day, about the month Nisan, A. U. C. 782. Place: the palace of Herod Antipas, in his royal city Tiberias. Occasion: the birthday of the tetrarch.
The woman Herodias has long nursed her wrath at the presumptuous prophet who dared to reprove her sins,—long nursed her hatred,—waiting for “a convenient day,” which has at last come. The prophet baptizer is in his cell very near the palace. The preparations for the festivities are all completed in a scale of grandeur unrivaled. The guests have arrived, and the merrymaking and feasting have begun.
We recognize Chuza, the steward of Herod, late of Cana of Galilee. Also, among the lordly company, and reclining at his ease, we notice the well-remembered face of Jonathan, son of Annas, who is conversing carelessly with the man Jazer, the scribe of the temple.
In a sumptuous chamber, far removed from the banquet hall, are two persons, engaged in earnest conversation. Not long before, this room had been the private boudoir of the Arabian princess, the lawful wife of Herod Antipas, but is now appropriated by her rival, the beautiful but sensual monster, Herodias. With her, and reclining upon a luxurious divan, is a young girl, beautiful as a peri—graceful as a fairy.
“Wherefore hast thou called me, my mother? See, I am here;” and the scarlet lip of the petted beauty projects poutingly. “Look you, my mother, thou hast prepared a royal festival in honor of the birthday of this thy lord,—but what hast thou prepared for me?”
“I would not that thou shouldst say ‘this thy lord,’” replies the woman chidingly. “Canst thou not say ‘my father’?”
“Why should I say ‘my father’? for of a truth this man is not my father. Nay, I will not; for I love mine own father, even Philip. Rememberest thou not, my mother, how he loved me?”
“I remember nothing, Salome!” exclaims the woman fiercely. “And verily, my daughter, thou shalt say ‘my father,’ and thou shalt please him also. What! thou blind guide! seest thou not that it is for thine own best good to do so?”
The young girl is about to reply angrily, when the mood of the woman suddenly changes.
“There, there, my dear one!” she murmurs softly, bending over her, until the long, shining braids of raven hair fall over the girl’s shoulders. “Did I speak rudely to thee, my fair daughter? Verily I meant not to do so. But listen, for I have somewhat to say unto thee,—and truly I love thee; art thou not mine own flesh! It is for thine own sake and thine own pleasure that I make a request of thee; for why should this ignorant prophet triumph any longer over us?”
“What wouldst thou, my mother? for verily thy lord Antipas doth favor this man; for, behold, he hath talked with him face to face, even yesterday, and I believe he intendeth to release him.”
The eyes of the woman seem kindled with deadly fire at these words, and she stamps her foot savagely. “Wherefore hast thou hidden this thing from me, O my daughter, and hast not told me? for if this pestilent fellow escapeth, all Galilee and Jerusalem shall ring with my dishonor and with thine. And now am I minded to take his life; for why should my fair daughter receive the scorn of her people?” and the woman throws her white arms about the neck of the girl, and sobs hysterically.
“But tell me,” interrupts the girl impatiently, untwining the arms, and petulantly pressing the woman back, “tell me, what dost thou desire of me? for verily this matter concerneth me not.”
“I will speak, and thou shalt listen unto me, and also thou shalt heed my words;” and the woman again springs forward and lays her hand caressingly upon the jetty ringlets. “Is not this the birthday of the tetrarch? and have I not prepared for his pleasure and for the entertainment of his guests? but what hast thou done? Come, my daughter, array thyself in thy most beautiful garments, those which enhance the beauty of thy graceful form most ravishingly, and deck thyself with all thine ornaments, and go in unto the king and dance before him, while he is yet flushed with wine; and it shall be that when he seeth thee, his heart shall throb in his bosom, and he shall say unto thee, ‘What wilt thou? for I will give thee whatsoever thou shalt ask of me!’ Said not the royal king Ahasuerus even thus unto Esther the queen?”
For a moment the eyes of the young girl sparkle with pleasure. “I shall ask the bracelet and the necklace of pure gold and of cunning workmanship which I saw in Jerusalem. But verily, O my mother, what would Philip my father say, knowing that his daughter danced like a harlot before a company of drunken lords? and surely thou wouldst not have me do this thing!”
“Speak not thus of thy father’s guests, my child; but as for the golden ornaments which thou dost desire, thou shalt possess them; yes, and more also, if, when the king shall say unto thee, ‘What wilt thou?’ thou wilt answer him,—ah! my child!—if—”
The woman pauses, and hesitates, as if even she, hardened as she is, lacks both the courage and the words with which to express her murderous designs, and to raise the veil which covers the horrible deformity of her cruel heart.
“How shall I answer him, my mother?”
“Thou shalt say unto him, ‘I will that thou give me, this day, the head of John the Baptizer in a charger!’”
The girl springs from the divan, her rounded cheek white as marble, and her dark eyes dilated with horror. For a moment the silence is unbroken, save for the quick breathing of the girl.
“Why should my fair daughter refuse to obey the mother whose only wish is her happiness? Verily, Salome, if thou wilt do this thing, I will assuredly bring about thy marriage with a great man, and thou shalt be mistress of a beautiful palace, and many servants shall do thy bidding, and every wish of thine heart shall be gratified. Go, my beautiful one, and so shall it be well with thee. Come; see if thou canst remember the dance thy master taught thee in Rome. Of a truth thou canst dance beautifully, my daughter.”
Slowly the look of horror on the face of the girl gives place to one of gratified vanity.
“Thinkest thou that the guests of thy lord Antipas will account me very beautiful? and, stay; dost thou promise me the necklace and the bracelet of cunning workmanship which I saw in Jerusalem?”
“Of a truth, my princess; and thou shalt have for thine husband a tetrarch; and I swear to thee that thou shalt grace with thy beauty a palace of thine own at Bethsaida.”
The fair cheek of the girl flushes with pleasure. Then once again a cloud overspreads the white brow.
“Is this prophet thine enemy, O my mother?”
“Mine and thine; a deadly and dangerous enemy he is, my fair one, dangerous to thy safety and to mine. Why should I, thy mother, the companion of thy kingly father, be spoken of by this Jew as a common prostitute? Why should the people look upon me with scorn? Verily this Jew hath forfeited his own life, and he shall surely die!”
“He shall surely die!” echoes the girl. “And, my mother, wilt thou that I go up to Jerusalem on the morrow, and bring my beautiful jewels?”
“Thou shalt, my princess. Now make haste and array thyself in thy beautiful garments; for behold, my lord eateth and drinketh with his guests, and his heart, even now, waxeth merry with wine.”
An hour later, into the banquet room, like a flash of light, springs a jewel-bedecked and painted siren. Her light silken drapery scarcely conceals the outlines of her form, around which it floats like a fleecy cloud.
The greedy, sensual eyes of Herod follow the light figure as it glides round and round the triclinium, about which recline the half drunken guests, with the lords and captains of the tetrarch.
Pleasure, surprise, and gratified vanity are written upon the weak and wine-reddened face of the dissolute king.
“See ye this beautiful virgin, O my guests? Behold, she is of royal blood, even the granddaughter of my father, Herod the Great, and her grandmother, the royal Mariamne, the fairest in Jerusalem. Yet, see; she danceth for my pleasure, and the pleasure of my guests,—and verily she pleaseth me well.”
A storm of applause greets the words of the king. Still round and round in the giddy mazes of the Oriental dance, spins the fair form of the maiden.
The king is in his most gracious mood. Round after round of stormy applause, mingled with drunken laughter, echoes throughout the palace.
“Go call my Chuza, my steward!” exclaims the king to one of his servants. “Call me Chuza, my steward; why should the Jew hide himself?”
“Ho, Chuza! hast thou seen so fine dancing even in Rome? Haste; bring thou more red wine; for behold, these men my guests be not yet filled therewith.”
At last the rhythmic tread of the dancer ceases for a moment, and the twinkling feet pause as the king rises from the table, and beckoning leeringly toward the siren, exclaims thickly:
“What wilt thou that I shall give unto thee? for behold thou shalt have thy desire, unto the half of my kingdom!” Then looking about upon his guests, and noting their admiring glances, he continues, raising his jeweled hand in the form of an oath:
“Behold, I swear unto thee by the temple which my father builded. What wilt thou? for I will give it thee.”
(To be continued)