Chapter XXXVI. On the Jericho Road
FROM time immemorial the road between Jerusalem and Jericho had been the haunt and hiding-place of fierce bands of thieves and robbers, who, tho routed and severely punished by Herod the Great, still, in the days of Herod Antipas, and even in much later years, carried on their nefarious traffic from time to time, making the fastnesses of the mountains and the caves of the rocks their hiding-places. Here, stretched by the roadside in some lonely valley or by the side of some dark ravine, the horrified traveler often encountered the body of a man, stripped and wounded, the silent witness of a bloody tragedy. On the day of which I write, not long after the events narrated in the preceding chapter, the afternoon sun threw long shadows across this rough, narrow highway. Possibly it was this fact that caused the young man who was hurrying along the road, to quicken his footsteps. The traveler was our friend Matthias, and his destination, Jericho. Now the wilderness of Judea, dark, lonely, dismal, lay just before him. His way led down a precipitous, narrow ravine, whose hoary rock and dark-mouthed cavern had been mute witnesses to many a deed of violence and blood. Not only the lateness of the hour, but the fact that the robber Barabbas, with his band of outlaws, was reported to be in that immediate vicinity, tended to the quickening of the traveler's footsteps, as he hurried down the gorge. He was just about congratulating himself upon the progress he was making, when, with a yell of triumph, a half dozen of the fiercest of the bandits of Barabbas were upon him. Scarcely conscious of what had occurred on account of the suddenness and fierceness of the attack, Matthias found himself bruised and bleeding, bound hand and foot, stripped of his clothing, and entirely at the mercy of his captors. "Ho, Ziba!" exclaimed one of the robbers, addressing his fellow, as he dragged Matthias to the very edge of the gorge, as tho he would hurl him downward, while he thrust a dim torch close against the pallid and blood-stained face, "Ho, Ziba, this fellow is verily a Jew, and I believe he is a follower of the Prophet of Nazareth, for I remember his countenance." "Thou sayest truth, Rufus," replied another, "but for the moment I supposed him to be the man Judas of Kerioth, who beareth the purse of the company who follow the Nazarene. But he hath not the stature of Judas, neither hath he his years, and the purse which I had thought to find upon him, I find not. Now the raiment upon this fellow's back giveth us scant payment for our pains," he muttered. Placing the bruised form with no gentle hand upon a horse, they took Matthias to the robber chieftain. "Ho, Barabbas! we have brought unto thee a disciple of the Nazarene, and these be his garments,—scarce worth a farthing!" and the man dealt his victim a savage blow. "Hold, Haman!" commanded the leader, interposing his huge frame between the wounded man and his assailant, "knowest thou nothing at all? If this man be indeed a follower of the Nazarene, why shall I not convince him that I, even I, Barabbas, the lawful son of a Jewish rabbi, am the Messiah who shall redeem my people Israel out of the hand of the Roman? Behold, fellow," he cried, bending over the bleeding form, "see; I will cover thee with mine abba, and thou shalt be my disciple; for behold, I do raise an army, and go against the Roman dogs who dwell at their ease in the inheritance of my fathers. If not, thy festering body shall rot by the roadside, and be meat for the birds of heaven. But see, I have secreted among the mountains of Judea more than threescore of the swiftest horses of Arabia,—even the Kochlani,—whose feet are like to the feet of the wild roe, and their riders but wait my bidding." Matthias still lay at the feet of the robber, bound and bleeding. Perhaps it might save his life to acknowledge this robber as the Messiah; but his very soul revolted at the thought. Instantly before his mind rose a swift vision of a Man, gentle, unselfish, divine; a reliever of human distress; a healer of the blind, the deaf, the cripple, the maniac. He thought of poor Heber, his wandering brother, and wondered vaguely if the time would ever come when he, too, might feel the healing touch of the Master. Before him stood the fierce bandit of the mountains, with his greed and his ambition for power, relieving no human distress, drying no tears, assuaging no grief, pompously setting up his claims to the Messiahship, because of his certainty that the time was fulfilled; the Other, that divine One at whose touch the loathsome body of the leper became like the flesh of a little child, and before whose godlike presence even the dusty doors of the chambers of death stood ajar. One by one the evidences of the Messiahship of this mighty One passed through his mind; and altho reflecting that his very life might depend upon his answer, Matthias exclaimed earnestly: "Thou art a deceiver and a robber, O Barabbas; Jesus of Nazareth is the Messiah, the Son of the living God!" All that awful night Matthias, son of Sylvanus, lay stark and bleeding, stretched upon the hard rock at the mouth of the cave. Kindly nature had pitied him, and had laid her fingers upon his throbbing brow, and closed his aching eyelids with forgetfulness, long before the sixth hour of the night; and this forgetfulness was so deep, so numbing, so overmastering, that it had almost been the forgetfulness of death. But when the morning sun appeared above the mountains of Gilead beyond Jordan, the eyes of the wounded man opened feebly, and memory depicted once again the cruel scenes of the evening before. Finding that they could secure nothing but his raiment, which was plain and inexpensive, and a few pence which he had bound in his girdle, Barabbas and his band had fled. Fearing the approach of the Romans, who for many years had kept up an aggressive warfare against the outlaws, they had again hidden themselves, only awaiting other opportunities of repeating the experiences of the evening before. Matthias remembered hearing the last faint echo of their horses' hoofs as they hurried down the valley. An unspeakable sense of misery and helplessness oppressed him. The night dews had settled upon his unprotected and bleeding form, and the chill winds had stiffened his benumbed and aching body. If only some friendly traveler coming down from Jerusalem might pass that way! If help came quickly, it might not be too late to fan the spark of life once more into a flame. He was so young to perish alone upon the mountains! Life was sweet to him. The thoughts of those who believe themselves very near death, fly rapidly. He remembered the lonely cell of the Baptizer, and he mused long upon it. Every word which the prophet had spoken on that awful day when he had been butchered for the pleasure of the monster Herodias, came with fresh meaning into his mind. He of whom the mighty Nazarene had said, "There is none greater born of woman," had been murdered in cruelty and in horror, and no hand had been raised in his behalf. Matthias had often wondered over the awful mystery of the death of this man of God; but now, as he himself lies broken, bruised, and suffering, alone and helpless upon the mountains, a sense of peace and assurance steals over him at thought of this brave and uncomplaining man,—this beloved of the Almighty; and if this prophet was upheld and sustained even in death by the arm of everlasting strength, might not he also receive grace and courage? And as the sorely tired heart of the Baptizer doubted not the love of the Infinite, even tho He sent him no deliverance, still in meekness and faith he proclaimed this same Jesus to be the Anointed One, and met the king of terrors with calm peace and assurance. And even thus would he, Matthias. Thinking thoughts like these, suddenly he heard the echo of a footfall hastening down the rocky pathway from Jerusalem. Hope sprang into his heart, for he loved life. Surely the unspoken prayer of his soul was about to be answered. Help was at hand. There was a sharp curve in the roadway, around an overhanging rock, which reared its seamed face, carved by the storms of centuries, a hundred feet into the air. Matthias remembered that at this point the pathway divided,—one road leading around the other side of the ravine, the other directly past the mouth of the cave where he lay. Would the traveler, whose welcome footfalls have reached his eager ear, take this one? If not, he would not be seen, and must soon perish. His voice was too weak to cry out, and his parched and swollen tongue could frame no word. Yes, he is coming around the curve, and is in full view. It is Jonathan the priest, the son of Annas. He is coming down from Jerusalem at the close of his eight days' service in the temple. With an exclamation of astonishment and a look of horror upon his face, the priest pauses for an instant, and stares at the bound and blood-stained body before him. But the look of horror quickly gives place to one of deep annoyance and disgust, as turning quickly upon his heel, he takes the road around the other side of the ravine, and disappears from sight. Matthias struggles to call after him, but he is consumed by the agony of thirst, his parched lips refuse to articulate a word, and the sound of his voice dies away in a gurgling moan. Another hour drags its slow length along. Already the hot rays of the unclouded sun scorch and torment him, and he longs for the damp dews and the chilling night winds which so lately afflicted him. Suddenly a rider, also coming down from Jerusalem, appears as he rounds the curve by the rock. The face of this man is as familiar as was that of the other. The border of his raiment is broad and imposing; and the phylacteries which are carefully bound about his forehead and left arm, by their size and prominence, tell their ostentatious story of the piety of their long-faced wearer. It is Shaphan, of the tribe of Levi, the rabbi of Nazareth. Matthias gazes upon him with dim, beseeching eyes. But there is nothing reassuring in the long, stern visage of the rabbi. No other emotion than that of disgust is written upon his countenance, as he, also, looks upon the wounded body and the marble face with its splotches of blood. "Some heathen dog," he mutters, "who has been visited in wrath by Jehovah, on account of his sins. Why should I, a Levite, a minister of holy things, defile myself with uncleanness?" The animal upon which he rides, halts at the word of quick command, while Shaphan instinctively gathers his rich robe closer about his lean form, lest he become polluted by a touch of the mangled body. There is but one way to avoid a closer contact, and that is to take the other path on the farther side of the ravine. Another hour passes. The bare rocks glare white and defiant in the unpitying face of the sun. Once again among the rocky hills, sounds the echo of approaching feet. But the ear of the man is too dull to take note of it, and the eye13too dim to see the massive form of the rapidly advancing rider. Already, high in the heavens, the circling vultures of the wilderness of Judea have spied with hungry eyes the helpless form among the rocks. Meantime the rider has driven his animal close by the side of the prostrate figure, and quickly dismounted. With deft hand and sympathetic touch, he binds up the wounds and wipes the crimson splotches from the pallid face. From his own flask he pours a vivifying draft between the set teeth. Finding that the heart still beats faintly in the torn bosom, the stranger carefully lifts the senseless form and lays it upon his beast. Slowly and cautiously the animal is led down the valley and on toward the friendly inn situated some distance this side of Jericho. Let us observe the stranger as he walks slowly by the side of the animal, while with firm but gentle hand he supports the senseless man. His gigantic frame would render him an object of notice anywhere. But there is something about the face,—the massive jaws, the overhanging brow, and the dark, piercing eye,—which in particular attracts our attention. Where have we seen this man before? The misty years march by in quick review at the command of memory.