Great Lion of God (30 page)

Chapter 12

“D
O NOT
go to the place of execution. I implore you,” said Hillel to his son. “You are young. It will break your heart. Accompany me to the Temple, where we will pray for the souls of those valiant young men.”

“No,” said young Saul. He seemed to his father to be growing more emaciated each day, and there was a cold austerity now on his freckled forehead and a burning look in his eyes. “I would be less than they if I did not suffer in my heart with them.”

“You torment yourself; you bite at your flank as a beast tears at his sores,” said Hillel. “Have you forgotten when we were carried into exile by the king of Babylon, Nebuchadnezzar? Those of us who were not, gathered together to form a rebellion against our oppressors. The Prophet Jeremias saw that this would bring upon our people a greater calamity, and he put about his neck a wooden yoke to symbolize to us our ebullient and reckless hopes before the reality of catastrophe. But the false prophet, Hananiah, tore the yoke from the neck and shoulders of Jeremias and broke it into fragments, saying, ‘Even so will I break the yoke of Nebuchadnezzar, within two years!’”

Saul stared at his father in mute bitterness, his lips pressed together.

Hillel sighed. “Jeremias left the false prophet but God, blessed be His Name, commanded him to rebuke Hananiah, saying, ‘You have broken wooden bars, but I will make in their place bars of iron.’ And Hananiah died within two years. For the hour of His deliverance had not come, and it was not the season. Be certain that God will deliver us, for have we not His promise? The young men who die today are impatient.”

“You speak, my father,” said Saul, “almost with the tongue of Shebua ben Abraham, whom I despise for all he is my grandfather. I do not understand you. It was but two days ago when you sought help for the heroes who die today, yet today you are as ambiguous as Joseph of Arimathaea, whom I despise also.”

“I would not have you suffer,” said Hillel, the father, and could not help himself. But Saul made a faint and tortured sound and left him, swinging his cloak about his shoulders.

It was a day of coolness and the sky was curiously brazen and against it stood the bald mountains, the color of grapes in the still air. Saul went on foot to the Damascus Gate, for beyond, in the barrenness and desolation outside the walls, the ardent young youths were to be crucified by the Romans. Jerusalem was strangely silent, as if all had drawn a deep breath and was holding it, and the shops were shut and no children ran on the stony streets. The atmosphere, quiet though it was, seemed to be half inaudibly filled with mourning, and only the soldiers were visible, clanging in their battle array, and watchful. All the light appeared to have gone from the city, so it was dull and yellow and abandoned, and everywhere were echoes, faintly crying or distantly booming. The Roman banners hung lifelessly above the gates of the city, the bronze eagles among them, as it were, brooding. The soldiers did not prevent any man from leaving the city, and as Saul walked to the Damascus Gate he was joined by speechless men in black, and hooded, with cloths drawn over their faces. And now at the gate the crowd was many, and their footsteps raised the only sound and the sound was doomful.

The gates made a harsh grinding as the grim-faced soldiers swung them open and the crowd poured through, not speaking, not weeping. One could see only their eyes, dark and glittering and passionate. Saul walked among them and thought, I alone of that household come to this direful place! Not even my father deigned to be here with his prayers! And the bitterness increased in him and his head ached savagely and his eyes were dry as dust and as hot.

The land beyond the gate was bare and lifeless, the yellow earth crumbling and full of rubble and stones, and here it was suddenly hot as if the doors of a furnace had opened. Beyond lay the wilderness of Syria, and the hard mountains purple and somber, and the sky that was too close and jaundiced. And there, on a flat open place fifty crosses lay on the ground, waiting, and at the side of each stood a ragged youth, bearded and wild but silent, his eyes fixed on the unanswering sky, the unresponding heavens.

Saul and those who had come with him joined those already there, in motionless and ominous ranks, shoulder to shoulder. There were many young Roman soldiers with cold and angry eyes, unusually silent, for these men they were to execute had murdered their comrades and their officers, had violated law and order, had lifted their hands in violence against those the gods had ordained to rule them in the name of justice and peace.

Saul looked upon the faces of the condemned, the remote faces, the praying lips. Some were younger than he; not many were of mature years. He wanted to weep, but could not. He wanted to curse, but his lips were numb. He wanted to beat his breast. He slowly became aware of the lowest of chanting, hardly to be heard, and knew it to be the prayers for the dying. But Saul could not pray. He could only gaze on the faces of the condemned, who appeared already dead, so motionless were they, so indifferent, so far. It was as if nothing that was of them stood in this place, and that they had already departed.

Then against that terrible silence a man’s voice rang out, pure and strong and certain:

“‘My help comes from the Lord, Who made heaven and earth! He will not suffer your foot to be moved. He that keeps you will not slumber. Behold! He who keeps Israel does neither slumber nor sleep!

“‘The Lord is your Guardian. The Lord is your shade upon your right hand. The sun shall not smite you by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall keep you from all evil. He shall keep your soul. The Lord shall guard your going out and your coming in, from this time forth and forever!’”

The condemned started as one man, the rags and skins of their garments moving in a place where nothing moved, and they turned their young sun-darkened faces eagerly in search and now their faces were the faces of children who had heard the voice of their father.

I have heard that voice before! thought Saul, and the thunder of his heart was in his ears, and he turned with all the crowd and searched for the speaker. But a confusion seemed on all as all eyes denied that their tongue had spoken the solemn promise of the Lord. A dim muttering rose, then died.

The soldiers had turned to statues and they, too, as one man, searched for he who had cried out with such loud faith and even exultation and comfort. But they could not find him. A dull shadow ran over the earth and raised a dry yellowish dust and a hotter breath, and now the brassy sky darkened a little, and a Roman officer looked at it uneasily, for Romans were superstitious and they had heard tales of the vengeance of the Jewish God. Let it be done, he thought, and gestured with his mailed hand, and the soldiers seized the nearest youth and flung him on a cross. Immediately there was the dolorous and awful sound of hammering as nails bit into young hands and feet, and there was nothing else, not even a cry.

The valiant die valiantly, thought Saul, listening to the iron hammering which seemed too close, too dreadful, too imminent, in that silence. When the soldiers raised the cross with the youth upon it, and forced it into a hole in the brittle yellow ground, the shock of its falling into the socket appeared to be a shock on Saul’s heart, so awful, so dolorous, it was, so final, so hopeless. The youth sagged with his own weight but did not groan.

One by one the youths were crucified, and not a cry or a protest or a shriek of agony came from a single heroic throat. Some were proud and disdainful; some were set of lip and eye. Some appeared to have fallen into a dream and looked only at the sky. But not one whimpered. Their rags and wild skins were the garments of sacrificed children.

It was the watchers who began to weep, to beat their breasts, to beat their temples. But soldiers and the dying seemed not to hear, to be aware. The soldiers worked very fast, sweating and speechless, not looking at the faces of their victims. There was an extraordinary hurry about most of them, for this was the first crucifixions the majority had ever engaged in before, and they were very young and their hearts were not of stone. They had hated these youths, many of whom were their own ages, but now they did not hate. Not one jeered or taunted. This was an evil task, and it could not be avoided, and they wished it to be over and forgotten.

“Vengeance, vengeance!” whispered Saul fiercely, and thought he would die with his own agony. “Where is the God of Israel, that He permits this?”

Then that hidden voice, so passionate, so strong and musical, rang out against the brazen quiet:

“Be strong and let your heart take courage, all you that wait for the Lord!”

For the first time, the crowd of black-robed men responded:

“I have waited for the Lord, blessed be His Name, and He comes on the wings of the morning, my Succor and my Hope, my Lord and my God!”

The voices broke into weeping, but did not falter. The young men on those crosses, so close together, listened and a rapt smile of touching joy passed over many of their faces. Now all could see how emaciated they were, how poor and hungry, for their ribs arched starkly under the tight brown skins, the arms were all dark bone, the legs the legs of children. And the scarlet blood, in that brassy light, began to stream from hands and feet, and sweat, the color of quicksilver, ran down each drawn cheek and lay in the corners of pallid mouths. Here and there, urine and feces released by agony, dripped down the crosses and a stench arose.

The shadow ran over the sky; it ran over the earth. The soldiers retreated a distance, and stood about their red standards and did not speak, nor did they look at each other. There was only the sound of lamentation as the mourners prayed. There was no sun, yet the armor on the soldiers glistened, and so did their swords, and every face appeared illuminated with a ghastly and searching light, and too distinct.

Saul, sunken in his grief and despair, heard a disturbed and wondering sound, and felt a quickened movement about him. He raised his head, to see the young peasant he had encountered in the marketplace moving from the ranks of the mourners, and he wore a rude brown robe and his feet were dusty in his sandals. But he moved with slow majesty to the crowd of the crosses, walking without sound, his uncovered golden hair and beard shining cloudily in the increasing gloom. His face was very quiet and serene, his profile lifted. He was tall and slender and muscular, and he left deep footsteps in the dust, which swirled about his ankles. A radiance, shifting and nebulous, seemed to lie on his shoulders and throat.

Saul watched. The mourners forgot their weeping. The soldiers looked at him alertly, but none made a motion to stop him. He began to walk among the ranks of the fainting and dying and tortured. He stopped before each cross. He lifted his blue eyes to the faces of the youths. He smiled gently. He moved on, slowly, pausing, smiling. He spoke no word.

Yet the eyes of the dying followed him, and the contorted faces became quiet, and mouths opened as if to reply to something only they heard and which had consoled them. It was as if he had given a potion to each, which had taken away pain and fear and despair, and had left peace behind it.

There was not one he neglected, not one he ignored. His air was tender and valorous, sorrowful yet comforting. Every man watched, including the soldiers, and all were as still as the men on the crosses, and only eyes moved.

He was approaching the final rank and now he was close to the Roman soldiers who looked at him from under their young and uneasy brows and made bold faces. He stopped for a moment to consider them, and to Saul’s astonishment no anger touched his peaceful brow nor did his lips curl in an imprecation nor did his face pale with stern wrath. In truth, his expression became exceedingly compassionate and even more gentle than before, and Saul suddenly remembered the words of Amos, repeating the words of God:

“Are you not like the Ethiopians to Me, O people of Israel? Did I not bring up Israel from the land of Egypt, and the Philistines from Caphtor and the Syrians from Kir?”

They were the loving words of the Father of all men, tender land merciful, and Saul was struck by them, and he trembled. It I seemed that the nameless peasant who gazed at the Roman soldiers was repeating this inwardly, too, and remembering, and directing it at the soldiers.

No, no! cried Saul in himself, fearful that his rage and pity would leave him, and in their leaving he would lose his strength and his hatred which gave him that strength. If one believed that the worst of men were also the children of God then one could not fight evil, could right no wrongs, could deliver no oppressed, could not, in truth, defend the Name of God. He looked at the peasant and told himself that he was presumptuous, and he thought again that the stranger was a sorcerer who was numbing the victims with his mind and deceiving their heroic spirits.

The stranger still gazed at the Romans, and they gazed back at him, and they were more uneasy than before, and oddly discomfited. They shifted their iron-shod sandals; they shrugged their shoulders. Some even put hands on swords, the gesture of frightened men. But they did not speak. And some there were who looked at the stranger and their faces were moved. When he went on as before, they watched him, then exchanged disquieted glances.

He had done. Now he stood before the first rank of crosses and looked at the dying upon them. He lifted his hand to all and he said in a voice that had the soft sound of distant thunder in it, the words of the Shema:

“Hear, O Israel! The Lord our God, the Lord is One!”

Now, for the first time, the dying spoke in unison, and their voices were triumphant and exultant and prayerful, and they cried also:

“Hear, O Israel! The Lord our God, the Lord is One!”

The raptness of their straining faces increased. They saw only the stranger and he smiled at them, a smile of infinite love and kindness, like a father, and they drank in that love and kindness, that sorrowful yet reassuring sweetness, as those dying of thirst drink the living waters of life.

The stranger bowed his head, and he covered the golden crown with his hood, and he prayed, and one by one the weakest among the dying passed into that faintness before death and their heads fell on their chests. The blood poured in dark ripples from their hands and feet; their bodies sagged. But all was silence again.