Elissa. Or The Doom of Zimbabwe

ELISSA: OR THE DOOM OF ZIMBABWE

“None.”

“Then say no word of it,” and Metem hurried off in search of Aziel.

Presently he found him seeking for Issachar in company with his guards.

“Have no fear, Prince,” Metem said, in answer to his eager questions, “he is safe enough, for the soldiers have borne the fool away. Pardon me that I should speak thus of a holy man, but he has put all our lives in danger.”

“I do not pardon you,” answered Aziel hotly, “and I honour Issachar for his act and words. Let us begone from this accursed place whither you entrapped me.”

Before Metem could reply a voice cried, “Close the doors of the sanctuary, so that none can pass in or go out, and let the sacrifice be offered.”

“Listen, Prince,” said Metem, “you must stay here till the ceremony is done.”

“Then I tell you, Phœnician,” answered Aziel, “that rather than suffer that luckless child to be butchered before my eyes I will cut my way to it with my guards, and rescue it alive.”

“To leave yourself dead in place of it,” answered Metem sarcastically; “but, see, a woman desires to speak with you,” and he pointed to a girl in the robe of a priestess, whose face was hidden with a veil, and who, in the tumult and confusion, had worked her way to Aziel.

“Prince,” whispered the veiled form, “I am Elissa. For your life’s sake keep still and silent, or you will be stabbed, for your words have been overheard, and the priests are mad at the insult that has been put upon them.”

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“Away with you, woman,” answered Aziel; “what have I to do with a girl of the groves and a murderess of children?”

She winced at his bitter words, but said quietly:

“Then on your own head be your blood, Prince, which I have risked much to keep unshed. But before you die, learn that I knew nothing of this foul sacrifice, and that gladly would I give my own life to save that of yonder child.”

“Save it, and I will believe you,” answered the prince, turning from her.

Elissa slipped away, for she saw that the priestesses, her companions, were reforming their ranks, and that she must not tarry. When she had gone a few yards, a hand caught her by the sleeve, and the voice of Metem, who had overheard something of this talk, whispered in her ear:

“Daughter of Sakon, what will you give me if I show you a way to save the life of the child, and with it that of the prince, and at the same time to make him think well of you again?”

“All my jewels and ornaments of gold, and they are many,” she answered eagerly.

“Good; it is a bargain. Now listen: The lady Baaltis is dead; she died a few minutes since, and none here know it save myself and one other, my servant, nor can any learn it, for the gates are shut. Do you be, therefore, suddenly inspired – of the gods – and say so, for then the sacrifice must cease, seeing that she for whom it was to be offered is dead. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” she answered, “and though the blasphemy bring on me the vengeance of Baaltis, yet it shall be dared. Fear not, your pay is good,” and she pressed forward to her place, keeping the veil wrapped about her head till she reached it

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unobserved, for in the general confusion none had noticed her movements.

When the noise of shouting and angry voices had at length died away, and the spectators were driven back outside the sacred circle, the priest upon the platform cried:

“Now that the Jew blasphemer has gone, let the sacrifice be offered, as is decreed.”

“Yea, let the sacrifice be offered,” answered the multitude, and once more the woman with the sleeping child stepped forward. But before the priest could take it another figure approached him, that of Elissa, with arms outstretched and eyes upturned.

“Hold, O priest!” she said, “for the goddess, breathing on my brow, inspires me, and I have a message from the goddess.” “Draw near, daughter, and speak it in the ears of men,” the priest answered wondering, for he found it hard to believe in such inspiration, and indeed would have denied her a hearing

had he dared.

So Elissa climbed the platform, and standing upon it still with outstretched hands and upturned face, she said in a clear voice:

“The goddess refuses the sacrifice, since she has taken to herself her for whom it was to have been offered – the Lady Baaltis is dead.”

At this tidings a groan went up from the people, partly of grief for the loss of a spiritual dignitary who was popular, and partly of disappointment because now the sacrifice could not be offered. For the Phœnicians loved these horrible spectacles,

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CHAPTER VI

THE HALL OF AUDIENCE

When Elissa reached her chamber after the break up of the procession, she threw herself upon her couch, and burst into a passion of tears. Well might she weep, for she had been false to her oath as a priestess, uttering as a message from the goddess that which she had learnt from the lips of man. More, she could not rid herself of the remembrance of the scorn and loathing with which the Prince Aziel had looked upon her, or of the bitter insult of his words when he called her, “a girl of the groves, and a murderess of children.”

It chanced that, so far as Elissa was concerned, these charges were utterly untrue. None could throw a slur upon her, and as for these rare human sacrifices, she loathed the very name of them, nor, unless forced to it, would she have been present had she guessed that any such offering was intended.

Like most of the ancient religions, that of the Phœnicians had two sides to it – a spiritual and a material side. The spiritual side was a worship of the far-off unknown divinity, symbolised by the sun, moon and planets, and visible only in their majestic movements, and in the forces of nature. To this Elissa clung, knowing no truer god, and from those forces she strove

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to wring their secret, for her heart was deep. Lonely invocations to the goddess beneath the light of the moon appealed to her, for from them she seemed to draw strength and comfort, but the outward ceremonies of her faith, or the more secret and darker of them, of which in practice she knew little, were already an abomination in her eyes. And now what if the Jew prophet spoke truly? What if this creed of hers were a lie, root and branch, and there did lie in the heavens above a Lord and Father who heard and answered the prayers of men, and who did not seek of them the blood of the children He had given?

A great doubt took hold of Elissa and shook her being, and with the doubt came hope. How was it – if her faith were true – that when she took the name of the goddess in vain, nothing had befallen her? She desired to learn more of this matter, but who was to teach her? The Levite turned from her with loathing as from a thing unclean, and there remained, therefore, but the prince Aziel, who had put her from him with those bitter words of scorn. Ah! why did they pain her so, piercing her heart as with a spear? Was it because – because – he had grown dear to her? Yes, that was the truth. She had learned it even as he cursed her; all her quick southern blood was alight with a new fire, the like of which she had never known before. And not her blood only, it was her spirit – her spirit that yearned to his. Had it not leapt within her at the first sight of him as to one most dear, one long-lost and found again? She loved him, and he loathed her, and oh! her lot was hard.

As Elissa lay brooding thus in her pain, the door opened and Sakon, her father, hurried into the chamber.

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“What is it that chanced yonder?” he asked, for he had not been present in the sanctuary, “and, daughter, why do you weep?”

“I weep, father, because your guest, the prince Aziel, has called me ‘a girl of the groves, and a murderess of children,’” she replied.

“Then, by my head, prince that he is, he shall answer for it to me,” said Sakon, grasping at his sword-hilt.

“Nay, father, since to him I must have seemed to deserve the words. Listen.” And she told him all that had passed, hiding nothing.

“Now it seems that trouble is heaped upon trouble,” said the Phœnician when she had finished, “and they were mad who suffered the prince and that fierce Issachar to be present at the sacrifice. Daughter, I tell you this: though I am a worshipper of El and Baaltis, as my fathers were before me, I know that Jehovah of the Jews is a great and powerful Lord, and that His prophets do not prophesy falsely, for I have seen it in my youth, yonder in the coasts of Sidon. What did Issachar say? That before the moon was young again, this temple should run red with blood? Well, so it may happen, for Ithobal threatens war against us, and for your sake, my daughter.”

“How for my sake, father?” she asked heavily, as one who knew what the answer would be.

“You know well, girl. Ever since you danced before him at the great welcoming feast I made in his honour a month ago the man is besotted of you; moreover, he is mad with jealousy of this new-comer, the prince Aziel. He has demanded public audience of me this afternoon, and I have it privately that then

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he will formally ask you in marriage before the people, and if he is refused will declare war upon the city, with which he has many an ancient quarrel. Yes, yes, king Ithobal is that sword of God which the Jew said he saw hanging over us, and should it fall it will be because of you, Elissa.”

“The Jew did not say that, father; he said it would be because of the sins of the people and their idolatries.”

“What does it matter what he said?” broke in Sakon hastily. “How shall I answer Ithobal?”

“Tell him,” she replied with a strange smile, “that he does wisely to be jealous of the prince Aziel.”

“What! Of the stranger who this very day reviled you in words of such shame, and so soon?” asked her father astonished.

Elissa did not speak in answer; she only looked straight before her, and nodded her head.

“Had ever man such a daughter?” Sakon went on in petulant dismay. “Truly it is a wise saying which tells that women love those best who beat them, be it with the tongue or with the fist. Not but what I would gladly see you wedded to a prince of Israel and of Egypt rather than of this half-bred barbarian, but the legions of Solomon and of Pharaoh are far away, whereas Ithobal has a hundred thousand spears almost at our gate.”

“There is no need to speak of such things, father,” she said, turning aside, “since, even were I willing, the prince would have nought to do with me, who am a priestess of Baaltis.”

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“The matter of religion might be overcome,” suggested Sakon; “but, no, for many reasons it is impossible. Well, this being so, daughter, I may answer Ithobal that you will wed him.” “I!” she said; “I wed that black-hearted savage? My father, you may answer what you will, but of this be sure, that I will

go to my grave before I pass as wife to the board of Ithobal.” “Oh! my daughter,” pleaded Sakon, “think before you say

it. As his wife at least you, who are not of royal blood, will be a queen, and the mother of kings. But if you refuse, then either I must force you, which is hateful to me, or there will be such a war as the city has not known for generations, for Ithobal and his tribes have many grievances against us. By the gift of yourself, for a while, at any rate, you can, as it chances, make peace between us, but if that is withheld, then blood will run in rivers, and perhaps this city, with all who live in it, will be destroyed, or at the least its trade must be ruined and its wealth stolen away.”

“If it is decreed that all these things are to be, they will be,” answered Elissa calmly, “seeing that this war has threatened us for many years, and that a woman must think of herself first, and of the fate of cities afterwards. Of my own free will I shall never take Ithobal for husband. Father, I have said.”

“Of the fate of cities, yes; but how of my fate, and that of those we love? Are we all to be ruined, and perhaps slaughtered, to satisfy your whim, girl?”

“I did not say so, father. I said that of my own free will I would not wed Ithobal. If you choose to give me to him you have the right to do it, but know then that you give me to my death. Perhaps it is best that it should be thus.”

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Sakon knew his daughter well, and it did not need that he should glance at her face to learn that she meant her words. Also he loved her, his only child, more dearly than anything on earth.

“In truth my strait is hard, and I know not which way to turn,” he said, covering his face with his hand.

“Father,” she replied, laying her fingers lightly on his shoulder, “what need is there to answer him at once? Take a month, or if he will not give it, a week. Much may happen in that time.”

“The counsel is wise,” he said, catching at this straw. “Daughter, be in the great hall of audience with your attendants three hours after noon, for then we must receive Ithobal boldly in all pomp, and deal with him as best we may. And now I go to ask peace for the Levite from the priests of El, and to discover whom the sacred colleges desire to nominate as the new Baaltis. Doubtless it will be Mesa, the daughter of her who is dead, though many are against her. Oh! if there were no priests and no women, this city would be easier to govern,” and with an impatient gesture Sakon left the room.

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It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and the great hall of audience in Zimboe was crowded with a brilliant assemblage. There sat Sakon, the governor, and with him his council of the notables of the city; there were prince Aziel and among his retinue, Issachar the prophet, fierce-eyed as ever, though hardly recovered from the rough handling he had experienced in the temple. There were representatives of the college of the priests of El. There were many ladies, wives and daughters of

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