by Lew Wallace
CHAPTER IX
To understand thoroughly what happened to the Nazarene at the khan,the reader must be reminded that Eastern inns were different from theinns of the Western world. They were called khans, from the Persian,and, in simplest form, were fenced enclosures, without house orshed, often without a gate or entrance. Their sites were chosenwith reference to shade, defence, or water. Such were the innsthat sheltered Jacob when he went to seek a wife in Padan-Aram.Their like may been seen at this day in the stopping-places ofthe desert. On the other hand, some of them, especially thoseon the roads between great cities, like Jerusalem and Alexandria,were princely establishments, monuments to the piety of the kingswho built them. In ordinary, however, they were no more than thehouse or possession of a sheik, in which, as in headquarters,he swayed his tribe. Lodging the traveller was the least oftheir uses; they were markets, factories, forts; places ofassemblage and residence for merchants and artisans quite asmuch as places of shelter for belated and wandering wayfarers.Within their walls, all the year round, occurred the multiplieddaily transactions of a town.
The singular management of these hostelries was the feature likelyto strike a Western mind with most force. There was no host orhostess; no clerk, cook, or kitchen; a steward at the gate was allthe assertion of government or proprietorship anywhere visible.Strangers arriving stayed at will without rendering account.A consequence of the system was that whoever came had to bringhis food and culinary outfit with him, or buy them of dealers inthe khan. The same rule held good as to his bed and bedding, andforage for his beasts. Water, rest, shelter, and protection wereall he looked for from the proprietor, and they were gratuities.The peace of synagogues was sometimes broken by brawling disputants,but that of the khans never. The houses and all their appurtenanceswere sacred: a well was not more so.
The khan at Bethlehem, before which Joseph and his wife stopped,was a good specimen of its class, being neither very primitivenor very princely. The building was purely Oriental; that isto say, a quadrangular block of rough stones, one story high,flat-roofed, externally unbroken by a window, and with but oneprincipal entrance--a doorway, which was also a gateway, on theeastern side, or front. The road ran by the door so near thatthe chalk dust half covered the lintel. A fence of flat rocks,beginning at the northeastern corner of the pile, extended manyyards down the slope to a point from whence it swept westwardly toa limestone bluff; making what was in the highest degree essentialto a respectable khan--a safe enclosure for animals.
In a village like Bethlehem, as there was but one sheik, there couldnot well be more than one khan; and, though born in the place,the Nazarene, from long residence elsewhere, had no claim tohospitality in the town. Moreover, the enumeration for which hewas coming might be the work of weeks or months; Roman deputiesin the provinces were proverbially slow; and to impose himselfand wife for a period so uncertain upon acquaintances or relationswas out of the question. So, before he drew nigh the great house,while he was yet climbing the slope, in the steep places toiling tohasten the donkey, the fear that he might not find accommodations inthe khan became a painful anxiety; for he found the road throngedwith men and boys who, with great ado, were taking their cattle,horses, and camels to and from the valley, some to water, some tothe neighboring caves. And when he was come close by, his alarmwas not allayed by the discovery of a crowd investing the doorof the establishment, while the enclosure adjoining, broad asit was, seemed already full.
"We cannot reach the door," Joseph said, in his slow way. "Let usstop here, and learn, if we can, what has happened."
The wife, without answering, quietly drew the wimple aside. The lookof fatigue at first upon her face changed to one of interest. Shefound herself at the edge of an assemblage that could not be otherthan a matter of curiosity to her, although it was common enoughat the khans on any of the highways which the great caravans wereaccustomed to traverse. There were men on foot, running hither andthither, talking shrilly and in all the tongues of Syria; men onhorseback screaming to men on camels; men struggling doubtfullywith fractious cows and frightened sheep; men peddling bread andwine; and among the mass a herd of boys apparently in chase of aherd of dogs. Everybody and everything seemed to be in motion atthe same time. Possibly the fair spectator was too weary to be longattracted by the scene; in a little while she sighed, and settleddown on the pillion, and, as if in search of peace and rest, or inexpectation of some one, looked off to the south, and up to thetall cliffs of the Mount of Paradise, then faintly reddening underthe setting sun.
While she was thus looking, a man pushed his way out of the press,and, stopping close by the donkey, faced about with an angry brow.The Nazarene spoke to him.
"As I am what I take you to be, good friend--a son of Judah--mayI ask the cause of this multitude?"
The stranger turned fiercely; but, seeing the solemn countenanceof Joseph, so in keeping with his deep, slow voice and speech,he raised his hand in half-salutation, and replied,
"Peace be to you, Rabbi! I am a son of Judah, and will answer you.I dwell in Beth-Dagon, which, you know, is in what used to be theland of the tribe of Dan."
"On the road to Joppa from Modin," said Joseph.
"Ah, you have been in Beth-Dagon," the man said, his face softeningyet more. "What wanderers we of Judah are! I have been away fromthe ridge--old Ephrath, as our father Jacob called it--for manyyears. When the proclamation went abroad requiring all Hebrews tobe numbered at the cities of their birth-- That is my businesshere, Rabbi."
Joseph's face remained stolid as a mask, while he remarked, "I havecome for that also--I and my wife."
The stranger glanced at Mary and kept silence. She was lookingup at the bald top of Gedor. The sun touched her upturnedface, and filled the violet depths of her eyes, and upon herparted lips trembled an aspiration which could not have been toa mortal. For the moment, all the humanity of her beauty seemedrefined away: she was as we fancy they are who sit close by thegate in the transfiguring light of Heaven. The Beth-Dagonite sawthe original of what, centuries after, came as a vision of geniusto Sanzio the divine, and left him immortal.
"Of what was I speaking? Ah! I remember. I was about to say thatwhen I heard of the order to come here, I was angry. Then I thoughtof the old hill, and the town, and the valley falling away intothe depths of Cedron; of the vines and orchards, and fields ofgrain, unfailing since the days of Boaz and Ruth, of the familiarmountains--Gedor here, Gibeah yonder, Mar Elias there--which, whenI was a boy, were the walls of the world to me; and I forgave thetyrants and came--I, and Rachel, my wife, and Deborah and Michal,our roses of Sharon."
The man paused again, looking abruptly at Mary, who was now lookingat him and listening. Then he said, "Rabbi, will not your wife goto mine? You may see her yonder with the children, under the leaningolive-tree at the bend of the road. I tell you"--he turned to Josephand spoke positively--"I tell you the khan is full. It is useless toask at the gate."
Joseph's will was slow, like his mind; he hesitated, but at lengthreplied, "The offer is kind. Whether there be room for us or notin the house, we will go see your people. Let me speak to thegate-keeper myself. I will return quickly."
And, putting the leading-strap in the stranger's hand, he pushedinto the stirring crowd.
The keeper sat on a great cedar block outside the gate. Against thewall behind him leaned a javelin. A dog squatted on the block byhis side.
"The peace of Jehovah be with you," said Joseph, at last confrontingthe keeper.
"What you give, may you find again; and, when found, be it manytimes multiplied to you and yours," returned the watchman, gravely,though without moving.
"I am a Bethlehemite," said Joseph, in his most deliberate way."Is there not room for--"
"There is not."
"You may have heard of me--Joseph of Nazareth. This is the houseof my fathers. I am of the line of David."
These words held the Nazarene's hope. If they failed him, furtherappeal was idle, even that of the offer of many shekels. To
be ason of Judah was one thing--in the tribal opinion a great thing;to be of the house of David was yet another; on the tongue of aHebrew there could be no higher boast. A thousand years and morehad passed since the boyish shepherd became the successor of Sauland founded a royal family. Wars, calamities, other kings, and thecountless obscuring processes of time had, as respects fortune,lowered his descendants to the common Jewish level; the breadthey ate came to them of toil never more humble; yet they hadthe benefit of history sacredly kept, of which genealogy was thefirst chapter and the last; they could not become unknown, while,wherever they went In Israel, acquaintance drew after it a respectamounting to reverence.
If this were so in Jerusalem and elsewhere, certainly one of thesacred line might reasonably rely upon it at the door of the khan ofBethlehem. To say, as Joseph said, "This is the house of my fathers,"was to say the truth most simply and literally; for it was the veryhouse Ruth ruled as the wife of Boaz, the very house in which Jesseand his ten sons, David the youngest, were born, the very house inwhich Samuel came seeking a king, and found him; the very housewhich David gave to the son of Barzillai, the friendly Gileadite;the very house in which Jeremiah, by prayer, rescued the remnantof his race flying before the Babylonians.
The appeal was not without effect. The keeper of the gate sliddown from the cedar block, and, laying his hand upon his beard,said, respectfully, "Rabbi, I cannot tell you when this door firstopened in welcome to the traveller, but it was more than a thousandyears ago; and in all that time there is no known instance of a goodman turned away, save when there was no room to rest him in. If ithas been so with the stranger, just cause must the steward have whosays no to one of the line of David. Wherefore, I salute you again;and, if you care to go with me, I will show you that there is nota lodging-place left in the house; neither in the chambers, nor inthe lewens, nor in the court--not even on the roof. May I ask whenyou came?"
"But now."
The keeper smiled.
"'The stranger that dwelleth with you shall be as one born amongyou, and thou shalt love him as thyself.' Is not that the law,Rabbi?"
Joseph was silent.
"If it be the law, can I say to one a long time come, 'Go thy way;another is here to take thy place?'"
Yet Joseph held his peace.
"And, if I said so, to whom would the place belong? See the manythat have been waiting, some of them since noon."
"Who are all these people?" asked Joseph, turning to the crowd."And why are they here at this time?"
"That which doubtless brought you, Rabbi--the decree of theCaesar"--the keeper threw an interrogative glance at the Nazarene,then continued--"brought most of those who have lodging in the house.And yesterday the caravan passing from Damascus to Arabia and LowerEgypt arrived. These you see here belong to it--men and camels."
Still Joseph persisted.
"The court is large," he said.
"Yes, but it is heaped with cargoes--with bales of silk, and pocketsof spices, and goods of every kind."
Then for a moment the face of the applicant lost its stolidity;the lustreless, staring eyes dropped. With some warmth he next said,"I do not care for myself, but I have with me my wife, and the nightis cold--colder on these heights than in Nazareth. She cannot livein the open air. Is there not room in the town?"
"These people"--the keeper waved his hand to the throng before thedoor--"have all besought the town, and they report its accommodationsall engaged."
Again Joseph studied the ground, saying, half to himself, "She isso young! if I make her bed on the hill, the frosts will kill her."
Then he spoke to the keeper again.
"It may be you knew her parents, Joachim and Anna, once of Bethlehem,and, like myself, of the line of David."
"Yes, I knew them. They were good people. That was in my youth."
This time the keeper's eyes sought the ground in thought. Suddenly heraised his head.
"If I cannot make room for you," he said, "I cannot turn you away.Rabbi, I will do the best I can for you. How many are of your party?"
Joseph reflected, then replied, "My wife and a friend with hisfamily, from Beth-Dagon, a little town over by Joppa; in all,six of us."
"Very well. You shall not lie out on the ridge. Bring your people,and hasten; for, when the sun goes down behind the mountain, you knowthe night comes quickly, and it is nearly there now."
"I give you the blessing of the houseless traveller; that of thesojourner will follow."
So saying, the Nazarene went back joyfully to Mary and theBeth-Dagonite. In a little while the latter brought up hisfamily, the women mounted on donkeys. The wife was matronly,the daughters were images of what she must have been in youth;and as they drew nigh the door, the keeper knew them to be ofthe humble class.
"This is she of whom I spoke," said the Nazarene; "and these areour friends."
Mary's veil was raised.
"Blue eyes and hair of gold," muttered the steward to himself,seeing but her. "So looked the young king when he went to singbefore Saul."
Then he took the leading-strap from Joseph, and said to Mary,"Peace to you, O daughter of David!" Then to the others, "Peace toyou all!" Then to Joseph, "Rabbi, follow me."
The party were conducted into a wide passage paved with stone,from which they entered the court of the khan. To a stranger thescene would have been curious; but they noticed the lewens thatyawned darkly upon them from all sides, and the court itself,only to remark how crowded they were. By a lane reserved in thestowage of the cargoes, and thence by a passage similar to theone at the entrance, they emerged into the enclosure adjoiningthe house, and came upon camels, horses, and donkeys, tetheredand dozing in close groups; among them were the keepers, men ofmany lands; and they, too, slept or kept silent watch. They wentdown the slope of the crowded yard slowly, for the dull carriersof the women had wills of their own. At length they turned intoa path running towards the gray limestone bluff overlooking thekhan on the west.
"We are going to the cave," said Joseph, laconically.
The guide lingered till Mary came to his side.
"The cave to which we are going," he said to her, "must have beena resort of your ancestor David. From the field below us, and fromthe well down in the valley, he used to drive his flocks to it forsafety; and afterwards, when he was king, he came back to the oldhouse here for rest and health, bringing great trains of animals.The mangers yet remain as they were in his day. Better a bed onthe floor where he has slept than one in the court-yard or out bythe roadside. Ah, here is the house before the cave!"
This speech must not be taken as an apology for the lodging offered.There was no need of apology. The place was the best then at disposal.The guests were simple folks, by habits of life easily satisfied.To the Jew of that period, moreover, abode in caverns was a familiaridea, made so by every-day occurrences, and by what he heard ofSabbaths in the synagogues. How much of Jewish history, how manyof the many exciting incidents in that history, had transpired incaves! Yet further, these people were Jews of Bethlehem, with whomthe idea was especially commonplace; for their locality aboundedwith caves great and small, some of which had been dwelling-placesfrom the time of the Emim and Horites. No more was there offenceto them in the fact that the cavern to which they were being takenhad been, or was, a stable. They were the descendants of a race ofherdsmen, whose flocks habitually shared both their habitations andwanderings. In keeping with a custom derived from Abraham, the tentof the Bedawin yet shelters his horses and children alike. So theyobeyed the keeper cheerfully, and gazed at the house, feeling onlya natural curiosity. Everything associated with the history of Davidwas interesting to them.
The building was low and narrow, projecting but a little fromthe rock to which it was joined at the rear, and wholly withouta window. In its blank front there was a door, swung on enormoushinges, and thickly daubed with ochreous clay. While the woodenbolt of the lock was being pushed back, the women were assistedfrom their pillions. Upon the opening of the door, the keep
ercalled out,
"Come in!"
The guests entered, and stared about them. It became apparentimmediately that the house was but a mask or covering for themouth of a natural cave or grotto, probably forty feet long,nine or ten high, and twelve or fifteen in width. The lightstreamed through the doorway, over an uneven floor, fallingupon piles of grain and fodder, and earthenware and householdproperty, occupying the centre of the chamber. Along the sideswere mangers, low enough for sheep, and built of stones laid incement. There were no stalls or partitions of any kind. Dust andchaff yellowed the floor, filled all the crevices and hollows,and thickened the spider-webs, which dropped from the ceilinglike bits of dirty linen; otherwise the place was cleanly, and,to appearance, as comfortable as any of the arched lewens of thekhan proper. In fact, a cave was the model and first suggestionof the lewen.
"Come in!" said the guide. "These piles upon the floor arefor travellers like yourselves. Take what of them you need."
Then he spoke to Mary.
"Can you rest here?"
"The place is sanctified," she answered.
"I leave you then. Peace be with you all!"
When he was gone, they busied themselves making the cave habitable.