CHAPTER XVIII.
The veracious chronicler of the adventures of King Hiram is compelled to pass over in silence a period of several months. As certain rivers disappear, and flow for a distance beneath the ground, so the course of events, as directed by the discreet and wary Hanno, was for a while inscrutable. We will follow it, however, from the point where it came again into the daylight of observation.
Since men began to travel on the earth, innkeepers have been noted for the courtesy, tact, and assiduity with which they have reaped the rewards of their business. On a certain day Solomon Ben Eli, innkeeper at Jericho, in the valley of the Lower Jordan, found all the above-named qualities of his disposition exercised to the utmost. This was the day before the opening of the annual Feast of Tabernacles at Jerusalem, during the seven days of which celebration the men from all parts of the land came together at the Sacred City.
The hostelry at Jericho—called Beth Elisha, in honor of the prophet whose miraculous cruse of salt once healed the spring hard by, which now supplied the town with delightful water—was a long, low building, rambling, and diverse as the various generations which had successively built upon it. During the night all its rooms and ingles had been crowded with pilgrims from up the Jordan and beyond it. Early in the morning, long before the sun had looked over the beetling cliffs of Moab, the multitude poured forth into the court-yard. They were clad in gay garments of many colors, and were not unlike the variously plumed doves which came out of their adjacent cotes, and filled the air with their flapping wings and querulous cooing. The shed that enclosed the opposite side of the yard discharged a more turbulent crowd of horses and camels, asses and mules, which were kicking and rumping one another in the attempt to get their noses into the great stone trough that stood in the centre of the court. The crisp air resounded with the unedifying matins of mingled grunts, neighs, and brays, which were far from being reduced to harmony by the shouts of the drivers.
It was easier for the host to seem ubiquitous than it was for him to command in himself such a variety of tempers as the occasion required. He must placate those who grumbled at their reckoning; hasten his laggard servants; adjudicate the quarrels of guests over the uncertain ownership of bits of harness; must smile, yet frown; beam knowingly, yet knit his brows in simulated perplexity; be patient, yet keep the sharpest eye and quickest tongue; and shift all these aspects in such rapid succession that they seemed to be simultaneous. We may forgive this prince of innkeepers if for a moment he did not maintain to perfection his manifold part. Such was the moment when a servant announced to him that Rabbi Shimeal, the most noted man in the synagogue at Jericho, would speak with him at the gate.
"A pretty time of day for him to come! I'll warrant he has been up all night owling it over some verse of the law. Or he wants a gift for the synagogue. Tell him his affairs must wait until I can get this holy crowd off for the Temple," was Solomon Ben Eli's petulant response.
The servant soon returned with the statement that the Rabbi Shimeal must have his assistance in providing a beast to convey to Jerusalem no less a personage than Ezra, the Great Scribe, who was a guest at the rabbi's house, and whose animal had given out under the terrible heat of the previous day, as he had journeyed through the villages of the Jordan plain, pursuing his holy work of inspecting the copies of the Law used in the newly established synagogues.
Solomon Ben Eli was shocked at this news, as if an angel's wing had brushed his face.
"Heaven forgive me!" said he, making low obeisance before his servant, in obliviousness to the fact that that son of Gibeon was not the great man of God himself.
"But this is unfortunate," he added, rubbing his hands nervously. "I have not a horse left, nor a camel, and not even an ass."
The attention of the bystanders being drawn to the host's dilemma, a marvellous spirit of sympathy with him and of devotion to Ezra was instantly displayed. Every one urged upon his neighbor the duty of self-sacrifice, as if each were ashamed of the others for allowing the Great Scribe's detention or even inconvenience.
"If my horse was strong and handsome, like yours," said one, "I would gallop at once to the rabbi's. Mine is but a spavined beast, and it would be a disgrace for the holy man of God to bestride him."
"I would instantly offer my steed," responded the other, "but he is poorly broken, and the Scribe—be it reverently spoken—is too old to control him. I could never forgive myself if my beast were the cause of Ezra's breaking his holy neck among the rocks of Cherith."
A young man stood by who was noticeable from the fact that his garments were richer in texture than those of most of the pilgrims, though he was not arrayed for the festival. His cloak, which he drew closely around him as a protection from the chill morning air, was that of a traveller. Beneath it he wore a belt, which supported both a sword and an inkhorn, and thus indicated the trade of merchant. The short black beard about his lower features was balanced by a head-dress of black silk, which was bound about his brows with a purple cord, and fell down upon the back of his neck and shoulders. He was plainly a Phœnician, but confessed that many months had elapsed since he had been to the coast. For his identification and safety from the imposition of petty officials in the various lands he might have occasion to traverse in following his trade, he carried a letter issued by King Hiram of Tyre, and bearing the royal seal. Similar letters were borne as passports by all the captains of vessels and masters of caravans who represented the genuine business houses in the cities of Phœnicia; and by these credentials they were distinguished from the irresponsible adventurers who, in the convenient disguise of travelling merchants, infested all those countries.
The young merchant, observing the perplexity of Solomon, the host, addressed him:
"If his Excellency the Great Scribe will accept the courtesy of a stranger, let him take any of my beasts."
"Thanks, noble Marduk!" replied the innkeeper, in grateful relief. "But I regret that my own people are thus rebuked by a Gentile."
"Nay," replied Marduk, "I would not rebuke your people. They have each only one riding-beast, while I have many. My animals are lightly laden, and we can distribute the burden of one upon the others."
"And, I bethink me, the Scribe will ride upon nothing but an ass," replied Solomon. "He cites the growing infirmities of years as his excuse. I will convey your courteous offer to the rabbi."
"And bid him say to the Scribe," added the Phœnician, "that if he can delay his departure until the crowd has preceded us, my party will gladly bear him company."