IN that portion of the veranda where stood Isaac and Miriam, eagerly discussing recent events, there was much passing to and fro of men servants and maid servants, picking up crumbs of talk like hungry birds at a feast. With an imperious gesture, borrowed from his master, Isaac made known his displeasure. Instantly each individual had duties elsewhere.
Miriam laughed. “What a great man thou art becoming, Isaac!”
“Nay,” he answered, “but if this mission of our master to Israel be prospered, then must we flatter and defer to thee, for thy position in the household will be enviable.”
Immediately regretting the contamination of her mind with any taint of worldly wisdom, he ignored her surprised exclamations and spoke of the rich stores which were being gathered in preparation for the journey to Israel, a thank-offering to the prophet should Naaman be healed. Much gold and silver, not in coins—which came at a later period—but in bulk, ready to be cut and weighed according to the amount required when occasion arose for paying or giving, and, in addition, the famous products of Damascus looms and other Eastern merchandise: silk that would neither wrinkle nor cut; cotton and linen of exquisite weave, and heavier fabrics, all made up into the much-prized “changes of raiment,” which would last the fortunate possessor a lifetime and still not be worn out.[3]
Miriam asked a half-indignant question: “Thinkest thou the Man of God will regard this? Nay, but only that our master may know Jehovah liveth.”
Isaac looked at her strangely. “It is customary, when asking a favor, to take in thine hand a present, and I have never known a prophet who would refuse it. Have we not tried many prophets and many gods? Besides, is not our master very rich and Damascus the gateway between Assyria on the east and Egypt on the west, a city great in commerce and industry? Yea, these things are but right.”
It had been a late spring. That is to say, the dry season had been late in arriving, and for diplomatic and business reasons Naaman’s journey to Israel was not commenced until nearly midsummer, but the great day came at last. Miriam, her cheeks glowing with excitement, watched it from the latticed window where she could stand now on fewer cushions than formerly. It was an imposing procession. Isaac, at the head, looking very splendid, Miriam thought, waved her a farewell as they went past the lattice. He could not see her, but he knew she was there.
She gazed eagerly, noting every detail. After Isaac came his servant, carrying a long pole on the end of which was a brazier of coals, the smoke of which would be a cloud by day and a fire by night, thus guiding the drivers behind no matter how far they straggled apart. A bodyguard of horsemen entirely surrounded the chariot, in which was Naaman, with one driver and one attendant, the latter supporting a sort of awning on poles to protect his master from sun and wind as he traveled. A second chariot followed in case of accident to the first. At the rear of the bodyguard rode a man whom Miriam had long ago learned to distrust, Lemuel by name. At a little distance followed the camel train with its precious burden of merchandise and another soldier-guard. Another space and then the asses, laden with food, water, camping equipment, and the various necessities of such a lengthy journey. Last of all came a few asses and camels led, these to be used in case of emergency. A few more soldiers completed the cavalcade.
It was impressive, picturesque, noisy, with gaudily dressed drivers, the decorated animals with their tinkling bells, the cries in many languages of those who urged them forward, to say nothing of the more ordinary sight, the soldiers in dress-uniforms, dazzlingly bright, with the sun reflected on metal helmets and shields and scalelike coats of mail. No wonder Damascus paused in its business and pleasure to admire and applaud as the party filed slowly and with dignity through its streets and out of the southwestern gate. No wonder Miriam was excited, entranced, delighted. In her wildest dreams she had not beheld it thus, but after it had passed there came a feeling of desolation such as she had not experienced since that first terrible night in Damascus. Almost an hour later Milcah found her, huddled among the cushions, moaning and weeping.
“They have gone; gone to Israel; and I am left here!”
Astonished but not unsympathetic, Milcah attempted comfort, but the writhing, disheveled figure and the wild sobs frightened her. Running excitedly to her mistress, she succeeded in startling that lady out of her accustomed languor and a few moments later they both bent over Miriam with deep concern. Adah gathered the girl in her arms.
“Desirest thou to go to Israel, little maid? Thou dost, thou sayest? Thou art grieving for thy father and mother and thy home there? Nay, do not weep. Thou shalt go. Only be thou patient until we learn how it is with thy master.”
Gradually, under these assurances and Milcah’s ministrations, Miriam became calmer. Wearied by her outburst and half ashamed, she was persuaded to rest in a darkened room until she should feel quite herself again. To her own surprise, she found she was strangely weak and unnerved. For days she could not rise, and then she dragged about the great house, pale and dispirited, until the excitement of watching for the return of the party brought a little color to her cheeks and a little hope to her heart.
Meanwhile Naaman and his company proceeded on their long, long way in the scorching heat. Unerringly Isaac led his party out from the cool shade of the orchards surrounding the city of Damascus; by broad, rocky terraces to the wind-swept Plain of the Hauran, toward Mount Hermon’s rugged dominance in the south. Past wheat-fields and pasture lands, a few insignificant water courses and occasional small groves of trees. Over the plains they went, across the Jordan and up the broad and fertile Vale of Jezreel, brown in the midsummer heat and drought. A twist in the valley and they were in the basin in which Samaria was situated. Up, up, three hundred feet or more to the very top of the cone-shaped hill upon which sat the city itself, impregnable, beautiful, commanding a wide view of the Valley of Jezreel at its feet and the blue waters of the Great Sea (now called the Mediterranean) only twenty-three miles distant.
The approach of so large a procession could not remain unknown. Long, long before it wound its slow way up the hill, among the gardens and scattered houses of the suburbs, the watchman in the tower had noted its strength and its probable importance and hastily communicated this intelligence to the proper officials, who had, in turn, sent a message to the palace. Long, long before it entered the square chamber of masonry which in the Orient they call a gate, prepared to emerge therefrom into the city through the opening in another wall, the elders or judges sitting on the stone benches ranged along the two blank walls were ready with questions. Was their errand one of peace? Who were they and whence did they come? What was the purpose of this visit to their city and whom sought they?
Isaac’s duties multiplied. He was now not only guide but interpreter and the trusted servant who should present his master’s all-important plea to the city officials. More than this, he was the courteous diplomat who must secure the favor and the good will of these officials who would, at their discretion, give them safe conduct to the king. The examination into their credentials was conducted with great solemnity and consumed a vast deal of time, but with the happy result that the procession of foreign guests was conducted with much ceremony through the crooked streets of Samaria to the celebrated Ivory Palace of the king; those streets so narrow that two camels could not go abreast and leave room for foot passengers, so shaded from the heat of the sun by the windowless buildings on either side that, had it been more unusual, it would have been depressing.
In the East there is courtesy but no haste. One wing of the palace, with its own courts, was set aside for the use of the visitors, and trusted servants and high officials busied themselves in making these accommodations comfortable for those who honored the roof by their presence. Isaac was granted a formal interview with the chief officer of the palace, the occasion being much the same as in Syria, when he had appeared to request audience for his master with King Ben-hadad. Now as then an interval must elapse while the message was conveyed to King Jehoram and he returned an answer, but in consideration of the distinguished position which Naaman occupied in his own country and the compliment which his visit implied, this was considerably hurried.
The next day Isaac, chief servant of the embassy, received a call from the chief officer of the palace, appointing the hour and day when King Jehoram would receive in person the letter of King Ben-hadad and the officer whom it introduced. Naaman, tired from the long and exhausting journey, was glad to have a few hours of rest, but as the hardened soldier recovered somewhat from his pain and fatigue, he grew impatient for the interview. The hour came. Amid great splendor Naaman was conducted into the presence of the young King Jehoram, the letter was presented, courteous greetings and assurances of friendship were exchanged, and then Naaman was escorted back to his apartments to await the real answer to his plea; the favorable reply anticipated but not yet given! Though compatible with Eastern custom, it was a situation calculated to inspire distrust in the breast of the suffering Naaman and uneasiness on the part of his servant, Isaac.
In that portion of the palace they had just left the air was charged with excitement. The king, surrounded by his counselors, old and young, rent his garments with true Oriental display of grief and vexation. What power had he to cure a man of leprosy? Was he a god to kill and make alive? No reasonable human being would suppose he could do this thing. Nay, it was merely a pretext for Syria to declare war against Israel. Not content with petty raids on their fertile valleys almost every year; not satisfied with carrying off their flocks, their grain, their wine and their oil, and even a captive now and then; not content that Jehoram’s father, Ahab, had spared Ben-hadad’s life when the latter was at his mercy, and made a treaty of trade and peace when he might have been less generous; not satisfied with this and all of these, Ben-hadad now, without just cause, sought an open rupture. And Israel—was Israel prepared to resist an invasion? Nay, but as the ravenous dogs fell upon travelers in the night so would Syria fall upon them and rend them in pieces!
The counselors of the young king shook their heads and mingled their tears with his, their hearts heavy with sorrow. If this thing came upon them—and it had—they must meet it like men. What did prudence dictate? It was a long conference, prudence seeming to dictate quite a number of things. As a result, the king hastily sent from one end of his kingdom to the other, taking account of his resources: the number of his fighting men; his weapons of war; his food-supplies; his gold and silver. His counselors met in secret session again and considered Israel’s trade relations, her diplomatic friendships. Was she able, alone, to meet the enemy? Would she have help? Upon what could she depend when this unfavorable answer should be returned as soon, indeed, it must be?
Despite the urgency of the occasion, this census consumed some time and was, alas, in no wise satisfactory. It was a fact, grave but unmistakable, that Israel was not prepared to meet a foe of Syria’s means, of Syria’s army, of Syria’s leadership! Israel never faced a greater crisis. Her king was commanded to do the impossible or else—there were no need to complete the sentence. The veriest child could speak the answer and dread it, and King Jehoram lifted up his voice and wept in the demonstrative Eastern fashion. Consternation, though veiled, was not confined to the palace. The arrival of so large a procession, its gorgeous display of wealth, the foreign garb of its people and their probable errand could not fail to be a matter of public interest and conjecture. The hopelessness of its mission could not long be kept from the populace, nor fail to sound a note of dismay to the thoughtful.
Meanwhile, in the apartments paneled in ivory, among the simple but costly furnishings, Naaman paced restlessly. Was this prophet of Jehovah on a journey to some far country that he came not? Was there any deception on the part of this young king that he failed to return a favorable reply? Did he consider it a matter of so little importance that he could safely procrastinate? Could there have been any mistake in the information which had sent him hither? Down, far below, into the Valley of Jezreel Naaman looked, but the yellow grain fields merely nodded in the summer heat and refused to answer. Off to the blue strip of the Great Sea he raised his eyes, but the flashing oars of the Phœnician galleys rose and fell unheeding. Toward the hills he looked, but from their bare, brown hulks no help arose and Hermon regarded him coldly from its snow-crowned peak. Weary, puzzled and in pain, Naaman strove, sighing, to wait yet another day while the little maid whose cheerful assurances had been the cause of his visit, lay upon her bed, in the grasp of a great longing, knowing not that her unselfish plea had brought about international complications and deep consternation to her beloved Land of Israel.