SCARLET BLOSSOMS
All Zitra was _en fête_. All morning men and women in gala attire, rich
and poor and middle class, even the blue men and women of Mazzerian
extraction, the serving class of Tamarizia where their parents had been
slaves, had been thronging into that immense central square of the
island city, whose pavement was a tessellated expanse of rock crystal
white and gold.
Always Croft had marveled at the beauty of the imperial capitol since
first he saw it. Himyra--the red-walled queen of Aphur, brooding on the
banks of the yellow Na, he had thought a dream of Babylonian splendor
when first he came to Palos. Himyra he would always love, because it
was there he had first seen Naia outside its gates. But Zitra surpassed
it in the point of artistic magnificence. Himyra was a city of red and
white, of palaces, parks and terraces along the river, studded with
shrubs and trees. Zitra was a city of white and silver and crystal and
gold--a thing undreamable unless once seen--and even so more like the
city of a dream.
About the square, where, on the morning of the third day after Croft
had awakened from what he considered his final trip to earth, a huge
platform had risen overnight, the populace ranged themselves, close
packed. The scene was brilliant in a degree. From the tops of the
structures facing the square, built mainly of the predominating white
stone used in constructing the city, and even its walls, canopies and
streamers of azure blue and scarlet had been stretched as a protection
against the sun and its midday heat. They made of the square a
temporary auditorium of enormous size, into which the people jostled
with a babel of voices, a soft yet vast shuffling of feet. Only at one
point was an opening in the billowing covering of the canopies left.
There at high noon a ray of the sun would strike through and lie on the
platform in the center of the square.
Soldiers of the Imperial Guard, in metal greaves, short-skirted tunics,
and breast-plates, armed as in former days, not with rifles, but with
short swords, spears, and shields, since this was a formal occasion,
were stationed at the end of each street which entered the square, and
admitted the crowds in orderly fashion, assigning each arriving group
to their proper place in the vast temporary enclosure according to
their caste.
By degrees the audience came to seem a thing divided into particolored
segments, each composed of the caste for which it had been set aside.
There were the blue packed masses of the Mazzerians, with their almost
indigo skins scantily covered, a jostling sea of swarming, whispering
flesh. There were the laborers in their tawny smocks, their hair
cinctured by a golden or copper band, supporting the draped cloth which
protected their necks in labor from the sun. And beyond them were the
tradesmen with their women, taking on a still more brilliant appearance
according to the dictates of taste which had clad them in various
shades and colors.
And again, nearest the dais was a rippling band of color marking the
noble caste--men and women of station and wealth. And here gorgeous
might describe the play of colors, the flash and glint of jewels and
costly metals, the stately waving of plumes, the flicker of stalwart
limbs, of white arms and snowy breasts and shoulders, the iridescent
shimmer of diaphanous gauze scarfs. These were the select of the Zitran
population. Each gnuppa-drawn carriage that whirled up to the end of
the streets disgorged its recumbent passengers from the couchlike seats
on which they reclined as they rode, and then retired.
By degrees the square became utterly packed save for a space about the
platform maintained by more of the Imperial Guard, and an alley running
toward the mouth of a single street. The hour crept on. Through the
canopy the sun blazed dimly. Water-bearers with bottles made from the
hide of the tabur--an animal widely raised, with the fleece of a sheep
and the general shape of a hog--passed through the square, sprinkling
the pavement to cool the air, doubly heated by the outer temperature
and the multitude of bodies packed into so close a space. Never had
there been a greater concourse or a more brilliant in the history of
the state. Indeed, in all the annals of the nation, no more auspicious
date would appear.
This day marked what might be regarded as a new era in national
affairs. The Zollarian war was done. Tamarizia was stronger than ever
before in the memory of man, and a new and more liberal government than
any they had known was to be adopted within the next few days. And as
though that were not enough, it was common knowledge that Zitu had sent
the nation a teacher for their welfare; to greet and acclaim him they
were gathered here.
Well might the crowd be in holiday attire and humor. Well, as it
waited, might its blended voices rise in a cheerful fashion, a
ceaseless diapason of sound, changing as there came a blast of brazen
trumpets, and Tamhys appeared in magnificent silver harness, to a cheer.
Silver studded with diamonds were the casings upon his calves; silver
was the cuirass upon his breast, whereon in azure-colored stones in the
circle enclosing an equilateral cross, sign of Hiranur, was blazoned
forth. Silver was his helmet, and white as purity itself his tossing
plumes. Even the hair upon his head, mark of his years, was silver, as
he came down the alley left open, between his guards, and mounted the
dais and seated himself upon a silver chair.
Then from without, as the cheering subsided, there came a sound of
harps, and in the mouth of the alley down which Tamhys had passed, the
head of a procession appeared.
First came the harpers themselves, white clad, marching in ranks of
fours. And back of them appeared a litter borne by the brown-clad lay
brothers of the Zitran pyramid. Of burnished copper was the litter,
inlaid with a silver filigree, and curtained with fluttering draperies
of an azure, silklike fabric. From within it, as it advanced behind the
harpers, Zud's old eyes peered.
At the foot of the dais it was placed, and the high priest of Zitu
emerged, mounting the steps, while a sudden silence fell across the
multitude assembled, a reverend figure in his azure robes with the
scarlet cross ansata on his breast. He saluted Tamhys and took a second
silver chair, leaving a vacant seat between the emperor and himself.
* * * * *
And now, as the harpers ranged themselves and struck the strings of
their instruments in perfect unison, and Zud's litter was swept aside,
a second litter appeared.
It was of silver, and its bearers, giant blue men of Mazzer, well-nigh
staggered beneath its weight. A sigh, almost a gasp, ran through the
assemblage. Zud had been borne by priests, but--the Mouthpiece of Zitu
was carried by men--the serving class of the Tamarizian state. Always a
people quick to recognize the involved symbolism of an occurrence, few
of those present failed to understand Jason's intent in the manner of
his appearance--that thereby he implied that he came to them, not as a
spiritual teacher, but as a teacher of men.
And then silence came down once more as the litter was placed before
the steps of the dais and Zitu's Mouthpiece appeared, and the harps
died, and the figure in its azure draperies, whereon flared both the
cross and the wings of Azil, mounted slowly to that vacant seat between
Tamhys and Zud, the high priest.
The crowd jostled, straining forward to see the better, and then
settled themselves once more to attention as Zud rose.
He lifted a hand, commanding silence. In his other hand he carried a
long silver stave topped with the looped cross. He began speaking at
once in the simple fashion which characterized most of the Tamarizian
ceremonials:
"Men and women of Zitra and of all Tamarizia, give ear to Zud the high
priest's voice, through which it is given to announce to you one who
comes among you as teacher, endowed with a wisdom passing the knowledge
of Zud or any other among you, by Zitu's grace.
"Jason, as he is named, cometh to instruct the people on whom Zitu
smiles, as a sign that his pleasure is in his people, and shall remain
while they are obedient to his laws.
"Mouthpiece of Zitu is Jason, and shall be so known while he shall
remain among us, and afterward, when the spirit within his body shall
have been withdrawn. Exalted he is by the knowledge which Zitu hath
seen fit to instil into his mind. Worthy of honor is he from all
true men. Yet is he man as thou art, and to him shall no knee bend.
Obedience and respect alone are his due. I, Zud, the high priest, have
said it. Let all men regard the Mouthpiece of Zitu as his brother as
well as his friend."
As Zud paused a second ripple ran through the crowd, a sibilance of
whispers. Croft looked down into the nearest rows of uplifted faces and
encountered Jadgor's own.
The Aphurian king sat with arms folded, staring directly toward him,
his dark face distorted by a frown. The glances of the two men met and
held for the merest instant. Croft's was steady. Jadgor's repellent,
a voiceless challenge more than anything else. Croft turned his own
glance deliberately away, sensing that in whatever he might attempt
in the near future he would meet antagonism from Aphur's king. His
eyes fell on Lakkon with his countenance somber, and on Robur, just
beyond. The crown prince met his regard fully and shook his head. In
the gesture, and the expression of his strong face, there was all the
poignancy of a groan. It came over Croft that in whatever he may have
said to his father since their conversation three days before, Robur
had failed.
But he gave over such considerations as once more the harps rang
out. He became aware of a spot of sunlight on the platform directly
before the chair whereon he sat--almost, indeed, at his feet. Even as
he watched it seemed creeping closer--and the harps were thrumming,
thrumming sweetly--and the buzz of the vast assembly was once more
falling still.
Suddenly the blended voices of a female chorus rang out, rising and
falling in rhythmic fashion in perfect time to the harps. Down the
alley came a group of vestals bearing flowers in their hands. Clad
all in white were they, save for a cincture of golden tissue that ran
about the neck, down between the breasts, and fastened in front like a
sash with pendant ends, hanging in a golden fringe to the edge of the
knee-length skirt. Their hair fell about their rosy faces and bared
left arms and shoulders, wholly unrestrained save for a silver cincture
about the head. Singing, they came on with a swing and flash of their
bared and tinted feet and dimpled knees.
And as they came there flashed into Croft's mind a recollection of the
first ceremonial of the noontide hour of contemplation and prayer he
had witnessed, not in Zitra, but in Himyra, the first day he had been
on Palos.
In a way this was like it, save that then the vestals had sung and
danced before the statue of Zitu himself--the statue of a man with
a face divinely firm and strong, with purity and compassion written
large in its every line. That figure had been portrayed as seated on a
throne. And the rays of the noontide sun had shone through an aperture
in the roof upon it, bathing it in pure light. With an inward gasp
Croft began to understand--his own position, the nearness of the spot
of sunlight before him, the position of the chair in which he sat.
Zitu was the God of Tamarizia--and he was Zitu's Mouthpiece--and the
sunlight was over his knees now. He felt its warmth.
"Behold the Mouthpiece of Zitu!" Zud's voice.
Croft sensed rather than saw the congregation rising--the vestals
deployed to right and left in front of the dais, kneeling, holding
their floral sprays toward him in extended hands. He became conscious
that the spot of sunlight had moved again, was bathing him from head to
foot now in its golden rays, was shimmering from a thousand facets of
the jewels that etched the cross and the wings of Azil on his breast.
The Gayana burst into a triumphal song:
"Hail, Mouthpiece of the Omnipotent One,
Of Him from Whom nothing is hidden,
To Whom all things are known.
Hail, Mouthpiece of Zitu;
Hail, Dispenser of Knowledge;
Hail, all hail, teacher,
To whom those things permitted of
Zitu, are known!"
The chant ended. The singers rose. In a scented shower the floral
sprays rained at the feet of him who sat on the silver chair with the
sunlight on his face.
Croft's senses reeled. The vast concourse faded from his vision. The
flowers fell about him unheeded. The graceful forms of the Gayana who
showered them toward him grew into a blur. His vision seemed to narrow,
contract, focus upon a single point, shutting out all else, making all
else as though it were not, leaving him staring, staring at one single
gold-framed face.
Naia. She was there before him--her blue eyes meeting his own in an
almost angry blaze. Naia--clad as a vestal, in white, bearing a spray
of flowers in her hands.
Then, as their glances met, and Croft's breath caught in his throat,
she lifted the cluster of blossoms and threw it--threw it, not tossed
it, so that it struck full against his breast, rather than fell at his
feet--struck, not as a floral offering might strike were the distance
of its throwing misjudged, but with a positive, definite force that
hinted of some weighty object concealed within its crimson mass, and
fell to the dais with a petal-muffled thud, leaving a tiny spot on
Croft's flesh that tingled as though the scarlet flowers had been
the fingers of a licking flame--as though their touch had seared him
through the fabric of his robe.
* * * * *
By an effort he sat unmoved, unchanged in his position, giving no sign,
holding his eyes on the haughty face of the white-clad woman before
him, reading upon her smiling lips not the placid expression of the
ceremonial that held her retreating sisters as they drew back to either
side of the dais, but the curl of scorn, of contempt; so that the
contact of the cluster of red blossoms came to seem to him as a slap in
the face--a deliberately planned and executed blow. Nor to his whirling
senses was that the worst.
His chest heaved in a well-nigh stifled effort at control as he
contemplated the full meaning of her presence in the Gayana's dress.
Naia a vestal--Naia--given to Ga! The thought slowed his heart for a
moment and sent it racing into a wild, ungoverned, suffocating series
of madly protesting beats.
Naia become Gayana--Naia forming a part of the chorus which acclaimed
his new-found rank--Naia hurling these scarlet blooms, as red as her
heart's blood, or his, against him as a farewell act, a sign, a tacit
message that, in so far as he was concerned, it might as well be her
blood which lay red on the dais at his feet; that she might as well
have died; that to him, from now on, she was lost. The thought sickened
him, appalled, blotted out everything save itself so that for a moment,
despite the sunlight which fell upon him, he had the sensation of an
enveloping darkness that threatened to rise up and engulf him. He began
to tremble. Tremor after tremor of emotion seized and shook him. And
then Zud touched him on the arm. The ordeal was over. A strange babble
of voices assailed his ears. He realized that the vast assemblage was
cheering him, and in quite automatic fashion he bowed.
The action roused him to some extent. Once more he caught Jadgor's eye,
dark, piercing, filled with menace, as the Aphurian turned away in a
haughty fashion and, followed by Lakkon and his son, began to edge his
way through the departing throng.
"Thy litter awaits thee." Zud's voice was in his ear.
He saw that the blue men of Mazzer had indeed brought the great silver
palanquin into position opposite the dais steps. But even so he took
time for one word with Zud.
"The maiden--she has become Gayana?"
"Nay!" He met Zud's eyes and found within them comprehension. "She but
asked a part in their ranks, and, being virgin, it was granted."
Not Gayana--not yet--not yet. Croft's heart leaped again into freer
action. But why had she asked to be given a place in the ranks of the
vestals who had hailed him Mouthpiece of Zitu? He stiffened. Why save
to cast that bunch of scarlet blossoms, which had stung his flesh,
against him? He recalled now that it had stung him when it struck--had
stung his flesh even as Naia's expression had stung his spirit. Why
had it struck with such unerring certainty the wings of Azil, on his
breast? What had it contained save the crimson flowers of which it
seemed to consist? What was it had directed its course--weighted it
until its blow was a blow indeed, delivered sure and straight?
He glanced down. The thing still lay there, a brilliant spot of color
among all the floral tributes at his feet. On impulse he stooped and
caught it up and carried it with him, a flame-colored thing against his
blue robes, as he descended the steps.
He reached the litter, and paused again as his ear was assailed by a
single, quickly caught-in breath. His head turned. Once more his gaze
encountered a pair of fixed pansy-purple eyes. The vestals waited in
double ranks, one on each side of the dais. Naia of Aphur stood among
them, one white hand lifted and pressed against her body, to the left
of the golden cord that ran down and cinctured her garment between her
breasts. And it seemed, in that instant, to Jason Croft that her eyes
dwelt not so much upon himself as on the flowers in his hand.
He gave no sign, however, as he entered the litter and felt it lifted
into tilting, swaying motion. He took with him that final vision of
Naia, caught in a startled posture, of her parted lips, of a something
like anguish in her eyes. Like the flowers in his gripping fingers,
that picture was caught in his brain.
Swiftly the Mazzerians bore him out of the square and into a street
toward the bulk of the pyramid. The streaming crowds gave way before
them and stood waiting while they passed. Then, and then only, did
Croft seek to learn the mystery of the flowers Naia had thrown. Then
and then only did he thrust his fingers into their blood-red mass and
grope amid their stems for something he knew was hidden there--though
he knew not what.
His search was rewarded almost at once. His fingers encountered a hard
object buried among the stalks of the flowers, and he drew it forth. It
was a silver medallion, bearing a raised figure of Azil, the angel of
life, and surrounded by blood-red stones, such as Tamarizian men gave
to the women to whom they were betrothed.
Croft recognized it at a glance. He took it and laid it on his palm,
and sat staring at it as the litter swung along. He had ordered it
especially made, and given it to Naia himself at the end of the
Zollarian war. Like the maids of her nation, she had worn it on her
girdle as a sign that to one man, and one alone, Azil had set his seal
upon her. And today she had flung it from her, against the wings of
Azil himself, which Croft wore on his breast.
There was no mistaking the action. It was repudiation. It was the same
as though her lips had uttered the declaration that henceforth she
would no longer guard for him that shrine of mortal life which was
herself.
Croft's lips writhed into a strange smile. He recalled how the thing
had pained when it struck above his heart.