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 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.
“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 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.”
“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.”
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.
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 dignitaries and wealthy citizens, and with them a great
crowd of spectators of all classes gathered in the lower part of the
hall, for a rumour had spread about that the farewell audience given by
Sakon to King Ithobal was likely to be stormy.
When all were gathered, a herald announced that Ithobal, King of the
Tribes, waited to take his leave of Sakon, Governor of Zimboe, before
departing to his own land on the morrow.
“Let him be admitted,” said Sakon, who looked weary and ill at ease.
Then as the herald bowed and left, he turned and whispered something
into the ear of his daughter Elissa, who stood behind his chair, her
face immovable as that of an Egyptian Sphinx, but magnificently
apparelled in gleaming robes and jewelled ornaments—which Metem,
looking on them, reflected with satisfaction were now his property.
Presently, preceded by a burst of savage music, Ithobal entered. He was
gorgeously arrayed in a purple Tyrian robe decked with golden chains,
while on the brow, in token of his royalty, he wore a golden circlet in
which was set a single blood-red stone. Before him walked a
sword-bearer carrying a sword of ceremony, a magnificent ivory-handled
weapon encrusted with rough gems and inlaid with gold, while behind
him, clad in barbaric pomp, marched a number of counsellors and
attendants, huge and half-savage men who glared wonderingly at the
splendour of the place and its occupants. As the king came, Sakon rose
from his chair of state and, advancing down the hall, took him by the
hand and led him to a similar chair placed at a little distance.
Ithobal seated himself and looked around the hall. Presently his glance
fell upon Aziel, and he scowled.
“Is it common, Sakon,” he asked, “that the seat of a prince should be
set higher than that of a crowned king?” And he pointed to the chair of
Aziel, which was placed a little above his own upon the daïs.
The governor was about to answer when Aziel said coldly:—
“Where it was pointed out to me that I should sit, there I sat, though,
for aught I care, the king Ithobal may take my place. The grandson of
Pharaoh and of Solomon does not need to dispute for precedence with the
savage ruler of savage tribes.”
Ithobal sprang to his feet and cried, grasping his sword:—
“By my father’s soul, you shall answer for this, Princelet.”
“You should have sworn by your mother’s soul, King Ithobal,” replied
Aziel quietly, “for doubtless it is the black blood in your veins that
causes you to forget your courtesy. For the rest, I answer to no man
save to my king.”
“Yet there is one other who will make you answer,” replied Ithobal, in
a voice thick with rage, “and here he is,” and he drew his sword and
flashed it before the prince’s eyes. “Or if you fear to face him, then
the wands of my slaves shall cause you to cry me pardon.”
“If you desire to challenge me to combat, king Ithobal, for this
purpose only I am your servant, though the fashion of your challenging
is not that of any nation which I know.”
Before Ithobal could reply, Sakon cried out in a loud voice:—
“Enough, enough! Is this a place for brawling, king Ithobal, and would
you seek to fix a quarrel upon my guest, the prince Aziel, here in my
council chamber, and to bring upon me the wrath of Israel, of Tyre, and
of Egypt? Be sure that the prince shall cross no swords with you; no,
not if I have to set him under guard to keep him safe. To your
business, king Ithobal, or I break up this assembly and send you under
escort to our gates.”
Now his counsellors plucked Ithobal by the sleeve and whispered to him
some advice, which at last he seemed to take with an ill grace, for,
turning, he said, “So be it. This is my business, Sakon: For many years
I and the countless tribes whom I rule have suffered much at the hands
of you Phœnicians, who centuries ago settled here in my country as
traders. That you should trade we are content, but not that you should
establish yourselves as a sovereign power, pretending to be my equals
who are my servants. Therefore, in the name of my nation, I demand that
the tribute which you pay to me for the use of the mines of gold shall
henceforth be doubled; that the defences of this city be thrown down;
and that you cease to enslave the natives of the land to labour in your
service. I have spoken.”
Now as these arrogant demands reached their ears, the company assembled
in the hall murmured with anger and astonishment, then turned to wait
for Sakon’s answer.
“And if we refuse these small requests of yours, O King?” asked the
governor sarcastically, “what then? Will you make war upon us?”
“First tell me, Sakon, if you do refuse them?”
“In the name of the cities of Tyre and Sidon whom I serve, and of Hiram
my master, I refuse them one and all,” answered Sakon with dignity.
“Then, Sakon, I am minded to bring up a hundred thousand men against
you and to sweep you and your city from the face of earth,” said
Ithobal. “Yet I remember that I also have Phœnician blood in my veins
mixed with the nobler and more ancient blood at which yonder upstart
jeers, and therefore I would spare you. I remember also that for
generations there has been peace and amity between my forefathers and
the Council of this city, and therefore I would spare you. Behold,
then, I build a bridge whereby you may escape, asking but one little
thing of you in proof that you are indeed my friend, and it is that you
give me your daughter, the lady Elissa, whom I seek to make my queen.
Think well before you answer, remembering that upon this answer may
hang the lives of all who listen to you, ay, and of many thousand
others.”
For a while there was silence in the assemblage, and every eye was
fixed upon Elissa, who stood neither moving nor speaking, her face
still set like that of a Sphinx, and almost as unreadable. Aziel gazed
at her with the rest, and his eyes she felt alone of all the hundreds
that were bent upon her. Indeed, so strongly did they draw her, that
against her own will she turned her head and met them. Then remembering
what had passed between herself and the prince that very day, she
coloured faintly and looked down, neither the glance nor the blush
escaping the watchful Ithobal.
Presently Sakon spoke:—
“King Ithobal,” he said, “I am honoured indeed that you should seek my
daughter as your queen, but she is my only child, whom I love, and I
have sworn to her that I will not force her to marry against her will,
whoever be the suitor. Therefore, King, take your answer from her own
lips, for whatever it be it is my answer.”
“Lady,” said Ithobal, “you have heard your father’s words; be pleased
to say that you look with favour upon my suit, and that you will deign
to share my throne and power.”
Elissa took a step forward on the daïs and curtseyed low before the
king.
“O King!” she said, “I am your handmaid, and great indeed is the favour
that you would do your servant. Yet, King, I pray of you search out
some fairer woman of a more royal rank to share your crown and sceptre,
for I am all unworthy of them, and to those words on this matter which
I have spoken in past days I have none to add.” Then again she
curtseyed, adding, “King, I am your servant.”
Now a murmur of astonishment went up from the audience, for few of them
thought it possible that Elissa, who, however beautiful, was but the
daughter of a noble, could refuse to become the wife of a king. Ithobal
alone did not seem to be astonished, for he had expected this answer.
“Lady,” he said, repressing with an effort the passions which were
surging within him, “I think that I have something to offer to the
woman of my choice, and yet you put me aside as lightly as though I had
neither name, nor power, nor station. This, as it seems to me, can be
read in one way only, that your heart is given elsewhere.”
“Have it as you will, King,” answered Elissa, “my heart is given
elsewhere.”
“And yet, lady, not four suns gone you swore to me that you loved no
man. Since then it seems that you have learned to love, and swiftly,
and it is yonder Jew whom you have chosen.” And he pointed to the
prince Aziel.
Again Elissa coloured, this time to the eyes, but she showed no other
sign of confusion.
“May the king pardon me,” she said, “and may the prince Aziel, whose
name has thus been coupled with mine, pardon me. I said indeed that my
heart was given elsewhere, but I did not say it was given to any man.
May not the heart of a mortal maid-priestess be given to the
Ever-living?”
Now for a moment the king was silenced, while a murmur of applause at
her ready wit went round the audience. But before it died away a voice
at the far end of the hall called out:—
“Perchance the lady does not know that yonder in Egypt, and in
Jerusalem also, prince Aziel is named the Ever-living.”
Now it was Elissa’s turn to be overcome.
“Nay, I knew it not,” she said; “how should I know it? I spoke of that
Dweller in the heavens whom I worship——”
“And behold, the title fits a dweller on the earth whom you must also
worship, for such omens do not come by chance,” cried the same voice,
but from another quarter of the crowded hall.
“I ask pardon,” broke in Aziel, “and leave to speak. It is true that
owing to a certain birth-mark which I bear, among the Egyptians I have
been given the bye-name of the Ever-living, but it is one which this
lady can scarcely have heard, therefore jest no more upon a chance
accident of words. Moreover, if you be men, cease to heap insult upon a
woman. I who am almost a stranger here have not dared to ask the lady
Elissa for her favour.”
“Ay, but you will ask and she will grant,” answered the same voice, the
owner of which none could discover—for he seemed to speak from every
part of the chamber.
“Indeed,” went on Aziel, not heeding the interruption, “the last words
between us were words of anger, for we quarrelled on a matter of
religion.”
“What of that?” cried the voice; “love is the highest of religions, for
do not the Phœnicians worship it?”
“Seize yonder knave,” shouted Sakon, and search was made but without
avail. Afterwards, however, Aziel remembered that once, when they were
weather-bound on their journey from the coast, Metem had amused them by
making his voice sound from various quarters of the hut in which they
lay. Then Ithobal rose and said:—
“Enough of this folly; I am not here to juggle with words, or to listen
to such play. Whether the lady Elissa spoke of the gods she serves or
of a man is one to me. I care not of whom she spoke, but for her words
I do care. Now hearken, you city of traders: If this is to be thy
answer, then I break down that bridge which I have built, and it is war
between you and my Tribes, war to the end. But let her change her
words, and whether she loves me or loves me not, come to be my wife,
and, for my day, the bridge shall stand; for once that we are wed I can
surely teach her love, or if I cannot, at least it is she I seek with
or without her love. Reflect then, lady, and reply again, remembering
how much hangs upon your lips.”
“Do you think, king Ithobal,” Elissa answered, looking at him with
angry eyes, “that a woman such as I am can be won by threats? I have
spoken, king Ithobal.”
“I know not,” he replied; “but I do know that she can be won by force,
and then surely, lady, your pride shall pay the price, for you shall be
mine, but not my queen.”
Now one of the council rose and said:—
“It seems, Sakon, that there is more in this matter than whether or no
the king Ithobal pleases your daughter. Is the city then to be plunged
into a great war, of which none can see the end, because one woman
looks askance upon a man? Better that a thousand girls should be wedded
where they would not than that such a thing should happen. Sakon,
according to our ancient law you have the right to give your daughter
in marriage where and when you will. We demand, therefore, that for the
good of the commonwealth, you should exercise this right, and hand over
the lady Elissa to king Ithobal.”
This speech was received with loud and general shouts of approval, for
no Phœnician audience would have been willing to sacrifice its
interests for a thing so trivial as the happiness of a woman.
“Between the desire of a beloved daughter to whom I have pledged my
word and my duty to the great city over which I rule, my strait is hard
indeed,” answered Sakon. “Hearken, king Ithobal, I must have time. Give
me eight days from now in which to answer you, for if you will not, I
deny your suit.”
Ithobal seemed about to refuse the demand of Sakon. Then once more his
counsellors plucked him by the sleeve, pointing out to him that if he
did this, it was likely that none of them would leave the city alive.
At some sign from the governor, they whispered, the captains of the
guard were already hastening from the hall.
“So be it, Sakon,” he said. “To-night I camp without your walls, which
are no longer safe for one who has threatened war against them, and on
the eighth day from this see to it that your heralds being me the Lady
Elissa and peace—or I make good my threat. Till then, farewell.” And
placing himself in the midst of his company king Ithobal left the hall.