Atossa awoke the morning after the feast with the same aching heart she
had carried for more than one weary night and day. She had probably
spoken with Darius for the last time. He had sat beside Belshazzar, and
all through the feast she had been arraying the two men against each
other,—and the All-Seeing knew who found favour in her partial eyes!
But the deed was done, and no human chance promised to mend it. Already
Pharnaces, the subordinate envoy, had started for Susa to inform Cyrus
of the splendour of his prospective son-in-law. For one year Belshazzar
could not actually take Atossa as his bride, but she was none the less
the inmate of his harem. Life had hitherto been very lovely to the
Persian; the turn of destiny that sent her to this gilded bondage had
darkened her life utterly. Love lost, kindred lost, home lost,—and only
half-known pains before! Small need to say further; enough that, as
Atossa looked forth upon the city that day, she saw not one friendly
object that made her sense of loss less keen.
Early had come Avil-Marduk to instruct in the mysteries of the
Babylonish religion. The high priest, from whose tongue smooth words
flowed as readily as oil from the oil-jar, exerted himself to entertain
her by recitations of the ancient poems,—how the hero Gilgamesh was
sought in love by Istar, and having dared to repulse her, was smitten
with leprosy; and how he journeyed to Khasisadra, the Old Man of the
Sea, and by him was healed. Avil flattered himself that he declaimed
uncommonly well, and had amused his pupil not a little. He did not hear
the ill wishes sped after him, when he salaamed himself out of her
presence.
Later Atossa was taken to a wing of the palace, where in solitary state
ruled Tavat-Hasina, daughter of Nebuchadnezzar, and queen of the deposed
Nabonidus. There could be little friendship between the royal ladies.
Tavat’s political power as queen-mother was still considerable; but she
saw in Atossa the rival who would in time strip her of the vestiges of
authority, and greeted the other with studied coldness. And Atossa saw
merely an elderly woman, tricked out with wig and Egyptian rouges, fleshy
through her inactive life, supercilious and querulous because of ennui.
Their interview was as brief as the punctilious chamberlains would allow.
The rest of the day was Atossa’s own; the king had promised to visit her,
but she had small grief when affairs of council prevented. As the first
cool airs of the afternoon began to creep over the place, she was pacing
the roof of the harem, thoroughly out of temper with herself and all
the world. And truth to tell, the Babylonish maids and eunuchs set to
wait on her whispered to themselves that the new queen was no more gently
disposed than her kingly consort, and it would be only the favour of the
gods that could keep them out of Khatin’s clutch, if she was always so
unreasonable.
Therefore Atossa without difficulty scared them from her presence, and
had the harem roof to herself. A delightful place, she would have said in
other moods: lifted up above all the earth,—only the _ziggurats_ higher.
The city lay spread below; she could trace the great Euphrates north
and south, until it faded to a darkling thread upon the horizon. The
roof tiles had been strewn with white sand and gravel; there were seats,
divans, flowering shrubs, and tropical plants in huge earthen vases,—a
second hanging garden, scarcely less.
Atossa had thrice paced the length of the long walk, when her eye caught
a face timidly upraised from the entrance. She spoke at once,
“Come up, Masistes; I did not command _you_ to stay away.”
A gray old eunuch shuffled up the stairs, and knelt and fawned around her
feet. The face of Atossa had softened as she smiled down on him, though
her smile was still bitter.
“Ah! Dear old playfellow, rise up! Have I not been your fosterling since
first I could walk? When at Susa or Ecbatana have I passed one day
without you close by to scold and grumble over me? And now that all
other friends are gone, you alone are left; and I have learned to love
none too many new faces here, to wish to keep you quite afar.”
The honest fellow thrust his arm within hers,—a familiarity born of
lifelong comradeship.
“Ah! Little mistress, you do not right in crying down this wondrous city.
Surely, there is naught else like it under heaven!”
“Masistes,” said Atossa, looking upon him half playfully, half in anger,
“I must have you whipped. Since coming hither you have learned to lie.”
“I lie?” he lifted his hands in dismay. “Ahura, Lord of Truth, forefend!”
“Nevertheless,” she answered, laughing now, “you speak falsely, praising
Babylon. From the bottom of your soul you hate it. How do I learn this?
Because I know when you are indifferent to a thing, you are silent; you
like it, when you begin to mutter against it under breath; but if you
love it exceeding well,—there is nothing you may say of it too ill! But I
am open, and I say to you,—and to any who wills to hear,—this city is the
abode of _dævas_: _dævas_ are all its lords, its priests, its people; and
Angra-Mainyu, arch-fiend, is little fiercer than its king.”
“Alas! lady, such speeches make no winds pipe sweeter!”
“Not sweeter? I only know that except I empty my heart to some one, it
will burst; and I think no Egyptian doctor could heal that with all his
cordials!”
“Come, little mistress, in five years Babylon will have become dearer to
you than Susa. What is strange, we hate.”
“So has said Darius; but I would answer this: When Belshazzar can love a
maid above a lion, I will try to think otherwise.”
“But at the Gardens last night was he not all courtesy and compliment?
Doubtless his manners are not those of your august father—”
“Silence!” she commanded, truly wrathful now, “speak not of Belshazzar
and of Cyrus in one breath! Where is the king worthy to sit beside my
father? I say nothing of his power,—but of his tenderness, his mercy. And
Belshazzar,”—some force seemed tugging the name across her teeth,—“no
doubt he can speak glozing words; but his heart is dark, and under the
softest of his speeches you can hear the muzzled roarings of the lion.”
The good eunuch began to whimper in sympathy, a great tear on each cheek.
“Alas! lady, all is as you say. Yet you will not curse Cyrus who sent
you?”
Atossa’s eyes were dry; she held her head up proudly.
“No, I may not curse. I am born a king’s daughter,—and therefore a
slave,—a slave to the welfare of my people. Better that I should dash my
wings and beat out my little life against the bars of this cage, than
that thousands of our Aryan sword-hands pour out their blood in war with
Babylon. I am but a maid; but I am wise enough to know this,—king’s child
and peasant have alike one heart, and in it the same pains. Happy for the
world, if the grief of the first may spare grief to the thousand others!”
“The world says, ‘Let the thousand suffer, that the one may laugh.’”
Atossa threw back her head again. “Yes—so Belshazzar would say, but not
Cyrus; therefore, my father is a great king, and Ahura prospers him.”
“Peace, little mistress,” exhorted the faithful fellow, tenderly; “let us
say no more. Verily, your heart is emptied now!”
They paced side by side, measuring the ample circuit of the harem roof,
each striving desperately to talk on indifferent matters. Presently they
were both startled by a slight scuffling as of feet, in one of the small
courts at the farther extremity of the walk. They leaned across the
parapet, but the court seemed unoccupied save for a dozen white doves who
were plashing in a little fountain, prinking their feathers, and admiring
themselves in the rippling water. Atossa tossed a bit of loose mortar
downward into the fountain. There was one whir of wings, and the doves
returned to their stations. She was turning away, when, as if in answer
to her missile, a tiny brick was flung upon the parapet beside her. She
looked across—the court was still empty, but the brick was covered with
writing. She read these words:—
“If the Lady Atossa is alone upon the roof of the harem, or
with those she may trust to the uttermost, let her throw back
this letter, as sign that I may mount to her. Some danger must
be faced, for the danger of Prince Darius is yet greater.”
Atossa knew perfectly well that the stranger who penetrated the harem of
the king ran the risk of being sawn asunder. The consequences to herself
of a stolen interview might be more than disagreeable. But the princess
was in no mood for prudent counsels. Masistes had naught but fears.
“What danger could lurk for the sacred person of the envoy? An insolent
interloper! Summon help, and give alarm at once.”
She would have nothing of his caution. None could overlook the harem
roof. The others had been bidden to keep below stairs; a shout could
bring aid if there was the least need. “Danger to Darius” whispered by a
flitting breeze would have made her open to far more desperate recourses.
With a heavy heart Masistes saw her fling the brick down beside the
fountain.
A moment of waiting, and forth from the shadow of the wall, directly
under Atossa’s station, appeared a young man, with a companion in the
armour of a guardsman. The first stranger, without word or hesitancy,
swung himself upon the thick-stemmed vine that twisted upward to the
parapet from the court below,—no easy feat; but he clambered upward
with an agility worthy of Darius himself, and landed beside the lady
almost before she realized he had commenced ascending. Once mounted, he
shot about a single glance in search of some unfriendly eye, then stared
abruptly upon Masistes.
“Is this eunuch trustworthy?” he demanded, with no courtlier greeting.
“He will die for me; is that sufficient?” answered Atossa, still
wondering, and almost off her guard.
“So the Lord God grant!” The newcomer glided behind a wide tamarisk bush
that cut off view from any mounting the stairs. “And the others below are
quiet?” he pressed.
“They will only come when I summon them.”
He leaned across the parapet, saying something softly to his companion.
Atossa did not know the language, but imagined it Hebrew. When he turned
to her again, she saw he was a powerful, handsome young man, with a
manner of speech not unlike that of Darius.
“Lady,” said he in Chaldee, “doubtless you know me not. You were in the
closed carriage when his Highness the prince saved Ruth, my betrothed,
from the king’s lion. Prince Darius deigns to call himself my friend;
last night in some slight measure I repaid the debt I owe. To-day I
strive to pay more, but I need your aid.”
“Good sir,” spoke Atossa, her dignity rising, and cautious at last, “he
who is Prince Darius’s friend is mine; but I know neither your name nor
race. At best your errand here is a strange one.”
The young man took one step nearer Atossa.
“Lady, are you so fond, concerning Belshazzar, that you seek many tokens
to vouch for him who declares himself the foe of the king and the
well-wisher of Darius?”
Atossa became yet haughtier. “Belshazzar is my betrothed husband. Will
you revile him to my face? Am I not mistress in this palace?”
A nod from her would have sent Masistes to summon help; but without
premonition the newcomer held out his finger, showing a ring—on the beryl
seal a swordsman was stabbing a lioness.
“When last did your Highness see this?” he demanded, very quietly.
“It was on Darius’s finger at the feast last night.” And even Masistes,
as he looked, stifled the cry that was on his tongue.
“Know, O Lady Atossa,” went on the stranger, “that Darius, son of
Hystaspes, gave me this ring, after the feast, in token of sure and
abiding friendship. Will you hear me now, wherefore I would speak with
you?”
“I will hear,” answered she, almost faintly, and there was no colour in
her cheek. But as she spoke a voice sounded from the hall below, and the
young man shrank behind his tamarisk.
“Gracious princess, condescend to honour your slaves by coming down to
the luncheon, which is ready.”
Atossa sprang to the stairway.
“Have I not bidden you magpies keep silence? Do I not know when I hunger?
Begone, or—”
Retreating footsteps told that the menials had not waited for her threat.
She turned to the stranger, and faced him fairly.
“Sir,” she said directly, “I will believe you are Darius’s friend. Say
on.”
Now what Isaiah told of the adventure of Darius with the king in the
Hanging Gardens we will not here repeat. When he had finished, when
Atossa knew the height and the depth of the Babylonians’ guile, the Jew
looked for a scene of terrible agony. He did not know the royal strength
of the daughter of Cyrus. Her white cheeks grew yet whiter, but her only
answer was, “Yet though I know all this, what profit? Am I not prisoner
here? I shall see Darius again, at a time only Ahura the Merciful
knoweth. By your own mouth the prince is safe and free.”
“He is free, but not safe.”
“Not safe? Belshazzar will put forth his hands against the sacred person
of an envoy? I cannot believe this guile,—I will not!” Atossa flushed as
in the anger of despair. “The king may swear a thousand oaths, as you
say, and keep none; but to murder an ambassador were a deed which Marduk
and Ramman, his own foul gods, would reward with swift vengeance!”
“Lady,” said the Hebrew, gently, “whether Marduk and Ramman may requite
or not, Avil-Marduk is the physician who can mingle drugs to soothe
the king’s conscience. Since morning those who brought me the earlier
warnings have borne me this: The king and his council have pondered long
over the ownership of the Median cloak torn from the shoulders of the
wrestler in the gardens. They have suspicions,—suspicions only; but if
they seem well grounded, Avil and Belshazzar are not prone to stickle at
trifles with such a stake.”
“Jew,” Atossa spoke slowly and calmly, “tell me, in what way is the
prince to be attacked? Answer truly, as we Persians and your people call
on one truth-loving God.”
Isaiah’s answer was given in so low a tone that Masistes heard none of
it. When he finished, Atossa asked aloud.
“And why do you not go to the prince yourself? Why bring all this to me?”
Isaiah smiled bitterly. “Already a net of spies is spread around Darius.
This morning I found I was more than suspected. An attempt to meet the
prince would have been the signal for my arrest. But Zerubbabel, my good
friend, stood sentry at the harem gate, and suffered me to pass. He
guards below. The harem is accounted so inviolable, that in mere security
it is less watched. Though you may not see Darius, have you no Persian
servant who can be trusted to warn? Who dreams that you are to be guarded
against?”
“Behold the messenger!” interposed Atossa, turning half playfully to
Masistes.
Before Isaiah could answer there were steps again on the staircase, and
there thrust itself into view of the fulsome smile of Mermaza.
“Samas pity me!” smirked that notable, “the ‘supereminently admirable’
lady alone on the harem roof with only two under-eunuchs for company!
Verily, she may well cry out against the palace that supplies no more
agreeable companionship!”
“Two eunuchs?” answered she, facing him with cold dignity, and moving
directly before the tamarisk,—“two? I trust I grow blind, for by all
gods, Persian and Babylonish, if there is another of that breed here,
saving Masistes, he comes against my express command. And I will teach
these well-fed underlings of yours that Cyrus’s daughter may fall in love
with their heads!”
Mermaza cast his eyes about, winked, and replied suavely, that “he had
thought he saw the forms of two persons near her, but was deceived.
Only Masistes was present. The ‘blindness-demon’ had begun to plague
his sight. Only he fell at his lady’s incomparably beautiful feet, and
besought that she would not forbid him her presence.”
Atossa moved slowly away from the tamarisk, keeping herself carefully
betwixt it and Mermaza. “My excellent sir,” quoth she, taking care never
to lose the chamberlain’s eye, “I am most delighted to have you here.
Masistes has been telling a wondrous tale. This morning he was crossing a
court, when behold! his hair rose in cold fright, for a groom was leading
a great lion past him, by no stouter tether than a hound’s leash; yet
the beast seemed gentle as a little dog. Surely, the cowardly rascal was
merely affrighted by some monstrous mastiff?”
Atossa saw the worthy dart one sidling glance of keenest scrutiny upon
her, but she endured it.
“My sweet mistress,” said Mermaza, speaking more halting than was his
wont, “Masistes brings only truth. You have not seen, then, the king’s
tame lions?”
“Assuredly not.” Atossa led the chamberlain to the opposite parapet, and
gazed across, seemingly enraptured by the panorama of the city. In his
anxiety to seem interested he never looked behind, where her keener ears
detected the crackling branches as of one descending.
“Then,” smiled he, “we have a new wonder to show you. As soon as the king
returns from the hunt we will bring the lions into the harem; you will
find them harmless as cats, and vastly more entertaining.”
“Why not to-morrow? Does the king use them for hunting?”
“They are better than hounds. To-morrow his Majesty takes our dear
friend the ‘worshipful’ envoy to his game preserves. The gods grant,” he
continued piously, “that no wild beast harm the prince! ‘Prudence,’ I
fear, is not a Persian word. He is all rashness.”
Atossa deliberately led him back to the other end of the walk. The refuge
behind the tamarisk was empty, and so was the little court below.
“I have strolled here long,” asserted she suddenly; “even the view of the
city grows wearisome. Let me go down to the luncheon.”
Mermaza was not pleased to have her end the promenade, yet perforce
consented. But when Atossa’s petulance had chased the frightened maids
from her chamber, it was to have a moment alone with Masistes, and to put
in his hand a written slip of papyrus.
Later in the evening he was back, and a nod told her that the message
had been safely delivered. But Atossa slept little that night. Once the
eunuch who kept her door thought he heard some one within speaking, and
entered unbidden lest there be an intruder. His mistress did not see him,
for she was kneeling beside her bed, and praying softly in her Persian
tongue. Before the fellow tiptoed away he noticed that ever and anon she
would shake with sobbing.
“Marvel,” he grunted to himself, “the ‘Lady of Sumer and Akkad’ is
weeping! What can such as _she_ have to move to tears?”
[Illustration: THE KING OF THE BOW]