If Gudea’s heart was sorrowful that night, so were those of greater men
than he. Avil had never before found Belshazzar so irascible, as when
they conferred in a quiet chamber of the palace, about sundown.
“The Jew is obstinate as an old camel!” cursed the king. “He knows no
more fear than a mad auroch. I can do nothing with him!”
“And the king threatened?” insinuated Avil.
“Torture, impaling, flaying alive, hot furnaces,—and all else; yet he
will not give me an order on Imbi-Ilu for his daughter.”
“Let the king’s liver find peace,” comforted Avil, sweetly. “Daniel will
not torment him long. The feast of Bel is near, when I as chief priest
may crave, in the god’s name, one boon which you may not refuse. If I ask
then the life of Daniel, can the queen-mother complain? You are powerless
to deny such a request.”
“Ah, well, that will end _him_!” snapped the king. “I seek the daughter.”
“Patience, your Majesty.”
“No patience, I have waited long. At dawn I will go in person to
Borsippa, and demand her surrender. If not—I will find if Nabu can make
the hides of his priests too thick for sword-blades!”
Avil shook his head. “Nothing rashly, lord. All the people revere Nabu.”
“Let them learn the greatest god in Babylon is its king,” Belshazzar
threw up his head; “there is too much priestly rule here for my liking.”
He looked hard at Avil, who bit his lips at the open hint. “You failed
miserably in the accusation,” continued Belshazzar.
“I did not know Shaphat had so sore a conscience,” confessed the pontiff,
ruefully; “but once in prison, Daniel shall find it nothing easy to learn
the way out of it.”
“And the Persian Darius grows more intolerable every day. He has saved my
life now. Would that any other had done it!”
“And wherefore should that be an offence to my lord. I never was sanguine
the lion would succeed. There are many ways of speeding even so great an
archer as Darius out of the world.”
“Avil,” spoke Belshazzar, eying his minister, “I believe that the gods
have set in your breast no heart, but a block of iron; you may persuade
me to many things, but not to slay Darius until I stand in sorer need
than I stand to-day.”
“Ah! well,” answered the pontiff, smiling somewhat uneasily, “it is all
one whether he lives or dies. My watchers are everywhere; not a letter
to or from Susa fails of interception. He is harmless in Babylon. Let us
delay the envoy as long as we may peaceably. If he demands to be sent
home and seems to know too much, there is but one thing left.”
“To clap into prison and prepare for speedy war with Cyrus?”
“The king has said!” bowed Avil.
“Very good,” answered Belshazzar, not without bitterness. “I follow your
wisdom; but woe to Babylon, and woe to you, if your wisdom prove but
folly!”
* * * * *
The king had come to Borsippa with a “fifty” of war chariots, and five
hundred mounted lancers. So a frightened underling reported to Imbi-Ilu,
just as that pontiff was sprinkling himself with purifying water, before
going to the great altar, to proffer the morning “fruit-offering.”
“He demands instant entrance,” continued the messenger, in no steady
voice, “both for himself and the soldiers who follow him.”
“Armed men in Nabu’s temple precinct!” cried the high priest, dropping
the palm branch with which he had been sprinkling his garments. “Never
has warrior planted sandal inside our gates since the founding of the
_ziggurat_! Surely, your wits are wandering.”
“Would to Nabu they were!” groaned the other; “but hearken!”
And Imbi heard the clattering of spear-butts against the portals.
“This is an important hour for the dignity of Nabu,” announced he,
regaining composure. “We must at once reverence the king and defend the
honour of our god. Go, tell his Majesty that we will admit him, as soon
as I can array the corps of priests and temple ministers in due order to
receive him with proper state.”
Then the great gong that hung by the steps to the tower began to clang
furiously. The school boys joyously flung away their clay tablets, while
their professors hastened to don their whitest robes. The sluggish temple
servants ceased dozing on the sunny bricks of the court, and shuffled
toward the gateway, where the long lines of priests and other servitors
of Nabu were forming.
When the entrance was at last thrown wide, and Belshazzar’s chariot
entered, the king confronted extended files of “Necromancers,”
“Libation-Pourers,” “Dirge-Singers,” and many more sacred colleges, each
drawn up in proper order, every man in his snowy garment and peaked
tiara, with Imbi-Ilu in his pontiff’s goatskin at their head. And at a
signal from their chief every knee was bent in salutation, while the
temple choir intoned the chant of welcome.
“Grant prosperous life,
Innumerable years,
And children uncounted,
O Nabu, most wise!
To Belshazzar our king!”
The chariot had halted in the courtyard, but the swarms of soldiery
without the gate had not begun to enter when Imbi-Ilu stepped before the
sovereign, and salaamed almost to the bricks.
“A fortunate day, O Nabu, a fortunate day that brings Belshazzar the
heaven-loving sovereign to the ‘Eternal House’! Let the king deign to
make known his will to his servants; he knows,” the pontiff rubbed his
hands craftily, “that Nabu is poor, his priests lack corn. Strange and
young gods bewitch the pious of Babylon.”
Belshazzar leaped from the chariot without waiting for the grooms to set
the footstool. He was clearly striving to appear conciliatory.
“I greet you well, you, and all these other venerable priests,” nodding
to the company. “I have not forgotten that the revenues of Nabu have
diminished. I have commanded that the treasurer deliver upon your request
a hundred _gurs_[4] of barley and as many of millet, also I deed to you
an estate of the crown near Erech of fifty ‘great acres’ of corn land.”
“Blessing to the ever bountiful son of the gods!” chorussed the company,
every head bowing again.
“But I have come to make a request,” went on Belshazzar.
“The king’s wishes are law,” smiled Imbi-Ilu. “He desires the
supplications of his servants for the continuance of peace; be assured—”
Belshazzar raised his hand. “I crave a smaller boon, that will not take
these reverend men from their studies. There is in this temple a damsel—”
Imbi-Ilu bowed yet again. “The king has spoken,—the Jewess Ruth.”
“Be so good as to bring her forth immediately. I take her back to
Babylon.”
Imbi-Ilu repeated his salaam. “The king’s word is good. We are all
obedience. Where is the letter from Daniel her father?”
“The letter?” there was a dangerous flush on Belshazzar’s bronzed cheek;
“I do not understand you, priest.”
“Let not the king take anger,” returned the pontiff, calmly. “Who am I so
bold as to remind him that only on command of the father can we give up a
maid entrusted to us for asylum?”
“Well,” affirmed Belshazzar, tossing his lordly head, “your learning, of
a truth, teaches that the king is greater than the father; and it is the
king who orders now.”
There was a dead hush for a moment, every eye fixed on Imbi. His was the
next move.
“Your Majesty,” began he, firmly, “_I_ am but the meanest of your slaves;
but as a priest it is not I that answer you, but Nabu the Wise, making
use of my poor tongue.” And he met the haughty glance of the king with
one as haughty. “Nabu cannot suffer you to take the maiden.”
Belshazzar tugged at the sword upon his thigh. “No insolence,” he
threatened; “I give you one moment to consider. Give up the wench
peaceably, or my guardsmen drag her forth by force, and you away to
prison, to answer charges of gross rebellion against my will.”
Imbi turned to Hasba, the subaltern at his side. “Haste!” was the
muttered command, “put the Jewess in the shrine behind the god’s own
image.” Then, still boldly, he confronted Belshazzar. “Live forever,
O king! This is my answer. If the king is bent on wickedness, let him
proceed in person with one attendant, and search our precinct. If he find
the Jewess, let him take her hence with his own hand. Let the soldiers
remain without. So shall we be guiltless of resistance to your Majesty,
and on your own head shall be all the anger of the god for this insult to
his right of sanctuary.”
Belshazzar had unsheathed his weapon.
“I will see who is monarch in Borsippa, you, Imbi-Ilu, or I!” sounded his
menace. “Forward, soldiers; brush these priests aside! Search the place
from pinnacle to cellar; and woe to you,” with a scowl at the temple
folk, “if you withstand.”
But Imbi-Ilu stepped before the gate, where the escort was thronging, and
the lances tossing threateningly.
“Hear, ye! Hear, ye! soldiers of Babylon!” rang the pontiff’s voice; “ere
you obey the command of Belshazzar, hearken to the divine law, revealed
to Sargon I. in a dream sent him from Nabu, and confirmed by the kings
Sin-iddina and Sennacherib, ‘Let him who enters the precinct of the
“Eternal House” be devoted to the Maskim forever. Let his sons perish,
his daughters remain unmarried, his cattle starve, his enemies prosper,
his soul eat mud in the “Abode of Torment.”’ You have heard the ordinance
of the god and of the king; obey you which you list—Nabu or Belshazzar!”
And as he spoke, the lines of priests moved steadily forward, until they
formed a solid rank across the entrance way, denying all ingress.
“Advance, men!” thundered the king; “out swords; hew these rebels down,
and make a pathway over them, if such is their mad wish!”
But not a soldier advanced. The priests confronted Belshazzar stolidly.
Again the king commanded; again mute disobedience. Presently Igas-Ramman
the captain took a cautious step forward and saluted.
“Let the king’s heart find peace; in other things the soldiers do his
least bidding, but they cannot massacre these holy priests in the god’s
own house.”
“Well, then,” cried Belshazzar, sending a glance of burning anger through
the captain, “be it so. I think the ‘king of Sumer and Akkad’ has might
enough to hale forth a simpering Jewess. As for you, Imbi, in due time
I will teach you how foul was the day when you made a foe of me. Who is
there who will go with me, and seek out the maiden?”
Not a captain advanced, but into the gate strode a towering giant,
Khatin. “Here am I, your Majesty,” he announced pompously; “we go
together, the headsman and the king!”
“Good, then. Let us find this wench without delay.”
The array of priests opened for the twain. Imbi ceremoniously walked
beside the monarch, offering no suggestions, but courteously leading
wherever the king desired. They searched the college buildings,
the quarters of the _kali_, the eunuch priests, of the zikari, the
“female-recluses,” the houses of the married priests, and the great
storerooms. Their quest ended in nothing but mortification for
Belshazzar. Vainly he threatened and commanded Imbi-Ilu. The pontiff only
protested that his lips were sealed—the guilt of outraging the asylum
must rest on Belshazzar alone. The king was nigh to returning to the
gateway discomfited, when a whisper by Khatin made him turn to Imbi-Ilu.
“One thing more,” he ordered. “Lead me to the sanctuary on the crest of
the tower. We have not yet searched through _that_.”
“The shrine of the god!” cried the pontiff, throwing up his hands in
surprised dismay. “What is the king saying? Do my ears deceive?”
“In no way, priest,” repeated Belshazzar, sternly; “the sanctuary, and
nowhere else.”
“Oh, my lord, my lord,” Imbi began to groan, falling on his knees, “at
least spare our temple this outrage. Forbear—”
“Nip him close, my king,” exhorted Khatin, gruffly. “I swear by his own
god we shall find the damsel hid under the very image.”
“No delaying, Imbi,” repeated the king, fiercely. “Your moaning tells too
well where the girl is concealed. To the shrine immediately.”
“But my lord knows the story,” protested the pontiff, leading to the foot
of the temple stairs, with all seeming reluctance, “how when King Ourina,
twelve hundred years since, sought to drag a suppliant from this very
sanctuary, the god smote him with leprosy, and he went out of the temple
white as snow.”
“A beldame’s tale,” grunted Khatin; “lead onward.”
“Or how King Samas-Nin, for merely saying in his bedchamber that Nabu
had no power to defend his servants from the royal will, fell down
speechless, and died in three days torn by demons.”
“That was many years ago,” growled the headsman, “and the estimable god
has begun to show old age. Up, priest, up!”
Imbi said no more. He led the two along the lofty flights of stairs
toward the upper shrine, deliberately and slowly. As they mounted from
terrace to terrace, and the lower world began to drop away below them, an
unnatural hush seemed spreading all about, that made even Khatin’s river
of strange jests and oaths flow sluggishly, and finally cease altogether.
Suddenly, when one terrace below the shrine, Imbi halted, and pointed to
a black stone, set in the bricks of the parapet.
“Look, your Majesty!” he spoke, in a bated whisper, and pointed.
“Well?” questioned Belshazzar, his own voice husky.
“This stone marks the spot where the impious General Naram-Sin fell down
dead when by command of King Esarhaddon he went up to arrest a fugitive
in the sanctuary.”
The king stared at the stone fixedly, saying nothing; but Khatin gave a
loud bray,—too loud, in fact, to be unforced.
“An hundred years ago! As I said, the good Nabu has grown many gray
hairs since then. Come, your Majesty, let others quake and gibber. The
executioner and the king are of too tough stuff to be thus frighted.”
“Silence, impudent villain!” commanded Imbi; “reverence the king, even if
you must blaspheme the great Nabu. Shall I lead on?”
“Lead on,” ordered Belshazzar, doggedly, but Imbi saw that he was
stealing glances out of the corners of his eyes at Khatin, and the
headsman seemed anything but at ease. Belshazzar might be “son of
Marduk,” but it required something better than loud-mouthed boastings to
make him advance to a deed like this without a tremor.
They had reached the topmost terrace. Below them lay Borsippa and
Babylon, spread like a fair broidered garment. Directly at their feet
was the wide courtyard, packed with the gazing priests, and the soldiers
before the gate, all staring upward; and Belshazzar knew that not a man
of them envied him and his deed.
Imbi halted at the silver-plated door of the sanctuary. His voice was
even lower. “At least, let the king put off his sandals before entering
the god’s dread presence.”
Belshazzar and Khatin complied without a word. Even before Imbi thrust
in the door, the air they breathed seemed weighted to the would-be
violators. Why did the swallows twitter so shrill? Why did their own
hearts beat so loudly?
The door creaked on its pivots. Imbi stepped to one side. “Let the king
enter,” he whispered, “but suffer his slave to remain away from this
fearful deed.”
The two peered within. The sanctuary was absolutely dark, save for a
single bar of yellow light that shot through an unseen opening in the
vaulted roof, and did not diffuse the gloom in the slightest. A few
jewels on the garments of the idol twinkled faintly. Barely could they
see the outline of the great image, looming to monstrous size at the
opposite extremity of the chamber. Two steps within, their feet echoed
and reëchoed, while the darkness seemed pressing all about them. After
the brightness just quitted, no dungeon could have been blacker. Khatin
uplifted his voice, throwing into it his last grains of courage.
“Boldly, lord. We have her instantly!” And he took a third step, but no
farther. His voice was doubled by countless echoes, and scarcely had they
died ere a rumbling and muttering as of distant thunder reverberated from
end to end of the sanctuary. Khatin felt an icy touch run down his spine
in a twinkling: his teeth rattled in his head. There was a quivering at
the roots of his hair, as if it were rising.
A second muttering, and to their straining gaze the tall idol seemed
rocking on its pedestal. The whole shrine jarred. A pale flicker of light
touched the hideous features of the image, illumining the grinning mouth.
Then the light vanished, and all the dark seemed alive with writhing
demons uncounted, right, left, before, behind,—thronging and threatening.
Khatin’s feet were frozen under him. He would have given his all for
strength to flee away. Suddenly out of the rumbling thunder came a voice,
slow, muffled, sepulchral.
“Woe, woe, unto Belshazzar, the impious king; woe, woe unto Khatin, the
ungodly servant. For ten thousand years let them eat of fire; for ten
thousand years let them drink of wormwood; for ten thousand years—”
But king and headsman had awaited no more. Power of flight returned
to each simultaneously. They were outside the doorway in a trice; and
Belshazzar had dashed to the portal and bolted it before Imbi might speak
a word.
“Away!” gasped the king, all the while shaking as with ague; “away, lest
the god pursue us! Back to Babylon with all haste!” He was running down
the _ziggurat_ with leaps and bounds, Khatin after him.
“Your Majesty leaves his sandals,” Imbi shouted, but Belshazzar never so
much as heard.
When he reached the courtyard, Belshazzar stumbled. The chariot servants
saw that his face was ghastly white, and, fearing leprosy, dreaded at
first to help him into the car. With no explanation to any, Belshazzar
ordered that they drive at headlong speed to the palace.
It was three days before the king showed himself again in public, and
even then all saw that his features were haggard. Khatin had recovered
more swiftly. Amongst his cronies, and when well in liquor, he was wont
to boast that _he_ had been all courage, only the king commanded him to
retire just as he was dragging Ruth from behind the image. Be that as it
may, on the evening following the attempted sacrilege, Imbi privately
commended his faithful Hasba for having done his duty so manfully in the
sanctuary during the morning.
[Illustration: THE WISE GUDEA PROSPERS]