The Persian army lay in the plain before the captured Kutha. Far as the
eye might reach, it touched only avenues of black camel’s-hair tents,
sprinkled with the gaudier red and blue of the princes’ pavilions. The
gloaming was at hand, the first stars budding; all around myriad red
sparks were twinkling forth—the camp-fires of the host of the Aryans.
Over their drink the stout Median footmen and Scythian horse-archers
were roaring out pledges—“Confusion to Belshazzar and destruction to
his city!” For if there was one thing the hearts of the soldiers lusted
after, it was to see the walls of Imgur and Nimitti-Bel. But the army had
waited inactive for days, and save for petty skirmishings had scarcely
sped an arrow. “Negotiations,” grumbled some wiseacres; and others would
answer, “The Father (meaning no one less than their august king) will
not cast away all hopes of saving Prince Darius.” Whereupon comrades
would shake their heads gloomily, “We shall see the prince, in this
world—never!” Then the banter, even of veterans, would lag, for Darius
was the darling of the army.
So throughout the black tents. And in that village of pavilions, of
guardsmen and grooms and chamberlains, where the king found lodging,
there was no common gloom that night. For Cyrus sat alone in the
innermost tent, and refused all drink and food. This was the fortieth
night, on which Isaiah had promised to return with Darius, and naught had
been seen or heard of the Jew since he had quitted Susa. Atrobanes, “the
bearer of the royal handkerchief,” and the attendant with whom Cyrus was
most familiar, had ventured once to enter the tent, and light the tall
silver candelabra. There was the master on the high ivory throne, looking
straight before him upon the rugs, combing his flowing beard with his
right hand, while his left gripped hard on the jewelled hilt at his side.
“Lord,” Atrobanes had ventured, kneeling, “the feast in the banqueting
tent is ready. The Princes Harpagus and Gobryas and the other captains
have come, for you deigned to command that they should eat meat with you
this evening.”
No answer. Cyrus was still looking straight before.
“Live forever, O king,” began Atrobanes again. An angry exclamation cut
him short. For Cyrus to be in wrath was so unwonted that the attendant
trembled.
“Live forever? Are you mad? Is life so utterly sweet, that one may never
long to lay it down?”
“Mercy, lord of all goodness; mercy!” protested the shivering servant.
“By Mithra, you are frightened.” Cyrus laughed softly; it seemed more in
melancholy than in mirth. “I meant nothing; I scarce knew that you were
here. What is your wish?”
“Will the king condescend to be present at the feast appointed for
to-night to the captains of the army?”
A weary sigh, and more silence. Then Cyrus replied, almost bitterly,
“Would to Ahura I had not ordered it! How can I sit over wine this night?
Yet I must not dishonour the princes. Go to the high steward and say that
I can touch no food, though I thank him for his pains. Yet say that when
the evening advances, and the wine is brought, I will come and sit with
the captains.”
“And the king requires nothing for himself?”
“Only this—that you leave me.”
Atrobanes kissed the cushioned footstool at his master’s feet, and
vanished behind the heavy draperies. There was profound stillness, save
for the vague hum of the busy camp and the clatter of plate and dishes
many hands were bearing to the banqueting tent. The king sat for a long
time motionless, the grip on the sword-hilt ever tightening. Then,
letting the weapon rest, he fumbled in his bosom, drew forth a locket,
and gazed on it as on treasure untold. “The locket of Atossa. It has been
close against her own pure breast.” He pressed it to his lips, once,
twice, thrust it back in his mantle, slipped from the high seat, and
began treading to and fro, his feet noiseless on the carpets.
“Live forever, O king, O lord of all goodness! Live forever!” As he
repeated the words he was smiling, but not with mirth. “Praised be the
All-Merciful, these flatteries are but flatteries, nothing more!”
Voices sounded at the tent door.
“I come to report to the king from Artaphernes, commander of the
skirmishers.”
“Unless you have definite news, his Majesty is not to be troubled.”
“Wait, then; I have only to declare that our scouts bring in nothing.”
The pacings of the king grew swift and feverish.
“Nothing, nothing; well, it was to be expected. Are you waxed so old,
Cyrus, son of Cambyses, that you will pin your faith on an open face and
a ready tongue? The Jew spoke fair, but is like all men of every race
saving our own—a liar. If he but come within my power after betraying
thus—”
There was a javelin standing against a tent-pole; the king grasped and
almost poised it. But the royal mood shifted; Cyrus replaced the weapon,
and ran on, communing with himself darkly:—
“I am lord of a million sword-hands; at my word nations sink down in
ruin. Men worship me as being a god on earth. Holy Ahura, when Thou
madest me king, why did I not cease to be a man; why could I not cease
loving, losing, longing? The garment of life is woven of the same stuff,
whether for the vilest slave or the lord of the Aryans. I have godlike
powers, but I am miserable!”
A noise without—the sentries passing the watchword for the night, as they
changed the guard, “Vengeance for Darius!” Again the king touched the
javelin.
“Of course the Jew failed, and that without playing falsely. His project
was a mad one. Darius has long since died under Belshazzar’s torments.
Died; ay, and by Mithra the _dæva_-smiter, the watchword shall not prove
vain! Men call me merciful; but to the son of Nabonidus and all his
perjured brood, Angra-Mainyu, the arch-fiend, and his demons shall seem
more compassionate than I. But ah! though I slay all Babylon, I may not
breathe life into one form once stilled, nor woo back a loved spirit with
all the rubies of Ecbatana!”
Again a voice at the tent door, and Cyrus, recognizing, commanded,
“Enter.”
Hystaspes passed within. The prince was in his coat of shining scale
armour, for years had not made him too feeble to keep the saddle. The
short Persian spear was in his hand, the sword dangled at his thigh. The
king attempted to brighten before his friend, and threw out boldly:—
“Well, comrade, has not the country been scoured, and all the farms
so well sacked, that a man of your hale years need ride with the
skirmishers?”
The other laughed, though none too heartily.
“The young hotbloods who lead your Majesty’s cavalry troops are all
valour and no prudence. An older eye is needed to see that Sirusur with
his Babylonish chariots does not dash down on us unawares, and fling us,
man and beast, into the Tigris.”
“Caution, always caution,” answered the king, with an impatient gesture,
when the other attempted to salaam. “Come, you have no longing for the
feast. Let tables be brought here. I have only promised to appear at the
banquet when they serve the wine.”
“Your Majesty is thrice kind; a thousand pardons, but for some reason I
cannot eat. Perhaps I have ridden too long; as you say, I grow old.”
But the king plucked him nigh roughly by the shoulder.
“No, you cannot eat, nor can I. Away with merry lips, when they speak
from grieving hearts. Darius, your son, is not here. We were fools to
trust the Jew, who has either failed or dealt falsely. Yet we must eat,
must eat heartily—you and I—and all.”
“Does the king command that I feast against my will?”
“Yes; for if Darius is dead, Belshazzar lives, and all the asps of his
guilty kind. And we need all our strength for a vengeance, the fame
whereof shall last as long as Mithra’s car glows in the heavens.”
“Ah! lord, not so bitterly. I am the father, yet I can bow to Ahura’s
will!”
“But I, the king, who sent Darius forth, and sped him to his death, find
like submission hard. For the king shall answer on the Great Day for the
blood of all his people!”
“I do not blame your Majesty.”
“Nor does any man.” Cyrus smote his own breast. “The voice that blames is
here.”
But as he spoke a strange sound was spreading in the camp, a roaring as
of wind, though very far away.
“An alarm!” and Hystaspes started from the tent.
“Alarm? No such outcry; the soldiers are at some sport.”
Yet still the sound was rising—was swelling nearer; and now they caught,
as it seemed, the clamour of countless voices.
“Alarm surely! I must seek my post!” Again Hystaspes started from the
tent; but the king gripped his arm with so tight a clutch that it brought
almost pain.
“Hystaspes,”—Cyrus spoke in a hoarse whisper,—“this sound—comes it from
men or from angels—is a shout of joy, not of fear!”
[Illustration: “‘Here is only the king; within your father waits.’”]
Then they stood side by side, those strong men, and listened; for a
mighty tumult was swelling through the camp, passing onward, nearer,
nearer, rising and falling like the wind-driven billow bounding
across the deep. Now the distant encampment of the Tartar Sacæans was
thundering, now the Bactrians and the Medes; closer now, it had reached
the Persians, the core of the army, and the “Immortals,” the royal
life-guards, were tossing on the cry. Then through the cheering the two
heard something else—riders galloping fiercely; and words came at last,
the shout of the captains and lords about the tent of the king.
“The prince! The prince! Glory to Ahura!”
The high chamberlain had entered. When he salaamed he stumbled. His ready
tongue spoke thickly.
“Font of all goodness,” he began; but Cyrus did not hear. Straight
through the door strode the king, and into the throng of officers in
the tent without. They parted to either hand at sight of him, like sand
before the desert gale. Inside the pavilion itself a score of joyous
hands were plucking from his steaming beast a young man, who started,
tattered, dust-covered as he was, to kneel before the sovereign. Started:
but Cyrus beckoned him on, and spoke before them all:—
“_Here is only the king; within your father waits._”
So Darius was gone, with no man following him. Then two more newcomers
were led forward, and bowed themselves to Cyrus, who saw that they were
Isaiah and a stranger, though clearly a Jew also.
“Lord,” Isaiah was saying, “behold my pledge fulfilled. This is the
fortieth night, and your eyes see Darius.”
But Cyrus would hear no more.
“Stand up, son of Shadrach, for the pledge is indeed made good. Look
on this man, captains of the Aryans; honour him as you would honour
your king, for he has brought joy out of anguish, brought life out of
death. Take him away, Hydarnes,”—with a nod to the “master of the royal
dresses,”—“clothe him in a robe of state; give him the wine and dainties
you would give to me; in the morning put the kingly tiara upon his head,
mount him upon my sacred Nisæan charger, and lead him through the host,
proclaiming to all men, ‘This is the Jew who is honoured by Cyrus!’”
“Hail! all hail, Isaiah, justly honoured of the Great King!”
So thundered an hundred; yet when there was stillness, Isaiah answered
humbly, yet boldly, “Lord, I despise not your gifts and your honours; but
it was not for even this that Zerubbabel, my comrade, and I plucked the
prince out of the dungeon and the clutch of Belshazzar.”
Cyrus shook his stately head and smiled.
“Ah! good Jew,” spoke he, “do you think the promises of the Persians are
pledges graven on water? Fear not that your people will find the king of
the Aryans aught but a father and a friend. But enough—you have ridden
hard and far; rest for to-night shall be the first reward. Lead them
away, Hydarnes, and give this other, Zerubbabel, ten talents also.”
But Isaiah did not follow the chamberlain.
“Your Majesty,”—he fell on one knee,—“I bring you not Prince Darius only.
I bring you this.”
He drew from his girdle and proffered a tiny clay cylinder, scarce the
thickness of two fingers. The king grasped it, eagerly as the drowning
clutch after the float. They saw him read, and lo, a marvellous thing!
the eyes of the master of half the nations were bright with tears. Thus
ran the letter:—
“_Atossa in Babylon, to Cyrus, lord of the Aryans:_
“I know that you must be first the king and then the father.
Yet when you sent me from Susa, did you send me to this—to
loathsome bondage, to be queen in name only, to be the toy
of a man of wrath and guile, and the pledge of a peace sworn
only to be broken? Come to me, my father, for I am of your own
proud blood. Let other kings’ daughters learn a master’s yoke;
a child of yours must be the mistress, or must die. Heaven
favouring, the noble Isaiah will save Darius, whom I love; but
I, who cannot fly, can only pray for the hour when the swords
of my people shall flash within this accursed city. Yet save
speedily; for the time grows near when I shall be Belshazzar’s
bride in very deed. Farewell.”
“Did you penetrate the harem of Belshazzar?” asked Cyrus, his voice
unsteady.
“Yes, your Majesty; I have seen the most gracious princess. Belshazzar
triumphs in holding the child of his arch-enemy captive. To force her to
his bridal will be his joy. And in three months he will celebrate another
feast—the wedding one year from the betrothal.”
“Then in three months Babylon is to be taken?”
“The king has said. Belshazzar will risk little in the field. He boasts
his walls will mock your armies seven years, and yet be strong.”
“And you say that he boasts well?” urged Cyrus, shrewdly.
“Lord, I only know that speaking from human wisdom, there may be doors
to Babylon Belshazzar little dreams of; and speaking from the voice
within”—Isaiah’s own voice rose, and he swept his hand proudly—“the
promise of Jehovah is yet strong,—‘I, who have prospered so far, and
saved from so many perils, will still favour even to the end.’”
“And favour He will!” cried the king, as in a great gladness; “three
months for the might of the Aryans to master the ‘fiend-servers’ and
their mute brick and stone! Let Ahura lay on us a harder task!”
Then the chamberlains took the Jews away, and forth from the inner tent
returned Darius, who knelt now at Cyrus’s feet.
“Rise up,” the king commanded; “you also need food and sleep. And in the
morning—”
“What in the morning, lord?” cried the prince, now standing.
“In the morning you shall ride at the head of the van. But you have won
the right to crave a boon—and ask it, whatsoever you will.”
“My king,”—Darius’s voice was trembling,—“you well know what I would
ask.”
Whereupon Cyrus only smiled once more, and lifted his hand as in an oath.
“By the light of Ahura I swear it, that when we have conquered Babylon
and plucked Atossa from the _dæva’s_ clutch, you shall ask for her in
marriage, and I will not say you nay.”
* * * * *
Three nights later the burghers of Babylon, when they mounted their house
roofs, as was their wont in the cool of the evening, saw a light that
stilled the bravest boasters. East, west, and north the horizon glowed
with a redness which shone ever brighter, ever nearer, till it climbed
the heavens. Rising smoke was blotting out the stars. Men spoke together
in whispers, as they stared and shuddered at the brightness: “The host of
Cyrus. All the country villages are burning. Marduk be praised, the walls
are yet strong!”
At next morn the city folk saw a sight yet more terrible. The plains were
covered with innumerable black tents and pavilions, and horsemen more
than the sands of the sea. The king of the Aryans was at hand, and with
him all the might of the far East. Imgur-Bel and Nimitti-Bel were put to
proof at last.
[Illustration: THE GLORY OF THE CHALDEES]