Nightfall again; and again a feast at the same hour when one year earlier
Belshazzar had given a banquet to the daughter of Cyrus and proclaimed
her his prospective bride. At early dawn all Babylonians had awakened to
eat, drink, and make merry. Every beer-house had reëchoed with drunken
revel. No business in the bazaars, no priests chanting their litanies on
the temple-towers. The great merchants had thrown open their doors to the
most distant friends, who were welcome to enter and quaff a deep-bellied
flagon. By noon half Babylon was in drink: drunken sailors roaring along
the quays, drunken priestesses at their orgies with tipsy youths in the
groves of Istar, drunken soldiers splashing their liquor as they stood
guard on walls and gates. Cyrus was gone. The siege was at an end. What
need of watch and ward? One would have thought the city had forgotten
Marduk and Samas, to adore the one god, Wine!
As the first twilight spread, the multitudes commenced to surge through
the open gates of the palace. Long before the proper feast was prepared
the royal stewards had brought skins of the rarest vintage from the
palace cellars, and emptied them into the great silver mixing-bowls
which stood in every corner of the vast courts, with a busy eunuch by
each, handing forth goblets to great and small—for all Babylon could
call itself Belshazzar’s guest that night. The walls of the courts
had been hung with gay stuffs curiously embroidered; over each of the
courts rippled a vast awning of Sidonian purple, hung by a clever system
of pulleys, making the huge space one banqueting chamber. And under
this canopy, as everywhere else in the king’s house,—save the inner
harem,—jostled the shouting, rioting multitude, maddened with drink:
ass-drivers, gardeners, artisans, women, children even, pressing around
the eunuchs and stretching forth eager hands for the goblets, with only a
single cry: “Wine! Wine! More! More!”
In and out through this human whirlpool ploughed Khatin the giant
headsman; other pates might whirl with the cheer, not his, though none
had seen the bottom of more cups that night than he.
“One year to-night,” the executioner was braying, “since the betrothal
feast; you recall your dear friend Khanni was with us then. Pity his
Majesty bade me end his services four months since!”
“Peace; speak not of it!” groaned the eunuch Nabua, who dragged, very
tipsy, on Khatin’s arm.
“Silence, then, if you wish. Well, to-morrow I trust to say farewell to
those Persian noblemen taken in the sally—stout lads, all of them!”
“But Darius has slid through your clutch,” hiccoughed Nabua, snatching a
honey-cake from a table, grasping and swallowing almost as one act.
“Darius? Yes, all the gods have won a grudge from me by that. But I shall
be repaid. Avil-Marduk will have a free course against the Jews now. I
doubt not to chaffer with that surly oaf, old Daniel, before another
Sabbath.”
“Sure of this?”
“So Mermaza whispered in my ear to-day. Imbi-Ilu is no longer in the
city, to raise riots in the Jew’s behalf. Avil has sworn Daniel’s death.
Not even his Majesty could save him, if he wished.”
“The procession! The king! Way! Way!” bawled many. “To the great
court!” Hardly did Khatin with all his might win an entrance to this
huge enclosure, so vast was the crowd. Where save in Babylon was a like
banqueting space! One hundred and fifty cubits long, one hundred broad;
walls to the height of five men; the pictured walls of enamelled brick,
the castellated and gilded parapet above; the great purple awning on
high; the giant winged bulls at the many entrances,—this was the scene
that glowed under the light of six score silver lamps hung from the
awning, and as many resinous, red torches flaring in the sockets on the
wall.
Straight across the lower half of the court stretched a rope barrier,
cutting off the vulgar herd. Above, a bevy of eunuchs were making the
last arrangements for the feast, setting innumerable chairs and stools
beside the low tables, or hanging a great bower of dark cypress above the
high couch on the dais at the end, where Belshazzar would take his wine,
viewing and viewed by all.
Suddenly the brawl even of drunken voices was hushed.
“Hark! The king and all his captains!”
Nearer and nearer was approaching the clangour of cymbals and of
kettle-drums; then out of the din burst the wailing of flutes and the
blare of the war-horns. A louder crash,—fifty harps and zithers were
joining. Into the court came filing two long lines of spearmen in
silvered armour, who swept the multitude to right and left, then halted,
leaving a long lane for the royal procession. After the soldiers marched
the musicians, handsome men, each wearing the tall, peaked mitre of his
guild: and after these a company at sight whereof every onlooker craned
his neck, and a loud “ah!” arose.
“The Persian prisoners,” grunted Khatin in Nabua’s ear; “to-night they
shall see his Majesty’s triumph. To-morrow they shall die. Hah! They
strut haughtily enough!” Then he howled aloud as the captives came
nearer, “Fine plunder, my merry sirs, are you finding in Babylon; sad
your dear lord Cyrus is not near you now!”
But the pinioned Persians were led straight forward. Cords had been
fastened to rings in their lips, by which their guards could drag them.
Around the necks of many dangled unsightly objects—the heads of comrades
whose bodies had fallen into the Chaldees’ hands. A thousand jeers flew
around them; but no Persian repaid with so much as a shake of the head
or a curse. Even the most drunken of all that throng felt a small mite
of respect, if not of pity, for these men, who showed their foes that
where an Aryan could not conquer, he at least knew how to die. Silently
they were arrayed inside the barriers, to await the royal pleasure. And
now all forgot them, as, with more musicians accompanying into the court,
marched the priests of Bel-Marduk, bearing glaring flambeaux. The ruddy
light flickered on the white dresses and sleek goatskins of the priests,
and their mitres set with bullocks’ horns. The company ranged itself
before the soldiers, that the king might pass up a lighted way. Loudly
now rose their triumph song—for was this not the night of Bel-Marduk’s
own victory?
“O Ruler Eternal! O Lord of all being!
Smiter of the foes of Belshazzar thy servant:
Who stillest the ragings of Cyrus the Persian:
Hast broken his spear, hast shattered his quiver:
Confounding his god and the vile Jewish demon:
We praise thee, and with us all Babylon worships!”
The chant ended with a terrific clap of cymbals and thunder of drums.
Then the wonted cry was spreading: “The knee! the knee! Hail! Hail!
Belshazzar!” Soldiers again: the chosen sword-hands of the guard, the
golden scales of the armour flashing: scarlet pennons trailing from every
spear-head. Behind them on a lofty litter rode Belshazzar the king,—never
more kingly than now, never arrayed before in costlier robes and tiara.
And at sight of him a great shout rose spontaneously from the multitude.
“A god and not a man! Marduk appears on earth! Happy Babylon—your king
was begotten in heaven!”
Belshazzar looked neither to one side nor the other, the faces of the
stone bulls more mobile than his. “The king was indeed half god—what part
had the son of Marduk with the life of vulgar men!” so his thought ran.
Under the firm steps of twelve great noblemen moved the litter. Right
behind was a second, not so high, yet lofty also, and she that rode
therein exposed to common sight. And now there was a titter here, a taunt
there, and yonder silence.
“The daughter of Cyrus!” “Joyful day for her!” “Away with the chalk-white
Persian!”
White indeed was Atossa, but Belshazzar gave the multitude no less heed
than she. Where better to show her Aryan pride and courage, than before
these _dæva_-worshippers!
“Fie, Persian wench!” hissed the tipsy Nabua, “your eyes turn green as a
cat’s with rage!” But a great hand clapped ungently upon his mouth.
“Peace, fool,” Khatin whispered hoarsely. “Persian or Chaldee, I know
a true man or a true maid. Where is the Babylonish hussy who could bear
herself in Susa thus?”
Three more litters, bearing Tavat-Hasina, the stately queen-mother,
Avil-Marduk, and the Jewess Ruth. Both women, like Atossa, shone with
jewels that twinkled under every torch; but Avil was clad in perfectly
plain robes and fillet,—strange contrast to the gay-robed company about.
He met the gaze of the multitude with his wonted stare and smile,
arrogant almost as his royal betters. But the Jewess was quaking like
aspen behind her purple and crimson. She said nothing; but her great eyes
were wandering all about, well telling the terror that had sunk too deep
for tear or cry.
Then behind the litters came the lords and captains of the Chaldees, two
by two, and more gilded armour, gem-crusted helmets, brilliant mantles
and surcoats; stately men all, who had anew given their Babylon the proud
title of “Lady of Kingdoms,” for they were the first warriors before whom
Cyrus, the terrible Aryan, had turned away in defeat.
Belshazzar had stretched himself on the high couch, the ladies and
pontiff took the chairs set at his side, the captains were seating
themselves below at the many small tables. Yet the king’s eyes wandered
about, inquiringly. “Where is Sirusur the general?”
Whereupon Bilsandan the vizier approached with a profound salaam.
“River of Omnipotence! the _Tartan_ asks me to beseech that he be
pardoned. He lies unwell in his own house; much service and the reopening
of an old wound drive him to his bed.”
“Lord,” quoth Avil, _sotto voce_, to his master, “Sirusur was anything
but ill this noon. To my mind—”
But Bilsandan interrupted nigh testily: “Priest, you sniff for treason
as a hound for a hare! Is it conspiracy for the king’s generals to be
stricken with the sickness-demon?”
“Nevertheless,” objected the priest, “let a messenger be sent to
Sirusur’s palace—”
But the vizier sneered boldly: “My dear pontiff, not one ‘double-hour’
since I saw him on his bed, with five wizards from your own temple
preparing incantations over him. Shall we not rather vow three steers
that he come from their clutches safely?”
“Samas protect Sirusur from the ‘five fiends,’” laughed the king. “I
mourn his absence, but he is forgiven. Enough delay! Let the feast begin.”
Instantly, as by magic, the tapestries upon the walls were brushed aside,
revealing doorways, whence a long procession of eunuchs filed into the
hall, each bearing a silver dish or basket; and soon fish and flesh of
every manner were piled upon the dishes of the king’s guests. Nor were
the throngs below the rope barriers forgotten; here, too, food was served
until man and child could take no more.
The music rose and fell in swaying rhythm and cadence; and now and again
the choir of Bel would burst into their song of praise to god and king,
raising their pæan louder, louder, until the canopies quivered:—
“Bel-Marduk, sovereign of archers,
Bel-Marduk, spoiler of cities,
Bel-Marduk, lord of all gods,
Bel-Marduk, who rulest forever;
Thee, thee we praise!”
After the carp and pigeons had vanished, lo! amid shout and creaking,
four flower-wreathed cars were wheeled into the court, each groaning
with the weight of a roasted ox. Then the company—as if they had starved
before—fell to feasting with true glutton’s zest. From time to time
Belshazzar would deign to command Mermaza to bear to this or that captain
a morsel of meat carved from the king’s own plate,—a rare mark of favour
to the happy soldier thus commended.
So at first the feasters devoured in silence; then when even the hunger
of the mighty men of the Chaldees began abating, the talk ran swiftly.
Vainly Belshazzar strove to force the Jewess into speech. The Persian
answered the king only curtly. Then at last he stretched forth his mighty
hands, plucked Ruth by the arm, and drew her close to his couch.
“Hail, daughter of Cyrus! do you not hate your rival?” cried he.
But Atossa only answered, though the flush on her cheek grew crimson:—
“I pity the lord of the Chaldees.”
“Pity?” Belshazzar stared at the Persian.
“Yes, verily! What save pity for a king who uses his power more to
torture helpless women than to perform right kingly deeds?”
Belshazzar thrust the Jewess away with a curse. “Allat possess you, girl!
Why is your touch so icy cold?” Then fiercely to Atossa, “Speak out,
Persian; what mean you?”
“Mean?” Atossa leaned forward from her own seat, and met his angry glare
unflinchingly; she spoke in a whisper, yet a whisper that could be heard
for far around: “I say that if it were Cyrus who had won the victory you
boast, he would not be lolling over a stalled ox and wine, but in the
field, grinding to dust his fleeing enemies. But I speak as a Persian
barbarian—the Chaldees are wiser. Their watchmen drink and sleep snug
to-night, knowing that the Aryan’s power is broken utterly.”
Belshazzar gave a laugh so loud that every feaster kept silence before
the king. “Bravely sped are your arrows, lady! I praise you! Were your
race as valiant with the sword as you with your tongue, scarce would we
be feasting here. Yet look on those captives yonder, choicest princes of
Cyrus’s host. Where is his power if he suffer _such_ to be taken?”
“Beware to boast; the Persian memories are long. They will not forget
revenge in a year or a generation.”
“Long truly if they would wait the crumbling of Imgur-Bel and
Nimitti-Bel!” But here the king halted, for Bilsandan approached his
couch once more.
“May the king’s liver increase, his heart find rest!” saluted the vizier.
“I crave his compassion. A messenger from my palace: my youngest daughter
lies grievously ill—a sudden torment sent by the ‘Maskim.’ Be gracious,
and suffer me to quit the feast.”
Belshazzar frowned. “You and Sirusur both away? I like it little. Yet go;
I can refuse no boon to-night.”
But the vizier had another request. “Lord, these Persian captives are a
doleful sight at so gay a feast. Command that they be taken away.”
The king nodded carelessly. Bilsandan whispered to the prisoners’ guards
and was gone; a moment later the captives were removed also, followed by
the hoots of many. Mermaza, who was serving the royal party, laid his
head beside Avil’s for an instant.
“First the general and then the vizier. Strange! I would stake five
wine-skins these excuses are lies!”
“I believe you,” was the guarded answer; “but what mischief can hatch
to-night? Yet I mourn that the king dismissed Bilsandan so readily.”
“Ha!” interrupted Belshazzar; “enough of fowl and oxen; bring on the
wine. Wine, the true gift of the gods, is the crowning of the feast!”
The music crashed again. The nimble eunuchs cleared away the viands in a
trice, and as quickly brought in the great mixing-bowls of chased gold
and silver. One huge tankard of perfumed Damascus they set beside the
king; and Avil, taking a jewelled cup, stood pouring libation and praying
loudly: “Grant, O Istar, O Nabu, O Bel, mighty deities whose power is
over Babylon, that Belshazzar your servant may reign ten thousand years.
Let his foes stumble, their weapons break, their bodies grow fruit for
his sword. And so will we offer you sacrifice forever!”
Then on one knee Mermaza passed to Belshazzar another cup; and the
monarch raised it with the cry: “Away with the ‘care-demon’ and his kind
this night. This is the time appointed by Nabu for glee. When has Babylon
shaken off a foe like Cyrus the Persian? Drink, men of Babylon, drink to
the present glory and the coming triumphs of your king!”
“Wine! Wine!” from every captain and sword-hand; and the goblets went
back to the waiting eunuchs in a twinkling.
Atossa had never seen Belshazzar so riotous before. He seemed to have let
the mad spirit of the hour gain utter possession of him.
“Drink!” he shouted again, “drink! He is traitor who does not measure
seven goblets.” Then, turning to Atossa, he thrust his own cup into
her hand. “I have been cruel, lady,”—his voice sank into hoarse
soothing,—“cruel, because hitherto you have been Persian. But to-night
you are become Babylonish by becoming my wife. We strike hands in a
truce. Peace is better than war. Bel-Marduk is your god now, not Ahura
the helpless. Are you not ‘Queen of Sumer and Akkad’? Ask whatever
you will, if in reason, and I will not refuse. But drink you with the
rest,—drink to the triumphs yet to be won by Belshazzar your husband,
whose glories are all yours.”
Mechanically Atossa tasted; put the goblet away. But Belshazzar still in
his mood ran on: “Yes, you are a great king’s daughter, and worthy to be
my wife, though Persian born. As for this Jewess here,” with a leer at
Ruth, “she shall learn to love me, when her father and his cursed god are
all forgot. The fiends blast me; why can I not drive the thought of that
drivelling Hebrew from my mind? To-morrow Khatin ends him, or I am no
king.”
But to the threat and curse neither Ruth nor Atossa answered, for the
iron had long since entered deep into their souls.
Already the first set of mixing-bowls were emptied; the eunuchs bustled
in with others. The rounded bottoms of the silver goblets, making it
impossible to lay them down, forced rapid drinking. Avil sat and quaffed
in silence; but once or twice paused to cast sinister glances toward the
vacant seat of Bilsandan. “A care, good vizier,” spoke he to his own
heart, “beware; the time is not far when I will brush you and the general
from my path, as I served Daniel and Imbi-Ilu; and then if aught of
mortal fate befell the king—”
But these forecastings were broken by the entrance of a great corps of
harem girls, clothed in gauzy dresses of all the tints of the rainbow.
While the harps tinkled softly they came before the king, to the space
cleared at the foot of the dais, and sped about in sensuous dances,
raven locks flying, smooth brown limbs twinkling, while they wove their
figures. And again and again their delicate voices joined with the
priests’ in the great chorus to Bel, bestower of all Babylon’s bright
glory:—
“Bel-Marduk, who rulest forever,
Thee, thee we praise!”
The music throbbed faster and faster, the players breaking into ever
madder melodies, as though their music was answering to the mounting
and throbbing of the wine. Belshazzar had sunk back on his couch in
contented revery, scarce watching the dancers. What king of the Chaldees
before him had opened his reign with a fairer triumph? Already to
Belshazzar’s vision the artists were portraying upon the palace walls, in
imperishable stone and enamel, the mighty deeds of the all-victorious son
of Nabonidus. Already before the king’s mind Media, Armenia, Egypt, and
farthest Tartary lay conquered. Nay, the barbarous tribes of the Greeks
beside their distant sea should learn to pay tribute to the monarch of
“Babylon the Great.” But the king’s dreaming ended when Avil touched his
elbow and whispered in his ear. And at the next interval in the dances
Belshazzar had a command for the chief of the eunuchs:—
“Hasten. Bring us the captured vessels, sacred to the gods of the nations
I and the great kings my fathers have put to shame. For we will drink
from them to the deities whose favour is upon Babylon.”
An expected order, and quickly obeyed. The eunuchs put in the hands of
the captains, the harem girls, and the musicians, innumerable fresh
goblets of gold and silver, of many and curious patterns. But to
Belshazzar Mermaza bore three golden drinking-cups, each huge and crusted
with jewels. Then the king took the first and raised himself from the
couch before the vast throng. What with his tiara, his own fair stature,
and his lofty seat, he seemed a god indeed.
“Again, lords of the Chaldees!” he commanded, “drink again! I hold
the goblet used by Pharaoh Necho, in worship of Ammon-Ra, his god.
Nebuchadnezzar took it in the great battle of Karkhemish. Where is
the power of Ammon against our Babylonish gods?” Belshazzar held the
glittering goblet on high. “Rise, Ammon, god of Egypt, rise! Thou art
mocked! Display thy power!” Perfect silence, and the king shouted again,
“Drink then with me, since Ammon lies helpless, a pledge to our great
Istar, ‘the Lady of Battles’!”
“Hail! Hail to Istar!” from a thousand, and they drank the pledge.
A second goblet was in Belshazzar’s hand; and again he called: “Look—a
vessel taken from the temple of Assur in Nineveh, when our fathers sacked
the city. Rise, Assur,—rise, god of Assyria! Thou art mocked.—Helpless
also—drink therefore again, a pledge to our Samas, ‘the Glory of the
Heavens’!”
“Hail to Samas, the undying sun god!” was the tumultuous answer. But the
king had not ended.
“Look, warriors and princes! I hold the goblet taken from Jerusalem, from
the temple of the impotent demon the shambling Jews and flying Persians
fear. When did Jehovah save Zedekiah the Hebrew out of the Chaldee’s
power? And how now shall Cyrus, who cries to him under the name of Ahura,
find deliverance from my hands? For Cyrus has turned away ashamed, his
vassals fail him, his god is helpless, his power is broken! Victorious
war is before your king, and empire never won before!”
“Victory! Victory to Belshazzar, the favoured of Marduk!” so the vast
company cried; and the king yet a third time uplifted a goblet.
“Rise, Jehovah, or Ahura,—whatever be thy name,—rise; thou art mocked!”
Again the pause and stillness, then the shout of the king: “Rise, rise!
thou who art boasted all-powerful. I defy thee, I laugh thee to scorn.”
The great cup was nearing his lips. “For the third and last pledge,
men of Babylon—to Bel-Marduk, whose power waxeth forever; who shall
be praised a thousand ages after the Persians’ and Hebrews’ god is
forgotten! To Bel-Marduk, lord of lords, and god of gods, drink!”
But as every man lifted his own wine-cup, and the shout of the pledge was
on his tongue, there was suddenly a silence. The goblet fell from the
royal fingers. They saw terror flash across the king’s face as he looked
upward; and each beheld something moving against the plastered wall....
[Illustration: “They saw terror flash across the king’s face as he looked
upward.”]
[Illustration: NABU BETRAYS BEL-MARDUK]