Athwart the gleaming colonnades of the eastern balcony, the early
morning sun shone brightly, and all the shadows of the white marble
cornices and capitals and jutting frieze work were blue with the
reflection of the cloudless sky. The swallows now and then shot in under
the overhanging roof and flew up and down the covered terrace; then with
a quick rush, they sped forth again into the dancing sunshine with clean
sudden sweep, as when a sharp sword is whirled in the air. Far below,
the soft mist of the dawn still lay upon the city, whence the distant
cries of the water-carriers and fruitsellers came echoing up from the
waking streets, the call of the women to one another from the housetops,
and now and then the neighing of a horse far out upon the meadows; while
the fleet swallows circled over all in swift wide curves, with a silvery
fresh stream of unceasing twittering music.
Zoroaster paced the balcony alone. He was fully armed, with his helmet
upon his head; the crest of the winged wheels was replaced by the ensign
Darius had chosen for himself,--the half-figure of a likeness of the
king with long straight wings on either side, of wrought gold and very
fine workmanship. The long purple mantle hung to his heels and the royal
chain of gold was about his neck. As he walked the gilded leather of his
shoes was reflected in the polished marble pavement and he trod
cautiously, for the clean surface was slippery as the face of a mirror.
At one end of the terrace a stairway led down to the lower story of the
palace, and at the other end a high square door was masked by a heavy
curtain of rich purple and gold stuff, that fell in thick folds to the
glassy floor. Each time his walk brought him to this end Zoroaster
paused, as though expecting that some one should come out. But as it
generally happens when a man is waiting for something or some one that
the object or person appears unexpectedly, so it occurred that as he
turned back from the staircase towards the curtain, he saw that some one
had already advanced half the length of the balcony to meet him--and it
was not the person for whom he was looking.
At first, he was dazzled for a moment, but his memory served him
instantly and he recognised the face and form of a woman he had known
and often seen before. She was not tall, but so perfectly proportioned
that it was impossible to wish that she were taller. Her close tunic of
palest blue, bordered with a gold embroidery at the neck, betrayed the
matchless symmetry of her figure, the unspeakable grace of development
of a woman in the fullest bloom of beauty. From her knees to her feet,
her under tunic showed the purple and white bands that none but the king
might wear, and which even for the queen was an undue assumption of the
royal insignia. But Zoroaster did not look at her dress, nor at her
mantle of royal sea-purple, nor at the marvellous white hands that held
together a written scroll. His eyes rested on her face, and he stood
still where he was.
He knew those straight and perfect features, not large nor heavy, but of
such rare mould and faultless type as man has not seen since, neither
will see. The perfect curve of the fresh mouth; the white forward chin
with its sunk depression in the midst, the deep-set, blue eyes and the
straight pencilled brows; the broad smooth forehead and the tiny ear
half hidden in the glory of sun-golden hair; the milk-white skin just
tinged with the faint rose-light that never changed or reddened in heat
or cold, in anger or in joy--he knew them all; the features of royal
Cyrus made soft and womanly in substance, but unchanging still and
faultlessly cold in his great daughter Atossa, the child of kings, the
wife of kings, the mother of kings.
The heavy curtains had fallen together behind her, and she came forward
alone. She had seen Zoroaster before he had seen her, and she moved on
without showing any surprise, the heels of her small golden shoes
clicking sharply on the polished floor. Zoroaster remained standing for
a moment, and then, removing his helmet in salutation, went to one side
of the head of the staircase and waited respectfully for the queen to
pass. As she came on, passing alternately through the shadow cast by the
columns, and the sunlight that blazed between, her advancing figure
flashed with a new illumination at every step. She made as though she
were going straight on, but as she passed over the threshold to the
staircase, she suddenly stopped and turned half round, and looked
straight at Zoroaster.
"Thou art Zoroaster," she said in a smooth and musical voice, like the
ripple of a clear stream flowing through summer meadows.
"I am Zoroaster, thy servant," he answered, bowing his head. He spoke
very coldly.
"I remember thee well," said the queen, lingering by the head of the
staircase. "Thou art little changed, saving that thou art stronger, I
should think, and more of a soldier than formerly."
Zoroaster stood turning his polished helmet in his hands, but he
answered nothing; he cared little for the queen's praises. But she, it
seemed, was desirous of pleasing him in proportion as he was less
anxious to be pleased, for she turned again and walked forward upon the
terrace.
"Come into the sunlight--the morning air is cold," she said, "I would
speak with thee awhile."
A carved chair stood in a corner of the balcony. Zoroaster moved it into
the sunshine, and Atossa sat down, smiling her thanks to him, while he
stood leaning against the balustrade,--a magnificent figure as the light
caught his gilded harness and gold neckchain, and played on his long
fair beard and nestled in the folds of his purple mantle.
"Tell me--you came last night?" she asked, spreading her dainty hands in
the sunshine as though to warm them. She never feared the sun, for he
was friendly to her nativity and never seemed to scorch her fair skin
like that of meaner women.
"Thy servant came last night," answered the prince.
"Bringing Nehushta and the other Hebrews?" added the queen.
"Even so."
"Tell me something of this Nehushta," said Atossa. She had dropped into
a more familiar form of speech. But Zoroaster was careful of his words
and never allowed his language to relapse from the distant form of
address of a subject to his sovereign.
"The queen knoweth her. She was here as a young child a few years
since," he replied. He chose to let Atossa ask questions for all the
information she needed.
"It is so long ago," she said, with a little sigh. "Is she fair?"
"Nay, she is dark, after the manner of the Hebrews."
"And the Persians too," she interrupted.
"She is very beautiful," continued Zoroaster. "She is very tall." Atossa
looked up quickly with a smile. She was not tall herself, with all her
Beauty.
"You admire tall women?"
"Yes," said Zoroaster calmly--well knowing what he said. He did not wish
to flatter the queen; and besides he knew her too well to do so if he
wished to please her. She was one of those women who are not accustomed
to doubt their own superiority over the rest of their sex.
"Then you admire this Hebrew princess?" said she, and paused for an
answer. But her companion was as cold and calm as she. Seeing himself
directly pressed by a suspicion, he changed his tactics and flattered
Atossa for the sake of putting a stop to her questions.
"Height is not of itself beauty," he answered with a courteous smile.
"There is a kind of beauty which no height can improve,--a perfection
which needs not to be set high for all men to acknowledge it."
The queen simply took no notice of the compliment, but it had its
desired effect, for she changed the tone of her talk a little, speaking
more seriously.
"Where is she? I will go and see her," she said.
"She rested last night in the upper chambers in the southern part of the
palace. Thy servant will bid her come if it be thy desire."
"Presently, presently," answered the queen. "It is yet early, and she
was doubtless weary of the journey."
There was a pause. Zoroaster looked down at the beautiful queen as she
sat beside him, and wondered whether she had changed; and as he gazed,
he fell to comparing her beauty with Nehushta's, and his glance grew
more intent than he had meant it should be, so that Atossa looked up
suddenly and met his eyes resting on her face.
"It is long since we have met, Zoroaster," she said quickly. "Tell me of
your life in that wild fortress. You have prospered in your profession
of arms--you wear the royal chain." She put up her hand and touched the
links as though to feel them. "Indeed it is very like the chain Darius
wore when he went to Babylon the other day." She paused a moment as
though trying to recall something; then continued: "Yes--now I think of
it, he had no chain when he came back. It is his--of course--why has he
given it to you?" Her tones had a tinge of uncertainty in the
question,--half imperious, as demanding an answer, half persuading, as
though not sure the answer would be given. Zoroaster remembered that
intonation of her sweet voice, and he smiled in his beard.
"Indeed," he answered, "the Great King who liveth for ever, put this
chain about my neck with his own hands last night, when he halted by the
roadside, as a reward, I presume, for certain qualities he believeth his
servant Zoroaster to possess."
"Qualities--what qualities?"
"Nay, the queen cannot expect me to sing faithfully my own praises.
Nevertheless, I am ready to die for the Great King. He knoweth that I
am. May he live for ever!"
"It may be that one of the qualities was the successful performance of
the extremely difficult task you have lately accomplished," said Atossa,
with a touch of scorn.
"A task?" repeated Zoroaster.
"Yes--have you not brought a handful of Hebrew women all the way from
Ecbatana to Shushan, through numberless dangers and difficulties, safe
and sound, and so carefully prudent of their comfort that they are not
even weary, nor have they once hungered or thirsted by the way, nor lost
the smallest box of perfume, nor the tiniest of their golden hair-pins?
Surely you have deserved to have a royal chain hung about your neck and
to be called the king's friend."
"The reward was doubtless greater than my desert. It was no great feat
of arms that I had to perform; and yet, in these days a man may leave
Media under one king, and reach Shushan under another. The queen knoweth
better than any one what sudden changes may take place in the empire,"
answered Zoroaster, looking calmly into her face as he stood; and she
who had been the wife of Cambyses and the wife of the murdered
Gomata-Smerdis, and who was now the wife of Darius, looked down and was
silent, turning over in her beautiful hands the sealed scroll she bore.
The sun had risen higher while they talked, and his rays were growing
hot in the clear air. The mist had lifted from the city below, and all
the streets and open places were alive with noisy buyers and sellers,
whose loud talking and disputing came up in a continuous hum to the
palace on the hill, like the drone of a swarm of bees. The queen rose
from her seat.
"It is too warm here," she said, and she once more moved toward the
stairway. Zoroaster followed her respectfully, still holding his helmet
in his hand. Atossa did not speak till she reached the threshold. Then,
as Zoroaster bowed low before her, she paused and looked at him with her
clear, deep-blue eyes.
"You have grown very formal in four years," she said softly. "You used
to be more outspoken and less of a courtier. I am not changed--we must
be friends as we were formerly."
Zoroaster hesitated a moment before he answered:
"I am the Great King's man," he said slowly. "I am, therefore, also the
queen's servant."
Atossa raised her delicate eyebrows a little and a shade of annoyance
passed for the first time over her perfect face, which gave her a look
of sternness.
"I am the queen," she said coldly. "The king may take other wives, but I
am the queen. Take heed that you be indeed my servant." Then, as she
gathered her mantle about her and put one foot upon the stairs, she
touched his shoulder gently with the tips of her fingers and added with
a sudden smile, "And I will be your friend." So she passed down the
stairs out of sight, leaving Zoroaster alone.
Slowly he paced the terrace again, reflecting profoundly upon his
situation. Indeed he had no small cause for anxiety; it was evident that
the queen suspected his love for Nehushta, and he was more than half
convinced that there were reasons why such an affection would inevitably
meet with her disapproval. In former days, before she was married to
Cambyses, and afterwards, before Zoroaster had been sent into Media,
Atossa had shown so marked a liking for him, that a man more acquainted
with the world, would have guessed that she loved him. He had not
suspected such a thing, but with a keen perception of character, he had
understood that beneath the beautiful features and the frank gentleness
of the young princess, there lurked a profound intelligence, an
unbending ambition and a cold selfishness without equal; he had
mistrusted her, but he had humoured her caprices and been in truth a
good friend to her, without in the least wishing to accept her
friendship for himself in return. He was but a young captain of five
hundred then, although he was the favourite of the court; but his strong
arm was dreaded as well as the cutting force of his replies when
questioned, and no word of the court gossip had therefore reached his
ears concerning Atossa's admiration for him. It was, moreover, so
evident that he cared nothing for her beyond the most unaffected
friendliness, that her disappointment in not moving his heart was a
constant source of satisfaction to her enemies. There had reigned in
those days a great and unbridled license in the court, and the fact of
the daughter of Cyrus loving and being loved by the handsomest of the
king's guards, would not of itself have attracted overmuch notice. But
the evident innocence of Zoroaster in the whole affair, and the masterly
fashion in which Atossa concealed her anger, if she felt any, caused the
matter to be completely forgotten as soon as Zoroaster left Shushan, and
events had, since then, succeeded each other too rapidly to give the
courtiers leisure for gossiping about old scandals. The isolation in
which Gomata had lived during the seven months while he maintained the
popular impression that he was not Gomata-Smerdis, but Smerdis the
brother of Cambyses, had broken up the court; and the strong, manly
character of Darius had checked the license of the nobles suddenly, as a
horse-breaker brings up an unbroken colt by flinging the noose about his
neck. The king permitted that the ancient custom of marrying as many as
four wives should be maintained, and he himself soon set an example by
so doing; but he had determined that the whole corrupt fabric of court
life should be shattered at one blow; and with his usual intrepid
disregard of consequences and his iron determination to maintain his
opinions, he had suffered no contradiction of his will. He had married
Atossa,--in the first place, because she was the most beautiful woman in
Persia; and secondly, because he comprehended her great intelligence
and capacity for affairs, and believed himself able to make use of her
at his pleasure. As for Atossa herself, she had not hesitated a moment
in concurring in the marriage,--she had ruled her former husbands, and
she would rule Darius in like manner, she thought, to her own complete
aggrandisement and in the face of all rivals. As yet, the king had taken
no second wife, although he looked with growing admiration upon the
maiden Artystoné, who was then but fifteen years of age, the youngest
daughter of Cyrus and own sister to Atossa.
All this Zoroaster knew, and he recognised, also from the meeting he had
just had with the queen, that she was desirous of maintaining her
friendship with himself. But since the violent scene of the previous
night, he had determined to be the king's man in truest loyalty, and he
feared lest Atossa's plans might, before long, cross her husband's.
Therefore he accepted her offer of friendship coldly, and treated her
with the most formal courtesy. On the other hand, he understood well
enough that if she resented his manner of acting towards her, and
ascertained that he really loved Nehushta, it would be in her power to
produce difficulties and complications which he would have every cause
for fearing. She would certainly discover the king's admiration for
Nehushta. Darius was a man almost incapable of concealment; with whom to
think was to act instantly and without hesitation. He generally acted
rightly, for his instincts were noble and kingly, and his heart as
honest and open as the very light of day. He said what he thought and
instantly fulfilled his words. He hated a lie as poison, and the only
untruth he had ever been guilty of was told when, in order to gain
access to the dwelling of the false Smerdis, he had declared to the
guards that he brought news of importance from his father. He had
justified this falsehood by the most elaborate and logical apology to
his companions, the six princes, and had explained that he only lied for
the purpose of saving Persia; and when the lot fell to himself to assume
the royal authority, he fulfilled most amply every promise he had given
of freeing the country from tyranny, religious despotism and, generally,
from what he termed "lies." As for the killing of Gomata-Smerdis, it was
an act of public justice, approved by all sensible persons as soon as it
was known by what frauds that impostor had seized the kingdom.
With regard to Atossa, Darius had abstained from asking her questions
about her seven months of marriage with the usurper. She must have known
well enough who the man was, but Darius understood her character well
enough to know that she would marry whomsoever she saw in the chief
place, and that her counsel and courage would be of inestimable
advantage to a ruler. She herself never mentioned the past events to the
king, knowing his hatred of lies on the one hand, and that on the other,
the plain truth would redound to her discredit. He had given her to
understand as much from the first, telling her that he took her for what
she was, and not for what she had been. Her mind was at rest about the
past, and as for the future, she promised herself her full share in her
husband's success, should he succeed, and unbounded liberty in the
choice of his successor, should he fail.
But all these considerations did not tend to clear Zoroaster's vision in
regard to his own future. He saw himself already placed in a position of
extreme difficulty between Nehushta and the king. On the other hand, he
dreaded lest he should before long fall into disgrace with the king on
account of Atossa's treatment of himself, or incur Atossa's displeasure
through the great favour he received from Darius. He knew the queen to
be an ambitious woman, capable of the wildest conceptions, and possessed
of the utmost skill for their execution.
He longed to see Nehushta and talk with her at once,--to tell her many
things and to warn her of many possibilities; above all, he desired to
discuss with her the scene of the previous night and the strangely
sudden determination the king had expressed to make her his wife.
But he could not leave his post. His orders had been to await the king
in the morning upon the eastern terrace; and there he must abide until
it pleased Darius to come forth; and he knew Nehushta would not venture
down into that part of the palace. He wondered that the king did not
come, and he chafed at the delay as he saw the sun rising higher and
higher, and the shadows deepening in the terrace. Weary of waiting he
sat down at last upon the chair where Atossa had rested, and folded his
hands over his sword-hilt,--resigning himself to the situation with the
philosophy of a trained soldier.
Sitting thus alone, he fell to dreaming. As he gazed out at the bright
sky, he forgot his life and his love, and all things of the present; and
his mind wandered away among the thoughts most natural and most
congenial to his profound intellect. His attention became fixed in the
contemplation of a larger dimension of intelligences,--the veil of
darkness parted a little, and for a time he saw clearly in the light of
a Greater Universe.