The savant Astreas, traveling in the East in his never-tiring search for
knowledge, wrote a letter to his friend and fellow-philosopher
Alcemides, in his native Nemedia, which constitutes the entire knowledge
of the Western nations concerning the events of that period in the East,
always a hazy, half-mythical region in the minds of the Western folk.
Astreas wrote, in part: 'You can scarcely conceive, my dear old friend,
of the conditions now existing in this tiny kingdom since Queen Taramis
admitted Constantius and his mercenaries, an event which I briefly
described in my last, hurried letter. Seven months have passed since
then, during which time it seems as though the devil himself had been
loosed in this unfortunate realm. Taramis seems to have gone quite mad;
whereas formerly she was famed for her virtue, justice and tranquillity,
she is now notorious for qualities precisely opposite to those just
enumerated. Her private life is a scandal--or perhaps "private" is not
the correct term, since the queen makes no attempt to conceal the
debauchery of her court. She constantly indulges in the most infamous
revelries, in which the unfortunate ladies of the court are forced to
join, young married women as well as virgins.
'She herself has not bothered to marry her paramour, Constantius, who
sits on the throne beside her and reigns as her royal consort, and his
officers follow his example, and do not hesitate to debauch any woman
they desire, regardless of her rank or station. The wretched kingdom
groans under exorbitant taxation, the farms are stripped to the bone,
and the merchants go in rags which are all that is left them by the
tax-gatherers. Nay, they are lucky if they escape with a whole skin.
'I sense your incredulity, good Alcemides; you will fear that I
exaggerate conditions in Khauran. Such conditions would be unthinkable
in any of the Western countries, admittedly. But you must realize the
vast difference that exists between West and East, especially this part
of the East. In the first place, Khauran is a kingdom of no great size,
one of the many principalities which at one time formed the eastern part
of the empire of Koth, and which later regained the independence which
was theirs at a still earlier age. This part of the world is made up of
these tiny realms, diminutive in comparison with the great kingdoms of
the West, or the great sultanates of the farther East, but important in
their control of the caravan routes, and in the wealth concentrated in
them.
'Khauran is the most southeasterly of these principalities, bordering on
the very deserts of eastern Shem. The city of Khauran is the only city
of any magnitude in the realm, and stands within sight of the river
which separates the grasslands from the sandy desert, like a watch-tower
to guard the fertile meadows behind it. The land is so rich that it
yields three and four crops a year, and the plains north and west of the
city are dotted with villages. To one accustomed to the great
plantations and stock-farms of the West, it is strange to see these tiny
fields and vineyards; yet wealth in grain and fruit pours from them as
from a horn of plenty. The villagers are agriculturists, nothing else.
Of a mixed, aboriginal race, they are unwarlike, unable to protect
themselves, and forbidden the possession of arms. Dependent wholly upon
the soldiers of the city for protection, they are helpless under the
present conditions. So the savage revolt of the rural sections, which
would be a certainty in any Western nation, is here impossible.
'They toil supinely under the iron hand of Constantius, and his
black-bearded Shemites ride incessantly through the fields, with whips
in their hands, like the slave-drivers of the black serfs who toil in
the plantations of southern Zingara.
'Nor do the people of the city fare any better. Their wealth is stripped
from them, their fairest daughters taken to glut the insatiable lust of
Constantius and his mercenaries. These men are utterly without mercy or
compassion, possessed of all the characteristics our armies learned to
abhor in our wars against the Shemitish allies of Argos--inhuman
cruelty, lust, and wild-beast ferocity. The people of the city are
Khauran's ruling caste, predominantly Hyborian, and valorous and
war-like. But the treachery of their queen delivered them into the hands
of their oppressors. The Shemites are the only armed force in Khauran,
and the most hellish punishment is inflicted on any Khaurani found
possessing weapons. A systematic persecution to destroy the young
Khaurani men able to bear arms has been savagely pursued. Many have
ruthlessly been slaughtered, others sold as slaves to the Turanians.
Thousands have fled the kingdom and either entered the service of other
rulers, or become outlaws, lurking in numerous bands along the borders.
'At present there is some possibility of invasion from the desert, which
is inhabited by tribes of Shemitish nomads. The mercenaries of
Constantius are men from the Shemitish cities of the west, Pelishtim,
Anakim, Akkharim, and are ardently hated by the Zuagirs and other
wandering tribes. As you know, good Alcemides, the countries of these
barbarians are divided into the western meadowlands which stretch to the
distant ocean, and in which rise the cities of the town-dwellers, and
the eastern deserts, where the lean nomads hold sway; there is incessant
warfare between the dwellers of the cities and the dwellers of the
desert.
'The Zuagirs have fought with and raided Khauran for centuries, without
success, but they resent its conquest by their western kin. It is
rumored that their natural antagonism is being fomented by the man who
was formerly the captain of the queen's guard, and who, somehow escaping
the hate of Constantius, who actually had him upon the cross, fled to
the nomads. He is called Conan, and is himself a barbarian, one of those
gloomy Cimmerians whose ferocity our soldiers have more than once
learned to their bitter cost. It is rumored that he has become the
right-hand man of Olgerd Vladislav, the _kozak_ adventurer who wandered
down from the northern steppes and made himself chief of a band of
Zuagirs. There are also rumors that this band has increased vastly in
the last few months, and that Olgerd, incited no doubt by this
Cimmerian, is even considering a raid on Khauran.
'It can not be anything more than a raid, as the Zuagirs are without
siege-machines, or the knowledge of investing a city, and it has been
proven repeatedly in the past that the nomads in their loose formation,
or rather lack of formation, are no match in hand-to-hand fighting for
the well-disciplined, fully-armed warriors of the Shemitish cities. The
natives of Khauran would perhaps welcome this conquest, since the nomads
could deal with them no more harshly than their present masters, and
even total extermination would be preferable to the suffering they have
to endure. But they are so cowed and helpless that they could give no
aid to the invaders.
'Their plight is most wretched. Taramis, apparently possessed of a
demon, stops at nothing. She has abolished the worship of Ishtar, and
turned the temple into a shrine of idolatry. She has destroyed the ivory
image of the goddess which these eastern Hyborians worship (and which,
inferior as it is to the true religion of Mitra which we Western nations
recognize, is still superior to the devil-worship of the Shemites) and
filled the temple of Ishtar with obscene images of every imaginable
sort--gods and goddesses of the night, portrayed in all the salacious
and perverse poses and with all the revolting characteristics that a
degenerate brain could conceive. Many of these images are to be
identified as foul deities of the Shemites, the Turanians, the
Vendhyans, and the Khitans, but others are reminiscent of a hideous and
half-remembered antiquity, vile shapes forgotten except in the most
obscure legends. Where the queen gained the knowledge of them I dare not
even hazard a guess.
'She has instituted human sacrifice, and since her mating with
Constantius, no less then five hundred men, women and children have been
immolated. Some of these have died on the altar she has set up in the
temple, herself wielding the sacrificial dagger, but most have met a
more horrible doom.
'Taramis has placed some sort of monster in a crypt in the temple. What
it is, and whence it came, none knows. But shortly after she had crushed
the desperate revolt of her soldiers against Constantius, she spent a
night alone in the desecrated temple, alone except for a dozen bound
captives, and the shuddering people saw thick, foul-smelling smoke
curling up from the dome, heard all night the frenetic chanting of the
queen, and the agonized cries of her tortured captives; and toward dawn
another voice mingled with these sounds--a strident, inhuman croaking
that froze the blood of all who heard.
'In the full dawn Taramis reeled drunkenly from the temple, her eyes
blazing with demoniac triumph. The captives were never seen again, nor
the croaking voice heard. But there is a room in the temple into which
none ever goes but the queen, driving a human sacrifice before her. And
this victim is never seen again. All know that in that grim chamber
lurks some monster from the black night of ages, which devours the
shrieking humans Taramis delivers up to it.
'I can no longer think of her as a mortal woman, but as a rabid
she-fiend, crouching in her blood-fouled lair amongst the bones and
fragments of her victims, with taloned, crimsoned fingers. That the gods
allow her to pursue her awful course unchecked almost shakes my faith in
divine justice.
'When I compare her present conduct with her deportment when first I
came to Khauran, seven months ago, I am confused with bewilderment, and
almost inclined to the belief held by many of the people--that a demon
has possessed the body of Taramis. A young soldier, Valerius, had
another belief. He believed that a witch had assumed a form identical
with that of Khauran's adored ruler. He believed that Taramis had been
spirited away in the night, and confined in some dungeon, and that this
being ruling in her place was but a female sorcerer. He swore that he
would find the real queen, if she still lived, but I greatly fear that
he himself has fallen victim to the cruelty of Constantius. He was
implicated in the revolt of the palace guards, escaped and remained in
hiding for some time, stubbornly refusing to seek safety abroad, and it
was during this time that I encountered him and he told me his beliefs.
'But he has disappeared, as so many have, whose fate one dares not
conjecture, and I fear he has been apprehended by the spies of
Constantius.
'But I must conclude this letter and slip it out of the city by means of
a swift carrier-pigeon, which will carry it to the post whence I
purchased it, on the borders of Koth. By rider and camel-train it will
eventually come to you. I must haste, before dawn. It is late, and the
stars gleam whitely on the gardened roofs of Khauran. A shuddering
silence envelops the city, in which I hear the throb of a sullen drum
from the distant temple. I doubt not that Taramis is there, concocting
more devilry.'
* * * * *
But the savant was incorrect in his conjecture concerning the
whereabouts of the woman he called Taramis. The girl whom the world knew
as queen of Khauran stood in a dungeon, lighted only by a flickering
torch which played on her features, etching the diabolical cruelty of
her beautiful countenance.
On the bare stone floor before her crouched a figure whose nakedness was
scarcely covered with tattered rags.
This figure Salome touched contemptuously with the upturned toe of her
gilded sandal, and smiled vindictively as her victim shrank away.
'You do not love my caresses, sweet sister?'
Taramis was still beautiful, in spite of her rags and the imprisonment
and abuse of seven weary months. She did not reply to her sister's
taunts, but bent her head as one grown accustomed to mockery.
This resignation did not please Salome. She bit her red lip, and stood
tapping the toe of her shoe against the floor as she frowned down at the
passive figure. Salome was clad in the barbaric splendor of a woman of
Shushan. Jewels glittered in the torchlight on her gilded sandals, on
her gold breast-plates and the slender chains that held them in place.
Gold anklets clashed as she moved, jeweled bracelets weighted her bare
arms. Her tall coiffure was that of a Shemitish woman, and jade pendants
hung from gold hoops in her ears, flashing and sparkling with each
impatient movement of her haughty head. A gem-crusted girdle supported
a silk shirt so transparent that it was in the nature of a cynical
mockery of convention.
Suspended from her shoulders and trailing down her back hung a darkly
scarlet cloak, and this was thrown carelessly over the crook of one arm
and the bundle that arm supported.
Salome stooped suddenly and with her free hand grasped her sister's
dishevelled hair and forced back the girl's head to stare into her eyes.
Taramis met that tigerish glare without flinching.
'You are not so ready with your tears as formerly, sweet sister,'
muttered the witch-girl.
'You shall wring no more tears from me,' answered Taramis. 'Too often
you have reveled in the spectacle of the queen of Khauran sobbing for
mercy on her knees. I know that you have spared me only to torment me;
that is why you have limited your tortures to such torments as neither
slay nor permanently disfigure. But I fear you no longer; you have
strained out the last vestige of hope, fright and shame from me. Slay me
and be done with it, for I have shed my last tear for your enjoyment,
you she-devil from hell!'
'You flatter yourself, my dear sister,' purred Salome. 'So far it is
only your handsome body that I have caused to suffer, only your pride
and self-esteem that I have crushed. You forget that, unlike myself, you
are capable of mental torment. I have observed this when I have regaled
you with narratives concerning the comedies I have enacted with some of
your stupid subjects. But this time I have brought more vivid proof of
these farces. Did you know that Krallides, your faithful councillor, had
come skulking back from Turan and been captured?'
Taramis turned pale.
'What--what have you done to him?'
For answer Salome drew the mysterious bundle from under her cloak. She
shook off the silken swathings and held it up--the head of a young man,
the features frozen in a convulsion as if death had come in the midst of
inhuman agony.
Taramis cried out as if a blade had pierced her heart.
'Oh, Ishtar! Krallides!'
'Aye! He was seeking to stir up the people against me, poor fool,
telling them that Conan spoke the truth when he said I was not Taramis.
How would the people rise against the Falcon's Shemites? With sticks and
pebbles? Bah! Dogs are eating his headless body in the market-place, and
this foul carrion shall be cast into the sewer to rot.
'How, sister!' She paused, smiling down at her victim. 'Have you
discovered that you still have unshed tears? Good! I reserved the mental
torment for the last. Hereafter I shall show you many such sights
as--this!'
Standing there in the torchlight with the severed head in her hand she
did not look like anything ever borne by a human woman, in spite of her
awful beauty. Taramis did not look up. She lay face down on the slimy
floor, her slim body shaken in sobs of agony, beating her clenched hands
against the stones. Salome sauntered toward the door, her anklets
clashing at each step, her ear pendants winking in the torch-glare.
A few moments later she emerged from a door under a sullen arch that led
into a court which in turn opened upon a winding alley. A man standing
there turned toward her--a giant Shemite, with sombre eyes and shoulders
like a bull, his great black beard falling over his mighty,
silver-mailed breast.
'She wept?' His rumble was like that of a bull, deep, low-pitched and
stormy. He was the general of the mercenaries, one of the few even of
Constantius's associates who knew the secret of the queens of Khauran.
'Aye, Khumbanigash. There are whole sections of her sensibilities that I
have not touched. When one sense is dulled by continual laceration, I
will discover a newer, more poignant pang. Here, dog!' A trembling,
shambling figure in rags, filth and matted hair approached, one of the
beggars that slept in the alleys and open courts. Salome tossed the head
to him. 'Here, deaf one; cast that in the nearest sewer. Make the sign
with your hands, Khumbanigash. He can not hear.'
The general complied, and the tousled head bobbed, as the man turned
painfully away.
'Why do you keep up this farce?' rumbled Khumbanigash. 'You are so
firmly established on the throne that nothing can unseat you. What if
Khaurani fools learn the truth? They can do nothing. Proclaim yourself
in your true identity! Show them their beloved ex-queen--and cut off her
head in the public square!'
'Not yet, good Khumbanigash--'
The arched door slammed on the hard accents of Salome, the stormy
reverberations of Khumbanigash. The mute beggar crouched in the
courtyard, and there was none to see that the hands which held the
severed head were quivering strongly--brown, sinewy hands, strangely
incongruous with the bent body and filthy tatters.
'I knew it!' It was a fierce, vibrant whisper, scarcely audible. 'She
lives! Oh, Krallides, your martyrdom was not in vain! They have her
locked in that dungeon! Oh, Ishtar, if you love true men, aid me now!'