CHAPTER I

Produced by Al Haines.

[Illustration: Cover]

[Illustration: She had come into the lion's very lair. (Page 143)]

SEMIRAMIS

A Tale of Battle and of Love

BY

*EDWARD PEPLE*

NEW YORK

MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY

1907

Copyright, 1907

BY MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY

Published August, 1907

Reprinted, November, 1907

To

"THE LITTLE PADRE"

CONTENTS

I. The Raising of the Siege

II. The Building of a City

III. The Governor of Syria

IV. The Fish Goddess

V. A Prayer to Dagon

VI. The Daughter of Derketo

VII. A Master's Kiss

VIII. They that Depart and He that is Left Behind

IX. The Eaglet Nursed by Doves

X. The Lifting of a Tax

XI. The Sandal and the Straws

XII. The Sorrows of a King

XIII. The Skin of a One-Eyed Lion

XIV. The Turn of a Woman's Tongue

XV. An Army on the March

XVI. The Pass of the Wedge

XVII. In the Shadow of Zariaspa

XVIII. The Raisin in a Skin of Vinegar

XIX. The Stratagem

XX. The Flight

XXI. The Riddle of the Secret Way

XXII. Who Ruleth, First Must Rise

XXIII. The Siege

XXIV. The Citadel

XXV. Shifting the Burden

XXVI. The Passing of a Man

XXVII. A Path Which Led to Its Starting Point

XXVIII. The Cry of the Tigress to her Mate

XXIX. When a Woman Ruled the World

XXX. The Desert and the King

XXXI. The Crowning of the Dead

XXXII. A War Queen's Prophecy

PREFACE.

The existing history of Assyria's greatest ruler, Semiramis, is so

confounded with the religions and superstitions of the ancients that

little or no authentic fact may be gleaned therefrom. Again, these

legends were handed down from father to son among the Syrians and

imaginative Persians, till finally recorded by the more imaginative

Greeks. These latter gentlemen seemed seldom to allow mere truth to

stand as a stumbling block in their literary paths, but leaped it nimbly

for the entertainment of an admiring world.

As for poets, they ever sing of Queen Semiramis at a period of her

seasoned age and wickedness, though her "devilish beauty" continued to

abide with her, being wielded as an evil scepter o'er the souls of men;

yet much must be forgiven in a poet, because of that strange inaptitude

of truth for a friendly relationship with meter and with rhyme.

In every human, however bad, there exists a trace of virtue, even as, on

the other hand, no mortal yet has lived without some blemish of flesh or

mind or heart; thus Nature balances her weird accounts, leaving the

extremes of vice or purity to mythical ideals.

Given a woman without imagination or originality, and that woman

deserves no credit whatsoever for her righteousness. She exists; she

does not live; for her temptation possesses no attractive lure. Yet

given another woman, of beauty, temper, brains, and for her the battles

of good and evil will be waged till her fires are dead. Her better self

must battle against ambition, passion, the blood of direct inheritance,

the thousand ghostly guides that lead her into perilous ways, while on

the scales of circumstances must hang the issue of her rise or fall.

She must face still other foes, in men who are stronger than

herself--men who seek her charms for weel or woe; for perfect love is a

woman's highest goal, and a man may make or mar it by the mould of his

great or little heart.

If, therefore, in her later days Semiramis was evil, the fault was not

all her own. She chose her master--not the master of her mind, but the

master of her woman's heart, and to him she gave her all. What wonder,

then, that when her all was filched by lustful treachery, departing

peace awoke a sleeping devil in her blood?

Great faults had Queen Semiramis, and many, as viewed by enlightened

women from a reach of two thousand years; yet who shall say that evil

would have claimed this splendid savage had fate not raised another

savage to mould her destiny?

It is not the purpose of this work to present a series of historical

facts, for even the legends of Semiramis are too absurd and fragmentary

to admit of such a hope. Its aim--in emulation of the worthy

Greeks--is, at least, to entertain, albeit a truth or two may now and

again be handled carelessly. It treats of ancient loves and wars, a

tangle of myth and probability--a patch-work, woven into a quilt which,

at worst, may assist the reader in going peacefully to sleep.

July, 1907. E. P.

SEMIRAMIS

CHAPTER I

THE RAISING OF THE SIEGE

King Ninus sat his war horse, gazing sadly out across the walls of

Zariaspa. His cheek was bronzed by the brush of many winds, his muscles

hardened by the toil of battle in a hundred lands; the blood of

dauntless youth ran riot in his veins, yet it whispered at his heart

that the King had failed.

Behind him the mountains of Hindu-Kush towered, dull and purple, in the

morning light, their peaks obscured in coils of snake-like mist.

Southward they ran, a ragged line of hills, till they reached the height

of Hindu-Koh and claimed a brotherhood with the mighty Himalayas. To

right and left the hill-steeps lay, a barren waste of rock and stunted

shrubbery, while at the feet of Assyria's King stretched fertile

valleys, and the plains of Bactria reaching away to the banks of the

River Oxus.

In the centre of the plain stood Zariaspa, the city which defied

Assyria's might, a fortress whose walls rose thirty cubits above the

earth, grim, battle-scarred, but still unconquered. Within, the

defenders feasted from a never ending store of food which seemed to drop

by magic from the brazen skies, while without, a hungry host of

besieging foes sat, cursing, in the sand.

So Ninus sat upon his horse in troubled thought, a monarch cheated of

his heart's desire--cheated by craft and prowess more subtle than his

own. To his side rode Menon down a mountain trail, a Prince of the

house of Nairi, now travel-stained from a baffled hunt for the secret of

Zariaspa's store of food. He made report, and Ninus listened, silent,

nodding slowly, frowning at the distant walls.

In feature and form these two were as oddly matched as the sons of a

kindred race might be. The King was of massive frame and corded thews,

a leader of men who ruled by the right of might, who offered to those he

loved an open hand--to his enemies a hard-clenched fist. Haughty of

mien was he, with the eyes of a restless hawk burning beneath the shadow

of his brow; his strong, square chin lay hidden in his beard, while from

his helm swept a mass of hair, resting in thick, oiled curls upon his

shoulders.

The Prince beside him was but a boy in years, with a beardless face of

beauty to look upon, a slender, nimble frame, yet hardened in the school

of hunting and of war. Where Fate was pleased to mark his path, there

Menon[#] rode with a loose, free rein, mocking at danger as he played at

love, yet scorning not discretion's padded shield.

[#] This name is known to modern writers as Onnes or Cannes, but the

historian Diodorus called him Menon and this name has been used by the

author throughout.

Where Ninus smashed his way through the bristling ranks of opposing

force, Menon skimmed in crafty circles till he found the weakest point,

then cut it cleanly, as the swallow cuts the wind. Where Ninus frowned

and crushed obedience to his will, there Menon bought devotion's

merchandise with the price of a joyous laugh; yet the boy, withal, had

need to lean upon the arm of power, while the King was a king from helm

to heel, a lord to whom his mighty armies gave idolatry and the tribute

of their blood.

"Menon," spoke the King at length, as he pointed across the plain to

Zariaspa, "I have sworn by Bel and Raman to lay yon city low, to sack it

to the dust of its whitest ash. Thinkest thou we may some day cease to

squat in the manner of toads outside its walls?"

"Aye, my lord," the Prince returned, with a fleeting smile, "some

day--when the toads have learned to fly."

King Ninus nodded thoughtfully, and with his fingers combed at his

thick, black beard.

"True," he answered, "true; and yet we soon will be upon the wing. Look

thou and listen." Again he pointed, not at the city's walls, but to the

monster camp which circled Zariaspa as a girdle rests about a woman's

waist. "See, Menon, thy King hath learned to fly."

Now even as he spoke, the besieging army woke as from a heavy sleep. On

the gentle wind came a clank and clatter of swiftly gathered arms, the

squeak of wheels and the harsh, shrill cries of captains to their men.

At first the sound was faint and far, a whispered echo through the

morning mists; yet anon it multiplied and swelled into a busy roar, as

the vanguard of Assyria's hosts turned tail upon their enemies and

crawled toward the southern mountain-pass.

Menon, like the King, gazed out across the plain, but in wonder and

amaze, then raised his eyes to his master's frowning face. Twice he

strove to speak, and twice fell silent, turning again to the marvel of

Assyria's army in retreat.

"My lord--" he began at last, but Ninus checked him with a lifted hand.

"Nay, Menon," the master sighed, "thy soul is troubled because of the

strangeness of this thing; yet heed me and know the cause. My heart is

still for battle, yet the heart hath taken council of the mind, and

wisdom soundeth my retreat."

The King dismounted from his steed, leading the Prince to a seat upon a

stone which overlooked a wider view of the breaking camp. He placed his

arm in fatherly caress on Menon's shoulder, and spoke once more:

"My warriors have called their chief a god." He paused to smile behind

his beard, and for an instant sat in reverie. "Now godhood hath its

virtues so long as it leadeth unto victory and beds of ease; yet this

have I learned, and to my woe, that a pot of boiling grease poured down

from a city's wall will scald a god as it scaldeth a naked slave.

Defeat is mortal; gods bring victory alone, and my faithful followers

begin to mutter among themselves."

Again King Ninus paused in reverie, then stretched his knotted arm

toward the stubborn city.

"Three years have we girded Zariaspa's walls and battered at its

masonry. Three years! and what hath been compassed in these weary days?

We scrape an hundred-weight of scales from off the stones, and sacrifice

a third of an army's strength to the sport of our laughing enemies. Our

shafts are as swarms of harmless gnats, our lances reeds in the hands of

girls; our mightiest engines toys at which the foemen crow and chuckle

in their merriment. From the Oxus to the hills we harry the land in

search of food, while the Bactrians fatten as they loll upon their

battlements. Aye, meat have they, the which they devour in lazy

arrogance, tossing the bones thereof at our hungry men below! Whence

cometh this vast supply? From Bel or Gibil, it matters not; they gorge

themselves, and laugh! Five score spies have I sent by craft into the

city, and five score spies have they hanged upon the walls! By the

breath of Shamashi-Raman, it rouseth me to wrath!"

The King arose and set to striding in fury to and fro, while Menon

forbore to question him, knowing that if his master willed he would

speak in time.

"And so," sighed Ninus, pausing at last beside the boy, "and so will we

journey westward for a space, to conquer other and weaker lands, to

fatten my army with the fruits of spoil, to help them forget that a god

hath failed. When this be compassed, then will I rest from war beside

the Tigris where my city shall be builded in the sand--a city, Menon,

the like of which no eye hath yet beheld--a fortress beside whose

strength this little Zariaspa is but a nut to crack beneath thy heel.

And there will I set my court and hold dominion over all the world--hold

it, till men and the children of men shall wear my footstool smooth with

the pressure of their knees!"

The monarch's bosom heaved in wrapt desire; his dark eyes kindled with a

flame inspired, as he raised them toward the clouds. As a prophet he

saw this pearl of glory rise from out the wilderness. He saw its

monster walls, surmounted by a thousand and a half a thousand soaring

towers. In fancy he fashioned gleaming palaces and sumptuous banquet

halls. He dreamed of gardens drowsing in the cool of spreading palms,

where a king might rest from the toil of his lion-hunt; he heard the

splash of fountains murmuring through the long blue night, till the

torch of morning lit his terraces, and the grapes of Syria ripened to

his hand. He watched in triumph from his palace roof the vast brown

city stretching at his feet, while the echoed roar of its busy din

climbed upward in waves of melody. He heard the clang of its mighty

gates of bronze that opened to the commerce of the earth--that opened

again to the outrush of his war-armed hosts, a thousand nations melted

into one grand hammer-head that rose and fell in obedience to his

lightest nod.

"And because of this city," King Ninus cried aloud, "the peoples of

every land shall hold my memory till the passing ages rot, for I swear

to mount it on a deathless throne and crown it with the splendour of my

name! Up, Menon, and journey with thy King to NINEVEH!"

And thus was born that Nineveh which rode astride the world, to fall at

last, as falls the pride of power, and find its grave in the dust from

whence it sprung--to lie forgotten in a mouldy crypt of dreams, till the

peoples who slipped from the womb of another age swarmed forth to dig

again--to spell out a kingdom's vanished glories from the symbols of a

vanished tongue.

Menon and the King rode down into the valley and across the plain to

where the great war-serpent of Assyria began to uncoil itself and crawl

toward the west. For the space of a moon the joyless work went on. The

camps of horse and foot were struck, the rude utensils and heavier arms

being strapped to the backs of beasts of burden, while an hundred

thousand chariots were hitched and deployed across the plains.

Cumberous engines for the hurling of heavy stones were dragged from

beneath the city walls, to be burned and destroyed, or hauled through

gaps in the distant mountain range by lowing oxen and toiling, sweating

slaves. The warriors set torches to the huts and houses behind their

trenches, and a roar of flames was added to the bustling din of moving

men-at-arms. Great columns of spark-shot smoke arose, to roll above the

city in a suffocating cloud--to choke the defenders who coughed and

crowded along the battlements. As each dense mass of besiegers passed,

the Bactrianas set up shouts and songs of victory, while they hurled

their taunts, together with flights of shafts and stones, at the

growling, cursing enemy below.

From day to day the scene was one of turbulence and haste, a jumble of

groaning carts and provision trains, of swiftly formed battalions

passing westward on the run, to join the vanguard and be lost in a cloud

of thick, low-hanging dust. And thus an hundred nations trickled into

order through the teeming ruck, each yelling in its native tongue as it

flung defiance back at Zariaspa; while above the rumbling tramp of

myriads of feet rose the blare of countless signal horns.

When the last day dawned, King Ninus marshalled an array to bid farewell

to his jeering foes. Where he faced the city gates, a thousand chariots

were formed in a curving, triple line, with steeds whose polished

trappings glittered in the sun, their drivers giants picked from the

flower of his force. The wings were shaped by cavalry, dark-visaged

riders from the south, in turbans and flowing robes, while a horde of

footmen were massed behind. Here were seen the harnessed tribes that

bowed to Assyria's rule; Indian bowmen, with weapons fashioned from

bones of saurians; spearsmen from Babylonia, archers from the north;

grim swordsmen from the Upper and Lower Nile, bearing their shields of

painted bronze; wild slingers from the Syrian hills, half clothed in the

skins of beasts; Afghans, sullen Khatti, proud Armenians in solid,

bristling ranks--the warriors of the world who had swept all Asia as

with a flame, yet failed to drag the walls of Zariaspa down.

In the centre of the curving front King Ninus sat his war horse

silently; on his right rode Menon, while on his left a mounted herald

waited for command. The monarch gave a sign; the stern battalia

advanced, to halt within an arrow-shot of the city gates; then the

herald raised his voice, demanding audience with Oxyartes, King of

Bactria.

Now the Bactrians on the walls, suspecting some deceitful snare,

answered the summons with hoots and laughter, with the mimic howls of

animals and the mocking crow of cocks. A cloud of arrows fell like

drops of rain, galling the restive chariot steeds, while a captain on

the wall released the beam of a catapult. A monster rock came hurtling

through the air, to strike the earth within a spear's length of the King

and crash through the triple line of chariots; whereat a mighty roar of

rage went up, the clamour growing into fury, till Ninus wheeled his

horse and gave a sharp command. At his word, the centre of the line

began to bend in a deeper curve, divided at last, and two great columns

of horse and foot streamed westward toward the hills, while the rumbling

chariots, twelve abreast, brought up the rear.

With Menon alone King Ninus sat motionless upon his steed till his

warriors left the space of a thousand paces clear; then he rode to the

gate and struck it sharply with the hilt of his heavy sword.

"Come forth, King Oxyartes!" he cried aloud. "Come forth!"

Now the people of Bactria loved a fearless man, be he enemy or friend,

so they cheered him till the city rocked with the thunder of their

shouts, and Oxyartes stood out upon the battlements.

"What would Ninus of the King of Bactria?" he called; and Ninus

answered, albeit he lifted not his eyes:

"It is not meet that the lord of Assyria hold speech with fowls who

roost in trees. Come down and parley, King to King."

A bowman from above took umbrage at the haughty tone, and loosed a shaft

which broke upon the monarch's metal helm, yet because of this deed King

Oxyartes seized the miscreant and flung him from the wall. Then he

called for a rope which, being brought, was looped beneath his arms, and

his warriors lowered him to the earth, for the city gates were sealed.

In his hand he held a naked sword, and Ninus noting this laughed

scornfully, dismounted and cast his weapon on the ground, awaiting his

enemy with folded arms. The Bactrian flushed in shame, flung his own

blade aside, and advanced with outstretched hands.

"Pardon, my lord," he begged. "With one so strange to fear, I might

have brought my trust as I brought my sword."

"Nay," smiled Ninus; "where the sword is wisdom, there caution is a

shield."

Oxyartes was of that mould of warrior which Ninus loved; the straight,

lean form, the kingly head beneath whose brow the eyes looked out with a

level gaze, while the hands he offered were firm in the strength of

youth--a fitting shield for the heart of his sturdy land.

"And why," he asked, "am I honoured by a parley with Assyria's lord,

when his army marcheth westward in retreat?"

King Ninus laid his hand upon the Bactrian's shoulder, looked into his

eyes, and spoke:

"I come to bid farewell to a worthy foe, ere I turn toward the Tigris

where my city shall be builded on its shore. There will I rest and plan

my coming wars. There will I raise another and a mightier force, to

return when three short years have passed and blot thy city from the

plains. Ah, smile if thou wilt, friend Oxyartes, but I come again, and

at my coming, look well to Zariaspa's walls!"

So Oxyartes ceased to smile, casting his gaze upon the earth, for he

knew his foe spoke truth and would come again.

"My lord," he asked at length, "wherefore should our races be at war?

In the country round about I may not match thy multitude of men-at-arms;

yet behind my battlements I defy thy proudest strength. Wisdom crieth

out for truce, a compact wherein I weld my force with thine and share

all conquests and a portion of the spoil thereof. Speak, Ninus, for the

compact seemeth just."

"True," the monarch nodded gravely, "true; and yet I may not do this

thing. When Bactria is conquered and thy citadel laid low, then will I

make a treaty with thy nation's chiefs. They shall join their strength

to mine and share a goodly part of my captives and my spoils." He

paused to smile, and once more laid his hand on the shoulder of

Oxyartes. "Their warrior King will I set among my best beloved, for I

hold him as a brother in the arts of war; yet heed me, friend, I have

sworn by Bel and Raman to rake the ashes of thy Zariaspa into sacks and

with them feed the waters of the sea! And this will I do, or leave my

bones to bleach beneath the brow of Hindu-Kush! Till I come

again--farewell."

Then Oxyartes embraced the Assyrian king, begging him to tarry for a day

as an honored guest, to feast and receive the richest gifts his kingdom

might afford; but Ninus smiled and shook his head.

"Nay, suffer me to treasure up the thought," he answered with a laugh,

"yet keep thy gifts till I come to take them for myself."

"So be it," smiled the Bactrian in return. "Three years of peace thou

givest me, and in them will I dig the grave of Assyria's lord in the

shadow of frowning Kush! Farewell!"

He stooped and gave the sword of Ninus into the monarch's hand, stroked

the charger's neck till its master mounted, then watched the King and

Menon ride away across the sunlit plains.

Not once did Ninus give a backward glance, yet Menon wheeled his steed

and kissed his hand to a gathering of maidens watching from the

battlements.