Читать книгу Sarchedon: A Legend of the Great Queen - G. J. Whyte-Melville - Страница 21

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As the glittering procession defiled in proud array through the gates of that imperial city, Babylon might well be proud of her children. The most warlike nation on earth had assembled to greet the flower of its army returning from conquest; and the warriors of the old king bore themselves like men who are conscious they deserve the meed of triumph accorded to their fellows. Each black-browed spearman, so bold of feature, so open-eyed, so curled and bearded, stalwart of limb and stately of gesture, marched with haughty step and head erect, as though he felt himself the picked and chosen champion of a host. Archers and slingers assumed the staid dignity of veteran captains, while the very horses that drew the war-chariots champed, snorted, and swelled their crests as if they too were conscious of the reputation it behoved them to uphold.

Far as stretched the triumph—so far indeed that its van had already reached the temple of Baal, while its rearguard was yet below the sky-line of the desert—every link in that chain of victory afforded some object of interest, admiration, or pride to the spectators. These were the bows that had been bent to such purpose in their first pitched battle with the ancient enemy, when Egypt was worsted and driven back upon the Nile. Those strong and stately spearmen, so bronzed, so scarred, so splendid in dress and armour, were the very warriors who had withstood the fury of all Pharaoh's chariots and horsemen, nor yielded one cubit of ground, though sore out-numbered and beset, while they covered the Great King's passage of that famous river. Close in their rear, with clang of trumpet, clash of steel, and ring of bridle, came trampling four abreast the famous horsemen of Assyria; and men told each other, with kindling eyes and eager gestures, how the steeds that drank from the Tigris and the Euphrates had charged to the gates of Memphis and been stabled in the temples of the Stork.

Next, with horses gorgeously caparisoned, trapped, plumed, and stepping daintily under the rein, rolled on the terrible war-chariots of iron, that, with their scythes of steel, mowed down the ranks of an enemy in broad swathes of slaughter where they passed. Each car, besides its charioteer, held a heavily-armed warrior under shield, with bow and arrows, sword and spear; three horses plunged abreast, two of which were harnessed to the chariot, while a third, linked only with its fellows to the bridle, was driven along-side in readiness to replace a maimed or fallen steed. This formidable array, which struck with awe even the accustomed senses of the bystanders, was compared by them to the chest and body of the army, while the horsemen represented its limbs and feet.

Immediately in rear of that moving mass of metal rode the captain of the host, less distinguished for splendour of array than personal dignity of bearing and such a noble face as must have been beautiful in youth. To please his fierce old master, he followed the example of Ninus, and abandoned his chariot for the back of so goodly a steed as could only have been bred in the plain between the rivers. If a thousand acclamations rent the air while this stately veteran came galloping on, managing his war-horse with all the grace and pliancy of youth, they were increased tenfold when he drew rein beneath the terrace where stood Ishtar and her maidens, halting for a moment, while he looked fondly upward at his daughter and his home.

With the gesture of a child, she stretched out her arms towards him, as if she would fain have leaped down into his embrace. Sarchedon, looking on her from the wall, was but one of many thousands who felt her innocent beauty thrill to his very heart. Nevertheless, Assarac, narrowly watching Semiramis, observed her cheek turn a shade paler, while the hard pitiless expression came back to the queen's unrivalled face.

Arbaces made no long delay. Waving his hand towards his daughter, and glancing proudly round on his applauding countrymen, he paced slowly on, while a whisper ran through the crowd:

"Stand close—here they come! Welcome to the golden helmets! Honour to the guards of the Great King!"

Two by two, mounted on white horses with scarlet trappings, arrayed in silks of white and scarlet, with shields and helmets of burnished gold, came flashing on this picked and chosen body—every man of whom, selected for strength and beauty, must also have distinguished himself by an attested act of daring in the field. In their centre floated their standard, likewise of scarlet, and on its folds was embroidered in gold the figure of Merodach, god of war, standing on a bull with a drawn bow in his hand. The arms of these champions were bare to the elbow, their legs to the knee; but their persons were otherwise defended by close scale armour, thickly inlaid with gold; precious jewels studded the belt and pommel of each man's sword, and the shaft of his spear; the fringes of their gowns were inordinately long, their beards and hair elaborately curled and perfumed. It was evident that these guards of royalty esteemed themselves no less ornaments than champions of the Assyrian host.

Sarchedon's eyes flashed, and his cheek glowed with pleasure while they passed. He was proud to think that these were his own special comrades and brethren-in-arms; that it was from their glittering ranks he had been detached with the royal signet and tidings of the Great King's return.

The queen marked his enthusiasm; and, bending kindly towards him, demanded in a soft voice, scarce above a whisper:

"Who are these, Sarchedon? To my eye, they seem the goodliest and best-favoured men in the armies of Assyria."

"They are my comrades," he answered proudly; "the guards of the Great King: the meanest of us holds himself equal to a leader of ten thousand. Arbaces Tartan[3] is our captain, as he is captain of the host."

"And Sarchedon would look nobly at their head," she answered, with one of her bewildering smiles. "It may come to pass yet for him who knows when to strike and when to forbear. Hush! there are higher destinies written in the stars than the posting of a few tinselled spearmen to watch the slumbers of a king!"

He was equal to the occasion. O, heart of man! so strong and bold when beset by danger or privation, so weak and untenable when assailed on the side of vanity! He replied in a low and trembling voice, "It is honour enough for me. Yet is there one post I would rather hold—one watch I would give my life to keep, if only for a day!"

"You shall not pay so dear a price!" she answered gently. "Take a lesson from the amulet on your own breast. See how that loving bird follows the arrow's flight. So long as her career is upward, the shaft can never pierce her heart. 'Tis a fair and precious jewel—let no temptation lead you to part from it. I will examine it more closely hereafter."

"It is my queen's!" he exclaimed. "As is my life, and all I have."

"Keep it till I require it of you," was the answer. "And now tell me, Sarchedon, amongst these goodly warriors, whom think you the fairest and the comeliest?"

"There are none in all the host to be compared with him now passing beneath us in his chariot," said Sarchedon boldly. "None other face of man or woman half so fair—but one!"

Such words conveyed no mental reservation—though his own heart told him he had over shot the truth. But punishment for his duplicity followed quickly on the offence.

Another of those rare smiles stole over the queen's face, as the acclamations of the multitude rose higher than before to greet him who must hereafter be their king; and Ninyas, reclining in his chariot, accepted with indolent good-humour that loud and boisterous welcome. His shield and spear were laid aside—his bow and quiver hung at the back of the chariot. On his head, from which the dark curls were combed back so daintily, he wore no helmet of defence—only a light linen tiara bound by a circlet of gold. Robes of violet silk floated loosely round his exquisite shape and womanly roundness of limb, while he carried a jewelled drinking-cup, long since emptied, in his hand. It was the attire—the attitude—the appearance of a votary of pleasure hastening to the banquet, rather than of a tired warrior returning from the field. Nevertheless, it may be that a character for prowess, cheaply earned enough by a king's son in battle, lost nothing of its value among the thoughtless crowd, for an affectation of effeminacy, only excusable in one of such youth, beauty, and reputed valour. The queen, looking down on him well-pleased, could not refrain from exclaiming:

"My son is indeed comely! Yet is it the comeliness of a woman rather than a man."

"There is but one woman on earth more fair," whispered Assarac in her ear. "Nevertheless, were she down yonder in male attire on a war-chariot, and he sitting amongst us here in the royal robes of a queen, I doubt if the change would be suspected by one of all that countless multitude now gazing in admiration on both."

She started, not expecting to receive her answer from the priest, and bent her brows in deep thought, mingled with displeasure, as she observed the uneasiness of Sarchedon, eagerly watching certain movements going on below.

Guiding the horses, by the side of Ninyas, sat Sethos, the king's cup-bearer, who being in high favour with his young lord usually accompanied him in his chariot, both to battle and to the chase. Perhaps not entirely without a purpose, he drew rein immediately under the terrace where stood Ishtar and her maidens, at the instant when a posy of flowers, projected innocently enough by the damsel herself, came whirling down at the feet of her future king.

Ninyas looked up quickly; and even in that moment of vexation Sarchedon could not but remark the winning smile, that, brightening all his face, enhanced her son's extraordinary resemblance to Semiramis.

The young prince lifted the flowers, and put them to his lips with a graceful salutation. Then he bent his head to Sethos, and the latter, taking the cup from his lord's hand, flung it deftly upward so as to light on the terrace within a cubit of where the damsel stood.

"Keep it for the sake of Ninyas," called out the giver, as he bowed his head once more; whispering in the ear of Sethos, while the chariot moved slowly on, "That comely maiden, pale and tender like a lily in a paradise, is better worth the taking than all the beauty of Egypt, captives of our bow and spear."

"And my lord has won her with an empty cup," answered laughing Sethos. "When he flings aside the maiden, like the goblet, may I be there to catch her ere she falls!"

Though the populace applauded loudly, as it was natural they should applaud such an action of mingled gallantry, condescension, and insolence, a shudder crept over Ishtar from head to heel, and she moved the skirt of her garment to avoid touching that gift of a future monarch, as if it had been some noxious reptile in her path.

Semiramis did not fail to note how the daughter of Arbaces shot more than one imploring glance at Sarchedon, that seemed to deprecate a jealousy of which she was aware, while conscious of not being answerable for its cause. It was perhaps more in character with the spite of a woman than the dignity of a queen that she should have leant towards the young warrior, and addressed him with such marked demonstrations of favour as could not fail to be observed by Ishtar, whose perceptions and feelings were now strung to their highest pitch.

She might even have shown him greater condescension than was either royal or prudent, but for the renewed intervention of Assarac, who once more took possession of her ear, speaking so as to be heard by the queen alone.

"My directions have been carried out," he whispered, "and of every hundred men assembled in the streets, ten are warriors and four are priests. The people admire, but partake not in the triumph; they shout, but their hearts go forth less freely than their voices. There is discontent abroad, and even displeasure, relating to this conquest of my lord the king. The men of war who have gone down with him to battle are like to be ill-satisfied with their share of spoil. Those who have remained within the walls already jeer and point the finger at the unhacked armour and whole skins of their returning comrades. Our own followers, servants of Baal and prophets of the grove, whisper strange auguries, and the stars themselves declare that Ninus is destined ere long to take his place among the gods. Caution, Great Queen! caution! I must away on the instant, to be in readiness at the head of a thousand priests who will receive the king on the steps before the temple. He loves not such receptions, and holds but little with offerings and sacrifices to the gods; nevertheless, even Ninus must not, dare not, beard the whole host of heaven in this their very stronghold. He will make the ceremony short and simple as he can, however, and every priest that ever laid knife to his own flesh before an altar will feel outraged and aggrieved. You have the Great King's signet. Keep it safely. That jewelled toy is worth ten thousand chariots of iron and as many horsemen. Behold, the guards have now passed on. See what a handful of priests are pacing with his chariot—an empty chariot, too; and look how few in number and scant in metal are the molten gods that go before him to battle. He comes. I say again, Caution, Great Queen! caution! and for a space forbear!"

Pointing his warning with an expressive glance towards Sarchedon, Assarac bowed reverently and withdrew.

Semiramis turned a shade paler, and for one moment a shudder seemed to creep from her brow even to her feet. The next she stood forth to mark her lord's approach, erect and beautiful, the stateliest queen, as she was the fairest woman, in the world.

Immediately in rear of the royal standard passed on the war-chariot of the Great King, containing his charioteer and shield-bearer. Sargon's lowering brow was black as night, and to the vociferous greetings of his countrymen he returned but a silent scowl. In the brief space that had elapsed since the cruel slaughter of his son, the man's nature seemed wholly changed. His very beard, formerly so black and glossy, was streaked with grey, and the dark eyes now dull and downcast, glowed with lurid light as though from some inner fire. Few, however, remarked this alteration in the aspect of the shield-bearer; for with the first glimpse of Ninus, shouts of jubilee rose once more from the people, and in that moment of enthusiasm, assembled Babylon could not have afforded a fuller, fairer welcome to mighty Nimrod himself.

The Great King came on at a foot's pace, reining his steed with that craft of practised horsemanship which outlasts failing sight, lost activity, and bodily powers impaired by age. His large, gaunt frame, though bowed and tottering, swayed easily to every motion of his steed; his broad loose hands, though numbed and stiff, closed with unimpaired skill on spear and bridle; while ever and anon, with some vociferous cheer or stirring trumpet-call, the drooping head went up, the dim eye sparkled, and for a space in which bow might have been drawn or sword-blow stricken, Ninus looked again the champion warrior of the world.

The king had abstained from all outward pomp of attire or panoply; he wore neither diadem nor tiara, but a steel helmet, much dinted and battered, guarded his brow. Save for the lion's head embossed in its centre, his shield was the plainest, as it was the most defaced, that passed into Babylon that day; while neither his horse's trappings nor his own accoutrements could compare in splendour with those of his guards who preceeded him on the march. But his sword was a span longer, his spear some shekels heavier, than any other in the whole Assyrian host, and none, looking on that renowned conqueror, so formidable even in decay, but would have recognised him for the bravest and mightiest fighter of his time.

Slowly, sternly he came on, receiving the homage and acclamations of his people with a royal indifference not far removed from scorn. The press of chariots, the clash of steel, all the wild tumult and fierce music of battle, could scarcely now call the light to his eye, the colour to his visage. What was a mere peaceful triumph but an unmeaning pageant, a protracted and somewhat wearisome dream? His grim old features sank and lowered till it seemed to the nearer bystanders that they were looking on a corpse in mail.

But once the Great King's face brightened, the blood rushed redly to his cheek, and his strong hand shook so on the bridle, that his good horse, accepting the signal, bounded freely in the air. Then he turned ghastly pale, drawing his breath hard, and trembling like a maiden or a child.

Beaming down on him from the wall with her own bright smile, he saw the face that had haunted him in those long night-watches for many a weary month—the face that, of all on earth, had alone made itself a home in his fierce old heart.

The wild joy of battle was indeed over, but for him the calm of peace had come at last. From his saddle where he sat to the wall whence she smiled down on him, not a score of spear-lengths divided him from Semiramis, looking fonder and more beautiful than she had ever appeared even in his lonely dreams.