Читать книгу Sarchedon - A Legend of the Great Queen - George J. Whyte-Melville - Страница 14

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Deep in his own thoughts, and wholly unconscious he was watched, Sarchedon hurried through the outskirts of the palace, traversing, with one passing glance of curiosity and compassion, an open space in which the Israelitish and Egyptian captives lay bound. The voice of mourning was hushed at last among these sufferers, save where some weeping woman, waking, as it were, to a sense of intolerable misery, pressed both hands against her throat, and thus enhanced the long vibrations of that dismal wail—so piteous, so keen, so thrilling, that it stirred the very jackal in his lair amongst the vineyards without the city walls.

Groups of these prisoners sat or grovelled on the ground, in attitudes expressive of the utmost sorrow and desolation. Here was a wounded archer, one of Pharaoh's choicest marksmen, gnawing his bonds in impotent rage and shame, while he cursed the javelin that disabled him—the comrades who had fled and abandoned him to be taken captive—the gods in all their different earthly shapes of goose, bull, falcon, stork, and locust, whom he had worshipped faithfully by the Nile, that they might leave him here in Babylon to die. There was a cluster of children, the elder sleeping the calm lovely sleep of youth, the youngest prattling, laughing, stretching its little arms towards the stars. And beside them, on her knees, their tawny mother, with head bowed down, dark eyes fixed, dim but tearless, and thoughts far away in the South, by a rude hut raised on props above the river, where last she saw him stark, motionless, and gashed from brow to breastplate, the lover of her girlhood, the husband of her heart, the father of those dear ones, dragged, without hope of return, into the land of their captivity. Wherever grieved a dark-skinned mourner, from brawny warrior to tender maiden, there seemed to be embodied the very abandonment of woe; while a few Ethiopians, surprised by hazard amongst Pharaoh's auxiliaries, before they had time to run away, wept and bemoaned themselves, with a force of lungs and vehemence of gesture, so unbridled as to border on the grotesque.

But somewhat apart, treated, as it would seem, by their Assyrian conquerors with less rigour than the rest, a handful of prisoners had disposed themselves, with scrupulous attention to decency of attitude and bearing. Conversing little, and only to each other, their low tones were forcible and expressive; their demeanour, grave and gentle, was marked with a certain sad dignity and grace. Though dark of beard and hair, they were far less swarthy in complexion than their fellow sufferers, and while nobler of stature and fuller of limb, lacked the sinuous ease and pliancy of movement so remarkable in the slender Egyptian. Their high features, kindling eyes, and curved nostrils partook of the peculiar beauty general amongst their present masters; but they showed none of the haughty self-assertion, the lofty warlike bearing, of the fierce Assyrian race. Such kin they seemed to their conquerors as the dog to the wolf, the ossifrage to the eagle, the patient ox in the furrow to the fiery wild-bull of the fell.

Presently silence came over them, and taking advantage of the laxity of their fetters, one and all rose to their feet and stood erect. Then he who seemed eldest and gravest spoke a few words in a loud solemn voice, to which the others listened attentively, responding at intervals, with heads sunk on their breasts. Sarchedon, hastening past, had yet time to observe their motions, and marvelled, in his own mind, if this could be a religious ceremonial, thus divested of all pomp and outward form; no sacrifice of blood, nor drink-offering poured out, nor altar raised,—only deep awe and reverence impressed on every face, courage, love, and trust beaming in each worshipper's eyes. The white robe of a priest of Baal flitted through the darkness round the circle; but Sarchedon's heart was filled with a sentiment that left no room for interest or curiosity, save on one subject, and he sped towards his goal, longing only for the moment that should bring him face to face with her he loved.

The moon was low in the sky, yet gave light enough to have guided him on his way, even had not every step of it been familiar as the handle of his sword. Was it strange he should have found so readily a path that led to the home of Ishtar? that he should have had access to the roof of a dwelling adjoining the palace of Arbaces? that the girl herself should have been restless, unable to sleep, and fevered with a desire to spread her carpets and cushions under the sky in the cool night air by the parapet of her father's house?

No, it was not strange; and the reason seemed simple enough as explained in a low measured chant, by a rich sweet voice—richer and sweeter that it was toned down and suppressed—which thrilled and scorched through every fibre of the young girl's being, while Sarchedon poured forth his heart in passionate pleading conveyed through the fanciful imagery of the East.

"I pass'd without the city gate,

I linger'd by the way;

The palm was bending to her mate,

And thus I heard her say,

'The arrow to the quiver,

And the wild bird to the tree;

The stream to meet the river,

And the river to the sea.

The waves are wedded on the beach,

The shadows on the lea;

And like to like, and each to each,

And I to thee.

'The cedar on the mountain,

And the bramble in the brake;

The willow by the fountain,

And the lily on the lake;

The serpent coiling in its lair,

The eagle soaring free,

Draw kin to kin, and pair to pair,

And I to thee.

'For everything created

In the bounds of earth and sky,

Hath such longing to be mated,

It must couple, or must die.

The wind of heaven beguiles the leaf,

The rose invites the bee;

The sickle hugs the barley-sheaf,

And I love thee.

By night and day, in joy and grief,

Do thou love me?'

The palm was bending to her mate,

I marked her meaning well;

And pass'd within the city gate,

The fond old tale to tell."

When he ceased, she rose on him like a ghost, from behind the parapet. In another moment her veil was up, her sweet lips parted in a greeting that was rather breathed than spoken, and both hands were abandoned to the caresses of her lover.

"Ishtar," he murmured, "queen of my heart! I scarcely dared to hope, and yet I knew I should find you here."

"I thought not you would come," she whispered, for a girl's modesty thinks no shame to veil with ingenuous falsehood the truth of which she is really proud. "But I could not sleep—I could not rest under a roof—the war is over—my own dear father has returned safe. O Sarchedon! this has been such a happy day."

It was the first time she had called him by his name, and the endearing syllables dropped like honey from her lips. It was no more to be "noble damsel," "my lord's handmaiden," but "Ishtar," and "Sarchedon," because they knew they loved each other with all the rich warmth, the stormy passion of their race and climate.

"A happy day!" he repeated, rather bitterly; "and a day of victory for the fairest maiden in the land of Shinar! Think you it was such a happy moment for me, Ishtar, when I saw the love-gift hurled from our prince's chariot to your feet?"

She had not been a woman, could she have quite suppressed a double sense of triumph—of vanity gratified by the homage of a prince, and, sweeter far, of pride in his own avowal that she could excite the jealousy of him she loved. Very tender was her smile, very soft and kind her glance, while she replied:

"You may judge how I value the gift when I tell you the handmaidens are shredding herbs in it even now. Yet is he a goodly youth, our young lord, and a comely—fair he must surely seem in your eyes, Sarchedon, for is he not the very picture of his mother? and you of all men would be loath to dispute the beauty of the Great Queen."

It was a feminine thrust, and planted fairly home; but here in Ishtar's presence it rather roused in him a feeling of alarm, lest he should lose the blossom in his hand, than any wish to reach the riper and costlier fruit hanging above his head.

"Beloved!" he answered gravely, "the desire of queens and princes is like the hot wind of the desert, that blasts and scorches where it strikes. It matters little what befalls Sarchedon, if he loses her who has become the jewel of his treasure-house, and the light of his path. With the young prince, to see is too often to covet, and to covet, too surely to possess! It may be, that ere the days of triumph are over, he will have asked you of Arbaces in marriage, and whither shall I go for comfort then, if I am to look nevermore on the only face I love?"

That face showed strangely pale in the wan light of the stars and crescent moon. There was a thrill of deadly fear in the whisper that appealed so piteously for succour and protection.

"Save me, Sarchedon, save me! It would be worse than death. What shall I do? What shall I do?"

He pondered, pressing the hand he held fondly to his eyes and forehead.

"Arbaces would not barter you away for treasure, like a herd of camels or a drove of captives?" he asked, after a pause.

"My father loves me dearly," she answered. "I know he fears to lose me; for he has often said, if I were to vanish from his side, like my mother, he would never wish to come out of his war-chariot alive!"

"She was a daughter of the stars," said Sarchedon abstractedly; "their love is fatal to mortal men! You see, I have learned it all, and yet I care not—I have but you in the world!"

The daughter of the stars, he thought, had surely transmitted her celestial beauty to the girl who now bent fondly over him, and shook her head.

"They say so!" she answered. "But Arbaces is loath to be questioned, and I know not what to think. She may have been the child of a priestess of Baal, espoused to the god. I cannot believe that the stars have come down from their thrones for the love of women in these later days, since the plague of waters in the olden time, before the great tower of Belus was built. I only know I would I had my mother's beauty and my father's fame, and the wealth of the Great Queen, that I might bestow it all on the man I love. You would be rich, Sarchedon, and of high repute; while I should be—very, very happy!"

"Then, if Ninyas sent to ask you of your father," whispered the young warrior, "you would be loath to go and rule over him and his in a palace of gold?"

"Better to serve Sarchedon in a tent of goat's-hair," was the answer; "better by far draw water at the Well of Palms for your herds, your camels, and the fair horse you rode that happy morning; better to be the meanest and lowest of your slaves, than never see your kind face again!"

Vanity, pride, ambition—the dazzling career open to him—the lustrous beauty of the queen: what were they to such love as this, but the flash and glitter of tinsel, compared to the ray of a real diamond? If a thought of Semiramis and her fatal favour crossed his brain, it did but spur him on to secure his happiness ere she could thwart it, to remove Ishtar, ere it was too late, from the sphere of the queen's displeasure, and the still more dangerous admiration of her son.

"Then I will ask you of your father before another day has gone down!" exclaimed Sarchedon, stealing his arm round that lithe slender figure, leaning over the parapet, like the palm-tree bending to meet her mate. "To-morrow will I send into the court below a score of camels and a hundred sheep, with a suit of the truest armour that ever brought the captain of a host unwounded out of battle, and my young men shall say to Arbaces—'they seek but Ishtar in return.'"

"So my father will summon me from amongst my maidens, to know if peradventure his daughter's heart hath gone forth to him who is so lavish of sheep and camels, so skilled in choice of armour, and what shall I say then?"

Only from the depths of a young girl's heart, happy and triumphant in her honest love, could have risen the smile that beamed on Ishtar's face. It was reflected in Sarchedon's eyes, while he answered:

"The daughter of Arbaces will tell him, that where her heart has gone forth, thither must Ishtar needs follow, and she will be mine!"

"And she will be yours!" repeated the girl, with a great sob of womanly happiness, tempered by maiden shame, the blood rushing to her face, while she hid it on her lover's breast.

Fast as her heart was beating, it had scarce counted a score of pulsations ere tramp of horses, call of servants, and flash of torches in the court below, announced the return of Arbaces from his duties about the Great King.

No sooner had he dismounted at the porch of his palace than the fond familiar voice was heard, asking loudly for his daughter; and gliding like a shadow from the embrace of Sarchedon, she was gone.

Yet even in that brief moment during which her brow was pressed against his bosom, she had discovered the amulet he wore, and knew, as women only do know such things, that it was not there when she saw him last.

Perhaps to an impulse of female tenderness was added the stimulant of female curiosity, when she whispered, even in the act of escape:

"To-morrow, beloved one, at the same hour. You will tell me then whence comes that jewel, and—and—if it was given you by the queen!"

Turning stealthily to depart, with his hand on the amulet, doubtful whether he would not tear it from his neck and trample it under foot, but in the mean time leaving it where it was, Sarchedon felt conscious of a strange depression, of vague misgivings, as though some future evil were casting its shadow about him ere it came. The air felt heavy, the night was darker, the stars had become dim. It seemed a different world as he passed along the silent streets towards his home, and those keen senses of his, quickened by the practice of war, must have been strangely blunted, that he neither saw the form nor heard the footsteps of one who had watched his interview with Ishtar from first to last.

Sethos, no less nimble of foot than he was light of hand and heart, made such good haste in returning to the queen's palace, that he found Ninyas still seated at the banquet, flushed with wine, and more reckless, more impetuous, as he was more beautiful, for the excess.

"You are a trusty hunter," laughed the prince, steadying his uncertain steps as he rose with a hand on his favourite's shoulder, "and you followed the good hound bravely to the thicket where lies the deer? What think you? Is she worth the bending of a bow?"

"My lord had already wounded her with a random shaft," answered the cup-bearer. "It is the daughter of Arbaces, who flung him the posy of flowers as his chariot passed beneath her in our triumph."

The intelligence seemed to sober Ninyas on the instant.

"And it is Sarchedon who contends with me," said he, pondering. "By the brows of Ashtaroth, the sport grows to earnest now, and the prize will be won by him who can strike first!"