Читать книгу Sarchedon - A Legend of the Great Queen - George J. Whyte-Melville - Страница 5

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The boldest war-horse was never too courageous to wince and tremble at the smell of blood.

A solitary rider speeding across the surface of the desert, smooth, swift, and noiseless, like a bird on the wing, found himself nearly unseated by the violence with which the good horse under him plunged aside in terror, swerving from a low dark object lying in his path. While the startled horseman drew rein to examine it more closely, he scared two sated vultures from their work, the gorged birds hopping lazily and unconcernedly to a few paces' distance. Already the gray streaks of morning were tinged with crimson, as they flushed and widened on the long level of the horizon; and the lion, dead at nightfall, was picked nearly to the bone.

Ere dawn had fairly broke, and long before the gold on bit and bridle-piece caught the first flash of sunrise, the traveller had sped many a furlong on his way, and the vultures had laboured back to continue their loathsome meal. He had been riding the live-long night, yet his good horse seemed neither blown nor wearied; snorting, indeed, in the very wantonness of strength, as he settled down again to his long untiring gallop, and cleared his nostrils from the abomination that had so disturbed him in his career.

"Soh, Merodach!" said his master, "my gentle bold-hearted steed! I never knew you shrink from living foe, be it man or brute; but you would not trample on a dead enemy, would you, my king of horses? Steady then! At this rate we shall see the tower of Belus springing out of the plain, and the black tents by the Well of Palms, before the sun is another spear's length above the sky-line of this half-cooled sand. Steady, my gallant horse! Ah! you are indeed fit to carry him who takes the message of a king!"

Merodach, or Mars, no less sensible of his lord's caresses than he was worthy of the praises lavished on him, arched his crest, shook his head till his ornaments rang again, and increased his speed, for a reply.

He was in truth a rare and unequalled specimen of his kind, the true pure-bred horse of the Asiatic plains. Strong and bold as had been the very lion he was leaving rapidly behind him, beautiful in his rounded symmetry of shape, and so swift that Sarchedon, his rider, was wont to boast only one steed in all the armies of the King of Assyria was able, with a man's weight on his back, to outstrip the wild ass in her native plains, and that steed was Merodach. Horse and rider seemed a pair well matched, as they flung their dancing shadows behind them on the sand. The arms of one and accoutrements of the other shone ablaze with gold in the splendour of the morning sun. Both seemed full of pride, courage, mettle, and endurance, counterparts in strength and beauty, forming when combined the fairest and noblest ideal of the warlike element in creation. So they galloped on, choosing their course as if by instinct, through the trackless waste.

Long before noon a lofty tower seemed to grow, cubit by cubit, out of the horizon. Presently the walls and palaces of a city were seen stretching far on either side along the plain, like a line of white surf on a distant shore. Then strips of verdure, intersecting each other with more frequency, as a network of irrigation filtered the waters of the Euphrates through many a trickling stream, to fertilise the desert in the neighbourhood of Great Babylon. Yet a few more furlongs of those smooth untiring strides; a startled ostrich scudding away on long awkward legs before the wind; a troop of wild asses standing at gaze for a moment, to disappear with snort and whinny, and heels glancing upward through volumes of dust; a fleet gazelle scouring off in one direction, a desert-falcon darting through the sunlight in another; and Sarchedon could already descry that knot of feathery trees, that sprinkling of black tents, that low marble structure of dazzling white, which, under the name of the Well of Palms, afforded a landmark for every thirsty wayfarer journeying to the Great City.

But, except the sea, there is no such fallacious medium through which to estimate distance as the sun-dried atmosphere and unbroken expanse of the desert. Ere they reached those scattered tents and halted at the Well of Palms, neither man nor horse were unwilling to enjoy a moment's respite from their exertions; while the former, at least, was suffering from a protracted thirst, which under those scorching skies made a draught from the desert spring such a cordial, such an elixir, as could not be pressed from the choicest grapes that ever blushed and ripened under the Assyrian sun.

Springing off Merodach's back, his master drew the embossed bit carefully from his favourite's mouth, pressing his head down with a caress towards the water, while he administered, like a true horseman, to the needs of his servant before he slaked his own parched lips, or so much as dipped his hand in the cold, clear, tempting element. But Merodach, though he pointed his ears and neighed joyfully, scarcely wetted his muzzle in the marble basin; thereby affording a proof, had any been wanting, of his celebrated pedigree and stainless purity of breed. His young lord was not so abstemious. He looked about, indeed, for a drinking-vessel; but would have done very well without it, had not a shadow come between him and the sun as he was in the act of stooping to immerse face, lips, and nostrils in the sparkling water. With the ready instinct of one whose trade is war, he sprang erect, but bowed his head again in manly courtesy when he saw a girlish figure bending over him to dip her pitcher in the fountain.

"Drink, my lord," said a very sweet and gentle voice from the folds of a thin white veil. "When your thirst is quenched, your servant will take her payment in news from the army of the Great King."

He was young, bold, gallant, born under a Southern sun; but had Ashtaroth, Queen of Heaven, come down in person to accost him, with a pitcher of water in her hand, he must have drunk before he could utter a syllable in reply.

The girl watched him, while he emptied the vessel, with such tender interest as women take in the physical needs of one to whom they render aid, and refilled it forthwith, showing, perhaps not unconsciously, a lithe and graceful figure as she bent over the fountain.

"Thanks, maiden," said he. "You have put new life into a fainting man; for I have galloped over many a weary league of sand, and scarce drawn bridle since yesterday at noon."

"The poor horse!" answered the girl, laying a slender hand on Merodach's swelling neck. "But my lord comes doubtless from the camp, and has joyful tidings to bring, or he had never ridden so far and fast. What of the Great King? and O! what of Arbaces? Is he safe? Is he unhurt? Is he well?"

"The poor horse!"

There was a tremble in her voice that denoted intense anxiety, and the pitcher in her hand shook till it overflowed.

Sarchedon marked her agitation with a sense of displeasure, unaccountable as it was unjust.

"The Great King," he answered, raising his right hand quickly to mouth and eyes while he named him—"the Great King has triumphed, as he must ever triumph when he mounts his war-chariot. The captain of the host is well in health, unwounded, though foremost in battle;—trusted by his lord, feared by the enemy, and honoured of all."

She clasped her pretty hands together in delight, while the pitcher, escaping from her grasp, poured its contents into the thirsty soil and rolled under Merodach's hoofs, eliciting from the horse a prolonged snort of astonishment and disgust.

"You are indeed a messenger of the gods!" said she—"welcome as the breeze at sundown; welcome as the rains of spring; welcome to the Great Queen and her people yonder in the city; but to none so welcome as you have been to me!"

"Indeed!" he answered in a cold, measured voice. "Have I then brought tidings of one so very dear to you?"

"None can ever be so dear," she exclaimed with a light laugh, musical and pleasant as the whisper of the rippling fountain—"none will ever love me so well—none shall I ever love half so dearly in return! Arbaces is my father, and every day since he mounted his chariot at the head of the Great King's captains have I watched here with my maidens, to catch the first gleam of his armour when he returns, to learn good tidings of him by the first messenger who rides hither from the camp. Not one has yet arrived but yourself, my lord. I say again, may all the host of heaven befriend you, for to me you are welcome as the dawn!"

It was unaccountable that his heart should have bounded so lightly at her speech, that his tone should have been so much softer while he replied:

"I am bearing tidings from a king to his queen,—from the conqueror of nations to his people in the greatest city of the earth. I have to relate how we slew and spared not, crushing and trampling down the enemy as an ox treads out the ripened corn; breaking their chariots of iron; taking their fenced cities by assault; capturing and bringing away men, women, and children by thousands and tens of thousands. All that I have to tell is of honour, glory, and victory. Yet I speak truth when I swear to you, maiden, by the light of morning, that whatever recompense it may please the Great Queen to bestow on the lowest of her servants, to have met you here to-day at the Well of Palms, and to have gladdened you with assurance of my lord your father's welfare, is to me the richest and brightest reward of all."

"You have noble triumphs to report," she answered hurriedly, and drawing her veil closer, as if he could see the blood rushing to her cheek behind its folds. "Great victories, but not without fierce warfare—many a broken shield and shivered spear, and deadly arrow quivering in its mark! And you, my lord—have you escaped scathless? Has this good horse borne you always unhurt and triumphant in the press of chariots?—Yes, I know it, in the hottest fore-front of the battle? O, it is dreadful to think of!—the wounded, the dying, the fallen steed, the pitiless conqueror—those we love, it may be, gasping out their lives on the trampled plain, and then to watch on the walls of the city, or here by the Well of Palms, for the horseman that never comes! Pardon me, my lord: I speak too freely. Let me give you to drink once more from the fountain; then will I gather my maidens about me, and depart in peace."

He took her hand in his own, nor did she withdraw it.

"You are not alone?" he asked. "The daughter of Arbaces does not travel unattended so much as a bowshot from the city walls?"

"My damsels are in those tents," she answered, "my camels are kneeling in the shade. I have no need of guards nor horsemen. Over many a league without the ramparts of Babylon her father's fame is a tower of defence for the daughter of Arbaces."

"The daughter of Arbaces!" he repeated. "Maiden, so long as I eat bread and drink water I will remember her by that name."

"And by her own," she added hurriedly. "The servant of my lord is called Ishtar. It was my mother's name, and Arbaces loved her well."

"Ishtar!" he murmured—and his rich low voice dwelt softly on the syllables—"Ishtar, the fair pure queen of night! 'twas well chosen, in good truth; for the moon shines ever gentle, mild, and gracious, like a true goddess."

"And changes, my lord, like a true woman!" laughed the girl; but continued in a graver and more respectful tone: "The day wears on—he who carries a king's tidings must be diligent on the way. I thank my lord for his favourable notice of his servant, and I bid him farewell."

Then she gathered her dress about her, recovered the pitcher, and walked away towards her tents, modest, stately, and graceful—a goddess in gesture, as in name.

She turned once, nevertheless, when he was busied adjusting the bridle in his horse's mouth, and drew her veil aside while he might have counted ten. The large serious eyes, the perfect oval, the pale delicate beauty of that young face haunted him, even to the towers and ramparts of haughty Babylon, even amidst the shouting crowds who thronged her brazen gates.

There is a spirit that, whether for good or evil, when it takes possession of the heart of man, must needs tear and rend, stanch and soothe, torture and perplex, or elevate and encourage, each and all in turn; but, be it a blessing or a curse, it fills the tenement, occupies the whole temple, and when it vanishes, leaves but bare walls and a riven altar to mark the sacred spot that it has scathed and blasted ere it passed away.

Merodach galloped on, swift, mettlesome, untiring, regardless of the many leagues he had traversed, as he was unconscious of the double burden that he bore.

Nearing the city, Sarchedon could not but admire the stupendous walls that frowned over him as he rode at a slower pace through scores of tents and lodges of wood or sun-dried bricks scattered through the richly cultivated garden-grounds without the rampart walls, that, rising to forty cubits in height, were yet so wide as to admit of three chariots being driven abreast along their summits, flanked with lofty towers standing out in pairs, bluff and bold, like defiant warriors, and utterly impregnable to assault. Between every two of these, large gates of brass, worked in fantastic ornaments representing gods, men, and animals, amongst which the bull was the most conspicuous, stood open from sunrise to sunset, while through their portals passed and repassed a busy crowd, swarming like bees in and out of the rich and magnificent city, her own especial residence, which the Great Queen had created to be a Wonder of the World. What mattered waste of life and treasure, starving families, fainting peasants, the sinking slave and the task-master's whip? Each countless brick in all those leagues of building might be moistened with tears and cemented with blood, every stone raised on the crushed and mangled corpses of its founders; masses of marble, slabs of alabaster, roof, tower, and pinnacle, beam of cedar, and parapet of gold, might tell their separate tales of famine, disease, misery, and oppression—what matter? The Great Queen said, "Raise me here a city by the river that shall be worthy of my name!" and straightway up-sprang, on either bank of the mighty stream, such structures of pride, splendour, and magnificence, as were not to be surpassed by that very tower of man's defiance to his Maker, about which their foundations were laid.

Passing within the walls, a guard of Assyrian bowmen turned out to greet with warlike honours the messenger from their monarch's camp; their exertions were even required to clear a passage for him as he rode through the crowded streets—men, women, and children thronging and pressing in as he passed on, shouting a thousand cheers and acclamations, striving with each other to touch his feet, his garments, the horn of his bow, the carved sheath of his sword, the very trappings and accoutrements of his horse. With all his desire for dispatch, it was necessary to rein Merodach back to a foot's-pace; and many a dainty flower fell whirling down on the young warrior, many a charm and amulet was cast with unerring aim on his knees and saddle-cloth, while he paced forward under stately palaces, solemn temples, or broad terraces glowing like gardens with bright-robed Assyrian women, who flung their veils aside to shower greetings and welcome on the brave.

The watchman at the gate had long expected such a one. With the first glint of his armour in the distant waste the news spread like wildfire, and the whole population of the city was astir.

So he rode slowly on, the observed of all; and still, turn which way he would, above that sea of faces, amidst that mass of triumph, splendour, and gorgeous colouring, floated like a star shining through a mist the pale spectral beauty of the gentle girl whom he had left an hour ago at the Well of Palms—even the shouts that rent his ear seemed to reecho from afar in an unearthly whisper, "Ishtar, Ishtar! pure, sacred, and beautiful queen of night!"

The streets were wider, the buildings more magnificent, the crowd, if possible, denser, as he proceeded through the city.

Presently, reaching a wide flight of low broad marble steps, flanked by those colossal bulls with eagles' wings and human heads, that represented the strength and solidity of the great Assyrian empire, he halted to dismount; for a cloth of gold and scarlet had been rolled out from top to bottom, and down these stairs were marching a body of white-robed priests with slow and solemn gait, their centre figure walking three paces before the rest, and advancing obviously to hold conference with the messenger from the camp.

Then the young warrior took a jewelled signet from his breast, and with a low obeisance pressed it to heart, mouth, and forehead; while over the eager multitude came unbroken silence, as Sarchedon tendered to Assarac, high-priest of Baal, his token from the Great King.