XVIII
THE FEAST OF TAMMUZ

In the week that preceded the prospective holiday, however, the lord of Babylon was subject to some unaccountable forebodings with regard to this feast. Outwardly, as any one could see, the city was quiet enough. Inwardly it seethed. This, of course, Belshazzar knew. But of the extent or the trend of the plot, neither he nor any of his partisans was aware. His ears could not hear what was talked of at noon in the houses of Zicarû. His eyes could not see the well-hidden rooms in which priests and people met to talk over wrongs that the citizens had never thought of before, but which their indefatigable preceptors skilfully pointed out to them. Nor did Belshazzar much heed the harangues that daily followed morning sacrifice in every temple. He hardly noticed how immense were the crowds in attendance at sacrifice now; and those of the lords and the soldiers that did notice, refused to think lucidly, but put it all down to anxiety over the siege and a wish to propitiate the gods. Still, blind, deaf, utterly insensible as were the king and all his councillors to the only open evidences of treachery in the city, there was no one of them that did not, however vaguely, feel treachery in the air, and dread accordingly.

In the days between the fall of Sippar and the feast, Nabonidus had not once, so far as his son knew, been inquired for by man, woman, or priest in the Great City. If anything were said in the palace it was in whispers too careful to reach the royal ears. Belitsum, still overcome by the prophet's dream, had gone into an uncertain retirement; but the remainder of the harem went thoughtlessly and light-heartedly about their occupations, adding to their usual aimless lives the pleasure of preparing for the great holiday, now so near at hand.

The demi-god Tammuz, beloved of the love-goddess (as Spring and Love have been forever wedded in myth and song) had no proper place of worship in Babylon. His romantic death, however, was celebrated in every temple of the city and the suburbs on the same days. From time immemorial it had been the custom for the royal household—men, women, children, slaves, officers, and servants—to remove into the great hall of the temple of Bel-Marduk, where the high-priest was accustomed to officiate.[12] Here for three days they remained, engaged in mingled prayer and revelry, the one forbidden refreshment being that only one which could betoken forgetfulness of the gods and the purposes of the feast—sleep.

In consequence of this, for a week after the festival of the death of Spring, the Great City was wont to wear the aspect of a city of the dead; for every one in it moved out from the temple in which he had celebrated the great event, straight to his bed, and there remained till his vitality was restored to him.

According to custom, then, on the night of the first of July Babylon was in a ferment of activity. Houses were preparing for temporary desertion, stripped of costly hangings and furniture, which were stowed where they might be out of reach of sacrilegious marauders, while holiday garments and ornaments, the costliest that each household could afford, were making ready for wear on the morrow. In every garden garlands were woven. In the temples, priests and eunuchs were at work setting up tables and divans, hanging flower-ropes and wreaths over the images of Tammuz that were placed in each house of worship. All night chariots rattled through the streets, and men shouted to each other from house to house. Great droves of bullocks and goats, and immense numbers of fowls and doves, were conveyed to the temporary sheds erected on each temple-platform, in anticipation of the needs of the sacrifices. To the casual observer everything might have appeared exactly as usual. There was none to know how many secret weapons were slipped into the broad girdles of the citizens' holiday dresses. There was none to wonder why, at some time between midnight and dawn, a Zicarî, or some member of the priesthood, stopped at almost every house in the common quarters to whisper certain final instructions in the ear of the householder. And from the great height of Nimitti-Bel, the members of the city guard failed, in the darkness, to perceive that the black camp of the invader was not at rest.

There were two men in Babylon aware of all these things, and these two sat together, like spiders in the great web of their spinning, watching throughout that fervid night. They were in the house of the high-priest of Bel, on the east side of the Â-Ibur-Sabû; and one of them was Amraphel, the master of the house, while the other was Beltishazzar the Jew. They did not talk, for there was little to speak of. Their plan had been long in the making and was perfect at last. Every detail was at the finger-tips of both of them. And it had been only a consciousness of the gigantic consequence of their plan, and the probable monstrous results of it, that made its originators instinctively draw together on the eve of its fulfilment. Neither of them was nervous in the presence of the other, for one of these men perfectly complemented his companion. The great intellect and the talent for broad strokes of policy that had made Amraphel's position what it was, was completed by the abnormal characteristics of craft and foresight possessed by the Jew. Amraphel's courage was the outcome of his great pride. Daniel's bravery was that of the enthusiast, the fanatic, the leader of men—tempered always with a species of cowardice, the cowardice that was to give Babylon over to other hands than his for government.

Thus here, in the silent interior of Amraphel's vast palace, sat the two traitors, inwardly communing, outwardly silent, throughout the long night of the first of July, while Babylon raged within, and Belshazzar dreamed feverishly in the house of his dead father.

Morning—the morning of the second of Ab—dawned over the city. On the lips of every man was the name of Tammuz. In the heart of every man were the mingled emotions of excitement, of dread, of vague desire. The palace of the king was, early in the day, the scene of confused preparation. Only one person in it experienced no sensation of pleasurable excitement at the prospect of the coming feast; Istar, still mourning her unspeakable loss, had spent the night in accustomed grief, to which this time something was added—a vague sense of dread, of undefined foreboding. At early dawn, before the palace was awake, Belshazzar came in to her, and his eyes were dark with trouble. Istar looked searchingly into his face before she spoke.

"What is the woe of my lord? Thou hast not slept, Belshazzar?"

"Yea, beloved, I have slept—and dreamed: dreamed till my head is on fire. Let thy hands cool the burning of mine eyes. Let thy words still the fears that are rising in my heart. Istar, I have spoken this night with the spirit of my father, who bade me welcome—home."

Istar gave a sharp cry, and the color fled from her face.

"It was a vision, a wandering dream; and yet it has brought foreboding in its train. Bring me comfort, Istar, my beloved."

"Comfort, lord of my heart! Comfort! Ah! I have none of it. Since my baby is taken from me, my heart weeps. O Belshazzar, thou king, let us not ask for comfort. Let us rather mingle our tears before the seat of God; and from our grief shall spring the blessing of the divine comfort. My heart weeps. Why, then, should my lips smile? Thou, dear lord, remainest to me. If thou wert gone I should not weep, for with thee my life, too, would go. My lord—my lord—I love thee so!"

Quickly Belshazzar caught her in his arms, crushing her to him in an embrace wherein all their earthly and spiritual love mingled together in one supreme moment of ecstasy. When his arms unclosed, both were faint. Istar lay back upon her couch, her eyes shut, her breath coming with difficulty; while Belshazzar stood over her, looking down at her beauty with a sudden feeling of sweet, ineffable peace.

Now the day had fully broken, and the whole palace was alive. Belshazzar took tender leave of his wife, for the two of them were to go different ways to the temple: Istar in her litter with the members of the harem, Belshazzar in his golden chariot, by the side of the high-priest.

"My lord shall see me clothed all in black and silver; nor, through the three days, will I uncover my face before the eyes of those assembled," whispered Istar, as he knelt for the last instant beside her.

"On the evening of the third day, beloved, thou must unveil. Tammuz, like our child, is dead; yet in their grief the women disclose their features. So also shalt thou. Now, fare thee well—till once again we are alone together here."

Istar started nervously, and then rose to her feet with a sudden impulse. "Belshazzar, wilt thou guard thyself in the temple? Wilt thou not have thy men of Gutium at thy side?"

"How had you known that, Istar? Such a thought never came to me before; yet now—this year—I have commanded that my whole regiment, with their arms, be gathered together in the temple with my regular household. Why I have done this thing I myself know not. And yet—and yet—"

Istar put her arms about his neck. "Let the great God be thanked!" she whispered, earnestly. "And I also—I also will be with thee. If harm comes, we shall be together to the end."

Finally Belshazzar left her and went to his own rooms to see that all preparations for the great feast were made. Istar, in the mean time, covered herself with the long, black, silver-shot veil that she had worn in the days of her loneliness; and, robed only in this and her white tunic, without jewel or ornament of any kind, she sat alone in her room till it came to be the time of setting forth. A eunuch announced that her litter waited; and, attended by two slaves with fans, she walked out to the great court-yard of the palace.

Here, indeed, was a scene of the liveliest confusion. Men, women, children, and eunuchs of every type, all in holiday dress, all noisily talking and laughing, moved about among groups of chariots, litters, richly caparisoned donkeys, and two or three camels; for, on the way to and from the feast, the meanest slave was never asked to walk. Istar was the first of the royal party to appear in the court-yard, and her mourning costume created much comment of a disappointed character. Her veiled face and melancholy gait cast a shadow over the general merriment of the lower class, among whom, indeed, Istar was not popular. Her litter, however, was quickly brought to her, and just as she lay down in it, happy to be out of sight, Belitsum, the dowager, appeared. Her mood was quite different from that of her quasi daughter-in-law. She had cast aside her widow's weeds, as was her privilege, for the three feast-days; and her stout person was gorgeously arrayed. A band of flashing jewels held her head-cloth in place above her eyebrows, and she waddled along to a jingling accompaniment of bells that were fastened on her ankles and strings of dangling beads that hung from her waist. Her laughter sounded high and shrill as she tossed some light-hearted jest to the line of attendants that followed her; and the whole court-yard responded to her wit with mighty roars of laughter. Now, indeed, Belitsum was in her element. It took her full fifteen minutes to settle herself in her litter, and she was only then finally fixed because the appearance of Belshazzar put an end to any further by-play for the benefit of the on-lookers.

Belshazzar hastily mounted his chariot, and, the signal for the start being immediately given, there was a mad scramble for vehicles, donkeys, and camels, and the royal procession passed through the gate of the palace.

The temple of Marduk, in which the king kept the feast of Tammuz, was the largest temple in Babylon, and the only important one on the east bank of the Euphrates. At the other end of the great bridge, Amraphel, clad in the fullest insignia of his office, joined the king at the head of the line of the royal household. Their way led along the Mûtaqutû, the smaller of Nebuchadrezzar's two boulevards; and it was lined with people that risked the possibility of being late at the opening sacrifice in their temples in order to see this imposing spectacle. For the first time in a year Belshazzar was cheered along his way. And there was something in the voices of the people that went home to the heart of the uncrowned king; so that, for the first time in his life, his eyes were wet with the tears of love that royalty should feel for its children.

One incident only disturbed the dignity of the march. Belitsum, the irrepressible, had barely managed to contain herself in solitude when the curtain of her litter finally shut her away from the eyes of the admiring throng. But now she was consoled by the fact that, though she was herself unseen, she could comfortably watch the crowd that lined the streets through which she passed. The procession was more than half-way to the temple when her sharp eyes suddenly caught sight of a man that stood watching the procession from the left side of the street. Meanly dressed and dull-eyed as he was, she nevertheless recognized in him her new prophet, the man of dreams.

Quickly thrusting her head from her slow-moving equipage, she cried to one of her bearers, pointing at the same time to the object of her curiosity:

"Shusu-Sin! Shusu-Sin! Who is that man there—he of the brown tunic and the rose-topped cane? Speak!"

The bearer glanced round in an embarrassed fashion as the crowd craned forward to look at the queen. He had no difficulty in recognizing the man she designated. Then, leaning backward, towards the waiting ear of the dowager, he whispered, discreetly:

"He on whom the eyes of the queen have deigned to rest is Beltishazzar the Jew, called of his people Daniel."

"A Jew!" cried Belitsum, in amazement. Then, catching the innumerable eyes fixed upon her in wonder or in amusement, she dove hastily back into her litter, carrying with her the long-desired knowledge.

Meantime, at the head of the procession drove Belshazzar and Amraphel, side by side, in their golden chariots. Beyond the requisite first salutation, neither of them had spoken on the whole way, till, at a quarter of an hour before the time set for the first sacrifice, the royal vehicles halted in the great square of Marduk. Here was something at sight of which Amraphel started anxiously. In that square, south of the main entrance of the temple, drawn rank on rank in matchless array, spear, helmet, and sword flashing in the sun, was Belshazzar's guard, the famous regiment of Gutium. They had been waiting here all the morning, under command of their lieutenant, at the orders of their commander. And now, as the king drew near, they made the royal salute, and quietly closed ranks in preparation for marching. Belshazzar, giving them a long, sweeping salute, suddenly halted his chariot. The high-priest, in extreme anxiety, did the same. Then the king shouted three orders, all of them barely comprehensible to a civilian. But Amraphel's ears were sharp; his wits sharper. At the last command his face grew crimson with anger.

"What means this?" he asked, hoarsely, turning on the king. "Think you these dogs shall be admitted to the holy temple?"

Belshazzar barely turned his head towards the speaker. "What sayest thou?" he asked, coolly.

"It is against the laws of the gods that armed men should enter into their places of worship."

"I had not heard it," returned the king. "And it is my will that this, my regiment, follow me into the temple. How"—suddenly he turned full on the priest—"how wilt thou gainsay me?"

Amraphel drew back into himself. What had Belshazzar heard? How much did he know? Could he indeed, with this handful of soldiers, hold that temple of Marduk against the army of Cyrus and the Babylonish mob? It was a question that was not easy to answer. Do what he would, Amraphel was for the moment sorely nonplussed. He could see nothing for it but to submit. It was thorough defeat; for, fifteen minutes later, fifty members of the priesthood, the whole of the royal household, and the regiment of Gutium, five hundred strong, had entered the temple of Bel-Marduk.

Almost incredibly vast was the great hall of this, the greatest temple of the first of Babylon's twelve great gods. In it the seven hundred people that entered found plenty of room—more than enough room to spread themselves about at will. The vast walls, which towered up to a tremendous height, were richly adorned in the lower half with bas-reliefs illustrating various religious myths: the council of the gods; Bel-Marduk's combat with Tiamât the dragon; and Oannes the fish-god, giver of wisdom, expounding religion to the throngs of people that came down to hear him on the shores of the gulf of the setting sun. Above these sculptures ran bands of history, in the immaculate cuneiform, giving the story of Babylon from the time of her founding down to to-day. Still over this, on the enamelled tiles that carried the walls on up to the dim and shadowy roof, were the decorations for the feast. Great cloths of silk and muslin, elaborately and beautifully embroidered, fell, softly luminous, in the glowing light. Ropes of flowers were everywhere festooned; and their fragrance alone would have rendered the air rich. Their breath, however, vied with streams of incense, with showered perfumes, with fragrance of the sweet myrrh and Indian spices that burned along the walls in braziers of beaten brass. Finally, the light from the scene itself furnished sweetness to the room; for, from a thousand well-wrought hanging-lamps came flickering, golden flames, fed with the rarest perfumed oil.

The preparations for the feast and for the innumerable sacrifices, with which the feasting was to be varied, had been carefully made. The back rooms of the temple had been converted indiscriminately into kitchens, larders, and stables for the animals to be used for the sacrifice. Here an army of slaves was already at work, and there were half a hundred temple eunuchs, clad in spotless white, with collars of gold and caps of Tyrian purple, to minister to the wants of the feasters.

The great hall had been prepared with infinite care for the reception of the worshippers. In the back of the room, facing the entrance, and raised ten feet above the floor, was the platform on which stood the shrine of Tammuz. On the broad space before the holy of holies, carpeted with rugs, lighted by jewel-crusted lamps, were the divan and table of the king, who was to keep this place during the three days of the feast. At the foot of the steps leading up into this high place was the sacrificial altar, on which a fire was kept burning continuously; and to the right and to the left of this stood other images of Tammuz. Here, for six hours by day and six by night, was the place of the high-priest. During the rest of the time he lay above, on a couch beside that of the king, or, if he chose, moved from place to place at the long tables that lined the walls and filled the central spaces of the hall. At these tables rank was not observed, and the lord of the treasury and the meanest slave of the harem might be found side by side. These matters, however, adjusted themselves. Men sat with their chosen friends, or moved about from hour to hour as they wished, while the women generally remained in groups at the upper end of the hall.

To-day Ribâta, in company with the lords of the palace, took his place immediately below Belshazzar's platform, while his slaves were just beyond them, to the right. The soldiers of Gutium were in a body at the end of the hall, lying awkwardly enough on their silken couches, and dreaming grimly of nights in the watch-towers on the walls when they feasted according to their taste. On the right hand of the great hall, quite alone, at a solitary table under the figure of Bel on the wall, sat the one being to whom this festival was not a thing of joy. Istar, veiled from head to foot, uncrowned, unadorned, unattended, sat alone on her couch, gazing straight before her, wrapped in grief and foreboding, hearing nothing of what went on about her. Belshazzar from his place, and Baba from where she mingled with the slaves, watched her when they could; and for many hours that day it seemed to them that she did not move; and their bodies grew weary with the thought of how she stayed there, rigid and untiring.

As soon as the great company was assembled and each had found a place, the first sacrifice of the day was made. Two under-priests led in a snow-white bullock with gilded horns, his body twined with lotus flowers and his feet bound with golden chains.

This animal was led once round the room, while every one rose, prostrated himself before it, and remained standing through the whole sacrificial ceremony. Amraphel performed the slaughter in the name of Tammuz. Then a short incantation was made. The blood of the dead creature was poured out upon the altar, and the carcass was then carried away to be flayed, dressed, and cooked. This ceremony formally opened the festival, and it was followed by a loud chant led by the priests, in which the praises of Tammuz and Istar were set forth. In the midst of this singing the first wine was brought. Flagon after flagon of the purple juice of Helbon, of Lebanon, of Izalla, of Tuhimme, of Zimini, and of Opis in Armenia was emptied down the eager throats of both men and women. Very shortly the scene took on a different aspect. Laughter came freely. Voices rose clearer and higher, and snatches of song echoed under the high roof. The music of the lutes and cymbals caused more than one woman to rise and fall into that slow, sinuous, dreamy posturing, called, in the East, dancing. Many sacrifices followed. Goats and lambs were slaughtered by tens and twenties. Doves, fastened neck to neck with fine, silver chains, were killed off by the hundreds: timid, fluttering things, reared for this sacred end in the temple towers, but unable, in their folly, to realize the worthiness of their holy martyrdom. Amraphel and his under-priests admirably performed their tasks. Indeed, Amraphel seemed doubly impressive to-day. His men were exalted with their wine, and everything but the affairs of the hour had slipped from their thoughts.

Only Istar, of them all, looked on unmoved and sad. To-day she saw her lord as never before, crowning the feast in all the splendor of his royalty. Never had the faultless beauty of his physique impressed her so. He stood at the top of the ten steps, directly in front of the arched door-way of the shrine, three golden-robed slaves crouching on either side of him, lifting in his hands a yellow cup of wine that he drank to the men of his guard, to the regiment of Guti. His purple cloak, wrought with long scrolls of burning gold, flowed back from his shoulders. His superb head, its black locks bound about with a twisted fillet in which flashed fifty purple amethysts, was held like that of a conqueror on the day of his greatest victory. Istar caught the flashing of the storm-eyes, saw the lips curve with his deep laughter, watched the gleaming of the jewels on his breast, and then, as he raised the cup to his mouth, she sank back in her place, dizzy and sick at heart. He had forgotten as she could not forget. He thought no more of the little creature he had watched with her, that had lain in his arms so many times warm and breathing with life, and that had been so lately taken from him in death. And at that thought of death a terrible shudder passed over her, and she became still and cold, and intensely weary of the scene of revelry. Slowly she sank back into a reclining position on her couch. She had refused every proffered dish of food, every kind of wine. Her eyelids closed and there came over her a kind of stupor, in which she lay for many hours. It was not sleep, for through it she could hear the sounds in the room, could distinguish Belshazzar's voice whenever he spoke, and always answered the slaves that came reverently to waken her, telling them that she knew all that passed as well as they themselves. And yet Istar was not actually in that room. Nay, she could feel herself alone, at an infinite distance. When, after a long period she opened her eyes again, she saw the scene more than ever full of life. The lamps glowed brighter than before, but through the opening far in the roof no daylight came. The day was over. Night had come. Istar was faint for food, yet she rebelled at the idea of the heavy, half-cooked flesh served in this room; and she thought that possibly, in the rear of the temple, there might be some quiet place where she could break bread and taste of fruit and wine alone and undisturbed. With this thought she rose quietly and moved across to the foot of the shrine, on the platform of which Amraphel and Belshazzar now sat side by side. Here, moved by an irresistible impulse, Istar of Babylon turned to look back on the scene she was leaving. But her eyes, first raised, did not return to the floor. Instead, she stood transfixed, the heart in her wildly throbbing, her head swimming with the overpowering wonder of the sight that met her eyes. Unconscious of what she did, her two hands drew the enshrouding veil from her face, and then there rushed upon her vision such a sight as she had never thought to see again.

In the air, above the vast, closed doors, hung Allaraine, in a dazzling cloud of glory, his form all but indistinguishable in the palpitating rays of his aureole. He was without his lyre. In his right hand he held a wand of molten gold, with which he wrote upon the broad space over the doors. He, and that that he wrote, were clearly intelligible to Istar, who gazed on him unnoticed in her place. For Allaraine had come for her, and for her alone was writing his message there upon the wall. This she knew from the first.

But how was it with those others that thronged the hall? Before their blinded spiritual eyes all that was distinguishable were three fingers of the archetype's hand, and the unreadable words of fire that he wrote. Yet these were enough: infinitely more than enough. Amraphel and Belshazzar together, from the high place, first saw the miracle; and from the lips of the king broke forth a cry, a cry that stilled every voice in the temple. All eyes were turned to the shrine, and beheld the dread staring of Amraphel, whose gaze was fixed in dumb terror on the opposite wall. With universal accord every glance followed his, and every eye beheld the gradual fading of the hand and the blazing brilliance of the writing that was left upon the wall. There was no cry from the assemblage. A silence, infinitely more impressive than any sound, fell upon them. For five long minutes none moved or spoke. Istar remained unperceived in her place. Trembling and dazed, her lips moved noiselessly, repeating over and over the words that were written before her:

"Hast thou found man's relation to God? The silver sky waits for thy soul."

Again and yet again she repeated those two phrases to herself, till, out of the depths of the long-past, their meaning came home to her. Then a faint sigh broke from her lips, a sigh of ineffable weariness, of ineffable relief. She replaced the veil over her face, and, gliding noiselessly back to her couch, lay down upon it with her new knowledge, giving little heed to all that followed.

The voice of Belshazzar broke the spell hanging over the room. His tones startled the company like the clarion blast of a trumpet, as he cried: "Alchîa! Balatû! Ubar! Umarîa! Ye prophets of the great gods, arise and come before me!"

From out of the throng of feasters rose four white-robed men, bare-headed and bare-footed, prophets of Nabonidus' household. Mechanically obeying the words of their lord, they came forth and stood in a row before the steps of the high place.

"Ye that are professed to know the wishes of the gods, interpret now to us that which is written upon the wall."

One by one the four men turned and scanned the wall with its flaming text. And one by one each turned back to the king again, saying, helplessly: "O prince, live forever! I cannot read it!"

Then Belshazzar's pale face became tinged with red and his eyes blazed with anger. "Look ye again! I say that honor and riches and great power shall be his that interprets these words upon the wall. Look ye again!"

And again they looked. But had the reward for the reading been the kingdom of Babylonia, not one of the four possessed the wit or the courage to interpret to the master that which was unreadable to mortal eyes.

When it was seen in the room how the prophets had failed in their task, the murmurs of many tongues began to be heard against them. The whole throng was tremulous with awe and with fear. Amraphel himself felt it. He gazed helplessly at Belshazzar, never realizing this tremendous opportunity, never perceiving that no situation could possibly have been more desirable than this. It was from a wholly unexpected source that help came to his cause. In the midst of the dread silence that had gradually overpowered the people, Belitsum sprang from her place, and, hurrying as well as she could to the foot of the steps leading up to the shrine, cried out to Belshazzar:

"O king, live forever! Let not thy thoughts trouble thee nor thy countenance be changed. There is a man in thy kingdom in whom is the spirit of the great gods; in whom was found light and understanding and wisdom in the days of thy father's father. What hath he not shown thee and me in the miracle of his dream? Forasmuch as great knowledge and understanding, interpreting of dreams and showing of hard sentences and dissolving of doubts, were found in Daniel, called Beltishazzar, let then that Daniel be called, and he will show the interpreting of the letters of the fiery hand."

Belshazzar heard his step-mother with no little amazement, for he had hardly credited her with either sense or knowledge. But her words recalled to him something that Nabonidus had once said to him regarding this same man, and he made a sudden determination to try him with this difficult feat.

"Ina-shu-sin!" he shouted to the officer of his house that stood on guard at the door. "Let the door of the temple be opened. Go thou forth into the city and find him that is called Beltishazzar the Jew, bringing him back to the temple. Haste thee!"

The man had not time to acknowledge the command when Amraphel turned quickly to Belshazzar: "Lord prince," said he, softly, "the man Daniel being well known to the priesthood, send thou rather a temple steward to find him. He will appear before thee very shortly."

Belshazzar looked searchingly into the face of the high-priest, but he failed to find there more than a warrantable anxiety. Therefore he replied: "As thou wilt, Amraphel. Inâ-shu-Îbni, let rather Baza of the temple go to search for the prophet; and watch thou for them from the door, that Daniel, coming, may quickly enter."

The priest Baza, of the third house of Zicarû, put away the cups that he bore, and, catching Amraphel's sign, made his obeisance to the king and hurried from the temple. Just before his disappearance Istar, who had watched the whole scene in silence, half rose from the couch to which she had returned, as if she would have prevented the man's departure. For a second she stood quite still in her upright position, glancing from the letters on the wall to Belshazzar's face. Then she sank back on her couch again without speaking; and as her head once more touched the cushions, Baza disappeared into the night, and Inâ-shu-Îbni shut, but did not fasten after him, the great temple door.

Fifteen minutes passed, and still the dazed throng neither spoke nor moved. They waited for him who could make plain to them the mystery or the miracle that had come upon the feast. At the end of this time the temple door once again softly opened, and a man, dark-robed, bare-footed, gaunt, and sharp-eyed, walked into the room, and straight to the foot of the steps of the shrine. Seeing Belshazzar and Amraphel together above him, he made obeisance to each, and Belshazzar, rising, came to the top of the first step, asking:

"Art thou that Daniel which art of the captivity of Judah, whom the great king my father's father brought out of Jewry?"

Daniel bent his head.

"It is said of thee that the spirit of the gods, light, wisdom, and understanding, are to be found in thee. Look then, thou leader of Jews, at the wall yonder. Behold what is written on it in letters of fire. If thou canst interpret those strange words, honor and great riches shall be to thee. Look thou, and read."

Obediently, while the gaze of every eye in the room of the feast was fixed upon him, Daniel turned and looked over the door, that had been left ajar, and saw the signs that glowed more faintly now upon the bricks above. For many seconds he stood passive, his black brows knit under the stress of thought. Amraphel grew cold with nervousness. His lips twitched to give the signal that should drown this incident in the flood of something infinitely greater; and he was on the very verge of crying out when the prophet turned and faced the king, a fire of emotion burning in his eyes and in his cheeks. When he opened his lips the room grew breathless, and Istar, shivering in irrepressible fear, hung upon his words:

"O king, the most high God gave Nebuchadrezzar thy forefather a kingdom, and majesty and glory and honor. And for the majesty that he gave him all people, nations, languages, trembled and feared before him. Whom he would he slew; and whom he would he kept alive; and whom he would he set up; and whom he would he put down. But when his mind was lift up and his heart was hardened in pride, he was deposed from his kingly throne and they took his glory from him. And he was driven forth from the sons of men. His heart was made like the beasts, and his dwelling was made with wild asses. They fed him with grass like oxen, and his body was wet with the dew of heaven, till he knew that the most high God ruled in the kingdom of men, and that He appointeth over it whomsoever He will.

"And thou his descendant, O Belshazzar, hast not humbled thine heart, though thou knewest all this. Thou hast lifted thyself up against the Lord of heaven; and they have brought the vessels of His house before thee, thou and thy lords, thy wives and thy concubines, have drunk wine in them. Thou hast worshipped the gods of silver and of gold, and of brass, iron, wood, and stone, which see not, nor hear nor know. And the God in whose hands thy breath is, and whose are all thy ways, hast thou not glorified. Then was the part of the hand sent from Him, and this writing was given.

"This is the writing that was written: 'Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin.'

"This is the interpretation of the thing: Mene: God hath numbered thy kingdom and finished it. Tekel: thou art weighed in the balances and found wanting. Peres: Thy kingdom is divided—and given to the Medes and Persians!"

The last words were spoken not to Belshazzar nor to any one in the temple. They rose to a shout that was heard outside the half-open temple door. In the moments that followed, Istar, her eyes blazing with wrath and scorn, sprang to her feet and came forth to confront the man of lies. But her lips never showed him false. Even as she lifted up her voice there came from without the sound of a mighty roar of fury. The two doors of the temple were burst apart, and those within found themselves face to face with the army of Cyrus and a vast Babylonish mob.

XIX
THE REGIMENT OF GUTI

Now came the first sharp volley of arrows and sling-stones from the multitude at the doors. Two or three of the guards fell. The ranks were quickly closed up and the volley answered. Then the range became too short for bows. Men of Elam and Babylonish traitors were hand-to-hand with the defenders of the temple. In the semi-darkness it was hard to distinguish between friend and foe; and the struggle became as man to man. Shouts and cries ascended from the indivisible mass. In the midst of everything rose the trumpet tones of Belshazzar, crying encouragement to his men. But the rich and mellow voice of Cyrus was not to be heard giving commands to the other side. Cyrus was not here to-night. Only the open field and honorable combat were his. And he had left the dishonor of such a victory to Amraphel the high-priest, and Cambyses, his own son, who had asked for it.

In the temple, behind the ranks of the regiment of Guti, the royal eunuchs, creatures of silent courage and loyalty, had gathered together all the women into one group, round which, for protection, they and the lords of the council were piling the temple furniture into a barricade. Istar alone was not here. Since the first battle-cry no one had seen her; and now, in the excitement of the moment, she, being unseen, was also forgotten.

Baba, in her silks and chains, was with the women of Ribâta's household, all of whom their lord had placed carefully in one corner of the protecting barricade, behind a pile of divans and stone tables laid beside the sacrificial altar. In the rush of the moment Ribâta had but a word with his favorite slave. For an instant, however, he bent over her, to see that she was well protected, and in that time he pressed his lips as a seal against her forehead, muttering hurriedly, at the same time: "Courage, little one! Be not afraid. Our lives are in the hands of the great Bel. Pray to him, but do not weep."

And Baba answered readily, without any sign of fear: "My lord is my lord. I obey his word."

Then, as he left her side, the young girl lay back on the floor close against a couch that had been tipped beside her, and stayed there, silent and open-eyed, listening to the tumult of the battle round the door. The chorus of shouts and yells was deafening. Babylonish battle-cries mingled with Median phrases of triumph. And closer at hand, all around her, in fact, the women of high station lay wailing out their fright. Ribâta's two wives were near, crazed with terror for themselves, for their lord, for Babylon, for the king. Now and then, high above the general tumult, came the shrill, fierce voice of Belitsum, crying her anguish. Nabonidus was the name that continually left her lips, till Belshazzar himself, from the thickest of the fight, caught the syllables, and fought the more fiercely for the memory of his father.

While the men of Gutium held the door, there appeared to be nothing to fear for the women in the temple. Ribâta, before joining in the conflict, passed among his friends of the council, bidding them hold back a little from the thick of the fight, that, should it prove necessary, they might be unhurt to defend the women. The holders of the temple were in bad enough straits, to be sure, yet there was no immediate danger. Belshazzar's men, flanked by two bands of eunuchs and noblemen, who fought with sacrificial knives and axes, were for the moment holding all Babylon and the army of Cyrus at bay. Baba knew this, as she lay, quiet and silent, gazing up into the shadowy spaces of the roof. Presently, while all that terrible din sounded in her ears, with that throng of writhing, struggling, bleeding men twenty yards away, a little smile stretched itself over her lips, and her eyes fell shut. She lay wrapped in a vision of her own: a vision of fair fields and broad, blue water, where, on the shore, stood a man; a man whose hair shone like the sun, and who bore in his hands a five-stringed lyre. And presently, from out of the racket, she could hear the pure tones of Charmides' voice, singing, as he had always sung throughout his life, for love.

Baba was lying unconscious of her surroundings in this little ecstasy, when suddenly the low wailing of the women was heightened into loud cries of well-warranted horror. The little slave felt a new presence at hand. She lifted up her eyes, and saw something that caused her heart to rise into her throat. The barricade was breaking down before a band of armed temple-servants that were advancing to the murder of the women. A cold stream poured round Baba's heart, and for the first time to-night she screamed aloud. Her cry was answered by Ribâta, who was trying desperately to gather the lords out of the conflict at the door. But the fight there was going badly. More than half the defenders of the temple had fallen, and each of those that remained was pressed by half a dozen of the enemy. Many of the guards had been drawn out into the square and were keeping up the battle there while they lived. But it seemed all at once that the defence could not last many minutes more. Not a man could come to the rescue of the women caught in so terrible a trap. And in the faces of the inhuman creatures that threatened them, there was no hope for their lives. The murderers were nearly all of them Zicarû from the third college, which was Amraphel's own; and into their hearts hatred for the upper classes had been instilled for years. Now, as they looked upon their helpless prey, all the animal savagery of their race rose up in them, and their eyes sparkled and their lips twitched in the lust for blood. The wife of Nabû-Mashetic-Urrâ, one of the old councillors of Nabonidus, received the first blow. The knife of a seer struck her to the heart; and with that first gush of blood the general carnage began. Defenceless as they were, the women were roused to action. With their hands, their limbs, their teeth, the pins that fastened their hair, they fought uselessly for life. From the place where she lay half concealed, Baba watched the scenes of murder around her. The woman next her had been dodging the knife that continually pursued her, till, stabbed in a dozen places, hair and body dripping with her blood, she proffered her heart to the assassin, who mercifully plunged his dripping blade up to its hilt in her breast.

Baba gave a hoarse shriek, threw up her hands, and fell, face down, upon the floor. A second after a streak of fire ran deep into her right shoulder. Then, immediately, all the noise died away. The world reeled with her and became black; and for her this scene of incredible brutality was at an end.

Not so Belshazzar's desperate task. At the moment when the Zicarû, appearing from the back rooms of the temple, had set about the slaughter of the women, the king, in the midst of a little band of five soldiers, had pressed through the front ranks of the enemy, out into the temple square. This was packed with the city mob that had gathered from the feast in the temples of Nebo, Nergal, Istar, and Sin, and come hither under the leadership of their officiating priests. In the darkness it was impossible to tell friend from foe. Belshazzar's self-constituted body-guard fought madly to preserve his life; but, fifteen minutes after they had passed the temple doors, the last of them, wounded in twenty places, had fallen at the feet of his king, and Belshazzar of Babylon was alone with the darkness and with besetting death. Many set upon him where he stood on the eastern edge of the square; but perhaps none of his assailants knew him. He was armed only with a short sword taken from the hand of a dying Elamite; but with this weapon his execution was terrible. As man after man went down before his tigerish strength, the attention of many was drawn to him, and presently he found himself backing down a narrow and crooked street running out of the square, engaged with three men, variously armed, that vainly strove to fell him. An arrow stuck in the flesh of his right forearm, and there was a great gash upon one of his knees. He left behind him a trail of blood; but, in the heat of contest, he felt not a twinge of pain. The noise of the battle perceptibly diminished. He heard it vaguely, caring at this time very little how the fight was going. His adversaries pressed him hard; yet he smiled, as continually he beat them back. The brute, the tiger in him, was uppermost now. He had not a thought for anything but fighting. In his slow and certain way he had retreated perhaps two hundred yards, and was approaching the house of one of the under-priests of Bel. From its open door-way a flood of light poured into the street, and as Belshazzar moved into the luminous spot a cry of recognition broke from the lips of his oppressors. At the same moment a white-robed figure came quickly out of the house, and, unseen by him, moved behind Belshazzar. In the moment that followed, a knife gleamed in the light behind the king. The blow fell. With a great cry Belshazzar reeled, sank to his knee, straightened up again with a superhuman effort, thrust weakly in the direction of the men in front, and sank back on the ground with a faint moan. At the same time his assassin, motioning the three soldiers to go back, stepped in front of his victim and bent over him.

"Amraphel!" muttered the king.

"Ay, Amraphel, thou dog! Amraphel, thou tyrant of the city! Amraphel, thou last ruler of a hated line! Amraphel, that stands at last alone in the land of his desire! Hear thou, then, the name of Amraphel. Know his everlasting hatred for thee and thine, and knowing—die!" Then, with his sandalled foot, the old man spurned the face of him that was fallen, hoping to bring some craven word to the lips of the king.

But Belshazzar was himself in death as in life. Gazing steadily into the face of the high-priest, he permitted himself to smile—a slight, scornful smile, such as he had sometimes worn during the sacrifice. Seeing it, the high-priest was goaded into a hot fury. With what strength he had he kicked the face of the dying man. Then, drawing his bloody skirts about him, he turned and passed once more into the house of the priest, out of Belshazzar's sight forever.

So at last the king lay alone, unmolested, with the night and with his thoughts. Babylon was fallen—was fallen the Great City, before the hand of no invader, but by treachery and stealth, by means of murder and of outrage. All this the king knew; yet no regret for the inevitable disturbed these final moments. Rather he turned his mind to that that was his alone, to that which constituted his true, his inner life, that made his great happiness, that had redeemed him from all mental pain—his supreme love for Istar the woman.

In that dim dream into which all surrounding things were fading, her name floated to his lips. Once, twice, thrice he repeated it to himself, lingeringly, adoringly, loving each syllable as he spoke it. He had no thought, no hope of seeing her again. She was somewhere, far away, in the midst of those direful scenes beyond him. He commended her to his gods as best he could. Then he thought of himself as at her side, the mist of her hair hiding the world from his eyes, the perfume of her breath causing his head to swim. He thought of her as she had been to him in the last months. And then—suddenly—she was with him.

Out of the gloom of the narrow street she came, searching after him, calling his name. The veil had fallen back from her pallid face. Her eyes were staring wide with fear and with the horror of blood. Her movement was slow, indeterminate, vague. Not till after he had watched her for a full minute did she come upon his figure in its pools of blood. Then, with a faint, fluttering cry she ran to him, only half-believing her poor vision. Their meeting was ineffable. She lay upon his body, eye on eye, lip on lip to him, her cries stifled by his gasping breath, her wandering hands caressing his hair, his brow, his neck, his bloody vestment. Not knowing what she did, she pulled the broken arrow from his arm, and then screamed to think of where it had been. Of the two, Belshazzar's state of mind was infinitely clearer, infinitely stronger than hers. It was with a supreme effort that he took his lips from hers that he might speak, might try to make her understand what this moment must be to them.

"Oh, thou art wounded, my king, my beloved! Look—here upon thee is blood—blood on the white of thy robe. Why art thou red?" she repeated, once and again, anxiously examining the wet, dark stains that flowed ever freshly from his body.

Belshazzar saw that her brain was turned, and his anguish became terrible. Was she to bid him good-bye like this? Must he leave her forever with the infinite unsaid? How could he bring her mind back to him, if but for one moment? He could not think. All that he could do was to say, thickly, with the blood in his mouth:

"Istar, beloved, I die! Dost thou hear?"

"Yea, Belshazzar, and I also. Allaraine hath written it upon the wall. Didst thou not see? 'Hast thou found man's relation to God? The silver sky waits for thy soul.' I also die."

"Thou!" he murmured, quickly. "Art thou wounded, Istar?" His feeble hands searched over her body, but felt no sign of blood. She had been untouched by any weapon. And now his eyes grew dull with suffering, and he said, faintly, and with reluctance: "Fare thee far and well, my Istar—Istar of my city. I go."

"Belshazzar!"

What it had been, tone or word of his, that roused her at last, the dying man could not tell. But that name rang through the night in a scream of living agony. Now she knew what it meant—that her Babylon was fallen around her—that the world was empty—that the lord of her life was passing—that henceforward her way lay through the valley of loneliness. What mattered now the writing on the wall, hopeless prophecy of her own death? Belshazzar was here, beneath her, dying; while she—Istar—his wife—had received no wound.

She raised him in her arms and their eyes met for the last time. How much passed in the look cannot be told, for it was a final mingling of souls. All their love, their infinite happiness, their sorrow, their tears unshed, the humanity of their two lives, was embodied in that look. Grief of parting was not there, for the two were striving to make parting endurable, each to each, by the look. It was finished at last, with Belshazzar's whispered words:

"In the silver sky, O my glorious one, I wait for thee!"

"O my beloved, wait for me! Wait for me!"

Then the body dropped inert in her arms. Belshazzar was gone. Istar was left alone in the world.

How long afterwards she rose from that place she did not know. Many people—soldiers of the invading army and men of the mob, with blood-dripping swords—had passed her as she lay along the ground, face down, beside the body. And none of these offered to molest her, for they thought that two dead lay there in the semi-darkness. The light in the house of the priest of Bel had gone out, and the shouts of conflict had long since been hushed. Still, through all the city, there was the murmur of uneasiness, of many men awake and stirring. The night was filled with stars, and with that curious white glow that comes in midsummer to the Orient. But it seemed strange that the skies did not turn from the hideous spectacle of Babylon that night.

Forth into the city, from the body that she loved, Istar went. Guided and protected by some divine spirit, she passed unhurt among groups of strange, uncouth warriors that laughed and talked in an unknown tongue. She crossed streets where dead lay piled together. For those that were loyal to the city had not been spared by the men of Amraphel. She passed houses in which sat women wailing out their terror through the long hours before the dawn; and came finally to the open doors of a small temple in which the feast of Tammuz had been celebrated through the day. Before this Istar paused. Inside she could see the glowing of the sacrificial lights and the disorderly desertion of the room—the long, empty tables covered with half-filled cups and plates, and the altar whence, from the smouldering fire, a thin stream of blue incense still poured upward. The woman's weary eyes saw these long, soft divans with a sense of desire and of relief. She entered the room and went quickly towards the nearest resting-place. She was about to lay herself down. Her eyes were all but closed under their weight of weariness, when suddenly, from the shadowy spaces beyond her, came a sound that caused her to start back from the couch, and hasten in nervous terror towards the door. It had been only the bleating of a little group of hungry sheep in their pen near the temple kitchen; yet the unexpected noise had shattered Istar's nerves, and she fared forth again out of the holy house into the long, winding streets of the city.

Whither she went, how far, with what purpose, no one knew, no one cared. She saw the river winding its tranquil way between well-stoned banks, with the shadows of vast buildings mirrored in its depths, while the glittering stars from their high dome shone like pale, white eyes in the glassy, lazily moving stream. Wandering Euphrates! Took it any heed of the deeds of good or evil performed upon its banks? God had bequeathed to it eternal calm, had made the sight of it an eternal balm for weary eyes. This night it brought peace on its waves and a promise of rest to the soul of the woman. As she stood gazing down into its baffling green, there came to her again the message from the kingdom, written in golden letters on the surface of the water. Again Istar read and again she wondered, yet in her soul understood the words:

"Hast thou found man's relation to God? The silver sky waits for thy soul."

Istar, in her great woe, stood looking upon the fiery words, that seemed to have burned themselves into her brain; and her whole heart rebelled against them. Those that she loved had been taken from her. With Belshazzar, the light of her life was extinguished. Man was bound to God only by great suffering, by grief, by heart-sorrow! A sob came into her throat, and there was anger in her mind as she would have turned away from the mystical words. But at that instant they flashed out into darkness, and the gleam was gone. For a moment the night grew thickly black, and Istar reeled where she stood. Afterwards she found herself walking on the bank of the river, only a little distance west of the spot where the huge temple of Marduk reared its bulk into the air. It was now in Istar's mind to go back to the place where Belshazzar's body lay, and to remain there at his side till dawn should banish the horrors of the night. But just as she would have left the river for the second time, there came out upon the path that ran along its bank a group of white-robed men, whom Istar knew for priests, bearing with them a heavy burden covered over with a purple cloth. At sight of them Istar turned suddenly dizzy and crouched on the bricks of the pavement.

Arrived at the edge of the river, the five priests of Amraphel's temple laid their burden on the ground and removed the cloth that covered it. Belshazzar's body was exposed to view. Istar, with a little moan, pressed both hands tightly across her breast. But neither sound nor movement attracted any attention from the priests. These now indulged in a short parley, that ended in their taking from the corpse the royal ornaments that covered it and dividing them evenly among the five.

"Now, Bel-shar-utsur, tyrant of the city, go down by river to plead with the Lady Mulge in Ninkigal for a drink from the spring of life; for thou shalt drink no more, in the Great City, of the wines of Helbon and Izalla!"

With this only farewell, three of them lifted the body up, swung it thrice in the air by the feet and by the head, and at the third swing let it fly out into the waters of the river that had so short a time before received the worn frame of the dead man's father.

As the body left their hands the priests were startled to hear a long, low cry that came from a few yards to the right. Looking, they saw a woman's figure run to the river-bank and peer into the waters below, where the body of the king, as on a funeral barge, went floating down towards the city of the dead that lay south of Babylon.

Without any attempt at accosting her who mourned, the men of Amraphel presently turned away and began their return to the temple, carrying with them the new wealth of jewels. Istar also rose, half consciously, and knowing neither any abiding-place where to lay her head, nor any one to seek who could give her help, she moved away aimlessly down the bank of the stream. A few yards to the south there was a great ferry station, where, by day, a dozen boats were wont to ply back and forth across the stream. By night only one barge went its way backward and forward; and as Istar came down to the little quay the broad scow was just ready to start to the western shore with its load of men and soldiers. She ran quickly down the steps and on to this moving bridge. The west bank of the river was home to her. She knew its streets and its people. There, to the north, was the palace of Belshazzar, and the temple in which she had once dwelt. There, somewhere, she would find shelter.

When the barge finally touched the landing at the western shore and Istar, last of any one, was about to leave it, she was stopped by one of the ferrymen.

"Lady, it is two se for the passage."

"Two se! Money? I have none," said Istar, slowly.

"Thou shalt not leave the barge till the price is paid," retorted the boatman, angrily.

But vaguely understanding what he meant, Istar pulled the veil from her face and fixed her great eyes upon him, the better to comprehend what it was he told her. The man gave a great start, for in the semi-darkness her marvellous beauty shone like a star. Then the rough fellow bent his head before her.

"It is the lady of Babylon! Great Istar, forgive our fault! Let it please thee to leave the barge!" he exclaimed, reverently.

Istar did not pause to wonder that he knew her. She saw that her way was open, and she went forth, up the steps, across the path at the top, and into the lower city. Too weary, too stricken for either rest or sleep, she felt her brain burn and her limbs grow cold as she walked. Now there was a fire in her veins; now they grew chill as the snows of Elam. In the pale gray of the dawn she trembled with sickness. The coming of day was not beautiful to her eyes. In the first pink flush from the east she found herself standing before a miserable hut on the border of a canal, and from the dark door-way came a voice crying in great fear:

"The plague! The plague! It is come upon us! Behold the gods visit their wrath upon men! Woe, woe to them that see light in Babylon to-day!"

Istar shuddered at the cry. From another place farther to the north the words of horror and grief were repeated. The reign of death was thus proclaimed in the city. Now there was a great ringing in Istar's ears. Lights shot up before her eyes. It seemed to her that over all the city, from the five millions of human tongues, rose that cry of woe: "The plague! The plague!"

The memory of her dead child was with her. A few more paces she staggered through, half consciously. Then, of a sudden, some one appeared beside her—some one whom she knew and had forgotten. At sight of the well-known face the woman's brain gave way. With a long, heart-broken sob, she fell helpless, lifeless, into the reverent arms of Charmides, her bard.