THE KING AND THE FATHERCHAPTER XXII
THE KING AND THE FATHER
The Persian army lay in the plain before the captured Kutha. Far as the eye might reach, it touched only avenues of black camel’s-hair tents, sprinkled with the gaudier red and blue of the princes’ pavilions. The gloaming was at hand, the first stars budding; all around myriad red sparks were twinkling forth—the camp-fires of the host of the Aryans. Over their drink the stout Median footmen and Scythian horse-archers were roaring out pledges—“Confusion to Belshazzar and destruction to his city!” For if there was one thing the hearts of the soldiers lusted after, it was to see the walls of Imgur and Nimitti-Bel. But the army had waited inactive for days, and save for petty skirmishings had scarcely sped an arrow. “Negotiations,” grumbled some wiseacres; and others would answer, “The Father (meaning no one less than their august king) will not cast away all hopes of saving Prince Darius.” Whereupon comrades would shake their heads gloomily, “We shall see the prince, in this world—never!” Then the banter, even of veterans, would lag, for Darius was the darling of the army.
So throughout the black tents. And in that village of pavilions, of guardsmen and grooms and chamberlains, where the king found lodging, there was no common gloom that night. For Cyrus sat alone in the innermost tent, and refused all drink and food. This was the fortieth night, on which Isaiah had promised to return with Darius, and naught had been seen or heard of the Jew since he had quitted Susa. Atrobanes, “the bearer of the royal handkerchief,” and the attendant with whom Cyrus was most familiar, had ventured once to enter the tent, and light the tall silver candelabra. There was the master on the high ivory throne, looking straight before him upon the rugs, combing his flowing beard with his right hand, while his left gripped hard on the jewelled hilt at his side.
“Lord,” Atrobanes had ventured, kneeling, “the feast in the banqueting tent is ready. The Princes Harpagus and Gobryas and the other captains have come, for you deigned to command that they should eat meat with you this evening.”
No answer. Cyrus was still looking straight before.
“Live forever, O king,” began Atrobanes again. An angry exclamation cut him short. For Cyrus to be in wrath was so unwonted that the attendant trembled.
“Live forever? Are you mad? Is life so utterly sweet, that one may never long to lay it down?”
“Mercy, lord of all goodness; mercy!” protested the shivering servant.
“By Mithra, you are frightened.” Cyrus laughed softly; it seemed more in melancholy than in mirth. “I meant nothing; I scarce knew that you were here. What is your wish?”
“Will the king condescend to be present at the feast appointed for to-night to the captains of the army?”
A weary sigh, and more silence. Then Cyrus replied, almost bitterly, “Would to Ahura I had not ordered it! How can I sit over wine this night? Yet I must not dishonour the princes. Go to the high steward and say that I can touch no food, though I thank him for his pains. Yet say that when the evening advances, and the wine is brought, I will come and sit with the captains.”
“And the king requires nothing for himself?”
“Only this—that you leave me.”
Atrobanes kissed the cushioned footstool at his master’s feet, and vanished behind the heavy draperies. There was profound stillness, save for the vague hum of the busy camp and the clatter of plate and dishes many hands were bearing to the banqueting tent. The king sat for a long time motionless, the grip on the sword-hilt ever tightening. Then, letting the weapon rest, he fumbled in his bosom, drew forth a locket, and gazed on it as on treasure untold. “The locket of Atossa. It has been close against her own pure breast.” He pressed it to hislips, once, twice, thrust it back in his mantle, slipped from the high seat, and began treading to and fro, his feet noiseless on the carpets.
“Live forever, O king, O lord of all goodness! Live forever!” As he repeated the words he was smiling, but not with mirth. “Praised be the All-Merciful, these flatteries are but flatteries, nothing more!”
Voices sounded at the tent door.
“I come to report to the king from Artaphernes, commander of the skirmishers.”
“Unless you have definite news, his Majesty is not to be troubled.”
“Wait, then; I have only to declare that our scouts bring in nothing.”
The pacings of the king grew swift and feverish.
“Nothing, nothing; well, it was to be expected. Are you waxed so old, Cyrus, son of Cambyses, that you will pin your faith on an open face and a ready tongue? The Jew spoke fair, but is like all men of every race saving our own—a liar. If he but come within my power after betraying thus—”
There was a javelin standing against a tent-pole; the king grasped and almost poised it. But the royal mood shifted; Cyrus replaced the weapon, and ran on, communing with himself darkly:—
“I am lord of a million sword-hands; at my word nations sink down in ruin. Men worship me as being a god on earth. Holy Ahura, when Thou madest me king, why did I not cease to be a man; whycould I not cease loving, losing, longing? The garment of life is woven of the same stuff, whether for the vilest slave or the lord of the Aryans. I have godlike powers, but I am miserable!”
A noise without—the sentries passing the watchword for the night, as they changed the guard, “Vengeance for Darius!” Again the king touched the javelin.
“Of course the Jew failed, and that without playing falsely. His project was a mad one. Darius has long since died under Belshazzar’s torments. Died; ay, and by Mithra thedæva-smiter, the watchword shall not prove vain! Men call me merciful; but to the son of Nabonidus and all his perjured brood, Angra-Mainyu, the arch-fiend, and his demons shall seem more compassionate than I. But ah! though I slay all Babylon, I may not breathe life into one form once stilled, nor woo back a loved spirit with all the rubies of Ecbatana!”
Again a voice at the tent door, and Cyrus, recognizing, commanded, “Enter.”
Hystaspes passed within. The prince was in his coat of shining scale armour, for years had not made him too feeble to keep the saddle. The short Persian spear was in his hand, the sword dangled at his thigh. The king attempted to brighten before his friend, and threw out boldly:—
“Well, comrade, has not the country been scoured, and all the farms so well sacked, that a man of your hale years need ride with the skirmishers?”
The other laughed, though none too heartily.
“The young hotbloods who lead your Majesty’s cavalry troops are all valour and no prudence. An older eye is needed to see that Sirusur with his Babylonish chariots does not dash down on us unawares, and fling us, man and beast, into the Tigris.”
“Caution, always caution,” answered the king, with an impatient gesture, when the other attempted to salaam. “Come, you have no longing for the feast. Let tables be brought here. I have only promised to appear at the banquet when they serve the wine.”
“Your Majesty is thrice kind; a thousand pardons, but for some reason I cannot eat. Perhaps I have ridden too long; as you say, I grow old.”
But the king plucked him nigh roughly by the shoulder.
“No, you cannot eat, nor can I. Away with merry lips, when they speak from grieving hearts. Darius, your son, is not here. We were fools to trust the Jew, who has either failed or dealt falsely. Yet we must eat, must eat heartily—you and I—and all.”
“Does the king command that I feast against my will?”
“Yes; for if Darius is dead, Belshazzar lives, and all the asps of his guilty kind. And we need all our strength for a vengeance, the fame whereof shall last as long as Mithra’s car glows in the heavens.”
“Ah! lord, not so bitterly. I am the father, yet I can bow to Ahura’s will!”
“But I, the king, who sent Darius forth, and sped him to his death, find like submission hard. For the king shall answer on the Great Day for the blood of all his people!”
“I do not blame your Majesty.”
“Nor does any man.” Cyrus smote his own breast. “The voice that blames is here.”
But as he spoke a strange sound was spreading in the camp, a roaring as of wind, though very far away.
“An alarm!” and Hystaspes started from the tent.
“Alarm? No such outcry; the soldiers are at some sport.”
Yet still the sound was rising—was swelling nearer; and now they caught, as it seemed, the clamour of countless voices.
“Alarm surely! I must seek my post!” Again Hystaspes started from the tent; but the king gripped his arm with so tight a clutch that it brought almost pain.
“Hystaspes,”—Cyrus spoke in a hoarse whisper,—“this sound—comes it from men or from angels—is a shout of joy, not of fear!”
“‘Here is only the king; within your father waits.’”
“‘Here is only the king; within your father waits.’”
Then they stood side by side, those strong men, and listened; for a mighty tumult was swelling through the camp, passing onward, nearer, nearer, rising and falling like the wind-driven billow bounding across the deep. Now the distant encampment of the Tartar Sacæans was thundering, now the Bactriansand the Medes; closer now, it had reached the Persians, the core of the army, and the “Immortals,” the royal life-guards, were tossing on the cry. Then through the cheering the two heard something else—riders galloping fiercely; and words came at last, the shout of the captains and lords about the tent of the king.
“The prince! The prince! Glory to Ahura!”
The high chamberlain had entered. When he salaamed he stumbled. His ready tongue spoke thickly.
“Font of all goodness,” he began; but Cyrus did not hear. Straight through the door strode the king, and into the throng of officers in the tent without. They parted to either hand at sight of him, like sand before the desert gale. Inside the pavilion itself a score of joyous hands were plucking from his steaming beast a young man, who started, tattered, dust-covered as he was, to kneel before the sovereign. Started: but Cyrus beckoned him on, and spoke before them all:—
“Here is only the king; within your father waits.”
So Darius was gone, with no man following him. Then two more newcomers were led forward, and bowed themselves to Cyrus, who saw that they were Isaiah and a stranger, though clearly a Jew also.
“Lord,” Isaiah was saying, “behold my pledge fulfilled. This is the fortieth night, and your eyes see Darius.”
But Cyrus would hear no more.
“Stand up, son of Shadrach, for the pledge is indeed made good. Look on this man, captains of the Aryans; honour him as you would honour your king, for he has brought joy out of anguish, brought life out of death. Take him away, Hydarnes,”—with a nod to the “master of the royal dresses,”—“clothe him in a robe of state; give him the wine and dainties you would give to me; in the morning put the kingly tiara upon his head, mount him upon my sacred Nisæan charger, and lead him through the host, proclaiming to all men, ‘This is the Jew who is honoured by Cyrus!’”
“Hail! all hail, Isaiah, justly honoured of the Great King!”
So thundered an hundred; yet when there was stillness, Isaiah answered humbly, yet boldly, “Lord, I despise not your gifts and your honours; but it was not for even this that Zerubbabel, my comrade, and I plucked the prince out of the dungeon and the clutch of Belshazzar.”
Cyrus shook his stately head and smiled.
“Ah! good Jew,” spoke he, “do you think the promises of the Persians are pledges graven on water? Fear not that your people will find the king of the Aryans aught but a father and a friend. But enough—you have ridden hard and far; rest for to-night shall be the first reward. Lead them away, Hydarnes, and give this other, Zerubbabel, ten talents also.”
But Isaiah did not follow the chamberlain.
“Your Majesty,”—he fell on one knee,—“I bring you not Prince Darius only. I bring you this.”
He drew from his girdle and proffered a tiny clay cylinder, scarce the thickness of two fingers. The king grasped it, eagerly as the drowning clutch after the float. They saw him read, and lo, a marvellous thing! the eyes of the master of half the nations were bright with tears. Thus ran the letter:—
“Atossa in Babylon, to Cyrus, lord of the Aryans:“I know that you must be first the king and then the father. Yet when you sent me from Susa, did you send me to this—to loathsome bondage, to be queen in name only, to be the toy of a man of wrath and guile, and the pledge of a peace sworn only to be broken? Come to me, my father, for I am of your own proud blood. Let other kings’ daughters learn a master’s yoke; a child of yours must be the mistress, or must die. Heaven favouring, the noble Isaiah will save Darius, whom I love; but I, who cannot fly, can only pray for the hour when the swords of my people shall flash within this accursed city. Yet save speedily; for the time grows near when I shall be Belshazzar’s bride in very deed. Farewell.”
“Atossa in Babylon, to Cyrus, lord of the Aryans:
“I know that you must be first the king and then the father. Yet when you sent me from Susa, did you send me to this—to loathsome bondage, to be queen in name only, to be the toy of a man of wrath and guile, and the pledge of a peace sworn only to be broken? Come to me, my father, for I am of your own proud blood. Let other kings’ daughters learn a master’s yoke; a child of yours must be the mistress, or must die. Heaven favouring, the noble Isaiah will save Darius, whom I love; but I, who cannot fly, can only pray for the hour when the swords of my people shall flash within this accursed city. Yet save speedily; for the time grows near when I shall be Belshazzar’s bride in very deed. Farewell.”
“Did you penetrate the harem of Belshazzar?” asked Cyrus, his voice unsteady.
“Yes, your Majesty; I have seen the most gracious princess. Belshazzar triumphs in holding the child of his arch-enemy captive. To force her to his bridal will be his joy. And in three months he will celebrate another feast—the wedding one year from the betrothal.”
“Then in three months Babylon is to be taken?”
“The king has said. Belshazzar will risk little in the field. He boasts his walls will mock your armies seven years, and yet be strong.”
“And you say that he boasts well?” urged Cyrus, shrewdly.
“Lord, I only know that speaking from human wisdom, there may be doors to Babylon Belshazzar little dreams of; and speaking from the voice within”—Isaiah’s own voice rose, and he swept his hand proudly—“the promise of Jehovah is yet strong,—‘I, who have prospered so far, and saved from so many perils, will still favour even to the end.’”
“And favour He will!” cried the king, as in a great gladness; “three months for the might of the Aryans to master the ‘fiend-servers’ and their mute brick and stone! Let Ahura lay on us a harder task!”
Then the chamberlains took the Jews away, and forth from the inner tent returned Darius, who knelt now at Cyrus’s feet.
“Rise up,” the king commanded; “you also need food and sleep. And in the morning—”
“What in the morning, lord?” cried the prince, now standing.
“In the morning you shall ride at the head of the van. But you have won the right to crave a boon—and ask it, whatsoever you will.”
“My king,”—Darius’s voice was trembling,—“you well know what I would ask.”
Whereupon Cyrus only smiled once more, and lifted his hand as in an oath.
“By the light of Ahura I swear it, that when we have conquered Babylon and plucked Atossa from thedæva’sclutch, you shall ask for her in marriage, and I will not say you nay.”
Three nights later the burghers of Babylon, when they mounted their house roofs, as was their wont in the cool of the evening, saw a light that stilled the bravest boasters. East, west, and north the horizon glowed with a redness which shone ever brighter, ever nearer, till it climbed the heavens. Rising smoke was blotting out the stars. Men spoke together in whispers, as they stared and shuddered at the brightness: “The host of Cyrus. All the country villages are burning. Marduk be praised, the walls are yet strong!”
At next morn the city folk saw a sight yet more terrible. The plains were covered with innumerable black tents and pavilions, and horsemen more than the sands of the sea. The king of the Aryans was at hand, and with him all the might of the far East. Imgur-Bel and Nimitti-Bel were put to proof at last.