“She is the god’s,” answered the Assyrian. “She is the keeper of his house. If the god entered he might be hungry. There must be food for him in his house and a woman to serve it. Or he might be amor—”
“And so there must be a woman there,” interrupted the bold-eyed wench, smiling up at him.
“We have something like that in my country,” the Persian drew her closer. “But the priestesses seldom wait alone. The priests see to that—Ho! Ho!”
God! Would Zubran never come close enough to the wall? So close that Kenton might call to him? And yet—if he did! Would not those others hear him also—? And then—
“Have any of these priestesses who—wait—” Zubran’s voice purred—“Have any of these waiting priestesses ever—ah, entertained—the god?”
The youth spoke: “They say the doves speak to her—the doves of Ishtar! They say she is more beautiful than Ishtar!”
“Fool!” whispered the Assyrian. “Fool, be still! Will you bring bad luck upon us? No woman can be more beautiful than Ishtar!”
“No woman can be more beautiful than Ishtar,” sighed the youth. “Therefore she is—Ishtar!”
The Phrygian said: “He is mad!”
But the Persian stretched out his right arm, drew the youth to him.
“Have any of these priestesses ever held the god?” he asked.
“Wait” murmured the woman. “I will ask Narodach the archerer. He comes sometimes to my house. He knows. He has seen many priestesses.” she held the Persian’s arm fast about her girdle, leaned forward—“Narodach! Come to me!”
An archer turned; whispered to the men on each side of him; slipped from between them. They closed up behind him.
“Narodach,” asked the woman. “Tell us—have any of the priestesses ever held—Bel?”
The archer hesitated, uneasily.
“I do not know,” slowly he answered at last. “They tell many tales. Yet are they but tales? When first I came here there was a priestess in Bel’s house. She was like the crescent moon of our old world. Many men desired her.”
“Ho, archer,” rumbled the Persian. “But did she—hold the god?”
Narodach said: “I do not know. They said so—they said that she had been withered by his fires. The wife of the charioteer of the Priest of Ninib told me that her face was very old when they took away her body. She was a date tree that had withered before it had borne fruit, she said.”
“If I were a priestess—and so beautiful—I would not wait for a god!” the woman’s eyes clung to Zubran. “I would have a man. Yea—I would have many men!”
“There was another who followed,” said the archer. “She said the god had come to her. But she was mad—and being mad, the priests of Nergal took her.”
“Give me men, I say!” whispered the woman.
Said Narodach the archer musing: “One there was who threw herself from the Bower. One there was who vanished. One there was—”
The Persian interrupted: “It seems that these priestesses who wait for Bel are not—fortunate.”
Said the woman with intense conviction:
“Give me—men!”
There was a nearer clashing of thunder. In the lurid, ever-darkening sky, the clouds began a slow churning.
“There will be a great storm,” muttered the Phrygian.
The girl Narada had rebuked thrummed against her harp strings; she sang half maliciously, half defiantly:
“Every heart that sought a nest, Flew straightway to Nala’s breast— Bornwas Nala for delight—”
She checked her song. From afar came the faint sound of chanting; the tread of marching feet. Bowman and spearmen raised bows and spears in salute. Behind them the milling multitudes dropped to their knees. The Persian drew close to the wall. And his was now the only head in the circular window whose pane was stone.
“Zubran!” called Kenton, softly. The Persian turned startled face to the wall, then leaned against it, cloak tight around his face.
“Wolf!” he whispered. “Are you safe? Where are you?”
“Behind the wall,” whispered Kenton. “Speak softly.”
“Are you hurt? In chains?” muttered the Persian.
“I am safe,” answered Kenton. “But Gigi—Sigurd?”
“Searching for you,” the Persian said. “Our hearts have been well-nigh broken—”
“Listen,” said Kenton. “There is a clump of trees—close to the stairway above the garrison—”
“We know,” answered Zubran. “It is from them we make the steps and scale the temple. But you—”
“I will be in the Bower of Bel,” said Kenton. “Soon as the storm breaks—go there. If you do not find me—take Sharane, carry her back to the ship. I will follow.”
“We will not go without you,” whispered Zubran.
“I hear a voice speaking through the stone.” It was the Assyrian, kneeling. Zubran dropped from Kenton’s sight.
The chanting had grown louder; the marching feet were close. Then from some secret entrance of the temple there swept out into the open space a company of archers and a company of swordsmen. Behind them paced as many shaven, yellow-robed priests, swinging smoking golden censers and chanting as they walked. The soldiers formed a wide arc before the altar. The priests were silent upon a somber chord. They threw themselves flat on the ground.
Into the great court strode a single figure, tall as Kenton himself. A robe of shining gold covered him and a fold of this he held on raised left arm, completely covering his face.
“The Priest of Bel!” whispered the kneeling woman.
There was a movement among the temple girls. Narada had half risen. Never had there been such yearning, such bittersweet desire as that in her midnight eyes as the Priest of Bel passed her, unheeding. Her slender fingers gripped the cobwebs that meshed her; their webs were lifted by the swelling breast of her; shuddered with the sighs that shook her.
The Priest of Bel reached the golden altar. He dropped the arm that held the shrouding fold. And then Kenton’s stiff fingers almost loosed the shining lever.
He looked, as in a mirror, into his own face!
CHAPTER 22
How Narada Danced
Breathlessly Kenton stared at this strange twin. There was the same square jaw, firm-lipped dark face, the same clear blue eyes.
His mind groped toward the black priest’s plot. Was this to be—Sharane’s lover? Some flash of understanding half illumined his mind—too brief to be more than half caught. It left him groping again.
Through the stone he heard the Persian cursing. Then—
“Wolf, are you behind me?” he muttered. “Are you truly behind me, Wolf?”
“Yes,” he whispered. “I am here, Zubran. That is not I! It is some sorcery.”
His gaze flew back to the Priest of Bel; began now to take note of subtle differences in their two faces. The lips were not so firm, the corners of the mouth drew down, there was hint of indecision about them and the chin. And the eyes were strained, shadowed with half wild, half agonized longing. Silent, tense, the Priest of Bel stared over the lifted head of Narada, her lithe body as rigid as his own, unheeding her, intent upon that hidden portal through which he had come.
The lanced, crimson flame upon the altar flickered; swayed.
“The gods guard us!” he heard the bold-eyed woman say.
“Be silent! What is the matter?” said the Assyrian.
The woman whispered: “Did you see the Kerubs? They glared at the priest! They moved toward him!”
The woman with the babe said: “I saw it! I am frightened!”
The Assyrian said: “It was the light on the altar. It flickered.”
Said the Phrygian low: “Perhaps it was the Kerubs. Are they not Bel’s messengers? Did you not say the priest loved Bel’s woman?”
“Silence there!” rang the voice of the officer from behind the double ring. The priests began a low chanting. In the eyes of the priest a fire began to glow; his lips quivere
d; his body bent forward as though drawn by an unseen cord. Across the wide place walked a woman—alone. She was cloaked from neck to feet in purple; her head was swathed in golden veils.
Kenton knew her!
His heart leaped toward her; his blood raced. He quivered under such shock of longing that it seemed as though his leaping heart must break beneath it.
“Sharane!” he called, forgetting; and again—“Sharane!”
She glided through the opened ranks of the men-at-arms kneeling to her as she passed. Straight to the altar she paced and stood silent, motionless beside the Priest of Bel.
There was a louder rolling of the metallic thunder. As it died away the priest turned to the altar, lifted his hands high. From his attendants droned a long, sustained humming upon a single deep note. Up and out swept the priest’s arms; seven times he bowed low before the crimson flame. He stood upright. Down upon their knees dropped archers and spearmen; with a rustling of bows, a muffled beating of spear shafts.
Still to that weird humming the Priest of Bel began his invocation:
“Oh merciful among the gods! O bullnecked among the gods! Bel Merodach, king of the heavens and the worlds! Heavens and earths are thine! Breather of life art thou! Thy house is prepared for thee! We worship and await.”
Kenton heard a whisper—tremulous, golden—“I worship and await!”
Sharane’s voice! The golden voice of Sharane playing upon every taut nerve of him like myriads of little fingers over stretched harp strings!
Again the Priest of Bel:
“O begetter! O self-begotten! O beautiful one who givest life to the babe! O merciful one who givest life to the dead! King art thou of Ezida! Lord of Emakhtila! A resting place for the King of Heaven is thy house! A resting place for the Lord of Worlds is thy house! We worship and await thee!”
And once more Sharane—tremulous—“I worship and await Thee!” The priest intoned:
“Lord of the Silent Weapon! Look favorably on thy house, O Lord of Rest! May Ezida speak peace to thee in thy house! May Emakhtila speak rest to thee in thy house! We worship and await thee!”
And again Sharane: “I worship and await Thee!” Now Kenton saw the priest make toward the altar a gesture in which lurked an inexplicable defiance. He turned and faced Sharane. His voice rang loudly, jubilantly:
“Full of delight is thy supremacy! Opener of the lock of morning art thou! Opener of the lock of evening art thou! To open the lock of the Heavens is thy supremacy! I worship and await thee!”
At the first words the humming of the priests ceased; Kenton saw them stir, glance at each other uncertainly; saw a ripple pass through kneeling soldiers and worshippers as their heads raised; heard murmuring, astonished, uneasy.
Beneath him the kneeling Assyrian muttered: “That was not in the ritual!”
The Persian asked: “What was not in the ritual?”
The woman said: “That the priest cried last. It is not Bel’s. It belongs to Our Lady Ishtar!”
The youth whispered: “Yes! Yes—he knows her too! She is Ishtar!”
The woman with the babe sobbed: “Did you see the Kerubs stretch their claws? I am frightened. I am frightened, and it is not good for the child’s milk. The light on the altar is like spilled blood!”
Said the Assyrian, uneasily: “I do not like it! It was not of Bel’s ritual! And the storm is coming fast!”
Narada arose, abruptly. Her handmaids bent over drums and harps; set their pipes to lips. A soft and amorous theme beat up from them, delicate, clinging—like the beating of the wings of countless doves, the clinging of countless little soft arms, the throbbing of countless little rosy hearts. Under it the body of Narada swayed like a green reed at the first touch of roving winds of spring. The multitude looked, sighed once and was still.
But Kenton saw that the priest’s eyes never left Sharane, standing like a woman asleep beneath her veils.
Louder the music sounded; quicker, throbbing with all love longing, laden with all passion; hot as the simoon. To it, as though her body drank in each calling, imperious note, turned it into motion, made it articulate in flesh, Narada began to dance.
In the midnight eyes that had been so sorrowful, many little leaping joyous stars danced. The scarlet mouth was a luring, honey-sweet flame promising unknown raptures; and the swarms of golden butterflies meshed within her gossamer nets of jet hovered, swept down, clung to and caressed the rose and pearl of her body as though she were some wondrous flower. They were clouds of golden butterflies darting upon her, covering with kisses all her loveliness, gleaming within the cloudy nets that swirled about her, yet hiding no single exquisite contour. Maddening, breathless, grew dance and music, and in music and dance Kenton watched mating stars, embracing suns, moons swollen with birth. Gathered in them he sensed all passion, all desire of all women under stars and suns and moons…
The music slowed, softened; the dancer was still; from all the multitude a soft sighing arose. He heard Zubran, his voice hoarse:
“Who is that dancer? She is like a flame! She is like the flame that dances before Ormuzd on the Altar of Ten Thousand Sacrifices!”
The woman jealously: “She danced the wooing of Bel by Ishtar. She has danced it many times. Nothing new in that.”
The Phrygian said, maliciously: “He asked who she is?” The woman said, spitefully: “Gods! That dance is no new thing, I tell you. Many women have danced it.”
The Assyrian said: “She is Narada. She belongs to Bel.”
The Persian said wrathfully: “Are all the fair women in this country Bel’s? By the Nine Hells—Cyrus the King would have given ten talents of gold for her!”
“Hush!” whimpered the Assyrian; and the other two echoed him—“Hush!”
Narada had begun once more to dance. The music grew louder. But now it was languorous; dripping sweetness; distilling the very dew of desire.
The blood hammered hot in Kenton’s veins—-”She dances the surrender of Ishtar to Bell” It was the Assyrian, gloating.
The Persian stood upright.
“Aie!” he cried. “Cyrus would have given fifty talents of gold for her! She is a flame!” cried Zubran, and his voice was thick, clogged. “And if she is Bel’s—why then does she look so upon the priest?”
None heard him in the roaring of the multitude; soldiers and worshippers, none of them had eyes or ears for anything but the dancer.
Nor had Kenton!
Then witchery of the midnight woman was gone; raging at himself he beat against the stone. For the tranquillity of Sharane had broken. Her white hand thrust aside the shrouding purple folds. She turned; moved swiftly away toward that hidden entrance from which she had come.
The dancer stopped; the music died; again came the uneasy movement of the multitude; a louder murmuring.
“That was not in the ritual!” The Assyrian sprang to his feet. “The dance is not yet finished.”
There was a clashing of thunder almost overhead.
“She grows impatient for the god,” the woman said, cynically.
“She is Ishtar! She is the moon hiding her face behind a little cloud!” The youth took a step toward the men-at-arms guarding the priestess.
The bold-eyed woman arose, caught his arm; spoke to the soldiers.
“He is mad! He lives at my house. Do not hurt him! I will take him away!”
But the youth broke away from her; thrust her aside. He darted through the guards and raced across the square to meet the advancing priestess. He threw himself at her hurrying feet. He hid his face in the hem of her cloak.
She paused, regarding him through her veils. Instantly Bel’s priest was at her side. He thrust a foot against the youth’s face; sent him rolling a yard away.
“Ho! Alrac! Druchar! Take this man!” he shouted. Two officers came running to him, swords drawn; the attendant priests clustered, whispering; all the multitude was silent.
The youth twisted, sprang upon his feet, faced the priestess.
“Ishtar!” he cried. “Show me your face. Then let me die!”
She stood silent, as though she neither heard nor saw. The soldiers seized him, drew back his arms. And then, visibly, strength flowed into the youth’s slight frame. He seemed to expand, to grow in height. He threw the soldiers from him; he struck the Priest of Bel across the eyes. He gripped the veils of the priestess.
“I will not die until I see your face, O Ishtar!” he cried—and so crying tore the veils away…
Kenton looked upon the face of Sharane.
But not the Sharane of the ship—vital, filled with the fire of life.
Here was a Sharane of wide, unseeing eyes; upon whose white brows dream sat throned; a mind that floated through linked labyrinths of illusion.
The Priest of Bel’s voice shrilled:
“Slay that man!”
The swords of the two captains bit through the youth’s breast.
He fell, still holding tight the veils. Sharane looked down upon him, unconcerned.
“Ishtar!” he gasped. “I have seen you—Ishtar!”
His eyes glazed. Sharane tore the veils from his stiffening hands; threw the tattered remnants over her face. She swept on to the temple—was gone from Kenton’s straining sight.
From the multitude a clamor arose. Archers and spearmen began to push back the throng through the forest of the slender, lacquered pillars; sifted among them; vanished with those they herded. Past the Priest of Bel went his soldiers and acolytes; and after them slipped the harpers, the pipers and the drum girls of Narada.
Within that vast court circled by the elfin shafts remained only dancer and priest. The lurid sky darkened steadily. The slow, churning movement of the clouds had become more rapid. The lanced flame on the altar of Bel shone brighter—angrily; like a lifted, scarlet sword. Around the crouching Kerubs the shadows thickened. The metallic thundering had become continuous, marching closer.
With the passing of Sharane, Kenton would have opened that other door of bronze. Something counselled him that the time had not yet come; that a little longer he must wait. And as he waited dancer and priest drifted to that strange window through which he peered.
The A. Merritt Megapack Page 77