The king was short, but in his thick-set broad shoulders and knotted arms there lurked the strength of a bull and the quickness of a tiger. Zoroaster had the advantage, for his right arm was round Darius’s neck, but while one might count a score, neither moved a hairbreadth, and the blue veins stood out like cords on the tall man’s arm. The fiery might of the southern prince was matched against the stately strength of the fair northerner, whose face grew as white as death, while the king’s brow was purple with the agony of effort. They both breathed hard between their clenched teeth, but neither uttered a word.
Nehushta had leaped to her feet in terror at the first sign of the coming strife, but she did not cry out, nor call in the slaves or guards. She stood, holding the tent-pole with one hand, and gathering her mantle to her breast with the other, gazing in absolute fascination at the fearful life and death struggle, at the unspeakable and tremendous strength so silently exerted by the two men before her.
Suddenly they moved and swayed. Darius had attempted to trip Zoroaster with one foot, but slipping on the carpet wet with wine, had been bent nearly double to the ground; then by a violent effort, he regained his footing. But the great exertion had weakened his strength. Nehushta thought a smile nickered on Zoroaster’s pale face and his flashing dark blue eyes met hers for a moment, and then the end began. Slowly, and by imperceptible degrees, Zoroaster forced the king down before him, doubling him backwards with irresistible strength, till it seemed as though bone and sinew and muscle must be broken and torn asunder in the desperate resistance. Then, at last, when his head almost touched the ground, Darius groaned and his limbs relaxed. Instantly Zoroaster threw him on his back and kneeled with his whole weight upon his chest, — the gilded scales of the corselet cracking beneath the burden, and he held the king’s hands down on either side, pinioned to the floor. Darius struggled desperately twice and then lay quite still. Zoroaster gazed down upon him with blazing eyes.
“Thou who wouldst crucify me upon Shushan,” he said through his teeth. “I will slay thee here even as thou didst slay Smerdis. Hast thou anything to say? Speak quickly, for thy hour is come.”
Even in the extremity of his agony, vanquished and at the point of death, Darius was brave, as brave men are, to the very last. He would indeed have called for help now, but there was no breath in him. He still gazed fearlessly into the eyes of his terrible conqueror. His voice came in a hoarse whisper.
“I fear not death. Slay on if thou wilt — thou — hast — conquered.”
Nehushta had come near. She trembled now that the fight was over, and looked anxiously to the heavy curtains of the tent-door.
“Tell him,” she whispered to Zoroaster, “that you will spare him if he will do no harm to you, nor to me.”
“Spare him!” echoed Zoroaster scornfully. “He is almost dead now — why should I spare him?”
“For my sake, beloved,” answered Nehushta, with a sudden and passionate gesture of entreaty. “He is the king — he speaks truth; if he says he will not harm you, trust him.”
“If I slay thee not, swear thou wilt not harm me nor Nehushta,” said Zoroaster, removing one knee from the chest of his adversary.
“By the name of Auramazda,” gasped Darius, “I will not harm thee nor her.”
“It is well,” said Zoroaster. “I will let thee go. And as for taking her to be thy wife, thou mayest ask her if she will wed thee,” he added. He rose and helped the king to his feet. Darius shook himself and breathed hard for a few minutes. He felt his limbs as a man might do who had fallen from his horse, and then he sat down upon the chair, and broke into a loud laugh.
Darius was well known to all Persia and Media before the events of the last two months, and such was his reputation for abiding by his promise that he was universally trusted by those about him. Zoroaster had known him also, and he remembered his easy familiarity and love of jesting, so that even when he held the king at such vantage that he might have killed him by a little additional pressure of his weight, he felt not the least hesitation in accepting his promise of safety. But remembering what a stake had been played for in the desperate issue, he could not join in the king’s laugh. He stood silently apart, and looked at Nehushta who leaned back against the tent-pole in violent agitation; her hands wringing each other beneath her long sleeves, and her eyes turning from the king to Zoroaster, and back again to the king, in evident distress and fear.
“Thou hast a mighty arm, Zoroaster,” cried Darius, as his laughter subsided, “and thou hadst well-nigh made an end of the Great King and of Persia, Media, Babylon and Egypt in thy grip.”
“Let the king pardon his servant,” answered Zoroaster, “if his knee was heavy and his hand strong. Had not the king slipped upon the spilt wine, his servant would have been thrown down.”
“And thou wouldst have been crucified at dawn,” added Darius, laughing again. “It is well for thee that I am Darius and not Cambyses, or thou wouldst not be standing there before me while my guards are gossiping idly in the road. Give me a cup of wine since thou hast spared my life!” Again the king laughed as though his sides would break. Zoroaster hastily filled another goblet and offered it, kneeling before the monarch. Darius paused before he took the cup, and looked at the kneeling warrior’s pale proud face. Then he spoke and his voice dropped to a less mirthful key, as he laid his hand on Zoroaster’s shoulder.
“I love thee, prince,” he said, “because thou art stronger than I; and as brave and more merciful. Therefore shalt thou stand ever at my right hand and I will trust thee with my life in thy hand. And in pledge hereunto I put my own chain of gold about thy neck, and I drink this cup to thee; and whosoever shall harm a hair of thine head shall perish in torments.”
The king drank; and Zoroaster, overcome with genuine admiration of the great soul that could so easily forgive so dire an offence, bent and embraced the king’s knees in token of adherence, and as a seal of that friendship which was never to be broken until death parted the two men asunder.
Then they arose, and at Zoroaster’s order, the princess’s litter was brought, and leaving the encampment to follow after them, they went up to the palace. Nehushta was borne between the litters of her women and her slaves on foot, but Zoroaster mounted his horse and rode slowly and in silence by the right side of the Great King.
CHAPTER VI.
ATHWART THE GLEAMING colonnades of the eastern balcony, the early morning sun shone brightly, and all the shadows of the white marble cornices and capitals and jutting frieze work were blue with the reflection of the cloudless sky. The swallows now and then shot in under the overhanging roof and flew up and down the covered terrace; then with a quick rush, they sped forth again into the dancing sunshine with clean sudden sweep, as when a sharp sword is whirled in the air. Far below, the soft mist of the dawn still lay upon the city, whence the distant cries of the water-carriers and fruitsellers came echoing up from the waking streets, the call of the women to one another from the housetops, and now and then the neighing of a horse far out upon the meadows; while the fleet swallows circled over all in swift wide curves, with a silvery fresh stream of unceasing twittering music.
Zoroaster paced the balcony alone. He was fully armed, with his helmet upon his head; the crest of the winged wheels was replaced by the ensign Darius had chosen for himself, — the half-figure of a likeness of the king with long straight wings on either side, of wrought gold and very fine workmanship. The long purple mantle hung to his heels and the royal chain of gold was about his neck. As he walked the gilded leather of his shoes was reflected in the polished marble pavement and he trod cautiously, for the clean surface was slippery as the face of a mirror. At one end of the terrace a stairway led down to the lower story of the palace, and at the other end a high square door was masked by a heavy curtain of rich purple and gold stuff, that fell in thick folds to the glassy floor. Each time his walk brought him to this end Zoroaster paused, as though expecting that some one should come out. But as it generally happ
ens when a man is waiting for something or some one that the object or person appears unexpectedly, so it occurred that as he turned back from the staircase towards the curtain, he saw that some one had already advanced half the length of the balcony to meet him — and it was not the person for whom he was looking.
At first, he was dazzled for a moment, but his memory served him instantly and he recognised the face and form of a woman he had known and often seen before. She was not tall, but so perfectly proportioned that it was impossible to wish that she were taller. Her close tunic of palest blue, bordered with a gold embroidery at the neck, betrayed the matchless symmetry of her figure, the unspeakable grace of development of a woman in the fullest bloom of beauty. From her knees to her feet, her under tunic showed the purple and white bands that none but the king might wear, and which even for the queen was an undue assumption of the royal insignia. But Zoroaster did not look at her dress, nor at her mantle of royal sea-purple, nor at the marvellous white hands that held together a written scroll. His eyes rested on her face, and he stood still where he was.
He knew those straight and perfect features, not large nor heavy, but of such rare mould and faultless type as man has not seen since, neither will see. The perfect curve of the fresh mouth; the white forward chin with its sunk depression in the midst, the deep-set, blue eyes and the straight pencilled brows; the broad smooth forehead and the tiny ear half hidden in the glory of sun-golden hair; the milk-white skin just tinged with the faint rose-light that never changed or reddened in heat or cold, in anger or in joy — he knew them all; the features of royal Cyrus made soft and womanly in substance, but unchanging still and faultlessly cold in his great daughter Atossa, the child of kings, the wife of kings, the mother of kings.
The heavy curtains had fallen together behind her, and she came forward alone. She had seen Zoroaster before he had seen her, and she moved on without showing any surprise, the heels of her small golden shoes clicking sharply on the polished floor. Zoroaster remained standing for a moment, and then, removing his helmet in salutation, went to one side of the head of the staircase and waited respectfully for the queen to pass. As she came on, passing alternately through the shadow cast by the columns, and the sunlight that blazed between, her advancing figure flashed with a new illumination at every step. She made as though she were going straight on, but as she passed over the threshold to the staircase, she suddenly stopped and turned half round, and looked straight at Zoroaster.
“Thou art Zoroaster,” she said in a smooth and musical voice, like the ripple of a clear stream flowing through summer meadows.
“I am Zoroaster, thy servant,” he answered, bowing his head. He spoke very coldly.
“I remember thee well,” said the queen, lingering by the head of the staircase. “Thou art little changed, saving that thou art stronger, I should think, and more of a soldier than formerly.”
Zoroaster stood turning his polished helmet in his hands, but he answered nothing; he cared little for the queen’s praises. But she, it seemed, was desirous of pleasing him in proportion as he was less anxious to be pleased, for she turned again and walked forward upon the terrace.
“Come into the sunlight — the morning air is cold,” she said, “I would speak with thee awhile.”
A carved chair stood in a corner of the balcony. Zoroaster moved it into the sunshine, and Atossa sat down, smiling her thanks to him, while he stood leaning against the balustrade, — a magnificent figure as the light caught his gilded harness and gold neckchain, and played on his long fair beard and nestled in the folds of his purple mantle.
“Tell me — you came last night?” she asked, spreading her dainty hands in the sunshine as though to warm them. She never feared the sun, for he was friendly to her nativity and never seemed to scorch her fair skin like that of meaner women.
“Thy servant came last night,” answered the prince.
“Bringing Nehushta and the other Hebrews?” added the queen.
“Even so.”
“Tell me something of this Nehushta,” said Atossa. She had dropped into a more familiar form of speech. But Zoroaster was careful of his words and never allowed his language to relapse from the distant form of address of a subject to his sovereign.
“The queen knoweth her. She was here as a young child a few years since,” he replied. He chose to let Atossa ask questions for all the information she needed.
“It is so long ago,” she said, with a little sigh. “Is she fair?”
“Nay, she is dark, after the manner of the Hebrews.”
“And the Persians too,” she interrupted.
“She is very beautiful,” continued Zoroaster. “She is very tall.” Atossa looked up quickly with a smile. She was not tall herself, with all her Beauty.
“You admire tall women?”
“Yes,” said Zoroaster calmly — well knowing what he said. He did not wish to flatter the queen; and besides he knew her too well to do so if he wished to please her. She was one of those women who are not accustomed to doubt their own superiority over the rest of their sex.
“Then you admire this Hebrew princess?” said she, and paused for an answer. But her companion was as cold and calm as she. Seeing himself directly pressed by a suspicion, he changed his tactics and flattered Atossa for the sake of putting a stop to her questions.
“Height is not of itself beauty,” he answered with a courteous smile. “There is a kind of beauty which no height can improve, — a perfection which needs not to be set high for all men to acknowledge it.”
The queen simply took no notice of the compliment, but it had its desired effect, for she changed the tone of her talk a little, speaking more seriously.
“Where is she? I will go and see her,” she said.
“She rested last night in the upper chambers in the southern part of the palace. Thy servant will bid her come if it be thy desire.”
“Presently, presently,” answered the queen. “It is yet early, and she was doubtless weary of the journey.”
There was a pause. Zoroaster looked down at the beautiful queen as she sat beside him, and wondered whether she had changed; and as he gazed, he fell to comparing her beauty with Nehushta’s, and his glance grew more intent than he had meant it should be, so that Atossa looked up suddenly and met his eyes resting on her face.
“It is long since we have met, Zoroaster,” she said quickly. “Tell me of your life in that wild fortress. You have prospered in your profession of arms — you wear the royal chain.” She put up her hand and touched the links as though to feel them. “Indeed it is very like the chain Darius wore when he went to Babylon the other day.” She paused a moment as though trying to recall something; then continued: “Yes — now I think of it, he had no chain when he came back. It is his — of course — why has he given it to you?” Her tones had a tinge of uncertainty in the question, — half imperious, as demanding an answer, half persuading, as though not sure the answer would be given. Zoroaster remembered that intonation of her sweet voice, and he smiled in his beard.
“Indeed,” he answered, “the Great King who liveth for ever, put this chain about my neck with his own hands last night, when he halted by the roadside, as a reward, I presume, for certain qualities he believeth his servant Zoroaster to possess.”
“Qualities — what qualities?”
“Nay, the queen cannot expect me to sing faithfully my own praises. Nevertheless, I am ready to die for the Great King. He knoweth that I am. May he live for ever!”
“It may be that one of the qualities was the successful performance of the extremely difficult task you have lately accomplished,” said Atossa, with a touch of scorn.
“A task?” repeated Zoroaster.
“Yes — have you not brought a handful of Hebrew women all the way from Ecbatana to Shushan, through numberless dangers and difficulties, safe and sound, and so carefully prudent of their comfort that they are not even weary, nor have they once hungered or thirsted by the way, nor lost the
smallest box of perfume, nor the tiniest of their golden hair-pins? Surely you have deserved to have a royal chain hung about your neck and to be called the king’s friend.”
“The reward was doubtless greater than my desert. It was no great feat of arms that I had to perform; and yet, in these days a man may leave Media under one king, and reach Shushan under another. The queen knoweth better than any one what sudden changes may take place in the empire,” answered Zoroaster, looking calmly into her face as he stood; and she who had been the wife of Cambyses and the wife of the murdered Gomata-Smerdis, and who was now the wife of Darius, looked down and was silent, turning over in her beautiful hands the sealed scroll she bore.
The sun had risen higher while they talked, and his rays were growing hot in the clear air. The mist had lifted from the city below, and all the streets and open places were alive with noisy buyers and sellers, whose loud talking and disputing came up in a continuous hum to the palace on the hill, like the drone of a swarm of bees. The queen rose from her seat.
“It is too warm here,” she said, and she once more moved toward the stairway. Zoroaster followed her respectfully, still holding his helmet in his hand. Atossa did not speak till she reached the threshold. Then, as Zoroaster bowed low before her, she paused and looked at him with her clear, deep-blue eyes.
“You have grown very formal in four years,” she said softly. “You used to be more outspoken and less of a courtier. I am not changed — we must be friends as we were formerly.”
Zoroaster hesitated a moment before he answered:
“I am the Great King’s man,” he said slowly. “I am, therefore, also the queen’s servant.”
Atossa raised her delicate eyebrows a little and a shade of annoyance passed for the first time over her perfect face, which gave her a look of sternness.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 142