The queen, too, laughed, a low, silvery laugh.
“I am greatly indebted for my life,” said she. “I am very beautiful, I am aware, but I am no longer the most beautiful woman in the world.” She spoke without a trace of annoyance in her voice or face, as though it were a good jest.
“No,” said Darius, thoughtfully. “I used to think that you were. It is in the nature of man to change his opinion. You are, nevertheless, very beautiful — I admire your Greek dress.”
“Shall I send my tirewoman with one like it to Nehushta?” inquired Atossa, raising her delicate eyebrows, with a sweet smile.
“You will not need to improve her appearance in order that she may find favour in my eyes,” answered Darius, laughing. “But the jest is good. You would rather send her an Indian snake than an ornament.”
“Yes,” returned the queen, who understood the king’s strange character better than any one. “You cannot in honesty expect me not to hate a woman whom you think more beautiful than me! It would hardly be natural. It is unfortunate that she should prefer the sober Persian captain to the king himself.”
“It is unfortunate — yes — fortunate for you, however.”
“I mean, it will chafe sadly upon you when you have married her,” said Atossa, calmly.
Darius raised the goblet he still held and setting it to his lips drank it at a draught. As he replaced it on the table, Atossa rose swiftly, and with her own hands refilled it from a golden ewer. The wine was of Shiraz, dark and sweet and strong. The king took her small white hand in his, as she stood beside him, and looked at it.
“It is a beautiful hand,” he said. “Nehushta’s fingers are a trifle shorter than yours — a little more pointed — a little less grasping. Shall I marry Nehushta, or not?” He looked up as he asked the question, and he laughed.
“No,” answered Atossa, laughing too.
“Shall I marry her to Zoroaster?”
“No,” she answered again, but her laugh was less natural.
“What shall I do with her?” asked the king.
“Strangle her!” replied Atossa, with a little fierce pressure on his hand as he held hers, and without the least hesitation.
“There would be frequent sudden deaths in Persia, if you were king,” said Darius.
“It seems to me there are enough slain, as it is,” answered the queen. “There are, perhaps, one — or two — —”
Suddenly the king’s face grew grave, and he dropped her hand.
“Look you!” he said, “I love jesting. But jest not overmuch with me. Do no harm to Nehushta, or I will make an end of your jesting for ever, by sure means. That white throat of yours would look ill with a bow-string about it.”
The queen bit her lip. The king seldom spoke to her in earnest, and she was frightened.
On the following day, when she went to the garden, two tall spearmen guarded the entrance, and as she was about to go in, they crossed their lances over the marble door and silently barred the way.
CHAPTER X.
ATOSSA STARTED BACK in pure astonishment and stared for a moment at the two guards, looking from one to the other, and trying to read their stolid faces. Then she laid her hand on their spears, and would have pushed them aside; but she could not.
“Whose hounds are ye?” she said angrily. “Know ye not the queen? Make way!”
But the two strong soldiers neither answered nor removed their weapons from before the door.
“Dog-faced slaves!” she said between her teeth. “I will crucify you both before sundown!” She turned and went away, but she was glad that no one was there in the narrow vestibule before the garden to see her discomfiture. It was the first time in her life she had ever been resisted by an inferior, and she could not bear it easily. But when she discovered, half an hour later, that the guards were obeying the Great King’s orders, she bowed her head silently and went to her apartments to consider what she should do.
She could do nothing. There was no appeal against the king’s word. He had distinctly commanded that no one save Nehushta, not even Atossa herself, was to be allowed to enter; he had placed the guards there himself the previous day, and had himself given the order.
For eleven days the door was barred; but Atossa did not again attempt to enter. Darius would have visited roughly such an offence, and she knew how delicate her position was. She resigned herself and occupied her mind with other things. Daily, an hour before noon, Nehushta swept proudly through the gate, and disappeared among the roses and myrtles of the garden; and daily, precisely as the sun reached the meridian, the king went in between the spearmen, and disappeared in like manner.
Darius had grown so suddenly stern and cold in manner towards the queen, that she dared not even mention the subject of the garden to him, fearing a sadden outburst of his anger, which would surely put an end to her existence in the court, and very likely to her life.
As for Nehushta, she had plentiful cause for reflection and much time for dreaming. If the days were not happy, they were at least made bearable for her by the absolute liberty she enjoyed. The king would have given her slaves and jewels and rich gifts without end, had she been willing to accept them. She said she had all she needed — and she said it a little proudly; only the king’s visits grew to be the centre of the day, and each day the visit lengthened, till it came to be nearly evening when Darius issued from the gate.
She always waited for him in the eight-sided pavilion, and as their familiarity grew, the king would not even permit her to rise when he came, nor to use any of those forms of the court speech which were so distasteful to him. He simply sat himself down beside her, and talked to her and listened to her answers, as though he were one of his own subjects, no more hampered by the cares and state of royalty than any soldier in the kingdom.
It was a week since Zoroaster had mounted to ride to Ecbatana, and Darius sat as usual upon the marble bench by the side of Nehushta, who rested among the cushions, talking now without constraint upon all matters that chanced to occur as subjects of conversation. She thought Darius was more silent than usual, and his dark face was pale. He seemed weary, as though from some great struggle, and presently Nehushta stopped speaking and waited to see whether the king would say anything.
During the silence nothing was heard saving the plash of the little fountain, and the low soft ripple of the tiny waves that rocked themselves against the edge of the basin.
“Do you know, Nehushta,” he said at last, in a weary voice, “that I am doing one of the worst actions of my life?”
Nehushta started, and the shadows in her face grew darker.
“Say rather the kindest action you ever did,” she murmured.
“If it is not bad, it is foolish,” said Darius, resting his chin upon his hand and leaning forward. “I would rather it were foolish than bad — I fear me it is both.”
Nehushta could guess well enough what it was he would say. She knew she could have turned the subject, or laughed, or interrupted him in many ways; but she did none of these things. An indescribable longing seized her to hear him say that he loved her. What could it matter? He was so loyal and good that he could never be more than a friend. He was the king of the world — had he not been honest and kind, he would have needed no wooing to do as he pleased to do, utterly and entirely. A word from his lips and the name of Zoroaster would be but the memory of a man dead; and again a word, and Nehushta would be the king’s wife! What need had he of concealment, or of devious ways? He was the king of the earth, whose shadow was life and death, whose slightest wish was a law to be enforced by hundreds of thousands of warriors! There was nothing between him and his desires — nothing but that inborn justice and truth, in which he so royally believed. Nehushta felt that she could trust him, and she longed — out of mere curiosity, she thought — to hear him speak words of love to her. It would only be for a moment — they would be so soon spoken; and at her desire, he would surely not speak them again. It seemed so sweet, she knew not why,
to make this giant of despotic power do as she pleased; to feel that she could check him, or let him speak — him whom all obeyed and feared, as they feared death itself.
She looked up quietly, as she answered:
“How can it be either bad or foolish of you to make others so happy?”
“It seems as though it could be neither — and yet, all my reason tells me it is both,” replied the king earnestly. “Here I sit beside you, day after day, deceiving myself with the thought that I am making your time pass pleasantly till—”
“There is not any deception in that,” interrupted Nehushta gently. Somehow she did not wish him to pronounce Zoroaster’s name. “I can never tell you how grateful I am—”
“It is I who am grateful,” interrupted the king in his turn. “It is I who am grateful that I am allowed to be daily with you, and that you speak with me, and seem glad when I come—” He hesitated and stopped.
“What is there that is bad and foolish in that?” asked Nehushta, with a sudden smile, as she looked up into his face.
“There is more than I like to think,” answered the king. “You say the time passes pleasantly for you. Do you think it is less pleasant for me?” His voice sank to a deep, soft tone, as he continued: “I sit here day after day, and day after day I love you more and more. I love you — where is the use of concealing that — if I could conceal it? You know it. Perhaps you pity me, for you do not love me. You pity me who hold the whole earth under my feet as an Egyptian juggler stands upon a ball, and rolls it whither he will.” He ceased suddenly.
“Indeed I would that you did not love me,” said Nehushta very gravely. She looked down. The pleasure of hearing the king’s words was indeed exquisite, and she feared that her eyes might betray her. But she did not love him. She wondered what he would say next.
“You might as well wish that dry pastures should not burn when the sun shines on them, and there is no rain,” he answered with a passing bitterness. “It is at least a satisfaction that my love does not harm you — that you are willing to have me for your friend—”
“Willing! Your friendship is almost the sweetest thing I know,” exclaimed the princess. The king’s eyes flashed darkly.
“Almost! Yes, truly — my friendship and another man’s love are the sweetest things! What would my friendship be without his love? By Auramazda and the six Amshaspands of Heaven, I would it were my love and his friendship! I would that Zoroaster were the king, and I Zoroaster, the king’s servant! I would give all Persia and Media, Babylon and Egypt, and all the uttermost parts of my kingdom, to hear your sweet voice say: ‘Darius, I love thee!’ I would give my right hand, I would give my heart from my breast and my soul from my body — my life and my strength, and my glory and my kingdom would I give to hear you say: ‘Come, my beloved, and put thine arms about me!’ Ah, child! you know not what my love is — how it is higher than the heavens in worshipping you, and broader than the earth to be filled with you, and deeper than the depths of the sea, to change not, but to abide for you always.”
The king’s voice was strong, and the power of his words found wings in it, and seemed to fly forth irresistibly with a message that demanded an answer. Nehushta regretted within herself that she had let him speak — but for all the world she could not have given up the possession of the words he had spoken. She covered her eyes with one hand and remained silent — for she could say nothing. A new emotion had got possession of her, and seemed to close her lips.
“You are silent,” continued the king. “You are right. What should you answer me? My voice sounds like the raving of a madman, chained by a chain that he cannot break. If I had the strength of the mountains, I could not move you. I know it. All things I have but this — this love of yours that you have given to another. I would I had it! I should have the strength to surpass the deeds of men, had I your love! Who is this whom you love? A captain? A warrior? I tell you because you have so honoured him, so raised him upon the throne of your heart, I will honour him too, and I will raise him above all men, and all the nation shall bow before him. I will make a decree that he shall be worshipped as a god — this man whom you have made a god of by your love. I will build a great temple for you two, and I will go up with all the people, and fall down and bow before you, and worship you, and love you with every sinew and bone of my body, and with every hope and joy and sorrow of my soul. He whom you love shall ask, and whatsoever he asks I will give to him and to you. There shall not be anything left in the whole world that you desire, but I will give it to you. Am I not the king of the whole earth — the king of all living things but you?”
Darius breathed savagely hard through his clenched teeth, and rising suddenly, paced the pavement between Nehushta and the fountain. She was silent still, overcome with a sort of terror at his words — words, every one of which he was able to fulfil, if he so chose. Presently he stood still before her.
“Said I not well, that I rave as a madman — that I speak as a fool without understanding? What can I give you that you want? Or what thing can I devise that you have need of? Have you not all that the world holds for mortal woman and living man? Do you not love, and are you not loved in return? Have you not all — all — all? Ah! woe is me that I am lord over the nations, and have not a drop of the waters of peace wherewith to quench the thirst of my tormented soul! Woe is me that I rule the world and trample the whole earth beneath my feet, and cannot have the one thing that all the earth holds which is good! Woe is me, Nehushta, that you have cruelly stolen my peace from me, and I find it not — nor shall find it for evermore!”
The strong dark man stood wringing his hands together; his face was pale as the dead, his black eyes were blazing with a mad fire. Nehushta dared not look on the tempest she had roused, but she trembled and clasped her hands to her breast and looked down.
“Nay, you are right,” he cried bitterly. “Answer me nothing, for you can have nothing to answer! Is it your fault that I am mad? Or is it your doing that I love you so? Has any one sinned in this? I have seen you — I saw you for a brief moment standing in the door of your tent — and seeing, I loved you, and love you, and shall love you till the heavens are rolled together and the scroll of all death is full! There is nothing, nothing that you can say or do. It is not your fault — it is not your sin; but it is by you and through you that I am undone, — broken as the tree in the storm of the mountains, burned up and parched as the beast perishing in the sun of the desert for lack of water, torn asunder and rent into pieces as the rope that breaks at the well! By you, and for you, and through you, I am ruined and lost — lost — lost for ever in the hell of my wretched greatness, in the immeasurable death of my own horrible despair!”
With a wild movement of agony, Darius fell at Nehushta’s feet, prostrate upon the marble floor, and buried his face in the skirts of her mantle, utterly over-mastered and broken down by the tumult of his passion.
Nehushta was not heartless. Of a certainty she would have pitied any one in such distress and grief, even had the cause thereof come less near to herself. But, in all the sudden emotion she felt, the pity, the fear, and the self-reproach, there was joined a vague feeling that no man ever spoke as this man, that no lover ever poured forth such abundant love before, and in the dim suspicion of something greater than she had ever known, her fear and her pity grew stronger, and strove with each other.
At first she could not speak, but she put forth her delicate hand and laid it tenderly on the king’s thick black hair, as gently as a mother might soothe a passionate child; and he suffered it to rest there. And presently she raised his head and laid it in her lap, and smoothed his forehead with her soft fingers, and spoke to him.
“You make me very sad,” she almost whispered. “I would that you might be loved as you deserve love — that one more worthy than I might give you all I cannot give.”
He opened his dark eyes that were now dull and weary, and he looked up to her face.
“There is none more worthy than y
ou,” he answered in low and broken tones.
“Hush,” she said gently, “there are many. Will you forgive me — and forget me? Will you blot out this hour from your remembrance, and go forth and do those great and noble deeds which you came into the world to perform? There is none greater than you, none nobler, none more generous.”
Darius lifted his head from her knee, and sprang to his feet.
“I will do all things, but I will not forget,” he said. “I will do the great and the good deeds, — for you. I will be generous, for you; noble, for you; while the world lasts my deeds shall endure; and with them, the memory that they were done for you! Grant me only one little thing.”
“Ask anything — everything,” answered Nehushta, in troubled tones.
“Nehushta, you know how truly I love you — nay, I will not be mad again; fear not! Tell me this — tell me that if you had not loved Zoroaster, you would have loved me.”
Nehushta blushed deeply and then turned pale. She rose to her feet, and took the king’s outstretched hands.
“Indeed, indeed, you are most worthy of love — Darius, I could have loved you well.” Her voice was very low, and the tears stood in her eyes.
“The grace of the All-Wise God bless thee!” cried the king, and it was as though a sudden bright light shone upon his face. Then he kissed her two hands fervently, and with one long look into her sorrowful eyes, he turned and left her.
But no man saw the king that day, nor did any know where he was, saving the two spearmen who stood at the door of his chamber. Within, he lay upon his couch, dry-eyed and stark, staring at the painted carvings of the ceiling.
CHAPTER XI.
THE TIME PASSED, and it was eleven days since Zoroaster had set out. The king and Nehushta had continued to meet in the garden as before, and neither had ever referred to the day when the torrent of his heart had been suddenly let loose. The hours sped quietly and swiftly, without any event of importance. Only the strange bond, half friendship and half love, had grown stronger than before; and Nehushta wondered how it was that she could love two men so well, and yet so differently. Indeed they were very different men. She loved Zoroaster, and yet it sometimes seemed as though he would more properly have filled the place of a friend than of a lover. Darius she had accepted as her friend, but there were moments when she almost forgot that he was not something more. She tried to think of her meeting with Zoroaster, whether it would be like former meetings, — whether her heart would beat more strongly, or not beat at all when her lips touched his as of old. Her judgment was utterly disturbed and her heart no longer knew itself. She gave herself over to the pleasure of the king’s society in the abandonment of the moment, half foreseeing that some great change was at hand, over which she could exercise no control.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 147