“The souls of the righteous and pure, the whole multitude of living men and women upon earth, I call upon and invite.”
“I call upon the triumph and the mighty strength of God,”
“I call upon the archangels who keep the world, upon the months, upon the pure, new moon, the lordship of purity in heaven,”
“I call upon the feasts of the years and the seasons, upon the years and the months and days,”
“I call upon the star Ahura,10 and upon the one great and eternal in purity, and upon all the stars, the works of God,”
“Upon the star Tistrya I call, the far-shining, the magnificent — upon the fair moon that shineth upon the young cattle, upon the glorious sun swift in the race of his flight, the eye of the Lord.”
“I call upon the spirits and souls of the righteous, on the fire-begotten of the Lord, and upon all fires.”
“Mountains and all hills, lightened and full of light.”
“Majesty of kingly honour, the Majesty of the king which dieth not, is not diminished,”
“All wisdom and blessings and true promises, all men who are full of strength and power and might,”
“All places and lands and countries beneath the heavens, and above the heavens, light without beginning, existing, and without end,”
“All creatures pure and good, male and female upon the earth.”
“All you I invite and call upon to the sacrifice.”
“Havani, pure, lord of purity!”
“Shavanghi, pure, lord of purity!”
“Rapithwina, pure, lord of purity!”
“Uzayêirina, pure, lord of purity!”
“Aiwishruthrema, Aibigaya, pure, lord of purity!”
“Ushahina, pure, lord of purity!”
“To Havani, Shavanghi and Vishya, the pure, the lords of purity most glorious, be honour and prayer and fulfilment and praise.”
“To the days, and the nights, and the hours, the months and the years and the feasts of years, be honour and prayer and fulfilment and praise before Auramazda, the All-Wise, for ever and ever and ever.”11
As the white-robed priests shouted the verses of the long hymn, their eyes flashed and their bodies moved rhythmically from side to side with an ever-increasing motion. From time to time, the golden goblets were filled with the sweet Haoma juice, and passed rapidly from hand to hand along the line, and as each priest drank more freely of the subtle fermented liquor, his eyes gained a new and more unnatural light, and his gestures grew more wild, while the whole body of voices rose together from an even and dignified chant to an indistinguishable discord of deafening yells.
Ever more and more they drank, repeating the verses of the hymn without order or sequence. One man repeated a verse over and over again in ear-piercing shrieks, swaying his body to and fro till he dropped forward upon the ground, foaming at the mouth, his features distorted with a wild convulsion, and his limbs as rigid as stone. Here, a band of five locked their arms together, and, back to back, whirled madly round, screaming out the names of the archangels, in an indiscriminate rage of sound and broken syllables. One, less enduring than the rest, relaxed his hold upon his fellow’s arm and fell headlong on the pavement, while the remaining four were carried on by the force of their whirling, and fell together against others who steadied themselves against the wall, swaying their heads and arms from side to side. Overthrown by the fall of their companions, these in their turn fell forward upon the others, and in a few moments, the whole company of priests lay grovelling one upon the other, foaming at the mouth, but still howling out detached verses of their hymn — a mass of raging, convulsed humanity, tearing each other in the frenzy of drunkenness, rolling over and over each otter in the twisted contortions of frenzied maniacs. The air grew thick with the smoke of the fire and of the lamps, and the unceasing, indescribable din of the hoarsely howling voices seemed to make the very roof rock upon the pillars that held it up, as though the stones themselves must go mad and shriek in the universal fury of sound. The golden goblets rolled upon the marble pavement, and the sweet green juice ran in slimy streams upon the floor. The high priest himself, utterly intoxicated and screaming with a voice like a wild beast in agony, fell backwards across the marble vase at the foot of the mortar and his hand and arm plashed into the dregs of the fermented Haoma.
Never had the drunken frenzy reached such a point before. The king had sat motionless and frowning upon his seat until he saw the high priest fall headlong into the receptacle of the sacred Haoma. Then, with a groan, he laid his two hands upon the arms of his carved chair, and rose to his feet in utter disgust and horror. But, as he turned to go, he stood still and shook from head to foot, for he saw beside him a figure that might, at such a moment, have startled the boldest.
A tall man of unearthly looks stood there, whose features he seemed to know, but could not recognise. His face was thin to emaciation, and his long, white hair fell in tangled masses, with his huge beard, upon his half-naked shoulders and bare chest. The torn, dark mantle he wore was falling to the ground as he faced the drunken herd of howling priests and lifted up his thin blanched arms and bony fingers, as though in protest at the hideous sight. His deep-set eyes were blue and fiery, flashing with a strange light. He seemed not to see Darius, but he gazed in deepest horror upon the writhing mass of bestial humanity below.
Suddenly his arms shook, and standing there, against the dark marble screen, like the very figure and incarnation of fate, he spoke in a voice that, without effort, seemed to dominate the hideous din of yelling voices — a voice that was calm and clear as a crystal bell, but having that in it which carried instantly the words he spoke to the ears of the very most besotted wretch that lay among the heaps upon the floor — a voice that struck like a sharp steel blade upon iron.
“I am the prophet of the Lord. Hold ye your peace.”
As a wild beast’s howling suddenly diminishes and grows less and dies away to silence, when the hunter’s arrow has sped close to the heart with a mortal wound, so in one moment, the incoherent din sank down, and the dead stillness that followed was dreadful by contrast. Darius stood with his hand upon the arm of his chair, not understanding the words of the fearful stranger; still less the mastering power those words had upon the drunken priests. But his courage did not desert him, and he feared not to speak.
“How sayest thou that thou art a prophet? Who art thou?” he asked.
“Thou knowest me and hast sent for me,” answered the white-haired man, in his calm tones; but his fiery eyes rested on the king’s, and Darius almost quailed under the glance. “I am Zoroaster; I am come to proclaim the truth to thee and to these miserable men, thy priests.”
The fear they felt had restored the frenzied men to their senses. One by one, they rose and crept back towards the high priest himself, who had struggled to his feet, and stood upon the basement of the mortar above all the rest.
Then Darius looked, and he knew that it was Zoroaster, but he knew not the strange look upon his face, and the light in his eyes was not as the light of other days. He turned to the priests.
“Ye are unworthy priests,” he cried angrily, “for ye are drunk with your own sacrifice, and ye defile God’s temple with unseemly cries. Behold this man — can ye tell me whether he be indeed a prophet?” Darius, whose anger was fast taking the place of the awe he had felt when he first saw Zoroaster beside him, strode a step forward, with his hand upon his sword-hilt, as though he would take summary vengeance upon the desecrators of the temple.
“He is surely a liar!” cried the high priest from his position beyond the altar, as though hurling defiance at Zoroaster through the flames.
“He is surely a liar!” repeated all the priests together, following their head.
“He is a Magian, a worshipper of idols, a liar and the father of lies! Down with him! Slay him before the altar; destroy the unbeliever that entereth the temple of Ahura Mazda!”
“Down with the Magian! Down with the idolater!” cri
ed the priests, and moved forward in a body toward the thin white-haired man who stood facing them, serene and high.
Darius drew his short sword and rushed before Zoroaster to strike down the foremost of the priests. But Zoroaster seized the keen blade in the air as though it had been a reed, and wrenched it from the king’s strong grip, and broke it in pieces like glass, and cast the fragments at his feet. Darius staggered back in amazement, and the herd of angry men, in whose eyes still blazed the drunkenness of the Haoma, huddled together for a moment like frightened sheep.
“I have no need of swords,” said Zoroaster, in his cold, clear voice.
Then the high priest cried aloud, and ran forward and seized a brand from the sacred fire.
“It is Angramainyus, the Power of Evil,” he yelled fiercely. “He is come to fight with Auramazda in his temple! But the fire of the Lord shall destroy him!”
As the priest rushed upon him, with the blazing brand raised high to strike, Zoroaster faced him and fixed his eyes upon the angry man. The priest suddenly stood still, his hand in mid-air, and the stout piece of burning wood fell to the floor, and lay smouldering and smoking upon the pavement.
“Tempt not the All-Wise Lord, lest he destroy thee,” said Zoroaster solemnly. “Harken, ye priests, and obey the word from heaven. Take the brazier from your altar, and scatter the embers upon the floor, for the fire is defiled.”
Silent and trembling, the priests obeyed, for they were afraid; but the high priest stood looking in amazement upon Zoroaster.
When the brazier was gone, and the coals were scattered out upon the pavement, and the priests had trodden out the fire with their leathern shoes, Zoroaster went to the black marble altar, and faced the east, looking towards the stone mortar at the end. He laid his long, thin hands upon the flat surface and drew them slowly together; and, in the sight of the priests, a light sprang up softly between his fingers; gradually at first, then higher and higher, till it stood like a blazing spear-head in the midst, emitting a calm, white effulgence that darkened the lamps overhead, and shed an unearthly whiteness on Zoroaster’s white face.
He stepped back from the altar, and a low murmur of astonishment rose from all the crowd of white-robed men. Darius stood in silent wonder, gazing alternately upon the figure of Zoroaster, and upon the fragments of his good sword that lay scattered upon the pavement.
Zoroaster looked round upon the faces of the priests with blazing eyes:
“If ye be true priests of Ahura Mazda, raise with me the hymn of praise,” he said. “Let it be heard in the heavens, and let it echo beyond the spheres!”
Then his voice rose calm and clear above all the others, and lifting up his eyes and hands, he intoned the solemn chant:
“He, who by truth ruleth in purity, abideth according to the will of the Lord.”
“The Lord All-Wise is the giver of gifts to men for the works which men in the world shall do in the truth of the Lord.”
“He who protecteth the poor giveth the kingdom to God.”
“Best of all earthly goods is truth.”
“Glory, glory on high for ever to him who is best in heaven, and truest in truth on earth!”
Zoroaster’s grand voice rang out, and all the priests sang melodiously together; and upon the place which had been the scene of such frenzy and fury and drunkenness, there descended a peace as holy and calm as the quiet flame that burned without fuel upon the black stone in the midst. One by one, the priests came and fell at Zoroaster’s feet; the chief priest first of all.
“Thou art the prophet and priest of the Lord,” each said, one after another. “I acknowledge thee to be the chief priest, and I swear to be a true priest with thee.”
And last of all, the king, who had stood silently by, came and would have kneeled before Zoroaster. But Zoroaster took his hands, and they embraced.
“Forgive me the wrong I did thee, Zoroaster,” said Darius. “For thou art a holy man, and I will honour thee as thou wast not honoured before.”
“Thou hast done me no wrong,” answered Zoroaster. “Thou hast sent for me, and I am come to be thy faithful friend, as I swore to thee, long ago, in the tent at Shushan.”
Then they took Zoroaster’s torn clothes, and they clad him in white robes and set a spotless mitre upon his head; and the king, for the second time, took his golden chain from his own neck, and put it about Zoroaster’s shoulders. And they led him away into the palace.
CHAPTER XVI.
WHEN IT WAS known that Zoroaster had returned, there was some stir in the palace. The news that he was made high priest soon reached Nehushta’s ears, and she wondered what change had come over him in three years that could have made a priest of such a man. She remembered him young and marvellously fair, a warrior at all points, though at the same time an accomplished courtier. She could not imagine him invested with the robes of priesthood, leading a chorus of singers in the chanting of the hymns.
But it was not only as a chief priest that Darius had reinstalled Zoroaster in the palace. The king needed a counsellor and adviser, and the learned priest seemed a person fitted for the post.
On the following day, Nehushta, as was her wont, went out, in the cool of the evening, to walk in the gardens, attended by her maidens, her fan-girls and the slaves who bore her carpet and cushions in case she wished to sit down. She walked languidly, as though she hardly cared to lift her delicate slippered feet from the smooth walk, and often she paused and plucked a flower, and all her train of serving-women stopped behind her, not daring even to whisper among themselves, for the young queen was in no gentle humour of mind. Her face was pale and her eyes were heavy, for she knew the man she had so loved in other days was near, and though he had so bitterly deceived her, the sound of his sweet promises was yet in her ears; and sometimes, in her dreams, she felt the gentle breath of his mouth upon her sleeping lips, and woke with a start of joy that was but the forerunner of a new sadness.
Slowly she paced the walks of the rose-gardens, thinking of another place in the far north, where there had been roses, and myrtles too, upon a terrace where the moonlight was very fair.
As she turned a sharp corner where the overhanging shrubbery darkened the declining light to a dusky shade, she found herself face to face with the man of whom she was thinking. His tall thin figure, clad in spotless white robes, seemed like a shadow in the gloom, and his snowy beard and hair made a strange halo about his young face, that was so thin and worn. He walked slowly, his hands folded together, and his eyes upon the ground; while a few paces behind him two young priests followed with measured steps, conversing in low tones, as though fearing to disturb the meditations of their master.
Nehushta started a little and would have passed on, although she recognised the face of him she had loved. But Zoroaster lifted his eyes, and looked on her with so strange an expression that she stopped short in the way. The deep, calm light in his eyes awed her, and there was something in his majestic presence that seemed of another world.
“Hail, Nehushta!” said the high priest quietly.
But, at the sound of his voice, the spell was broken. The Hebrew woman lifted her head proudly, and her black eyes flashed again.
“Greet me not,” she answered, “for the greeting of a liar is like the sting of the serpent that striketh unawares in the dark.”
Zoroaster’s face never changed, only his luminous eyes gazed on hers intently, and she paused again, as though riveted to the spot.
“I lie not, nor have lied to thee ever,” he answered calmly. “Go thou hence, ask her whom thou hatest, whether I have deceived thee. Farewell.”
He turned his gaze from her and passed slowly on, looking down to the ground, his hands folded before him. He left her standing in the way, greatly troubled and not understanding his saying.
Had she not seen with her eyes how he held Atossa in his arms on that evil morning in Shushan? Had she not seen how, when he was sent away, he had written a letter to Atossa and no word to herself? Could
these things which she had seen and known, be untrue? The thought was horrible — that her whole life had perhaps been wrecked and ruined by a mistake. And yet there was not any mistake, she repeated to herself. She had seen; one must believe what one sees. She had heard Atossa’s passionate words of love, and had seen Zoroaster’s arms go round her drooping body; one must believe what one sees and hears and knows!
But there was a ringing truth in his voice just now when he said: “I lie not, nor have lied to thee ever.” A lie — no, not spoken, but done; and the lie of an action is greater than the lie of a word. And yet, his voice sounded true just now in the dusk, and there was something in it, something like the ring of a far regret. “Ask her whom thou hatest,” he had said. That was Atossa. There was no other woman whom she hated — no man save him.
She had many times asked herself whether or no she loved the king. She felt something for him that she had not felt for Zoroaster. The passionate enthusiasm of the strong, dark warrior sometimes carried her away and raised her with it; she loved his manliness, his honesty, his unchanging constancy of purpose. And yet Zoroaster had had all these, and more also, though they had shown themselves in a different way. She looked back and remembered how calm he had always been, how utterly superior in his wisdom. He seemed scarcely mortal, until he had one day fallen — and fallen so desperately low in her view, that she loathed the memory of that feigned calmness and wisdom and parity. For it must have been feigned. How else could he have put his arms about Atossa, and taken her head upon his breast, while she sobbed out words of love?
But if he loved Atossa, she loved him as well. She said so, cried it aloud upon the terrace where any one might have heard it. Why then had he left the court, and hidden himself so long in the wilderness? Why, before going out on his wanderings, had he disguised himself, and gone and stood where the procession passed, and hissed out a bitter insult as Nehushta went by? For her sake he had abandoned his brilliant life these three years, to dwell in the desert, to grow so thin and miserable of aspect that he looked like an old man. And his hair and beard were white — she had heard that a man might turn white from sorrow in a day. Was it grief that had so changed him? Grief to see her wedded to the king before his eyes? His voice rang so true: “Ask her whom thou hatest,” he had said. In truth she would ask. It was all too inexplicable, and the sudden thought that she had perhaps wronged him three long years ago — even the possibility of the thought that seemed so little possible to her yesterday — wrought strangely in her breast, and terrified her. She would ask Atossa to her face whether Zoroaster had loved her. She would tell how she had seen them together upon the balcony, and heard Atossa’s quick, hot words. She would threaten to tell the king; and if the elder queen refused to answer truth, she would indeed tell him and put her rival to a bitter shame.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 153