Charmides stood beside her for a few moments, looking across the thinly peopled square. Then his shoulders straightened. He gave a little outward manifestation of his mental state, looked at Ramua with a farewell smile, and left her, walking swiftly away towards the a-Ibur-Sabu.
Ramua, confounded, cried after him impulsively: "You will return! You will return to me at noon?"
Charmides looked round, nodding reassuringly, but whether in response to her words or merely in answer to her voice, the maiden could not tell.
She sat quite still where he had left her, her head drooping a little, utterly forgetful of her business, paying not the least attention to possible buyers. The sun poured its bright, scorching heat down upon the gray bricks. Water-sellers were to be heard crying their ever-welcome refreshment. Chariots, carts, and litters passed through the square. The city's voice rose murmurously through the heat, and one by one the usual beggars and venders made their appearance on the platform steps.
Through the hours Ramua sat spiritless, watching those that passed up the temple steps, selling her flowers unsmilingly, half unwillingly, to those that offered to buy. At early noon she felt a first qualm of hunger, and looked up to find the sun at its zenith. With a start she came to herself. It was past her usual luncheon hour. All around her little meals of bread, sesame, and dates were being brought forth by the habitues of the steps. The cripple on Ramua's left hand, thinking perhaps that she must go hungry to-day, proffered her half of his loaf with a compassionate, misshapen grin. Ramua refused him with a forced smile, and, heavy-hearted, took out her food and showed it to him. There was enough for two in her package to-day; and she regarded it unhappily, still hesitating to eat, while the hope that Charmides might return died within her. Once again she looked over the deserted square, and then, resolutely turning her face to the temple, took one dry mouthful of bread. Charmides was gone for evermore. She should not see him again.
Another bite: Charmides had been killed. A third: his body was floating, face downward, in the black, hurrying waters of the cruel Euphrates. A fourth, a fifth, a sixth, and there appeared a tear, that rolled uncontrollably down her pretty nose. She put her bread away--when before had she not been hungry at noon?--and then sat with her head bent, trying to conceal her grief from the sympathetic beggar.
Presently some one came up the steps and sat down close beside her. She felt the presence, but did not look round. Suddenly a big, ripe melon was placed before her, by a hand too white for Babylon. Ramua started up, with a spasmodic breath, and her face glowed like the sun after a summer storm. Charmides, the morning trouble all gone from his face, was at her side. In one hand he held a number of ripe figs. The other had borne the melon. Ramua retired at once within herself, too shy to do more than smile faintly and then try to hide her face, with its unconcealable joy. But such a welcome pleased the Greek more than anything else; for, as he was beginning to realize, his instincts regarding woman nature were quite unexpectedly reliable.
Luncheon was now eaten in earnest; and the cripple could not but be amazed at the change in Ramua's appetite. With a little laugh she broke the melon on the steps, and proffered a large piece of it, together with his bread and dates, to the Greek. She herself ate slowly but willingly, answering the looks of the rhapsode, and even talking to him in the tongue that he could not understand.
There came a time, however, after the last fig was gone and the cup of water had been bought and drunk, when embarrassment fell between the two. Ramua feared, dreaded, and then half hoped that Charmides would rise and go away again, this time to stay. She felt that she could make no effort to keep him at her side. She would have given half her life to be able to treat him with natural gayety; and yet, had she been able to do so, the essence of delight in all this would be gone. Charmides himself was suffering from the inability to talk to her. But after an unbearable period of awkward silence he strove to solve their difficulty. Leaning over from where he sat, and touching the girl's tunic, he said to her, by means of signs and looks, and a word or two:
"What is the name of this?"
Ramua smiled with delight. "_Kadesh_" she replied; and in this way Charmides' course of study was begun. The first lesson lasted for an hour, and at the end of it the Greek knew not a few words that promised to stick in his memory. When he felt that he could retain no more, he stopped her, and sat conning his lesson on the steps in the sunshine, while she, tardily recalled to duty, took her flower-basket and went forth into the square to proffer her somewhat drooping bouquets to the passers-by. By the time she returned to her companion the sun was midway down the heavens, and Charmides, lyre in hand, stood, evidently waiting for her. By means of signs he made her understand that he must leave her till after sunset, when he would return again to the square to go home with her.
Ramua did not ask his destination. Very probably he could not have made her understand it had she done so. She watched him pass down a narrow street that led to the southwest, out of the square of Istar, in the direction of the temple of Sin. It was to the holy house of the moon-god that Charmides went; for his single morning in Babylon had found him a means of livelihood.
Though he himself was unaware of the exact position that he held, he was attached to the temple as an oracle. That morning, as he had hummed himself through the square of Sin, one of the Zicaru, or monks in service at the temple, had chanced to hear his voice, and, perceiving that the singer was of foreign race, and being himself a highly educated man, as were all of his order, addressed the fair-haired one in the westernmost language that he knew--Phnician. Charmides had come near to falling at his feet and worshipping in the delight of finding some one to speak to. But the Zicari led him gravely into one of the inner rooms of the temple and there asked him sing and speak and play upon his instrument, and after a time made him an offer to join the temple service, unordered as he was, and to do exactly what he was told for about three hours in the day. The pay was high, and to Charmides it seemed that a miracle of fortune had befallen him. Such being the case, it was, perhaps, just as well that he did not understand the full significance of his duties. For an hour in the morning he was to stand inside of the heroic statue of the god, and to speak through the half-open mouth words whispered in his ear by an attendant priest. He was not told that his peculiar pronunciation of the Babylonian syllables and the melodious softness of his voice were invaluable adjuncts to the oracle of Sin; and that, furthermore, the fact that he understood not a word of what he said made him more desirable for the place than any member of the under-priesthood would have been. Besides this curious work, he was supposed to assist at sacrifices by playing on the flute or lyre; and by means of these light duties his livelihood became an assured thing, and his place in Babylon was secure. He asked no questions, either of himself or of the priest, his master. He accepted everything with childlike faith; and, verily, it seemed that, brush as he would against the world, the bloom of his pristine innocence would never be rubbed from Charmides' unstained soul.
So, having found a home and an occupation, within forty-eight hours after his arrival in the Great City, Charmides' life in Babylon began.
IV
BELSHAZZAR
Charmides found no loneliness in his Babylonish life. In an unaccountable way he felt it to be the home of his spirit. The dirty, narrow, barely furnished rooms of the tenement of Ut; the vast temple of Sin, where he performed the light tasks that gave him his livelihood; the platform of the temple of the goddess, where, with Ramua close at hand, the hours were wont to fly on rosy wings; the long streets, the myriads of people, the hum of the city, the curious, solemn, ceremonious bearing of its inhabitants, all these welded themselves into such a life that sometimes, in dead of night, he cried out in the fear that it was all a dream: a dream from which he could only pray not to wake.
In the second week there happened something that gave him a great thrill of exalted pride. It was eight days after his arrival; in fact, the noon after the third Sabbatu of the month of Duzu (June). He was sitting with Ramua on the steps of the temple of Istar, munching dates and struggling with new phrases in the apparently hopeless Chaldean tongue, when a veiled hierodule came out of the temple and down the platform stairs with the request that Charmides follow her to the presence of Belit Istar, who longed for the sound of his voice.
The Greek felt a quiver, half of fear, half of delight; and, rising at once, and leaving Ramua and his meal behind, followed the attendant, not into the temple, but behind it, towards the entrance court of Istar's dwelling. Here, upon a heap of rugs, beneath a canopy of Egyptian embroidery, the goddess reclined. Charmides, however, did not see her till after he had encountered the gaze of one who stood just inside the arch of the door in the wall. This was he who had followed Istar in his chariot home from the procession of the gods, he at whose remarkable appearance Charmides had so marvelled: Belshazzar, the king's son. Still was he godlike, imperial enough to look upon; but the Greek forgot his presence while Istar was again before him. When his gaze fell on her he started slightly, turned his eyes away for an instant, and looked again.
Yes--it was true. Through the shimmering veil her form was clearly visible. She was not now only a cloud of dazzling, palpitating light.
Immortal still, and radiant she was, but--Charmides let his thoughts break off quickly. Istar was commanding him, in Greek, to play to her.
He lifted his lyre at once, and, under the spell of music, he forgot himself, half forgot her before whom he played, in contemplation of the ideal created by the harmonies. When, after half an hour, he was stopped and dismissed, he left the divine presence in a state of exaltation.
Belshazzar was but a blur beside the door-way, and Ramua, when he returned to her, seemed a trifle less beautiful than usual.
After this, every day, Charmides gave half of his noon hour to this new form of worship. It was Ramua's pride as well as his. She never grudged the time; and, on his return to her side, never failed to ask of his success, nor to beam with delight when he confessed it. At each of these visits Charmides realized that Belshazzar was present; but the fact made little impression on him. He saw her whom he worshipped quicken to new life, to new radiance, at sound of his voice and the chords of his lyre; and, when he left the court, the storm in the eyes of the king's son went unnoticed. Yet the storm was there, daily increasing in fury; and there came a time when it passed control and burst forth in the very presence of her whom both men worshipped.
It was noon on the seventh of Abu (July), a day on which Babylon lay quivering under a fiercer sun than before. The city was exhausted with the recent end of the annual three-day feast of Tammuz; and Charmides himself was weary and a little faint when he entered Istar's presence.
Belshazzar, with what seemed a scarce pardonable liberty, had thrown himself face downward on a rug near the portal of the court. At the first note of Charmides' song a slight twitching of the muscles in the prince's back betrayed his hearing of the song. But as the voice went on, as Charmides, even in his weariness, sang with a depth of feeling that he had never before exhibited, the other man lifted his head to look at Istar. Under the spell of the music that was a divine gift, she was becoming more and more the old-time unapproachable goddess. The rays of the aureole, which, half an hour before, had vibrated so slowly as scarcely to disturb the eye, were quickened to a new life. Blinding streams of light poured about her now. And Istar herself was quivering with a strength, with a delight, that was apart from earthly things.
Charmides' voice showed its power, its beauty, its clear heights, its mellow depths, as never before. He had begun with a most delicate pianissimo, in tones of exquisite restraint and purity, the old myth of Alpheus and Arethuse--a thing that he had sung a hundred times before, yet never as now. The tones blended with the rippling harmonies of his lyre in a stream as pure and limpid as the current of the sacred river.
The Greek syllables, music in themselves, fitted so perfectly to the melody, that Allaraine himself, afar off, listened with surprise and pleasure. Belshazzar alone, perceiving how Istar's divinity increased with each sweep of the instrument, trembled with anger. The song rose towards its climax. Istar had become oblivious to everything but the sound of that voice. Charmides, inspired, had lost himself in the heaven of his own making. Suddenly, from beside him, came a hoarse, choked cry, the sound of hurried running, and the lyre was struck furiously from his hands down to the brick pavement.
" ?? e?p?? ??f??? ??...!" The song stopped. Panting with broken emotion, Charmides faced about. His face was pale and his lips drawn with displeasure--with something more than that. Before him, shaking with jealous wrath, towered Belshazzar, his hand uplifted, his eyes flaming.
There was silence. Charmides waited immovably for the blow to fall. But Belshazzar did not strike him. Istar lay back, trembling. Under the influence of these human and gross emotions, the vibrations of light around her diminished so rapidly that one could see them melt away; and soon she was left almost without divine protection--a woman, in woman's garb. Finally, however, with no trace of weakness in her manner, she rose, confronting the two men. For a moment her gaze travelled from one to the other. Then, passing to Charmides, she halted by his side, touched his shoulder lightly with her hand, and pointed to the door-way.
"Go, thou disciple of Apollo. Fear not. I will send to thee a lyre that is not dishonored. To-morrow come to me again--as always."
Then, while the Greek still quivered with the thrill of her touch, she walked with him, two or three steps, towards the open arch.
In the mean time Belshazzar, broken now, waited before her place. When the light trailing of her garments passed near his feet again, he suddenly lifted his head and looked at her. They were face to face, and their eyes met. Istar's glance shone clear and baffling upon the man, yet before it Belshazzar would not lower his. He was making an almost inhuman effort, mental and physical, to overcome the perfect poise that proclaimed her more than human. But Belshazzar could not cope with a thing divine. His strength, to the last drop, was gone. She was superior to him. He knew it. Goddess she was--must be! He must acknowledge it--must submit. Slowly he lifted his arms and crossed them on his breast. Slowly his dark head was lowered. With bitter humiliation he gave the signal of defeat. Istar moved slightly.
"Give me the broken lyre," she said, softly.
Belshazzar sought it where it lay, bright and shattered on the pavement.
He proffered it to her humbly, and saw her, receiving it, touch it to her breast. He shut his eyes that he might not see the hated thing made whole; but, looking up again, he saw the instrument still splintered, still unstrung. She had not, then, performed the miracle.
He had but a moment more with her. Presently she raised her hand, and, with the slightest of gestures, dismissed him from her presence.
Belshazzar could not disobey the command. Blindly, weakly, without a glance behind, he moved towards the portal. Thus he did not see the goddess, as he left the court, suddenly reel, and an instant afterwards fall back upon the pile of rugs, covering her face with her hands, and exhibiting every sign of human distress. On the contrary, humiliated, hopeless, and disturbed by the temerity of his thoughts, yet as rebellious as before, the prince of Babylon crossed the platform and descended the steps where Charmides sat with Ramua. The prince scarcely saw the Greek as he passed him; and Charmides only lifted his eyes in time to behold Belshazzar's back, and to watch him cross the square to the spot where his chariot waited. The driver, at his master's approach, leaped to his place, drawing up the heads of the powerful black animals.
The prince entered the vehicle. Nebo-Ailu gave a quavering cry. The horses plunged forward, and the shining chariot clattered after them down the a-Ibur-Sabu.
"To the house of Amraphel," said Belshazzar; and Nebo-Ailu inclined his head.
They passed swiftly down the great street to where, north of the square of the gods and the holy houses of Nebo and Nergal, stood the spacious palace of Amraphel, high-priest of Bel-Marduk, and chief of the priesthood of Babylon.
As the chariot of the prince royal drew up before the palace gate, two attendants always in waiting there ran out, their swords held horizontally above their heads, in presentation to one high in authority. Belshazzar remained like a statue where he stood, and Nebo-Ailu requested audience with the high-priest in such terms as the prince would have used towards an equal; for the priest of Bel-Marduk was not at the command of the king.
The slaves disappeared with their message, and Belshazzar waited, motionless, moving not so much as an eyelash, acknowledging no obeisance made him by a passer-by: for such was the etiquette of royalty at that day. After many minutes in this trying attitude, a little company of eunuchs emerged from the gateway. In their midst, shaded by a large, swinging parasol, and fanned on either side by black slaves, was Amraphel, an old man, white-bearded, bright-eyed, his stiff, white hair crowned with a red, conical cap, his flowing muslin skirts sweeping the pavement, and the goat-skin bound upon his left shoulder. Slowly he moved towards the chariot. Ten feet from the wheel he stopped. At the same instant Belshazzar turned his head. They gave to each other the brother salute--of the mind, the lips, and the heart. Then Amraphel, who was doing the prince an extraordinary honor, said:
"Will the lord prince, governor of the city, enter into my house?"
"Receive my thanks for thy favor. Nay, Amraphel, it is Nabu-Nahid, the king, my father, that asks if thou wilt be conducted by me to his presence. He has some communication to make to thee."
"I will command my chariot."
Belshazzar leaped from his place, while Nebo-Ailu descended more carefully and went to stand at the horses' heads. "Let my chariot be yours, Lord Amraphel," observed the prince, courteously.
The old priest bowed acknowledgment, and, having quickly whispered in the ear of his nearest slave: "My chariot at the gate of the new palace within an hour," stepped forward and mounted into the royal vehicle.
Belshazzar followed him, and this time took the reins himself, leaving Nebo-Ailu to reach home on foot; for there were few chariots that afforded comfortable standing-room for more than two people.
Nebo-Ailu left the horses' heads just as Belshazzar's ringing cry sent them plunging up the a-Ibur-Sabu. At no great distance north of the palace of the high-priest there ran off from the boulevard a narrow but well-paved road, that wound eastward and north to that part of the river that was lined with palaces--on the east shore Nebuchadrezzar's and Nabopolassar's, side by side, connected by the great bridge with those on the opposite bank--the hanging gardens, Nabu-Nahid's royal dwelling, and the vast hunting-park used by Belshazzar. The Street of Palaces skirted this park, passed the portals of the present royal palace, and branched off to the west end of the great bridge. Along this way to-day Belshazzar guided his steeds at break-neck pace; for in all Chaldea there was not such another horseman as he, when he chose to exercise his skill; and it must be confessed that there was nothing in the person of Amraphel that made Belshazzar desirous of prolonging their drive together. The priest showed neither nervousness nor displeasure at the pace set. Through all the jolting, the jarring, and the swift, dangerous curves, he maintained an expressionless, passive demeanor. It was only when, with a wide sweep, the vehicle rounded up and the quivering steeds came to a halt before Nabu-Nahid's gateway, that Amraphel, alighting first, remarked, ceremoniously:
"Thine are goodly horses, Prince Bel-shar-utsur. May Raman guard them that you break not their breath some day with fast running."
"There are other horses to be bought for gold," was the brusque answer, as Belshazzar leaped from the chariot and signed to a slave to lead the frothing animals to their stables.
Prince and priest entered the palace together; but, once across the outer court-yard, Belshazzar left his companion to be announced before the king, while he himself retreated to his own apartments, where many hours' labor awaited him. Steward and chancellor sat in his council-chamber when he entered it, and he greeted them with the air of a man who was about to begin work. Yet work was impossible to-day to him. Treasury and grain reports, accounts of the crops within the walls, lists of taxes, military supplies, arrangements of reviews, matters of pension and promotion, deeds of sale, mortgages, matters of transport, all alike were impossible to be considered. That thing which was haunting him would not go; and, after half an hour of wearisome effort to concentrate his mind on what was before him, he suddenly pushed away all the clay tablets and rolls of papyrus, leaped to his feet, and, curtly dismissing the officials, himself left the room. Passing out of his many and rather forlorn apartments, he walked aimlessly out across the wide, central court-yard, around which the separate portions of the palace met, and went through a small gateway that led into the seraglio.
The small court, off which opened various sets of rooms, was white with the glare of the afternoon sun. Three piles of scarlet rugs, an embroidery frame, and a broken peacock-feather fan, gave evidence of the feminine character of the inhabitants of the court; but there was no woman here at the present moment. Huddled in the shadow of the wall, his bronze back turned upon the world, lay a child of three or four years, fast asleep. Before each of the several door-ways stood a cotton-clad eunuch, palm-staff in hand, rigid and sleepy. These inclined decorously as Belshazzar swept across the court, and they watched him from under their eyelids as he halted near the great entrance, looking thoughtfully around. From some chamber far in the interior came the droning sound of a dulcimer and the crooning of a woman's voice. Other than this, the seraglio was still.
Belshazzar stood apathetically listening to the song. Should he seek out the singer? After a moment's indecision, and a step or two in the direction of a small door-way, he halted. He had had enough of singing for one day. Yet, till the day was cooler, time must be passed in some way. He might go to his father--his father and Amraphel, who were closeted together. His father and Amraphel--clay and a sculptor; soft metal and a hot fire; an arrow and the bow. Belshazzar caught at his idea, never looked again at the court-yard, but turned sharply on his heel and set off across the palace for his father's favorite lounging-room. He was met at its curtained door-way by Sha-Nana-Shi, chief eunuch of the king's house, who regarded the advisability of an intrusion by the prince as a matter of doubtful wisdom.