Charmides laughed blithely. "Verily, 'tis what I would do, Hodo. Babylon by day I know all too well. But Babylon by night--often have I heard of the igigi and the bat companions of Mulge. Together we shall behold them. Now yonder is the tenement of Ut, wherein I dwell."
"Aha! Near to Ribata's palace. Is thy wife awaiting thee?"
"It is Ramua in the door-way there, with the jar upon her head."
"By Nebo and Bel, a slender lass!"
As the two men arrived at the door Charmides introduced his wife to his friend; and Ramua, for Charmides' sake, greeted the grotesque little creature with cordial if modest hospitality. Beltani hurried forth to purchase a river-fish from the nearest vender, and this was hastily cooked for supper, along with the usual sesame. These things, and the milk, figs, and dates, they ate in-doors; for, though the moon still shone brightly, none could say that in fifteen minutes a hurricane might not be raging. Raman was fickle, and, in the rainy season, he was the supreme god of the skies.
Hodo seated himself delightedly at Charmides' table. Here, indeed, thought he, was a miracle: that a fellow scarcely attained to manhood, ignorant of every detail of the life and the language of a people also new to him, should have entered the gates of the greatest city in the world, and in four months find himself master of a household, earning a creditable income, and should at the same time have won for a wife one of the most delightful young women that the little Borsipite had ever seen. Ramua, in fact, with one long-lashed glance, had completely conquered him. The crooked little man forgot his food in the interest of observing what went on around him; and only by the noble efforts of Beltani was the conversational ball kept moving, however fitfully and unevenly. Ramua, shy and a little nervous at this first tax on her young matronhood, said almost nothing, but managed that Bazuzu should keep every plate and cup filled without putting too severe a strain on the diminutive larder. It never occurred to Charmides to watch the food, nor to be in the least ashamed of their open poverty. His Greek nature was too primitive for that. He was decidedly sorry when the meal came to an end, and Ramua, making the proper salutations, followed her mother into the inner room, leaving Charmides and the guest to divert themselves as best they might.
"Thy wife--does she dance?" inquired Hodo, hopefully, when they were alone.
Charmides shook his head. "No. Had she the aptitude, I should forbid it.
A dancing-woman is not for a man's wife."
Hodo sighed, nodded, and seated himself resignedly, while Charmides moved over to the door and looked out upon the night. Presently he darted out and up the stairs, to return a moment later wrapped in a voluminous cloak of dark stuff: an article never unacceptable at this time of year. Re-entering the room, he turned eagerly to his friend.
"Come, Hodo! Now let us go forth into the city, up to the temple of the false Istar. For I am ignorant of all that happens within it at night.
Demons and witches I have never beheld. Come you and show them to me.
Rise up and come!"
The trader obeyed these suggestions with alacrity, there being no further prospect of seeing Ramua that night. Before leaving the house, however, Charmides went to her to explain whither he was going, lest she might lie awake for him. Like a dutiful wife, she made no protest; though had he chosen, Charmides might have read in her eyes her little sense of disappointment and depression. However, Charmides did not choose. Hurrying quickly out of the house, he and Hodo crossed the silent square and reached the bank of the canal, across which, at a little distance, rose, like a huge shadow, the great palace of Bit-Shumukin, where the tiny windows set high in the bright-colored walls were marked in blotches of pale light.
Down in this quarter of the city the streets were deserted. Stillness lay over everything. The moonlight made a fairy day, that hid all the blemishes, the filth, the ruinous rubbish-heaps, and so beautified the things that were shapely that one might have been walking through a city of the silver sky. But the heavens were not perfectly clear. As the two walkers finally arrived upon the a-Ibur-Sabu a heavy cloud suddenly hid Sin from their sight, and a faint growl of thunder rolled out of the mists, coming to their ears as from a great distance. Charmides straightened up, muffled himself a little closer in his cloak, and turned to Hodo.
"Where find we the second Istar?" he asked, crisply.
Hodo looked at him with a little smile. "Charmides is changed since that day that he took part in the rites of Ashtoreth," he observed, turning towards the north.
In the darkness the Greek frowned. It was the one incident in his life of which he could not bear to be reminded. And this--was this to put him back into that day? It was only with an effort that he shook off a sudden reluctance; but it passed as the moon suddenly shot a stream of light forth from the cloud, and he looked about him. They were well along the a-Ibur, just opposite the royal granaries. So much the Greek realized. But otherwise the street had a most unfamiliar appearance.
Many, many people were abroad in it: shadowy, dark-flitting forms, whether of men or of women it would have been hard to say. Cries, vague and incomprehensible to Charmides, yet each with its peculiar significance among frequenters of the streets by night, came weirdly out of the shadowy darkness. At short intervals on each side of the broad street a string of lamps stretching above a door-way would mark the entrance to some drinking or gambling den unknown to daylight. Into these places muffled figures were continually passing; but few emerged.
It was yet too early for that. Charmides would have paused to look into one or two of them, but Hodo hurried along, glancing neither to the right nor left. Every few yards, now, the younger man was accosted by some creature of the night, a devotee of false Istar, or a priestess of Lil the ghost, the queen of Lilat, who was lord of darkness. Not once did Charmides make reply to the women; but, had it not been for Hodo, he would have liked very well to halt at some dark corner to watch more carefully all that was going on around him.
The Borsipite knew Babylon too well to stop on so transitory and uninteresting a site as the a-Ibur-Sabu. Far to the north, almost under the shadows of Imgur-Bel, near the gates of Sin and the Setting Sun, in the square of the temple of the false Istar, all the viciousness of all humanity was visible to every man, and was permitted, in the name of religion, to go on between the hour of the first darkness and the gray of dawn.
On the right side of the square, on the usual platform, but without any ziggurat or tower near it, was the low, broad building miscalled "temple," dedicated to the worship of the goddess of night. This building by day was gray, silent, deserted, shut as to doors and windows, open to no one. By night one would not have known it for the same thing. Its unguarded gates were wide to any that chose to enter--and these were never few. The hundreds of miniature apartments that composed the interior of the place, glowed with light. In the first of these rooms the eager or the new-comers were waylaid, while the idle or the fastidious penetrated as near as possible to the central shrine, where she who represented the goddess, the living substitute elected every year on the first of Nisan, reposed in a dimly lighted grotto of unsurpassed splendor. To her many were summoned; and one out of every twenty, perhaps, remained. But the Chaldean visitor in Babylon that passed five nights in the city and saw not the queen of the temple of false Istar, was, indeed, an old and ugly man.
On the opposite side of the square stood a little row of houses, also quiet but not utterly deserted by day. In them dwelt the orders of witches, sorceresses, hierodules, priestesses, and vampires attached to the far-famed and infamous temple across the square. These, like their queen, lived by night and slept by day. Into their houses none but members of their orders were admitted. The greatest precision was observed in their rules of life; and the great public knew nothing at all of the real and rather pitiable existence of these dwellers in silent places.
These buildings were the only ones upon the square. To the north and to the south it was enclosed by high walls pierced by as many gates as there were streets leading into it; for no one ever had any difficulty in getting into the place if he cared to enter it.
Finally, what was the square itself? By day it was the quietest spot in the city. By night it was the most crowded and the most wonderful. Great throngs of people always assembled here during the first hour of darkness--men of every station and age; priest and lord, bondsman and official, tradesman, shopkeeper, farmer, laborer, and soldier. All of them were solemnly clad, and they mingled together in an inextricable mass about the myriad bonfires that served to light the performances of the jugglers, snake-charmers, and wizards who earned their living here.
Fanatical priestesses of Lil flitted among the people; and these women were a very real danger, for they menaced life in a peculiar way. They were professional vampires, whose habit it was to slip a delicate, poisoned dagger into the vital spot below the heart of a victim, throw themselves upon the body as it fell, and rob it, under the horrid pretence of sucking the blood. Incredible as it is, these women were held in superstitious reverence. No one dared resist the attack of a vampire, through fear of becoming one of them after death. Vigilance and flight were the only means of safety; and certainly what violence was done did not seem enough to deter all Babylon from congregating at this place.
As Hodo and Charmides at length ended their weary walk and entered the square, the trader gave his companion a quick warning of the dangers there to be encountered; and the Greek, feeling nothing but a pleasurable thrill of excitement, placed his left hand on his not too-well-filled money-bag, and eagerly followed his companion towards the bonfire nearest the door of the temple. It was not easy to force a passage through the close-packed crowd that stood here about the performer. But with some expostulation, a good deal of elbowing, and not a little Babylonish profanity, the two finally reached a vantage-point whence they could watch the performance of the wonder-worker. The man was a Hindu outcast from the Sindh, come hither only he knew how. But from some one, somehow, perhaps by aid of his own mystical religion, he had learned a profession that could not but win him a living, wherever he might be. Charmides, who had never before heard of an exhibition like this, looked on wide-eyed, in great delight. He was utterly absorbed in watching a parrot come slowly forth out of a ferret's throat, when a lithe arm slid gently around his neck. He started backward in terror.
Hodo was upon him instantly and the white arm was withdrawn, its owner melting so quickly into the throng that Charmides could not even recognize her. Trembling a little, with a combination of outraged dignity and fright, the youth drew away from the scene that had now lost its interest. Once in the more open spaces of the square, Hodo went to one of the liquor venders who passed continually to and fro, carrying on their backs skins of the heady liquid made from the cabbage of the date-palm, together with various other cheap and highly intoxicating drinks.
"Come hither, my Charmides, and drink with me!" called his guide, as he bought a double cupful of red liquor from a little, shrivelled man with newly filled pig-skin.
The Greek bravely accepted the invitation and lifted the cup to his lips. He took a single mouthful of the stuff, and then poured the rest of it quietly out upon the ground. Hodo saw nothing. He had taken his beverage, with no joy in its flavor but with every confidence in its happy result. Charmides was not to be outdone in good-fellowship.
Straightway he made for another vender, Hodo, grinning approval, close at his heels; and the first performance was repeated, save for the fact that this time the Greek paid for both drinks. Hodo was now bent upon having too much. Charmides watched him quaff for the third time, himself offered a fourth cup; and after that, having wasted thirty _se_ to very good purpose, took his companion by the shoulder and remonstrated.
"Hodo, I shall leave you if you do not cease."
"Spirit of Lil, my wonder, we have but begun! The n-night is young.
Behold, Sin and his little brother ride still low in the sky.
Well--w-well! If thou wilt be foolishly wroth we will wait your most reverent pleasure. Come now into the temple. It is time. By the battle of Bel and Tiamat, thou wilt win in to Istar herself, with your golden curls and pale eyes. Come on, little Greek! By all the gods, come on!"
Once again Hodo took the lead; this time rather more crookedly than usual, and Charmides followed at his heels, through the roaring throng, up to the wide gates of the many-roomed house of the false Istar.
Together they ascended the platform steps, reached the threshold of the temple itself, wavered there for an instant, like birds ready for flight, and then plunged together into the first torch-lit passage.
Four hours later Charmides emerged alone. His cloak and his money-bag were both gone. His tunic was rent in more than one place. His face was whiter than Zor's milk; and his hair was in wild disorder. Heeding little how he went, he passed down the steps again into the square. It was nearly empty now. Jugglers and magicians were gone. The fifty fires burned low, or were on the verge of extinction. The moon hung in the west, and the sky was heavy with storm-clouds. The Greek staggered as the cool darkness stole over him. In the house he had left the revelry was at its maddest pitch. Hodo was lost in it, his companion knew not where. Charmides himself had learned the highest form of worship of the false goddess, for he had attained to the inmost shrine. He was young; the flame of his fire had burned too fiercely while it burned at all; and now the reaction had set in. Exhausted, apathetic, half fainting from weariness, he longed for the liquor that he had refused earlier in the night. But drink was impossible now. His money was gone. All that he had with him he had flung into the open coffers of the great courtesan.
Now--now there stretched before him the endlessly weary homeward way, that must be traversed on foot. At the prospect he shivered with misery.
Pausing for a moment or two to gather a little warmth for his chilled body from the dying embers of the nearest fire, preparatory to setting forth into the city, he saw, coming towards him out of the gloom of the opposite side of the square, two well-robed men, one of whom he recognized as an under-priest in the temple of Sin. They were going in his direction, and as they passed he moved after them, that he might keep himself awake by listening to snatches of their conversation. Both of them were oblivious of his presence, wholly absorbed in themselves.
They did not talk at first; but a sensitive person would have realized that they were indulging in that species of mental intercourse that exists only for those whose hearts are bare to each other. Charmides, even in his irresponsible condition, recognized the sympathy, but could not, of course, partake of it. At the first spoken word, however, he pricked up his ears and listened with all his mind. Oddly enough, he found their topic one of peculiar interest to himself. It was the priest of Charmides' temple who spoke.
"From Siatu-Sin I heard all the tale--all that any one knows. It is incredible, thrice incredible, that she was cried 'mortal' by the people."
"The people! The cattle, rather!" rejoined his companion, scornfully.
"Howbeit--howbeit--there is something strange in the story. Divine, she knew that death was intended. _Human_, she feared it. That we know."
Kaiya shook his head impatiently. "Since Babylon knew her again, neither Amraphel nor Beltishazzar has dared go to her."
"Amraphel, nor Daniel--nor any man. Her very priestesses, we are told, do not see her face. The silver glory is gone from around her, they say.
Now walks she veiled in black and gold from Babylonish looms. Veiled she sits in the mercy-seat. Veiled she receives her food. Veiled she ascends to the ziggurat, and there passes whole days alone in meditation."
"And it is said that one standing on the ziggurat, by the door of the sanctuary, may hear the sound of human weeping in that room."
"Istar weeping! Ho, Kaiya--thou laughest!"
"No. I say what I am told," repeated the other, seriously.
"A goddess--does not weep."
There was a little pause. The conversation had reached a point whence it could not proceed. Neither man would make the inference implied. It was preposterous--also unnecessary.
Presently, however, when the reverence had been strained a little, Bel-Dur, the priest of Sin, broke into a laugh. "Love we the woman, Kaiya?" he asked, in amusement.
Kaiya was no laggard. He whipped off his religious mood like a garment, and went a step further than his companion. "Let us love her!" said he.
Bel-Dur turned his head to stare at his companion, and once more began to laugh. "Why not? Is it forbidden? Let us carry comfort to the weeping one. Let us banish her loneliness. Let us--"
"Nay, be silent, Bel-Dur, and listen to me. If she be proved a woman, and hath thus deceived all in the Great City, let her--let her, for punishment or reward, be removed--from one temple of Istar into the other."
Kaiya looked swiftly over his companion's face, and then let his eyes move farther afield. Charmides, behind the two men, listening intently, but slow, from weariness, to understand, waited stupidly for the next speech. Kaiya continued: