XI From the House of Heaven
When Daniel was far beyond the range of Istar’s vision he did not lessen the rapidity of his gait. Rather, he increased it, till the last five yards of his descent of the ziggurat were done in a quick run; and the few people already abroad in the square of Istar looked up in amazement to see the unkempt figure of the slinking Jew advancing at an eager trot across the open space and into the Â-Ibur-Sabû.
Beltishazzar, however, had at that time little thought for the opinions of the people whom he passed. The one thing that he desired above all others, the thing that had assumed a place paramount to his disinterested historical desires—the downfall of Babylon and the freeing of his race—had come to pass. Moreover, the accomplishment of it was, apparently, by the will of God alone. Surely no man earnestly wishful of attaining to a certain end ever arrived at it by simpler or more thorough process. It was a miracle. It required no explanation, no twisting of facts, no blustering denunciations. Who would ask stronger proof of the mortality of this impostor than the sight of her child, and her own weakness? Reverence for the mother-love, for its beauty, for heart’s peace, did not occur to the prophet. He felt that Istar’s great sin, her tremendous fraud, her immense daring, were things that a statesman might secretly marvel at, possibly admire, in a way. But naturally these feelings would never be expressed.
In such a course wound Daniel’s triumphant thoughts as he hurried with them down the wide street towards the palace of the high-priest of Bel. It was unusually early in the day for an interview with Amraphel; and of this the Jew had scarcely stopped to think when he halted before the outer gate of the ecclesiastical dwelling. The night-guards had not yet made way for the more gorgeously attired eunuchs of the day; but the Jew was too familiar a figure to all Amraphel’s household to be denied admittance by any of his servants. There was some little doubt expressed as to their lord’s having risen. But the doubts were couched in reverent terms, and shortly the lean and ill-kempt Jew was ushered through the vast, empty courts and halls, to the little dining-room of the high-priest’s private suite.
Only two slaves, servitors, were in this room when the visitor entered it; and these were busy preparing for the arrival of the master. The wrought ivory and ebony couch had already been drawn up before the table on which various fruits were laid out. And shortly after Daniel made his appearance; a place was added to the table and an arm-chair drawn to it, evidently for him. He would have seated himself, when there came a sound of steps in the passage-way, and Amraphel, white-robed and whiter-bearded, came in, followed by two cringing slaves bearing the long-handled feather fans in use even at this early season. Beltishazzar read the priestly mood at sight. It bore small relation to that benign and fatherly manner assumed for the morning sacrifice, and coming on naturally of an evening, after the long day of adulation and worship. Daniel almost prostrated himself on the old man’s entrance, and got in return a slight acknowledgment of his presence, and the words:
“Is your visit early, Jew, or the last of your night?”
“The last.—May it please you, lord of Bel, to see me alone. My news is not such as should grow cold. Over it, all Babylon will laugh for joy.”
Amraphel looked at this companion of many schemes a little sourly as he sank back on his couch, and took up an orange from its dish of gold. “What is the nature of this laughing news that you should impart it by stealth?”
Suddenly Daniel lost his patience—a thing not usual with him. “My lord receives it thus”—he snapped his fingers—“and behold, I take it to Vul-Ramân of Bit-Yakin, who, hearing it, will not scoff.” And the Jew actually made as if to get up from his chair.
“Stop!” cried the high-priest, sharply. “There is no cause for anger. Sit you, and we will speak of it.”
Daniel shrugged his indifference, but slipped into his chair again, without, however, offering to touch food.
My lord looked round upon his slaves, indicating each of them with a little glance, and designating those that fanned him with a gesture. “Depart and leave us,” he said, shortly.
His command was obeyed with decided alacrity, and when the bare feet had patted their noiseless way far down the adjoining corridor, Daniel straightened up in his chair with a little rustle and said, in a low tone: “My news, Amraphel, is, shortly, this: Istar of Babylon, whom we have feared, is a woman—a woman, weak, powerless, full of sin.”
Daniel paused, and Amraphel looked at him with a little curl of the lip. “Is that all?” he said, after a pause. “Is that all? Art thou drunk, Jew?”
Daniel did not lose his temper now. He smiled, contemplatively, and went on: “Nay, I am not drunk, lord high-priest, neither is that all my news—yet, in a way, it is all told. If all Babylon knew too well that Istar were a woman—and weak—and sinful? Hein? Would it not be enough?”
“If the people knew—the people—yea, it might be.”
Thereupon Daniel told without more ado all that he had seen, and how Istar lay at this moment in her sanctuary with the infant in her arms.
Then, indeed, Amraphel was touched to the quick. Verily, here was news! Here was such news as caused the most unemotional man in the Great City to start up from his couch and pace the floor with hurried and uneven steps, his eyes alight, his pale face tinged with red excitement, his hands busily twisting his robe. It was some moments before he spoke, but, once begun, Daniel sat silent and amazed.
“Ah, Beltishazzar, wisely mayst thou rejoice now. Babylon—Babylon, the city of Nabopolassar, my father, shall at last stand free before me! Listen, listen, all ye people! Istar of Babylon is fallen. She is fallen who reigned as a goddess—over me. Mark me, Jew, time was when Istar of Babylon was divine. The glory of the unknown God flowed around her. Her lips spoke truth. In her heart was hidden all knowledge. The life that she lived was unapproachable by mortal man. And while she remained thus, I dared not try my full power in the city.
“But now—now! Ah, Beltishazzar, now the fear is gone! The goddess has tasted the bitterness of human love and is become mortal. Her sin has found her out. To-day, even to-day, she shall be driven from that temple that her presence defiles. Her downfall shall be cried aloud to them that have worshipped her. Her disgrace shall be proclaimed throughout the kingdom. Let her invoke what aid she may, human or divine! I defy her now to deny me omnipotence in Babylon.
“And thou, Daniel—thou that broughtest this word—have no fear that thy people shall lack favor in my sight, and in the sight of the mighty lord of Elam. Let us henceforth work together for that end which, in the name of our gods and of the God of Judah, shall be accomplished within the year!”
He paused in his speech and in his walk, and his head fell upon his breast. He descended quickly, did Amraphel, from heroics to practicality; and this, perhaps, was one reason of his great success in life. Daniel eyed him in silence till the echoes of the tirade had died away and there had been time for thought. Then he said, shortly:
“You will drive her from the temple, Amraphel? How?”
“By Nebo, with an ox-goad, that is used for cattle!”
Daniel shrugged incredulously. “And whither drive you her?”
“She may go, if she will, to her proper abode—the temple of false Istar, near the gate of the setting sun.”
Daniel drew a sharp breath. “Father Abraham!” he muttered, himself amazed at Amraphel’s pitiless joy in triumph. Then, a moment later, he added: “It is a just ending. Well, my lord, I take my departure now.”
“Thy departure! By Marduk, thou shalt come with me to the temple! Thou must be at my side when I enter her shrine.”
Daniel cringed quickly, and proffered a swift excuse. Keen he might be; bold in his way; master of diplomacy, of deceit, and cunning; but discreet, cautious, nay, cowardly, when it came to his personal safety, he was always. It was true that Istar was no more and no less than a weak and unfortunate woman; but enough of divinity still clung to the thought of her to keep the Jew far from any desire to stand before the people as her accuser. Amraphel might be angry, might persuade or command. In the present matter Beltishazzar was immovable. Amraphel recognized it presently, and saw that nothing was to be done but to summon Vul-Ramân, with all possible speed, from the neighboring temple, and to command a chariot to be prepared at once and brought into the outer court of the palace.
These things were quickly done; and Daniel had been gone for many minutes by the time Vul-Ramân answered the peremptory summons and stood before his superior. The priest of Nebo was in a temper, and greeted Amraphel in an undisguisedly irritable tone.
“My lord, it is the hour for sacrifice. My place was at the altar. By your message hath Nebo lost his morning savor, and the temple the flesh of three goats. What is needed of me here?”
“And has the freeing of Babylon cost the price of three goats, O Bit-Yakin? Pray thou for strength to endure the loss!”
Vul-Ramân looked at him in displeasure. “Are thy words oracles?” he said, sourly.
“Within the hour their light will illume thy understanding. Now thou art to drive with me up to the temple of Istar. They bring my cloak.”
Vul-Ramân looked on with sudden interest as two slaves entered the room where he stood. One of them carried a long, woollen garment of Tyrian weave, heavily embroidered in golden threads in a pattern containing the various symbols of the different gods. It was a mantle worn only upon the greatest occasions. This being fastened upon Amraphel’s shoulders with well-wrought pins of gold, the second slave crowned the high-priest with his golden-feathered tiara, sandalled him with sandals embroidered in the same rich metal, and finally put into his hand something that caused Vul-Ramân to exclaim:
“What, in the name of Nergal’s holiness, do you with the bullock’s goad, Amraphel!”
“Come you with me, Vul-Ramân. Our way lies to the north, to the temple of Istar. From it I shall drive forth the false woman that dwells there receiving worship. For—”
“Amraphel!” Vul-Ramân stopped short. “Art thou raving? What canst thou do against Istar? Because by her mercy we are spared punishment for our last sin against her, darest thou again attempt her downfall? Attempt it by such means as this? If thy mind has not left thy body, then thine arrogance leads thee to death!”
The high-priest waited till the other had finished his protest. Then he said, calmly: “Istar of Babylon is a woman with child. Her divinity is gone. I go to drive her from the heavenly house.”
In silence the two men proceeded to the court-yard, where, surrounded by a group of slaves, stood the golden chariot with its white horses and flashing harness. The driver stood holding the reins in his hands. On the arrival of the two priests there was a general obeisance. Amraphel entered the vehicle first. Vul-Ramân, not without a perceptible hesitation, followed him. The master raised his hand, the driver shouted to his steeds, and the powerful animals, with one spring, shot forward, drawing the whirring chariot after them through the bronze gate way, out into the Â-Ibur-Sabû.
“The temple of Istar!” said Amraphel.
The flashing wheels turned to the north, and in brave silence they proceeded towards the square at the end of the broad street. Not a word was spoken during the drive. The two priests, one on either side of the driver, stood like statues—Vul-Ramân with a face as white as a summer cloud, Amraphel in immovable calm. The right hand of the high-priest rested on the rim of the chariot in front of him. His left, the one with which he clasped the short, black goad, with its two cruel leathern thongs, hung at his side. As they went along, the people in the street stopped to stare in curiosity as to the wherefore of Amraphel’s state magnificence, and Vul-Ramân’s appearance so far from his temple at the hour of morning sacrifice. When finally they entered the square of Istar, it was wholly deserted; for service was going on in the temple, and a respectable throng was assembled to witness the weekly slaughter of doves and the broiling of their flesh over the cone-fire on the altar.
“Istar will be there at the sacrifice, doubtless,” whispered Vul-Ramân, hurriedly, as they alighted together at the steps of the platform.
“Let us seek her,” was all the reply he got. Amraphel exhibited not a trace of uneasiness, and yet, to a certain extent, the fear of the priest of Nebo had its effect on him. Mentally he cursed the prudent cowardice of Daniel, who, having arranged this situation, had left him to run the chance of disgrace and defeat alone.
As they came to the door of the temple the two priests found themselves confronting the throng of men and women who were just emerging into daylight. The sacrifice was over. But as Amraphel, in all his magnificence halted before them in the door-way, the people also came to a stand-still, lowered their heads, and waited silently to learn if there was a reason for his coming. For some seconds, however, Amraphel stood passive. He perceived the officiating priestess coming towards him from the altar, and he waited for her to reach his side. Then she, and Bit-Yakin, and finally the high-priest, performed the ceremonious greetings of the religious code; and only after these were over did Amraphel say:
“We seek the lady—Istar of Babylon. Is she in the temple, O servant of the great goddess?”
“The spirit of the goddess hath attended on the sacrifice. So spake the omens, most high lord,” was the disturbed reply.
“Belit Istar, then, is not here?”
“Nay, Lord Amraphel. She is in her shrine at the top of the ziggurat, to which she retired at sunset yesterday.”
“We will ascend into her presence.”
The priestess started. “Nay—nay! Let my lord remain here below. The goddess is alone with her brothers. She commands that none shall ascend to her to-day.”
“Begone, woman!” shouted Amraphel, suddenly breaking out into a very well-arranged burst of anger. “Begone, thou deceived and deceiving servant of a false goddess! Hear ye, ye people!” And he turned to the astonished multitude. “Hear ye who, for many months—nay, years—have worshipped at an altar of evil! Istar of Babylon, whom, unknowing, ye have called Belit, spouse of the great Bel, is no goddess. As the great gods have revealed to me by night, she is but a woman, sacrilegiously dwelling in the house of heaven, accepting the homage of the multitude, delivering oracles from the mercy-seat, receiving offerings and the sacrifice day by day throughout the months, deceiving you and them that dwell with you. Now I come to expose her and to deliver her up to you to do with as ye will. Come ye forth and assemble about the foot of the ziggurat while I ascend, that ye may behold her when she comes forth from the holy shrine of the outraged goddess that dwells afar from us in the silver sky.”
Amraphel made this speech with such an air of mingled sorrow and outraged dignity that Vul-Ramân, for all his amazement, could not but applaud it. The crowd showed less indignation than bewilderment and curiosity. But as the old man turned from them to cross the platform, the people followed him like sheep, leaving only the wailing hierodules behind them in the temple.
Bit-Yakin and the high-priest arrived at the foot of the ziggurat side by side, with the foremost of the company ten feet behind. Here, once more, Amraphel turned to them, raising his right hand majestically as he spoke: “Wait here for her whom I shall drive unto you; but see that, on penalty of the wrath of the gods, ye ascend not to the shrine.”
Then, hearing the low murmur that told the acquiescence of the obedient flock, Amraphel and his shadow began their ascent. From below, the people watched them in growing wonder, in growing uneasiness. They had seen the ox-goad in the high-priest’s hand, and they were thrilled with strange terrors as they considered what its use might be. Istar—their Istar—Istar, the great goddess—flogged! Impossible! Yet—yet—the curiosity was upon them, and they waited to see.
And now the two priests stood at the door-way of the shrine. The leathern curtain was closed before them. Nothing could be seen. There was a little pause, and, for the shadow of an instant, Amraphel wavered. Vul-Ramân, closely watching him, felt his heart sink.
“Shall I lift the curtain?” he whispered, devoutly hoping for a negative reply.
But Amraphel had gone too far now to falter. He nodded.
The heart of the priest of Nebo gave a throb of fear. He made no move to obey the command. Amraphel glanced at him sharply, took one step forward, and dragged the curtain from the door.
There was a low, frightened cry, supplemented by a weak wail from a faint and tender voice. The high-priest shaded his eyes with his hand till he could see into the interior of the room; and then, indeed, his heart beat high.
In that room, sitting now upon the great golden chair, was Istar of Babylon. She was clothed in the long, white, woollen tunic, that was scarcely so pale as her face. She was unveiled, and her silken hair, unbound and tangled, fell over her whole form and down to the floor on either side. Upon her knees, wrapped in a square of sacrificial muslin, its little form bathed in a dim, effulgent light that radiated from its body, lay the babe—her child.
Upon the entrance of the two priests, after the one startled cry, Istar sat perfectly quiet, her drawn face no whiter than before, her great, dark eyes staring wonderingly at the intruders, her breath coming and going rapidly between her parted lips.
Amraphel, whose self-composure had returned to him doubled in strength now that he was sure of his position, stood surveying her leisurely, with undisguised triumph. Vul-Ramân, on the other side, had also lost his fear. His delight at the turn of affairs was hardly less than his amazement; for, since the morning at Erech, Istar had had, in all Babylonia, no firmer believer in her divinity than Vul-Ramân of Bit-Yakin. Yet now, human, mortal, weak, she certainly was. Fitting, indeed, was it that she should leave the temple of the great goddess. And as he thought upon the manner of her expulsion, his lips curled in an involuntary smile.
At that moment Istar’s eyes were resting on his face. She saw his expression, and she read all the cruelty of it; for suddenly, raising the infant in her arms, she rose to her feet.
“Why have you come hither?” she whispered, hoarsely, her eyes moving from one to the other.
“Thou deceiver! Thou blasphemer! Thou thing of evil, of unholiness! We are come in the name of her whose abode thou hast so long profaned, to drive thee forth from Ê-Âna to thy true dwelling—the temple of the false Istar!”
Istar’s nostrils quivered with scorn. She lifted her head in a final proud defiance of the words of the high-priest. At the same instant Amraphel’s left hand was raised. The goad whirred through the air, and the thongs came stinging across the face of the woman.
A sharp scream, that could be heard by the multitude below, rang out from the shrine on the ziggurat. The woman caught her baby close to her breast, shielding it as well as she could with both arms. The cut of the whip had left a bright crimson weal across both cheeks and just over her mouth. The goad was lifted over her again, and this time she shrank backward from it.
“Get you forth, false creature, from the heavenly house!” cried Vul-Ramân, in raucous tones.
Amraphel moved out of her path, and Istar, blind and dumb with terror and amazement, started towards the door. As she went the whip fell again, this time on her shoulders, and again the scream followed it. Hugging the babe yet closer to her breast, she ran out upon the ziggurat platform in the blaze of the sunlight, and, with Amraphel and Vul-Ramân close at her heels, began an ever-hastening descent, round and round the tower, towards the square below. Up to her ears, from that square, came a long-drawn, minor groan. The people below were waiting for her, waiting for her as vultures wait. Behind her, driving her on to them, were their priests. She herself, helpless, bewildered, numb with the pain of exertion, beside herself with a desperate, fierce sense of mother-protection, knew scarcely what she did, was unmindful of what must come to her.
Since the priests had left them, the numbers of the crowd were considerably swelled. Istar’s temple-servants, eunuchs and women both, had come pouring from the temple and the dwelling to witness the issue of this undreamed-of struggle. Also every one that entered the square of Istar, whether on foot or in chariot, had either been directly summoned by the mob or had joined it voluntarily from curiosity. These people, by now two hundred strong, were awaiting the development of the affair in an undecisive humor. More of them believed in the divinity of Istar than in the word of Amraphel, powerful as he was. But now, suddenly, there was to be seen, circling towards them from above, a woman’s figure, utterly dishevelled, with long hair flying about her and straight woollen tunic impeding her progress, clasping in both arms a tiny bundle, and fleeing, in very evident terror, from those that followed her, one of whom held the goad uplifted in his hand. And as her weakness, her mortality, her too evident confusion, became apparent, the people felt all the old, inherent savagery of their race rise over the lately acquired civilization, and they watched with delight the approach of their helpless prey.
Istar, as she came nearer the ground, could see the crowd there close up its ranks and draw nearer the foot of the tower. She realized its attitude instantly, and her heart palpitated fast with excitement. Go back she could not. Keep on she must. And soon she reached the last few feet of the inclined plane, and felt the very breath, hot and hostile, of her one-time worshippers rise about her. She stopped, faltering. Her shoulders quivered in expectation of a blow; for Amraphel was close upon her. The blow was struck—fiercely—and it cut through her garment like a knife, blackening the white skin beneath it. At the same time Amraphel’s voice thundered out to all the crowd:
“I bring ye the false witch out of the holy temple of Istar. Do with her as ye think fitting and meet, in reverence to the outraged goddess.”
There was a deep, universal cry, a cry of hatred, of triumph, of the purest brutality, from the throng. Istar, looking down upon the massed faces before her, reeled slightly. Then, for her child’s sake, with a mighty effort she straightened up again. Knowing not what else to do, she stepped forward to the crowd. A great hand was quickly thrust into her face. Another struck her on the shoulder—but not so cruelly as the whip could strike. A dozen men seized her about the body. Then she lost every feeling save only one, that was more an instinct than a definite idea. She must protect her child. She must save it, while she lived, from the hands of her assailants. She was in the very midst of the mob. Heads, arms, hands, all struggled around and towards her, striking, bumping, pushing her. Her hair and her tunic were torn. No one as yet had threatened her with a weapon; but this, she felt, was only a matter of time; and then vaguely she commended herself to the God whose will had been hers also.
All at once, however, she felt more room around her. She was in the middle of a small, empty space, about which her own eunuchs stood in a circle, their backs to her, fighting with the men of the mob that sought to reach her. With a gleam of hope, she saw that all were not hostile. Her head swam and the world grew misty around her, yet still she clung to her shred of consciousness, that she might keep the baby safe. And, while she still controlled herself, some one appeared out of the tangle of struggling forms. Some one came close to her side, saying to her, in a once familiar voice:
“Belit Istar, keep to my side, and I will make a way for you through these men.”
Istar turned her half-blinded eyes upon the defender, and smiled at him—the golden-haired, the silver-voiced, whom long ago she had sheltered in her shrine.
“I will keep to thy side—Char-mides. Or—I die here. Yet I fear not death. Life—only—is—terrible,” she muttered, faintly.
The Greek did not answer her. Seeing an opening in the throng, he threw one arm around her, and, holding his right hand out in front of them both, hurried quickly forward. Istar never remembered how it happened. She saw her eunuchs all around her. She knew little of the angry people beyond. Presently she and her rescuer stood together beyond the mob on the edge of the platform steps.
“Thy eunuchs, I think, will keep the crowd from pursuit. They have been bravely true to thee. Now, canst reach my dwelling, lady? The way is far.”
“To thy dwelling I cannot go. May the Almighty God make thee forever happy! Leave me now. I follow my path alone.”
Charmides regarded her as slightly crazy. As she started quickly forward he kept close at her side. “Come with me—a little to the right,” he suggested, gently.
She shook her head. “Nay, Charmides, I know the way. It is to the house of my lord that I go. Haste! Haste! They follow me!”
She started forward as she spoke, running in terror down the steps into the square, and turning unhesitatingly into the Â-Ibur-Sabû. Charmides kept to her and supported her as she went, knowing not what else to do, not daring to take the child, to which she clung with such a mother-clasp that none could have presumed to ask her to relinquish it. And in this wise they proceeded together up the great road, finally turning into the street of Palaces leading towards the river. As they passed, no man or woman failed to turn and stare at the couple, for surely such a sight as this had never before been seen in Babylon. How long the walk lasted, minutes, hours, or days, or how it was that Istar kept from losing consciousness after the terrible hour she had been through, Charmides never knew. Some of the agony, mental and physical, that the woman was enduring he could read in her face. The greater part of it no mortal could have known or borne, for it was the death of her immortal existence and the beginning of her real earth-life, her life as a human being, a woman without power, without strength, without knowledge of what was to come.
Noon glared over the city as the two of them reached the border of the hunting-park that surrounded Nabu-Nahid’s palace. A little farther along was the palace gate-way, with its group of guards in their magnificent liveries. Charmides looked at them in despair, for surely the poor woman at his side would meet with no courtesy here. Such fears did not trouble Istar. Advancing to the first soldier, she said at once:
“Admit me, now, to”—she faltered over the name—“to my Lord Belshazzar.”
For a moment the man stared into her haggard and colorless face, crossed with the red weal of the whip, looked into the wild eyes, saw the burden that she bore, and laughed.
Istar heard him, saw him, was still and silent for a moment, and then turned dully to Charmides. The Greek’s eyes brimmed with tears—tears of rage at his helplessness and unutterable pity for Istar.
“Belit, come away with me. I will keep you till my lord receives you here,” he whispered to her imploringly.
Istar shook her head and turned hurriedly to the second man. “I will be taken to my Lord Belshazzar! Admit me to him!” she cried, querulously.
“There is he, then, if you would speak to him,” was the jeering answer, as the man, with a grin, swept his thumb in the direction of the first court, just inside the gate.
Istar darted forward to look.
“Thou fool! Now she will scream!” said the first soldier to his comrade.
Truly enough, Belshazzar was in the court, walking slowly towards the gate of his wing of the palace. Istar’s eyes fell on him instantly. She smiled a little. Then—she called:
“Belshazzar! Belshazzar—my lord!”
At the first syllable Belshazzar stopped, lifted his bowed head, and listened. At the repetition of the cry he turned towards the gate and came running—running as never before, towards it. The guards, watching him in something like consternation, opened the gate at his approach.
“Istar! Istar! Thou—here!” came in a great cry of love, of anger, of ineffable pity, from the lips of the prince royal.
Istar tremulously smiled, and held out her infant to her husband. “I—have—come,” she whispered, vaguely. Then, as Belshazzar took the child from her, she gave a gasping sob, and fell forward upon the hot bricks at his feet.