Part 13 (1/2)
The king's eyes were not too dim to mark every movement of the woman he loved. His old heart began to beat faster and the blood stirred in his veins.
How fair and n.o.ble was the bearing of that shapely figure, as it glided on with the measured step that became her so well! How delicate and beautiful the pale face! so easily recognised even at a distance from which its features could not be distinguished, and bringing back to him as it was unveiled now, on entering her husband's dwelling, that well-remembered morning in Bactria, when she rode into the camp serene and radiant, like a star dropped down from heaven.
What was this? He started, and half rose from his throne; for she had paused amongst the guards, and one of them had fallen on his face at her feet.
Semiramis, who was above all the forms and ceremonies that trammelled weaker natures, breaking through them at will in court, camp, or palace, had resolved to take signal vengeance on Sarchedon whenever she should see him, careless alike whether they met in the desert, on the house-top, or here in the formidable presence of the king. She knew how to stab him too, and determined, at whatever cost to her own feelings, she would drive her thrust home.
How beautiful he looked, standing there in his golden helmet, with the scarlet-bordered mantle falling from his shoulders, and the white tunic reaching to his knee! Not Menon, she thought, when he wooed her by the silver lake that mirrored the towers of Ascalon, was half so fair; but Menon loved her dearly, while this man--well, she would make him eat the hardest morsel, drink the bitterest waters of affliction, and afterward he should die. What would be left her then? The love of this old dotard, the hollow pageantry, the empty pleasures, the heavy magnificence of a court. How she loathed them all! And what good would it do her even to attain supreme power if she must rule alone, without companions.h.i.+p, without sympathy, without love?
She had wavered in her purpose a hundred times ere she stepped as many paces. She was inflexible when she bade Sarchedon come forward from the line of his comrades, irresolute while he advanced and pitiless once more as he prostrated himself at her feet.
”You are ent.i.tled to ask a request,” said she, very coldly and haughtily, ”as having borne hither the signet of my lord the king. It is my part to intercede with him in your favour, and the old custom in our land of s.h.i.+nar bids him grant your desire, even to the half of his kingdom.”
His eyes lightened with pleasure, and her heart turned to stone. Yet even in that moment she marked that he still wore her amulet round his neck.
The name of Ishtar was on his lips, but some instinct of the palace--it may be something in the queen's face--forbade him to p.r.o.nounce it. He had wit enough to bow his forehead in the dust, and to answer,
”I do but desire the light of her countenance, and permission to abide in the service of the Great Queen.”
She was not deceived by his submission, though her eyes shone with a softer l.u.s.tre while she continued, ”Is there no treasure you covet, no post of honour you desire, no maiden in the whole land of s.h.i.+nar you would fain take home with you to your tent?”
”I may not lift mine eyes to Ashtaroth,” was his cautious reply. ”If I must needs choose from among the flowers of earth, I would beg of the Great Queen to give me Ishtar, the daughter of Arbaces.”
She was ready with her blow. Looking him full in the face, with the calm pitiless smile of one who puts some wounded reptile out of pain--
”It is too late,” she said, in hard cutting accents. ”The damsel has been promised to my son. Even now the prince is lifting her veil to salute his bride!”
In his agony he fell forward, grasping the queen's robe wildly in his hand.
The Great King sprang to his feet, his beard bristling, his very eyebrows shaking with ungovernable anger. For a s.p.a.ce he could not even find voice to speak. Then he burst out,
”By the blood of Nisroch, it is too much! He has laid hands on the queen before my very face! Were he flesh of my loins and bone of my body, he should be consumed to ashes. Ho, guards, away with him! Cover his face and lead him forth!”
A score of hands grasped the offender, a score of spears were pointed at his breast. Though it was her own act, nay, _because_ it was her own act, a strong revulsion of feeling caused the queen's stately form to shake from head to foot: and in that supreme moment she swore to her own turbulent heart that, come what might, even to the fall of the a.s.syrian empire, Sarchedon should _not_ die!
She pa.s.sed swiftly to the throne, and lifting the king's sceptre, laid one end of it against her forehead, while she placed the other in his hand.
”My lord,” she said, ”this is the feast of Baal. It is not lawful to slay an a.s.syrian born during the wors.h.i.+p of the great a.s.syrian G.o.d.”
There shone a red light in the king's eyes that meant death, and the foam stood on his lip. When he looked thus, it was in vain to sue for pardon. Nevertheless, he pa.s.sed his wrinkled hand over the fair brow of the woman kneeling at his feet.
”Be it so,” said Ninus. ”To-morrow he shall die at sunrise. The king hath spoken.”
Then the guards looked furtively in each other's faces; for all men knew from such a judgment there was no appeal, in such a sentence no hope of mercy or reprieve.
CHAPTER XV
THE QUEEN'S PEt.i.tION