Абрахам Меррит - The Ship of Ishtar

"And so there must be a woman there," interrupted the bold–eyed wench, smiling up at him.

"We have something like that in my country," the Persian drew her closer. "But the priestesses seldom wait alone. The priests see to that—Ho! Ho!"

God! Would Zubran never come close enough to the wall? So close that Kenton might call to him? And yet—if he did! Would not those others hear him also—? And then—

"Have any of these priestesses who—wait—" Zubran's voice purred—"Have any of these waiting priestesses ever—ah, entertained—the god?"

The youth spoke: "They say the doves speak to her—the doves of Ishtar! They say she is more beautiful than Ishtar!"

"Fool!" whispered the Assyrian. "Fool, be still! Will you bring bad luck upon us? No woman can be more beautiful than Ishtar!"

"No woman can be more beautiful than Ishtar," sighed the youth. "Therefore she is—Ishtar!"

The Phrygian said: "He is mad!"

But the Persian stretched out his right arm, drew the youth to him.

"Have any of these priestesses ever held the god?" he asked.

"Wait" murmured the woman. "I will ask Narodach the archerer. He comes sometimes to my house. He knows. He has seen many priestesses." she held the Persian's arm fast about her girdle, leaned forward—"Narodach! Come to me!"

An archer turned; whispered to the men on each side of him; slipped from between them. They closed up behind him.

"Narodach," asked the woman. "Tell us—have any of the priestesses ever held—Bel?"

The archer hesitated, uneasily.

"I do not know," slowly he answered at last. "They tell many tales. Yet are they but tales? When first I came here there was a priestess in Bel's house. She was like the crescent moon of our old world. Many men desired her."

"Ho, archer," rumbled the Persian. "But did she—hold the god?"

Narodach said: "I do not know. They said so—they said that she had been withered by his fires. The wife of the charioteer of the Priest of Ninib told me that her face was very old when they took away her body. She was a date tree that had withered before it had borne fruit, she said."

"If I were a priestess—and so beautiful—I would not wait for a god!" the woman's eyes clung to Zubran. "I would have a man. Yea—I would have many men!"

"There was another who followed," said the archer. "She said the god had come to her. But she was mad—and being mad, the priests of Nergal took her."

"Give me men, I say!" whispered the woman.

Said Narodach the archer musing: "One there was who threw herself from the Bower. One there was who vanished. One there was—"

The Persian interrupted: "It seems that these priestesses who wait for Bel are not—fortunate."

Said the woman with intense conviction:

"Give me—men!"

There was a nearer clashing of thunder. In the lurid, ever–darkening sky, the clouds began a slow churning.

"There will be a great storm," muttered the Phrygian.

The girl Narada had rebuked thrummed against her harp strings; she sang half maliciously, half defiantly:

"Every heart that sought a nest, Flew straightway to Nala's breast— Bornwas Nala for delight—"

She checked her song. From afar came the faint sound of chanting; the tread of marching feet. Bowman and spearmen raised bows and spears in salute. Behind them the milling multitudes dropped to their knees. The Persian drew close to the wall. And his was now the only head in the circular window whose pane was stone.

"Zubran!" called Kenton, softly. The Persian turned startled face to the wall, then leaned against it, cloak tight around his face.

"Wolf!" he whispered. "Are you safe? Where are you?"

"Behind the wall," whispered Kenton. "Speak softly."

"Are you hurt? In chains?" muttered the Persian.

"I am safe," answered Kenton. "But Gigi—Sigurd?"

"Searching for you," the Persian said. "Our hearts have been well–nigh broken—"

"Listen," said Kenton. "There is a clump of trees—close to the stairway above the garrison—"

"We know," answered Zubran. "It is from them we make the steps and scale the temple. But you—"

"I will be in the Bower of Bel," said Kenton. "Soon as the storm breaks—go there. If you do not find me—take Sharane, carry her back to the ship. I will follow."

"We will not go without you," whispered Zubran.

"I hear a voice speaking through the stone." It was the Assyrian, kneeling. Zubran dropped from Kenton's sight.

The chanting had grown louder; the marching feet were close. Then from some secret entrance of the temple there swept out into the open space a company of archers and a company of swordsmen. Behind them paced as many shaven, yellow–robed priests, swinging smoking golden censers and chanting as they walked. The soldiers formed a wide arc before the altar. The priests were silent upon a somber chord. They threw themselves flat on the ground.

Into the great court strode a single figure, tall as Kenton himself. A robe of shining gold covered him and a fold of this he held on raised left arm, completely covering his face.

"The Priest of Bel!" whispered the kneeling woman.

There was a movement among the temple girls. Narada had half risen. Never had there been such yearning, such bittersweet desire as that in her midnight eyes as the Priest of Bel passed her, unheeding. Her slender fingers gripped the cobwebs that meshed her; their webs were lifted by the swelling breast of her; shuddered with the sighs that shook her.

The Priest of Bel reached the golden altar. He dropped the arm that held the shrouding fold. And then Kenton's stiff fingers almost loosed the shining lever.

He looked, as in a mirror, into his own face!

BREATHLESSLY Kenton stared at this strange twin. There was the same square jaw, firm–lipped dark face, the same clear blue eyes.

His mind groped toward the black priest's plot. Was this to be—Sharane's lover? Some flash of understanding half illumined his mind—too brief to be more than half caught. It left him groping again.

Through the stone he heard the Persian cursing. Then—

"Wolf, are you behind me?" he muttered. "Are you truly behind me, Wolf?"

"Yes," he whispered. "I am here, Zubran. That is not I! It is some sorcery."

His gaze flew back to the Priest of Bel; began now to take note of subtle differences in their two faces. The lips were not so firm, the corners of the mouth drew down, there was hint of indecision about them and the chin. And the eyes were strained, shadowed with half wild, half agonized longing. Silent, tense, the Priest of Bel stared over the lifted head of Narada, her lithe body as rigid as his own, unheeding her, intent upon that hidden portal through which he had come.

The lanced, crimson flame upon the altar flickered; swayed.

"The gods guard us!" he heard the bold–eyed woman say.

"Be silent! What is the matter?" said the Assyrian.

The woman whispered: "Did you see the Kerubs? They glared at the priest! They moved toward him!"

The woman with the babe said: "I saw it! I am frightened!"

The Assyrian said: "It was the light on the altar. It flickered."

Said the Phrygian low: "Perhaps it was the Kerubs. Are they not Bel's messengers? Did you not say the priest loved Bel's woman?"

"Silence there!" rang the voice of the officer from behind the double ring. The priests began a low chanting. In the eyes of the priest a fire began to glow; his lips quivered; his body bent forward as though drawn by an unseen cord. Across the wide place walked a woman—alone. She was cloaked from neck to feet in purple; her head was swathed in golden veils.

Kenton knew her!

His heart leaped toward her; his blood raced. He quivered under such shock of longing that it seemed as though his leaping heart must break beneath it.