Before the Altar of Bel

Chapter Twenty-Six

Now Kenton heard the murmur of many voices, muffled, vague. He slipped from door to door, listening. They were not within the passage. They seemed to seep through the slab of pallid, smooth stone. He placed an ear against it. The voices came to him more distinctly, but still he could distinguish no words. The stone must be exceeding thin here, he thought, that he could hear at all. He saw at his right a little shining lever. He drew it down.

A three-foot wide, misty disk of light began to glow within the stone. It seemed to eat through the stone; it flashed out, dazzlingly. Where the disk had been was a circular opening, a window. Silhouetted against it were the heads of a woman and two men. Their voices came now as clearly to his ears as though they stood beside him; over them came the wavelike murmur of a multitude. He drew back, fearing to be seen. The little lever snapped back into place. The window faded; with its fading the voices muted. He stared again at the smooth, pale wall.

Slowly he drew down the lever. Once more watched the apparent burning out of the solid stone; saw the three heads reappear. He ran his free hand over the visible wall to the edge of the circle; higher he lifted it, into the disk itself. And ever he touched cold stone. Even that which was to his eyes an opening was to the questing fingers—stone!

He touched the whispering heads—and touched stone!

Now he understood—this was some device of the sorcerers—the priests. A device to give them a peeping place, a listening post, within the crypt. Some knowledge of the properties of light these priests must have, not yet learned by the science of Kenton’s own world; control of a varying vibration that made the rock transparent from within but not from without. Whatever the secret, the stone was made as porous to the aerial waves of sound as to the etheric waves of light. Keeping his grip upon the handle, he peered out between the heads and over the shoulders of those so close to and still so unconscious of him.

The mists had lifted. They had become dense lurid clouds pressing down almost upon the top of the Zoned Temple. In front of him was a huge court paved with immense octagons of black and white marble. Trooping down upon this court like a forest of faery, halting in a wide semicircle around it, were hosts of slender pillars, elfin shafts all gleaming red and black whose tapering tops were crowned with carven, lace-tipped fronds glistening like gigantic ferns wet with dew of diamonds and sapphires. Upon the black and scarlet columns shone mysterious symbolings in gold and azure, in emerald and vermilion and silver. In halted myriads these pillars reached up toward the sullen, smouldering sky.

Hardly a hundred feet away was a golden altar, guarded by crouching cherubs, man-headed, eagle-winged, lion-bodied, carven from some midnight metal. They watched at each corner of the altar with cruel, bearded faces set between paws and as alert as though alive. From the tripod on the altar a single slender crimson flame lifted, lance tipped and motionless.

In a vast crescent, a dozen yards in the van of the columns stood a double ring of bowmen and spearsmen. They held back a multitude; men and women and children pouring out of the ordered grove of pillars and milling against the soldiers like wind driven leaves against a wall. Score upon score they fluttered and whispered behind the double ring. Score upon score of men and women and children plucked from their own times and set down in this unknown, timeless world.

“The new priestess—they say she is very beautiful?” One of the men in front of Kenton had spoken. He was thin, white-faced, a Phrygian cap over his lank hair. The woman was of a bold and blown comeliness, black tressed, black eyed. The man at her right was an Assyrian, bearded, wolf visaged.

“She is a princess, they say,” the woman spoke. “They say she was a princess in Babylon.”

“Has she been here long?” asked the Phrygian. “I have just returned from a voyage—it was another princess when last I was here,” he added, half apologetically.

“Long!” the woman laughed. “What is long or short in this place without time—this land where none dies unless slain?”

“Princess in Babylon!” echoed the Assyrian, wolf face softening, homesickness in his voice—“Oh, to be back in Babylon!”

“The Priest of Bel loves her—so they say,” the woman broke the silence.

“The priestess?” whispered the Phrygian; the woman nodded. “But that is forbidden,” he muttered. “It is—death!” The woman laughed again.

“Hush!” it was the Assyrian, cautioning.

“And the Lady Narada—the Holy Dancer—loves the priest!” the woman went on, unheeding. “And so—as always one must speed to Nergal!”

“Hush!” whispered the Assyrian.

“Will it be the—dancer?” asked the Phrygian.

“My little bed with the ivory feet that it will not,” laughed the woman. The Assyrian’s hand closed over her mouth.

There was a rumbling ruffle of drums, the sweet piping of a flute. He sought the sounds. His gaze rested on half a score of temple girls. Five crouched beside little tambours upon whose heads rested their rosy thumbs; two held to red lips pierced reeds; three bent over harps. Within their circle lay what at first seemed to him a mound of shimmering spider web spun all of threads of jet, in which swarms of golden butterflies were snared. The mound quivered, lifted—

The sable silken strands had meshed a woman, a woman so lovely that for a heartbeat Kenton forgot Sharane. Dark she was, with the velvety darkness of the midsummer night; her eyes were pools of midnight skies in which shone no stars; her hair was mists of tempests snared in nets of sullen gold. Sullen indeed was that gold, and in all of her something sullen that menaced the more because of its sweetness.

“There is a woman!” The bold eyes turned to the Assyrian. “She’ll have what she wants—my bed on it!”

There came a voice from beside her, wistful, dreamy, worshipping:

“Ah, yes! But the new priestess—She is no woman! She is Ishtar!”

Kenton craned his neck, looking for the speaker. He saw a youth, hardly more than nineteen, saffron robed and slight. His eyes and face were those of a beautiful dreaming child.

“He is half mad,” the dark woman whispered. “Ever since the new priestess came he haunts this place.”

“We are going to have a storm. The sky is like a bowl of brass,” muttered the Phrygian. “The air is frightened.”

The Assyrian answered:

“They say Bel comes to his house in the storm. Perhaps the priestess will not be alone tonight.”

The woman laughed slyly. Kenton felt swift desire to take her throat in his hands. There came a low clashing of thunder.

“Perhaps that is he, rising,” said the woman, demurely.

There was a little throbbing of the harp strings; a complaining from the tambours. A dancing girl sang softly:

“Born was Nala for delight,
Never danced there feet so white;
Every heart on which she trod,
Dying owned her heel its god;
Sweet her kisses day or night—
Born was Nala for delight!”

The brooding eyes of the butterfly woman they had named Narada flashed angrily.

“Be quiet—wanton!” he heard her whisper. There was a ripple of laughter among the girls; the two with the pipes trilled them softly; the drums murmured. But she who had sung sat silent over her harp with downcast eyes.

The Phrygian asked:

“Is this priestess then really so beautiful?”

The Assyrian said:

“I do not know. No man has ever seen her unveiled.”

The youth whispered:

“When she walks I tremble! I tremble like the little blue lake of the temple when the breeze walks on it! Only my eyes live, and something grips my throat.”

“Peace!” a brown eyed girl with kindly face and babe in arms spoke. “Not so loud—or what you will feel at your throat will be an arrow!”

“She is no woman! She is Ishtar! Ishtar!” cried the youth.

The soldiers near by turned. Through them strode a grizzled officer, short sword in hand. Before his approach the others drew back; only the youth stood motionless. Right and left the sword carrier peered beneath bushy brows. Ere he could fix gaze on the youth a man in sailor’s cap and tunic of mail had walked between the two, gripped the youth’s wrist, held him hidden behind him. Kenton caught a glimpse of agate eyes, black beard—

His heart leaped. It was Zubran!

Zubran! But would he pass on? Could Kenton make him hear if he called? If his body could not be seen from without, could his voice penetrate the stone? Zubran!

The sword bearer scanned the silent group, uncertainly. The Persian saluted him gravely.

“Silence here!” grunted the officer at last, and passed back among his men.

The Persian grinned; pushed the youth from him; stared at the dark woman with eyes bolder than her own. He jostled the Phrygian from his place; laid a hand upon the woman’s arm.

“I was listening,” he said. “Who is this priestess? I am newly come to this land and nothing I know of its ways. Yet by Ormuzd!” He swore and thrust his arm around the woman’s shoulders. “It was worth the journey to meet you! Who is this priestess that you say is so beautiful?”

“She is the keeper of Bel’s House.” The woman nestled close to him. “They say her name is—Sharane!”

“But what does she there?” asked Zubran. “Now if it were—you—I could understand without asking. And why does she come here?”

“The priestess lives in Bel’s House upon the top of the temple,” the Assyrian spoke. “She comes here to worship at his altar. When her worship is done she returns.”

“For beauty such as you say is here,” remarked Zubran, “her world seems small indeed. Why, if she is so beautiful, is she content to dwell in so small a world?”

“She is the god’s,” answered the Assyrian. “She is the keeper of his house. If the god entered he might be hungry. There must be food for him in his house and a woman to serve it. Or he might be—”

“And so there must be a woman there,” interrupted the bold eyed wench, smiling up at him slyly. “A fair woman. Therefore the priestess dwells within his house.”

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

God! Would the Persian ever come close 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!”

“Who?” asked the Persian.

“The Lady Sharane,” sighed the youth.

Sharane! The name of his beloved pulsed through Kenton like little leaping flames.

“Fool!” whispered the Assyrian. “Fool, be still! Will you bring bad luck on us? No woman can be as beautiful as 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 beheld the god?” he repeated.

“Wait,” murmured the woman. “I will ask Narodach the archer. 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, grinning.

“Narodach,” asked the woman. “Tell us—have any of the priestesses ever beheld the god?”

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 the 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 temple. One there was who vanished. One there was—”

The Persian interrupted: “It seems that those priestesses who wait for Bel are not—fortunate.”

Said the woman with intense conviction: “Give me—men!”

There was a nearer clashing of thunder. Above Kenton, in the lurid, ever darkening sky, the clouds began a slow churning.

“There will be a great storm,” muttered the Phrygian.

The girl the Lady Narada had rebuked thrummed again her harp strings; sang half maliciously, half defiantly:

“Every heart that sought a nest,
Flew straightway to Nala’s breast—
Born was Nala for delight—”

She checked her song. From afar came the faint sound of chanting; the tread of marching feet. Bowmen and spearsmen 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 the only head in the circular window whose pane was stone.

“Zubran!” called Kenton, softly. The Persian did not stir.

“Zubran!” shouted Kenton. The Persian turned startled face to the wall, then leaned against it, cloak tight around his face.

“Wolf!” There was relief and joy in Zubran’s usually weary voice—“Are you safe? Where are you?”

“Behind the wall,” shouted Kenton. “Whisper—I can hear you.”

“I can barely hear you,” whispered the Persian. “Are you hurt? In chains?”

“I am safe,” cried Kenton. “But Gigi—Sigurd?”

“Searching for you,” the Persian said. “Our hearts have been well-nigh broken. Soon we meet—”

“Listen,” shouted 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 House of Bel,” cried Kenton. “Soon as the storm breaks—go there. If I am not there—take Sharane, carry her back to the ship. I will follow.”

“We will not go without you,” whispered Zubran.

“Go—quick! Do as I say! Find Gigi—Sigurd!” shouted Kenton.

“I cannot go now. Patience, wolf! There is time!” answered 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 hidden 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. The Lady Narada had half risen. Kenton watched her, forgetting to breathe. Never had there been such yearning, such bitter-sweet desire as that in her midnight eyes as the Priest of Bel passed her, unheeding. Her long and slender fingers fiercely 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, prepared though he had been, Kenton’s stiff fingers almost loosed the shining lever.

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