Queen of the Moon they called her, and she smiled upon their happiness, and gave and gave. She sapped the country bare of wine and food. She flung her gems amongst them as a drunken sower scatters grain. She spilled the blood of a nation's wealth, till the treasury staggered in the manner of a wounded ox, and still she smiled; smiled though her heart was breaking for a man—alight with the flames of Gibil for another man.
Thus it came to pass, at the waning of the moon, that one last feast was held in the hall of the spendthrift Queen, a hall now choked with a press of warrior chiefs and the princes of the world, grim fighters who wore their swords and battle-scars. Such men alone were bidden to the feast—such men who in secret loved the Queen, yet dared not lay a tongue to the telling of their love.
Then unto these sons of war came the mistress of Assyria, not in her gem-sewn robes of state, but in the armor of a battle-queen. On her breasts were set her nipple-plates of gold; on her flame-hued locks that helm which had flashed like star-fire through the ruck of war. Across her shoulders was flung a leopard skin, and her arms were bare, stripped of all save the bands of bronze which bound the sinews of her wrists. No longer was she the laughing imp who had charged against the Kurds, but a woman—a queen—a tempest-hearted battle-hawk.
At her coming no man spoke, but looked in awe, till presently—they knew not why—the silence was rent by thunders of acclaim, and the Queen bowed low before the sons of war. No smile she gave in greeting; no light-lipped laughter to these men who had followed her through storm and sun; but on her face rode a look of fierce resolve which caused them to wait the coming of uncertain things.
In silence she bade them sit; in silence she sat amongst them, albeit she caused one seat to be vacant at her side; then in silence the feast began. It was not the like of her other feasts, for before them was set the simple fare of warriors afield; and where the wine of Syria was wont to slake their thirst, each found a cup of water at his hand. The Queen sought not their drunken passion which would die before the morrow's sun, for now she would feed their hearts on the flesh of truth and mix their lasting curses with her own. Thus each man, marveling, ate in silence and waited for the coming of the storm; and then, when the feast was done at last, Semiramis arose and spoke:
"My brothers," she began, "brothers in war, in love, in the days of idleness and peace, the heart of your Queen is sad. As I share with you the bounty of my throne, so now I share my sorrows, giving each a part; yet, ere I bare my grief, I would ask if there be any here to offer me reproach. If there be one to say that Shammuramat hath sent him into danger where she herself would fear to lead, speak now, that I brand him liar! Come forth and say injustice hath been done to any man—that I looked with lack of pity on a wound, or gave not of my own to all who hungered and were athirst! Come forth, my brothers, and name the price of one grievance unavenged, that I, your sister and your Queen, may pay it ere I bare my heart!"
None spoke; yet a growling murmur rose, and each man looked upon his fellow fiercely, daring him to loose a tongue, lest his blood be loosed to wash away the lie.
Semiramis had paused, but she lifted up her voice once more. As in days of old she had played upon the hearts of men, even as a harper sounds the chords of curses and of tears, so now she played again. She told them of her home in Ascalon, and how Prince Menon came to wake her soul. She told them of her wedded years wherein her lord had striven for the King—had conquered Zariaspa and stood with her upon the fallen citadel.
"And you," she cried, "who loved him! You who shared his bounty and the peril of his wars! You who stood with me on a vale's lip in the Hindu-Kush and saw him buried in the earth! What! Know you not that his armor alone is buried there? For in his armor lay a rotting lie! A lie! For Habal—my good dog Habal—sleepeth with his paws and muzzle on a stranger's breast! A lie, I say! A lie! For Menon liveth and by Ninus was crucified!"
The shrill voice ceased. It had risen to the scream of a tigress calling to her mate; but now no answering roar burst forth in echo of her call. The sons of Assyria sat silent—wondering. All had heard the tale of Prince Menon's death, and many had seen him laid away to sleep. On the vale's lip they had wept for a man they loved. They had seen—had known! How, then, should the dead arise to life again? Semiramis had branded ears and eyes as the keepers of a lie—a lie which dragged the gods of honor down and damned them! Aye, a lie; but should it rise to point its finger at a King, or point it at a Queen? So each man cast his gaze upon the floor and sat in silence—wondering.