For seven nights the scaffolds were rebuilt, each night a pace or two more distant from the catapults, yet the enemy each day would find the range and fling them to the earth. On the seventh day the effigies of Oxyartes and his chiefs were hung by their necks with ropes, and were placed at the furthest scope of the Bactrian machines. On the scaffolds were crowded a swarm of soldiery who bellowed songs of praise, or flung vile insults at their foes, goading them to fury by names of a foulness hitherto unknown. In vain the Bactrians strove to smite their mockers, striving till the mid-day hour, yet their missiles fell short, and Menon perched upon the summit of his mound, jeering at Oxyartes.
Now the spies of Ninus brought him word of the strangeness of Menon's deeds, and, divining not the reason of these things, the King waxed warm with curiosity. In his chariot he drove to the eastern camp, a slave behind him who held a feathered screen above his head, for the heat of the day was such that many died.
From afar the monarch spied the mound on which sat Menon, and it came to Ninus that his general lolled at rest where grateful breezes blew, while he, the lord of all Assyria, must sweat on a baking plain—and it vexed him mightily. Likewise he perceived a half a league of scaffolding, whereon clung a multitude of idle men. Wherefore should Menon waste the hours of day when Zariaspa lay unconquered before his eyes? Must Ninus toil to feed this lazy horde who swapped the work of war for childish sports? By the glory of Asshur, this shameful thing should cease!
"Come down!" he cried to Menon, as he leaped from his brazen chariot; and Menon came down and bowed before the King.
"What foolery is this which has come to pass?" the king demanded, pointing to the hideous effigies, and he spoke with scorn: "Must Assyria set up new and hateful gods, to worship them before the eyes of Bactria?"
"Nay, lord," answered Menon, humbly, "we worship none save Assyria's gods and Assyria's King."
A murmur rose from the circling chiefs, and the wrath of Ninus cooled beneath the salve of flattery; yet still he scowled, and the tone of his speech was harsh:
"If it be not worship, why then should ye toil for seven nights, and watch each day while yonder Bactrians beat your temples to the ground?"
"My lord," replied Prince Menon, "our eastern camp is far removed from the rock-strewn hills; and to lighten the labor of dragging stones across the sands, we borrow from our good friend Oxyartes."
"Borrow!" cried the King. "What meanest thou?"