Next, with horses gorgeously caparisoned, trapped, plumed, and stepping daintily under the rein, rolled on the terrible war-chariots of iron, that, with their scythes of steel, mowed down the ranks of an enemy in broad swathes of slaughter where they passed. Each car, besides its charioteer, held a heavily-armed warrior under shield, with bow and arrows, sword and spear; three horses plunged abreast, two of which were harnessed to the chariot, while a third, linked only with its fellows to the bridle, was driven along-side in readiness to replace a maimed or fallen steed. This formidable array, which struck with awe even the accustomed senses of the bystanders, was compared by them to the chest and body of the army, while the horsemen represented its limbs and feet.
Immediately in rear of that moving mass of metal rode the captain of the host, less distinguished for splendour of array than personal dignity of bearing and such a noble face as must have been beautiful in youth. To please his fierce old master, he followed the example of Ninus, and abandoned his chariot for the back of so goodly a steed as could only have been bred in the plain between the rivers. If a thousand acclamations rent the air while this stately veteran came galloping on, managing his war-horse with all the grace and pliancy of youth, they were increased tenfold when he drew rein beneath the terrace where stood Ishtar and her maidens, halting for a moment, while he looked fondly upward at his daughter and his home.
With the gesture of a child, she stretched out her arms towards him, as if she would fain have leaped down into his embrace. Sarchedon, looking on her from the wall, was but one of many thousands who felt her innocent beauty thrill to his very heart. Nevertheless, Assarac, narrowly watching Semiramis, observed her cheek turn a shade paler, while the hard pitiless expression came back to the queen's unrivalled face.
Arbaces made no long delay. Waving his hand towards his daughter, and glancing proudly round on his applauding countrymen, he paced slowly on, while a whisper ran through the crowd:
"Stand close—here they come! Welcome to the golden helmets! Honour to the guards of the Great King!"
Two by two, mounted on white horses with scarlet trappings, arrayed in silks of white and scarlet, with shields and helmets of burnished gold, came flashing on this picked and chosen body—every man of whom, selected for strength and beauty, must also have distinguished himself by an attested act of daring in the field. In their centre floated their standard, likewise of scarlet, and on its folds was embroidered in gold the figure of Merodach, god of war, standing on a bull with a drawn bow in his hand. The arms of these champions were bare to the elbow, their legs to the knee; but their persons were otherwise defended by close scale armour, thickly inlaid with gold; precious jewels studded the belt and pommel of each man's sword, and the shaft of his spear; the fringes of their gowns were inordinately long, their beards and hair elaborately curled and perfumed. It was evident that these guards of royalty esteemed themselves no less ornaments than champions of the Assyrian host.
Sarchedon's eyes flashed, and his cheek glowed with pleasure while they passed. He was proud to think that these were his own special comrades and brethren-in-arms; that it was from their glittering ranks he had been detached with the royal signet and tidings of the Great King's return.
The queen marked his enthusiasm; and, bending kindly towards him, demanded in a soft voice, scarce above a whisper:
"Who are these, Sarchedon? To my eye, they seem the goodliest and best-favoured men in the armies of Assyria."
"They are my comrades," he answered proudly; "the guards of the Great King: the meanest of us holds himself equal to a leader of ten thousand. Arbaces Tartan[3] is our captain, as he is captain of the host."