Sarchedon: A Legend of the Great Queen

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

The other was prompt and resolute enough.

"May the king live for ever!" said he mechanically; adding, in short sharp tones, "Open out, spearmen! Advance, archers, and bend your bows!"

The front rank of spears stepped aside, unmasking a line of bowmen, with every weapon drawn to the arrow's head.

To pause was instant death. Arbaces raised his buckler, leaped down the staircase, and dashed into their midst.

At first, archers and spearmen gave way before the assault of that practised warrior; but what was one in the midst of scores who had sworn to put him to death? With a gash from temple to chin, with a spear-head in his body, a javelin through his thigh, he fell where he had been lying when they roused him, under the very feet of his own image, sculptured on the wall to celebrate his fame.

An arm was raised to strike, the angry steel quivered above his head; nevertheless that threatening spearman had followed Arbaces to victory more than once, and he would have forborne to slay his old leader, had he dared. But a hoarse voice rose, fierce and savage, above the din. "Strike," it said, "and spare not! Baal hath spoken, and the stars cannot lie!"

The pitiless words came from a priest whose white robes hovered on the skirts of the encounter. They were followed by a downward thrust, a gush of blood, and a hollow groan. Turning on his face to die, Arbaces gasped a few broken syllables. The spearman who slew him, less remorseful now, like a wild-beast that has tasted blood, heard them many a night afterwards in his dreams, though they only murmured, "The king hath spoken. O king, live for ever!"

Panting, pale, beside herself with fear, Ishtar had taken refuge, as her father bade, on the roof of the palace, with the intention of escaping thence into the street. At the very spot where she had met Sarchedon, watched a cloaked figure, and her heart leapt for one wild moment with the thought that the man she loved had dropped from the skies to save her at her need. Ere she could perceive he was not unattended, almost before she was conscious of her illusion, she found her arms pinioned, a shawl cast over her head, and herself borne forcibly away on stalwart shoulders, while a sweet soft voice whispering terms of passionate endearment in her ears, left no doubt as to the object and results of the outrage to which she was exposed.

Blindfold, gagged, half-stifled, she scarcely felt she was carried rapidly down several steps into the street ere she became unconscious. With the fresh air outside the walls, her senses returned, and she knew by its sidelong pace and the rate at which it travelled that she was riding a powerful dromedary, docile as an ox, swift as a courser, and to all appearance no more sensible of fatigue than a boat.

Then a horror of despair came over her; for she felt that those two she loved best in the world must be lost to her for ever. Had Arbaces been alive he would have rescued her. In such a captivity as seemed imminent, how was she ever to set eyes on Sarchedon again? The shawl was still round her head; but its folds had been loosened, so that she might breathe more freely; and she could perceive the soft surface of the desert sand passing beneath her, as she glided on smooth and noiseless like a ghost. Utterly broken down, she bowed her head on her knees in an agony of despair; and still that whisper stole into her ear at intervals, with its hateful protestations of a love she loathed and an admiration she despised.