Sarchedon: A Legend of the Great Queen

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

So she journeyed into the desert, while her father lay dead in the court of his palace, and her lover sought her wildly, hurrying to and fro in a paroxysm of grief and fear.

Once, in an early stage of her fearful journey, she was conscious that the dromedary had been urged to its utmost speed. She fancied, too, that she could distinguish shouts, and other sounds of strife. Muffled and confused, it was fortunate for her that she did not know their cause.

With the first shades of evening, Sarchedon had taken advantage of the darkness to escape. He had no difficulty in finding an egress from the temple of Baal; nor did he meet with any interruption from the priests, who, busied in their several offices, bore without exception an air of considerable excitement and preoccupation. One figure indeed he passed, wrapped in a mantle that completely shrouded face and form, of which there was something feminine in the graceful outlines, though the height was as the height of a man. It never moved, nor seemed aware of his presence, when he glided by, remaining in an attitude of profound meditation, conscious only of its own engrossing train of thought. Could he have seen the beautiful face, so fixed and rigid, behind that veil, could he have read the purpose burning under that gentle brow, he would have fled from the Great Queen in horror and loathing, faster even than he hurried towards Ishtar in anxiety and hope. No sooner was he clear of the temple than his spirits rose, his energy returned, and his project of escaping from Babylon with her he loved while there was yet time grew to a fierce over-mastering desire, like that of a man who is suffocating for the air which is his life.

Hastening to his home, he made ready Merodach for a journey, and bridled the good horse with his own hands; then took his way through the city, now ablaze with innumerable torches and ringing with sounds of festival, towards the palace of Arbaces.

But the streets swarmed with revellers, and his progress was necessarily slow. When he arrived at the well-known dwelling, it was too late.

The dead body of the chief captain lay stark and grim where it had fallen. The servants had fled, the place was empty, and Ishtar nowhere to be found.

In such a catastrophe the first impulse of a brave man seems to be one of resistance and defiance, as though his combative instincts were aroused, and he could face his fate more calmly because he feels the worst has come at last. Cool and collected, Sarchedon soon satisfied himself that the woman he loved had been carried away by force from her father's dwelling; and a few cautious questions in the streets enabled him to discover the gate by which she had left the town.

Little by little he learned the maddening truth, and traced her through the gardens and vineyards that surrounded the city walls into the desert. Once on the sand, with a rising moon to help him, he could track the footmarks of her dromedary surely as the bloodhound tracks a wounded deer. He had not travelled many furlongs ere he came up with a small band of wayfarers, plodding on their patient asses into the wilderness, and recognised the Israelite whom Assarac had released, and to whom, during his captivity in the camp of the Assyrians, Sarchedon had himself done more than one slight service.

He reined in his horse, and learnt that a party such as he was in search of had passed them not long before. There were scarce half a score; they were armed; they travelled fast; their horses were of the noblest breed, and the dromedary in their midst seemed to have the wings of the desert wind. Had he not better tarry with his informants where they meant to encamp till morning? He would never overtake those whom he pursued.

For the first time that night he smiled while he patted Merodach's neck, and put the good horse into a gallop once more.