Istar of Babylon: A Phantasy

by Margaret Horton Potter

As soon as the great company was assembled and each had found a place, the first sacrifice of the day was made. Two under-priests led in a snow-white bullock with gilded horns, his body twined with lotus flowers and his feet bound with golden chains.

This animal was led once round the room, while every one rose, prostrated himself before it, and remained standing through the whole sacrificial ceremony. Amraphel performed the slaughter in the name of Tammuz. Then a short incantation was made. The blood of the dead creature was poured out upon the altar, and the carcass was then carried away to be flayed, dressed, and cooked. This ceremony formally opened the festival, and it was followed by a loud chant led by the priests, in which the praises of Tammuz and Istar were set forth. In the midst of this singing the first wine was brought. Flagon after flagon of the purple juice of Helbon, of Lebanon, of Izalla, of Tuhimme, of Zimini, and of Opis in Armenia was emptied down the eager throats of both men and women. Very shortly the scene took on a different aspect. Laughter came freely. Voices rose clearer and higher, and snatches of song echoed under the high roof. The music of the lutes and cymbals caused more than one woman to rise and fall into that slow, sinuous, dreamy posturing, called, in the East, dancing. Many sacrifices followed. Goats and lambs were slaughtered by tens and twenties. Doves, fastened neck to neck with fine, silver chains, were killed off by the hundreds: timid, fluttering things, reared for this sacred end in the temple towers, but unable, in their folly, to realize the worthiness of their holy martyrdom. Amraphel and his under-priests admirably performed their tasks. Indeed, Amraphel seemed doubly impressive to-day. His men were exalted with their wine, and everything but the affairs of the hour had slipped from their thoughts.

Only Istar, of them all, looked on unmoved and sad. To-day she saw her lord as never before, crowning the feast in all the splendor of his royalty. Never had the faultless beauty of his physique impressed her so. He stood at the top of the ten steps, directly in front of the arched door-way of the shrine, three golden-robed slaves crouching on either side of him, lifting in his hands a yellow cup of wine that he drank to the men of his guard, to the regiment of Guti. His purple cloak, wrought with long scrolls of burning gold, flowed back from his shoulders. His superb head, its black locks bound about with a twisted fillet in which flashed fifty purple amethysts, was held like that of a conqueror on the day of his greatest victory. Istar caught the flashing of the storm-eyes, saw the lips curve with his deep laughter, watched the gleaming of the jewels on his breast, and then, as he raised the cup to his mouth, she sank back in her place, dizzy and sick at heart. He had forgotten as she could not forget. He thought no more of the little creature he had watched with her, that had lain in his arms so many times warm and breathing with life, and that had been so lately taken from him in death. And at that thought of death a terrible shudder passed over her, and she became still and cold, and intensely weary of the scene of revelry. Slowly she sank back into a reclining position on her couch. She had refused every proffered dish of food, every kind of wine. Her eyelids closed and there came over her a kind of stupor, in which she lay for many hours. It was not sleep, for through it she could hear the sounds in the room, could distinguish Belshazzar's voice whenever he spoke, and always answered the slaves that came reverently to waken her, telling them that she knew all that passed as well as they themselves. And yet Istar was not actually in that room. Nay, she could feel herself alone, at an infinite distance. When, after a long period she opened her eyes again, she saw the scene more than ever full of life. The lamps glowed brighter than before, but through the opening far in the roof no daylight came. The day was over. Night had come. Istar was faint for food, yet she rebelled at the idea of the heavy, half-cooked flesh served in this room; and she thought that possibly, in the rear of the temple, there might be some quiet place where she could break bread and taste of fruit and wine alone and undisturbed. With this thought she rose quietly and moved across to the foot of the shrine, on the platform of which Amraphel and Belshazzar now sat side by side. Here, moved by an irresistible impulse, Istar of Babylon turned to look back on the scene she was leaving. But her eyes, first raised, did not return to the floor. Instead, she stood transfixed, the heart in her wildly throbbing, her head swimming with the overpowering wonder of the sight that met her eyes. Unconscious of what she did, her two hands drew the enshrouding veil from her face, and then there rushed upon her vision such a sight as she had never thought to see again.

In the air, above the vast, closed doors, hung Allaraine, in a dazzling cloud of glory, his form all but indistinguishable in the palpitating rays of his aureole. He was without his lyre. In his right hand he held a wand of molten gold, with which he wrote upon the broad space over the doors. He, and that that he wrote, were clearly intelligible to Istar, who gazed on him unnoticed in her place. For Allaraine had come for her, and for her alone was writing his message there upon the wall. This she knew from the first.

But how was it with those others that thronged the hall? Before their blinded spiritual eyes all that was distinguishable were three fingers of the archetype's hand, and the unreadable words of fire that he wrote. Yet these were enough: infinitely more than enough. Amraphel and Belshazzar together, from the high place, first saw the miracle; and from the lips of the king broke forth a cry, a cry that stilled every voice in the temple. All eyes were turned to the shrine, and beheld the dread staring of Amraphel, whose gaze was fixed in dumb terror on the opposite wall. With universal accord every glance followed his, and every eye beheld the gradual fading of the hand and the blazing brilliance of the writing that was left upon the wall. There was no cry from the assemblage. A silence, infinitely more impressive than any sound, fell upon them. For five long minutes none moved or spoke. Istar remained unperceived in her place. Trembling and dazed, her lips moved noiselessly, repeating over and over the words that were written before her:

"Hast thou found man's relation to God? The silver sky waits for thy soul."

Again and yet again she repeated those two phrases to herself, till, out of the depths of the long-past, their meaning came home to her. Then a faint sigh broke from her lips, a sigh of ineffable weariness, of ineffable relief. She replaced the veil over her face, and, gliding noiselessly back to her couch, lay down upon it with her new knowledge, giving little heed to all that followed.

The voice of Belshazzar broke the spell hanging over the room. His tones startled the company like the clarion blast of a trumpet, as he cried: "Alchîa! Balatû! Ubar! Umarîa! Ye prophets of the great gods, arise and come before me!"

From out of the throng of feasters rose four white-robed men, bare-headed and bare-footed, prophets of Nabonidus' household. Mechanically obeying the words of their lord, they came forth and stood in a row before the steps of the high place.

"Ye that are professed to know the wishes of the gods, interpret now to us that which is written upon the wall."