The ground sloped gently northward from the palace down to the shore of the Adirsiah and was graced with many large trees. A low stone wall surrounded the palace park, except where the river bounded its front. There were benches beneath the elms on the river shore, where one could sit and look upon the distant northern mountains or at the rapid stream, rushing in light green splendor through its narrow, rock-bound channel and with sighing murmur giving an undertone to the songs of birds. Here at even came Athura, after having listened to the chant of the priests, celebrating the close of the day as she knelt by her father’s bier. She had come hither to be alone with her sorrow.
The air was warm and balmy. A cooler breeze was beginning to blow down from the mountains; it played with the dark hair above her brow. The scarflike veil, which commonly served as a head-dress, was thrown aside and rested on her shoulders, exposing the wavy mass of hair upon her head and the gem-studded band that encircled it like a crown. Her tall, well-developed body was robed in a long mantle of dark, soft fabric, somewhat like the Grecian robe, caught up in the folds at the left side so as to expose the tip of a sandaled foot, and secured by a girdle of golden links at the waist. The short sleeves of an under jacket covered her arms to the elbow. Bracelets of gold set with gems graced her wrists. No pen has ever described her beauty or the royal grace of her demeanor. Through the dim vista of the ages comes a picture of dark brown eyes, in the depths of which shone all the tenderness of womanhood with its all-embracing sympathy and boundless capacity for love, and all the fearlessness of a pure, proud spirit, accustomed to power and authority. Comes also a vision of a fair complexion, pure Caucasian, or rather Aryan; a lofty brow, inherited from her father; a profile, now known as Grecian, but not modern Grecian; an expressive mouth, where sweetness dwelt, but which could show firmness and even sternness when necessary; a smile that would raise a worshiper to heaven; a frown before which the boldest would falter.
In those days and among that people, woman held high and honorable place. The servility of the Semitic races, aped by later Persian rulers, had not yet degraded her. As in Greece and Rome, where men of kindred blood dwelt, so among the Iranians, woman held a most honorable place. Man ruled the world; but his heart was ruled by a noble woman. Coming of such a race, where equality made her sex noble, this royal princess exhibited in her carriage a spirit before which men bowed, not because she was high-born and of royal lineage, but because she was a woman.
Of her tradition has spoken much and history little. All agree that she was the most famous woman of her age. Some would have her the wife of three kings: of Cambyses, her brother, of the false Bardya, or Smerdis, and of Darius, son of Hystaspis. Others declare that her sister, Artistone, was the wife of the latter. Others, that Artistone was the ill-fated wife of Cambyses. This is certain, that she was the high-spirited daughter of Cyrus, that she was indeed the wife of the greatest of the Kings of Iran and the mother of a line of kings; and history indicates that she was the real ruler of the empire while her son wore the crown. But such history had not yet been written, when, on this summer evening, she stood on the shore of the river Adirsiah and sadly meditated on the pleasant days of her girlhood spent in the company of her father. Her mother had died when she was a child of ten years; and, thereafter, her father had made her his companion, delighting in her wisdom as much as in her affection. She had traveled with him as he moved through his great empire, had played in the ancestral park at Pasargadæ, had ruled his palace at Susa, had viewed with wonder the mighty walls and hanging gardens of Babylon, and had dwelt much in Hamadan, the chief capital of the empire. There rose in her memory the proud, beautiful face of her mother, the cruel, sneering countenance of Cambyses, the smiling, mischievous face of Bardya, the little sister Artistone, and the grave, kindly father, whose stately manner never departed even in the privacy of home-life. Into this picture of her childhood life there came another face and form, one that of late years had filled much of her life with the sweetness of love. She remembered her first meeting with the Prince of Iran, at Pasargadæ, and how afterwards as a tall youth of fourteen years he came to her father’s court to enter his service, and that he talked much of his mother, of his father, and of his studies. He had at once assumed a sort of protectorate over Bardya and herself, interposing often between them and the cruel elder brother, Cambyses, and even coming to blows with him in their behalf. With him she had studied, had learned the art of writing and reading, had sat at the feet of the great seer of Babylon, Belteshazzer, also known as Daniel, the Hebrew, and had learned to ride, to hunt, and to handle arms. She had not neglected the arts practiced by the women of her race. To cook, to sew, to spin, to weave wonderful tapestries,—all these she had learned. Many times, disguised, she and Bardya and the young Prince of Iran had traveled from place to place, enjoying adventures among the common people and sometimes incurring great risks. Then wars had come, and her brothers and the young Hystaspis had followed the Great King on his campaigns, that they too might learn the war-game.
She sat down on a rustic seat beneath a great elm and with hands folded in her lap gazed dreamily at the swirling stream, into which the shades of evening were darkly falling. Bitter-sweet thoughts, the sense of personal loss, the uncertainty of the future, the near presence of him she loved,—a hundred passing impressions stirred her soul. What would Cambyses do, now that he was to be the King of Kings? She and Bardya had often discussed the subject. She knew that the proud spirit of the latter would suffer no oppression from the King. Would there be civil war? Would brother fight brother? She feared so, knowing the hatred Cambyses felt towards Bardya, a feeling that the latter reciprocated.
A footfall startled her. Turning, she beheld the Prince of Iran coming towards her. She rose with a smile of welcome and extended her hands to him. How noble he seemed to her! He had put off his armor, and over his close-fitting tunic of soft, velvety cloth had thrown the elegant Medean cloak in common use among the noble-born. Sandals protected his feet, and the interlaced thongs with which they were held partially covered his ankles and legs to the knee, to which the skirt of his tunic descended. The open folds of the long cloak gave freedom to his limbs and displayed the broad purple sash which served as a belt and the golden chain from which his short sword swung. His head was bare, displaying a mass of dark hair, slightly curled, and combed back from his broad brow. He had washed away the stains of travel. His sun-tanned skin glowed with health. His eyes were alight with love.
A bulbul broke forth into song in the branches of the tree above them. The breeze rustled gently amidst the leaves. The gurgle and rush of the stream rose softly. A thousand whispering voices seemed to waken all about, as if the spirits of the woods talked of these two standing there in close embrace. Love, without which no human soul desires to live, which raises men to God, which makes of earth a heaven, which in its all-abounding strength makes men and women strong, the chief attribute of God and the chief element in His children, which links congenial spirits together for eternity and drives out evil, here sat enthroned.
After the first warm greetings were over, they sat down side by side on the rustic seat.
“I may tell you now,” he said, “that your father gave consent to our marriage. How I wish you could have been present so that he could have placed your hand in mine! Now, if we observe the ancient customs of our race, your eldest brother must give his consent.”
“But even then we must wait until the days of mourning for my father are finished!”