“That was many years ago,” growled the headsman, “and the estimable god has begun to show old age. Up, priest, up!”
Imbi said no more. He led the two along the lofty flights of stairs toward the upper shrine, deliberately and slowly. As they mounted from terrace to terrace, and the lower world began to drop away below them, an unnatural hush seemed spreading all about, that made even Khatin’s river of strange jests and oaths flow sluggishly, and finally cease altogether. Suddenly, when one terrace below the shrine, Imbi halted, and pointed to a black stone, set in the bricks of the parapet.
“Look, your Majesty!” he spoke, in a bated whisper, and pointed.
“Well?” questioned Belshazzar, his own voice husky.
“This stone marks the spot where the impious General Naram-Sin fell down dead when by command of King Esarhaddon he went up to arrest a fugitive in the sanctuary.”
The king stared at the stone fixedly, saying nothing; but Khatin gave a loud bray,—too loud, in fact, to be unforced.
“An hundred years ago! As I said, the good Nabu has grown many gray hairs since then. Come, your Majesty, let others quake and gibber. The executioner and the king are of too tough stuff to be thus frighted.”
“Silence, impudent villain!” commanded Imbi; “reverence the king, even if you must blaspheme the great Nabu. Shall I lead on?”
“Lead on,” ordered Belshazzar, doggedly, but Imbi saw that he was stealing glances out of the corners of his eyes at Khatin, and the headsman seemed anything but at ease. Belshazzar might be “son of Marduk,” but it required something better than loud-mouthed boastings to make him advance to a deed like this without a tremor.
They had reached the topmost terrace. Below them lay Borsippa and Babylon, spread like a fair broidered garment. Directly at their feet was the wide courtyard, packed with the gazing priests, and the soldiers before the gate, all staring upward; and Belshazzar knew that not a man of them envied him and his deed.