But now the water-gate of Imgur-Bel was passed, and while on the left the cone of Bel-Marduk lifted its series of diminishing terraces to a dizzy height, on the right spread the royal palace, a vast structure, surrounded by a dense park, and all girded by a wall. On the river side the buildings closely abutted the shores, rising from a lofty brick-faced embankment, themselves of brick, but splendid with the gilding on the battlements, with the sculptured winged bulls that flanked the many portals, and the bright enamel upon the brickwork. Out of the masses of walls sprang castellated towers crowned with gaudy flags, and toward the centre reared a ziggurat, the private temple of the king.
For an instant Darius was at Atossa’s side as she gazed, and no one watched them.
“This is the dwelling of Belshazzar,” said he softly, “a great king. Joy to be his wife.” But the lady shivered behind her veil.
“He is a great king, but they will never call him, like Cyrus, ‘the father of his people.’”
“You will soon forget Persia, happy as mistress in this wondrous city.”
“When I have lived ten thousand years I shall forget—perhaps.” Then she added very softly, “I am afraid of Belshazzar; his lips drop praise, his heart is cold and hard as the northern ice. I shall always dread him.”
“You wrong the king,” Darius vainly strove to speak lightly; “the ways of Babylon are not those of Persia. But there will come a day when you will feel that the Chaldees are your own people. Belshazzar is a splendid man; he will delight to honour you.”
But Atossa only held down her head, and answered in a whisper Darius might not hear.
They had no time for more. A vast multitude was upon the embankment before the palace—white-robed priests, garlanded priestesses, the glittering body-guard, all manner of city folk. A shout of welcome drifted over the river.