The banker had pricked up his ears. “I am not curious in matters of state; Marduk forbid! Yet if in confidence I were told anything—”
Neriglissor was only too ready to begin. “The Persians,” he whispered, “the Persians! Barbarous dogs! Faugh! I sicken thinking of the strong Median nard the daughter of Cyrus smeared on her hair!”
Itti smiled benevolently. “What Persian can have the delicate taste of a Babylonian? Yet you have not told the omen.”
Neriglissor’s voice sank yet lower. “These Persians are friends to the Jews, that race of blasphemers. Each nation worships the same demon, though the Jews style him Jehovah, the Persians Ahura-Mazda. Long have the pious foreseen that unless these unbelievers were kept out of Babylon the gods would be angry. Yesterday this Atossa comes to Babylon to be his Majesty’s queen. Thus we are about to strike hands with the foes of the gods, as if it were not enough to continue the old scoffer Daniel in office. And this morning follows the omen.”
Itti was bending over that not a word might escape. Neriglissor continued, “As Iln-ciya, the chief prophet, and I stood by the temple gate, a band of street dogs, all unawares, strayed past, and entered the enclosure.”
Itti started as he sat, forgot his manehs, and began to mutter an invocation to Ramman, while his lips twitched. “Impossible!” was all he could gasp.
“Too true,” put in Avil, solemnly. “You know the ancient oracle,” and he rolled out the formula:—
“‘When dogs in a court of a temple meet,
The hosts of the city face swift defeat.’