CHAPTER VI
Nightfall—the light of a thousand flambeaux shivered over the great winged bulls guarding the palace gateways. The bulls formed the base of towers faced with brightly enamelled brick, and crowned with masts whence trailed the royal banners. In and out streamed the palace servants—eunuchs of the harem, cooks, grooms, chamberlains, guardsmen; sometimes a chariot thundered through at a gallop, bearing a nobleman to Belshazzar’s banquet. As one peered inward from the gate, he could see the whole broad court of the king’s house lit bright as day by cressets and bonfires. The pictured tiles on the inner walls displayed their lion-hunts, battles, processions, and sieges, so that he who regarded them closely could learn all the history of Babylon for a hundred years by a mere circuit of the court. But Khatin, the royal executioner, and two cronies, who sat drinking wine between the feet of a winged bull, had little heed to give to departed glories. Khatin was a stout muscular giant, with thick, black hair and beard shining with strong pomade and butter. His speech was gruff as the bay of a hound; and the two eunuchs, Nabua and Khanni, who divided with him the tankard of Armenian white wine, regarded him with awe, as being the person who might be the last to converse with them, in case his Majesty found them disagreeable.
“I tell you,” declared the headsman, dipping his cup for the fifth time, “that Persian Darius is a pretty fellow. I dearly love a man of his spirit. You heard the story? The worthy Igas came near to scraping my close acquaintance. By Marduk! why was the envoy so tender-hearted as not to ask for his head?”
“Surely,” ventured Nabua, “you have nothing against the captain. He only flogged a dirty Jew, and a second Jew interfered. But for Darius, this last, Isaiah they call him, would have been the one to speak with you.”
Khatin gave a hoarse laugh. “Jews? They are mice. Small glory in beheading vermin. Give me men of spirit, my dear eunuch, men of parts, like Igas-Ramman. Ah! You cannot know the satisfaction of feeling the sword go through a stout, stiff neck.”
“Ugh!” grunted the others, feeling their own heads none too firm on their shoulders; and Khanni began soothingly, “Now, by Istar, you would never do the last offices for a friend—for us, by example?”
The executioner burst into a braying chuckle. “Ah! my swallows, my lambs, the more I love a man, the more I love to be by at the end. My father-in-law, Sadu-Rabu, dear man, must needs turn robber; to this day I pride myself on my neatness. ‘Beloved Sadu,’ said I, ‘be content; you have my best art for a smoother journey to the “Mountain of the World” than the late vizier.’”
“Ugh!” grunted the two again, very unhappy; and to turn the drift Khanni interposed, “But you began by praising the Persian?”
“Yes, a man of fine spirit—a very pretty neck—by Samas, an exceeding pretty neck! I wish I were in Susa, as Cyrus’s executioner, just for the hope of testing it; there is small chance of Belshazzar needing me to attend to an envoy.”
“They say,” answered Nabua, “Cyrus has little use for his headsmen. The Persians all love him; they keep the laws, and there are no executions for days together.”