Presently Darius rose from his stool, and turned to the doorkeeper.
“The time grows late,” said he; “the city gates will soon be shut. Yet no messenger has come from Cyrus? from Susa?”
“None, master; we have heard that the Elamite mountain tribes are restless and stop couriers.”
“Couriers of Cyrus? Do they so desire to be made jackal’s meat that they must stop the Great King’s despatches? No, no, Boges—the Elamites are not the delayers.”
“Who if not they, lord?”
“I do not know,” was the answer, in a tone that made the servant sure his superior had lively suspicions.
“And will my lord dress for the supper Bilsandan the vizier gives to-night?” asked Ariæus the chamberlain, smoothly.
“Another feast! Angra-Mainyu, arch fiend, confound them!” fumed Darius; “these Babylonians boast many gods. In truth they have but two—the mouth and the belly. Praised be Mithra, the king goes hunting to-morrow, which will give some respite!”
But just as the prince was about to let Ariæus lead him away to the bath, his eye lit on a newcomer among the knot of attendants by the door. His tone changed to that of good-natured banter, for he saw his favourite body-servant, a sharp-tongued, keen-witted Persian of about his own age.