The Dragon of the Ishtar Gate

IV – The Shrine of the Sleepless One

Leaving the site of the Lofty-Headed Temple, Myron and Bessas crossed the Euphrates by Nabopolassar's great seven-piered bridge and entered the New City. They had no trouble in finding Iranu's bank, as all the folk of Babylon spoke Aramaic in addition to whatever other speech they used at home. Furthermore, most of the street crossings of Babylon were at right angles, so that it was easy to pick one's way.

"Natheless," said Bessas, "I like not being in debt. A loan is pleasant when there is need, but the repayment of it is like the filling of a house."

At the banker's office, however, they were disappointed. Iranu himself had gone to Uruk on business and might not be back for a month, while his subordinate would have nothing to do with a loan on such odd security.

An hour later, footsore and somewhat restored by a loaf and a sausage bought from an old peddler woman, the explorers arrived at the office of Murashu of Nippur.

A young man whose beard was beginning to burgeon ushered them into the inner office, where a huge fat gray-bearded man sat behind a table. The office was decorated with objects from many lands: a statuette of a bird-headed god from Egypt; a red-figured Attic vase on which was pictured the combat of Herakles and Hippolyta; a mailshirt from the land of the Sauromatai, armored with scales made from horses' hooves; and other curios. Tables were heaped with sheets of papyrus and parchment bearing writings in Aramaic, and dried slabs of clay inscribed with the complex signs of Akkadian, so that they looked as if they were covered with the tracks of tiny birds.

"God prosper you, my masters!" said the fat man. "Your servant is Murashu of Nippur, and the young fellow who showed you in is my elder son, Belhatin. How can I serve you?" A golden amulet in the form of Pazuzu the wind demon—winged, fanged, and taloned—hung round his neck.

Myron explained. Murashu frowned over the king's letter, which Bessas produced from his scrip.

"This is strange security! Title to an estate in Bactria, now overrun by wild stinking nomads, were of no use to me. If you defaulted, can you imagine me, vaulting aboard my Nisaean charger and scattering the savages with lance and sword?" The banker uttered a short, mocking laugh. "Were you permanent dwellers in Babylon, with masters, families, and other ties to fix you in place, we could arrange it, but—"

"Do you doubt the word of a Bactrian gentleman?" said Bessas ominously.

"Nay, but you are mortal like the rest of us, are you not?"

Bessas grunted. Murashu continued: "Now, in view of the lack of solid security, I should be compelled, alas! to charge you a higher rate of interest than the standard twenty parts in a hundred; double, in fact. If you wish fifty darks, you must pay back seventy within a year. I rely upon your Bactrian word of honor not to get your-self heedlessly and needlessly slain, Master Bessas." Murashu laughed and twiddled his thick fingers on his paunch.

Bessas scowled. "I trust, sir banker, that you seek not to take advantage of our simplicity to squeeze unwonted wealth from us. You money-grubbers would pick a farthing from a dunghill with your teeth."

Murashu's smile vanished. "My good Captain Bessas, if you like not my terms, you are at liberty to try elsewhere." His dark eyes flashed hatred as he burst out: "Unwonted wealth! Money-grubber, forsooth! As if my life were not a never-ending struggle to keep out of debt slavery! Know that I am pursued by night and by day by your Persian king's tax gatherers, who seek to wring the last shekel out of Babylonia as a man wrings water from a towel! Why think you there is such wretched poverty here? Because your foolish Persians fancy that gold and silver are true wealth, and that the more they squeeze out of us the better off they will be!"

Bessas looked bewildered. "What, are not gold and silver wealth?"

"Can you eat them? Can you weave a warm garment of them? Can you build a house of them? Do they make good sword blades or plowshares?"

"Nay, but—"

"So then, what are they? I will tell you! They are the counters in the game of commerce. Though they have but little value in themselves, save for rings and such gewgaws, they make the wheels of trade turn smoothly, as grease helps the wheels of a carriage to spin. And now the Persians tax and tax, withdrawing these ointments from the wheels of commerce. Instead of putting these metals back into use, they take them to Persepolis the Treasury, Shushan the Palace, and Hagmatana the Fortress. There they cast them into massy ingots and store them in the Great King's cellars. So, without its hub grease, the chariot of commerce runs slower and slower, and you wonder why business is bad!"

"I never thought of it thus," said Bessas. "And pardon me if I spoke discourteously. In matters of money I am the veriest clod."

"It is nothing. Now, what say you to this deal?"

Myron spoke up crisply: "We shall think about it and let you know, Master Murashu." He rose.

"By all means," grinned the banker. "Think hard, as any prudent financier would do. But think not to beat down my interest rate. I have cast up the reckoning of my risks, and I cannot let you have the money for less."

Outside in the swarming street, Bessas said: "What is it, Myron? Think you he tried to swindle us?"

"I am not sure. That interest rate is murderous, especially as we may be more than a year in getting back."

"But that would mean only another forty parts in a hundred, would it not?"

"No! You don't understand. The second year's forty parts in a hundred would be calculated on the total you owed Murashu at the end of the first year—not on the amount you originally borrowed. On fifty darics that would be—let me think—twenty-eight darics more, instead of twenty, making a total of ninety-eight. In other words, we should owe Master Murashu almost double what we borrowed. In three years our debt would almost triple."

Bessas looked at Myron with awe. "I was wiser than I thought, to persuade you to come with me. Never could I fathom those higher computations if it were the only escape from the seven Babylonian hells." He glanced at his huge hairy fist. "Methinks Master Murashu wants a lesson in what happens to those who cheat noble Aryans."

"No, you thick-skinned idiot! He hasn't cheated us; he has merely made us an offer, which we are free to decline. With care and consideration, we may yet discover a way to obtain our money at lower rental."

"Meanwhile we might as well buy our other stuff—"

Bessas broke off.

"What is it? Are we followed?" asked Myron.

"There's an ordinary-looking little man, so commonplace that he were hard to describe, loitering across Enlil Street ... Now he's gone. I would swear by the demon Azi Dahaka's three heads that I have seen him before, following us about."

"Papai! Another man sent by the Daduchicls?"

"No doubt. If we are to be harried from Kissia to Kush by slinking shadows, we'd better buy some weapons and defenses' now." While they sought out an armer's shop, Bessas asked Myron: "What weapons are you seasoned in the use of?"

"None, I fear. As a youth in Miletos I learnt to march in step, keep in line, and thrust with the spear. But that was long ago; and, when the Persians stormed my city, all was over before I had an opportunity to fight. Being taken in arms, I was auctioned off. Although Lord Arsaces, liking the way I tutored his sons, liberated me after a few years' service, I have not had occasion to handle weapons since."

"Hmp. That sword you took from the murderer will be useful, but it's too short to use from horseback. Let us see what this fellow has to offer." Bessas turned in at a shop whose signboard bore a crude painting of a sword and a battle-ax crossed in front of a circular shield, and a helmet surmounting the whole.

The Bactrian's eyes gleamed with eagerness as he entered the armer's shop, where dully gleaming weapons hung in rows and the clang of the smithy came from the rear. He bandied weapon talk with the armer, bent bows, poised javelins, and swished swords and axes through the air until Myron reminded him that they had business.

"For you, I shall buy this mace," said Bessas, handing Myron a weapon with a two-foot hardwood shaft and a wickedly spiked bronze head. "That's the weapon for a tyro. You need not worry about its turning in your grip, as with a sword or ax; just hit hard with it. Now, armer, let me see a couple of spears: heavy enough to thrust, light enough to throw, short enough to handle easily, yet long enough to hold off a lion ..."

"Now for armor," said Bessas when he had chosen the spears. "A pair of helmets—none of your fancy Karian cockscomb crests, either, but a couple of plain bronzen pots to keep our brains from being spattered ... For body armor, let's see a couple of leather jacks."

Myron looked dubiously at the bronze-studded leather cuirass, of a deep, shiny, reddish brown. "A forceful thrust would go through this stuff. Why don't we purchase bronze cuirasses, such as they wear in Ionia, or those Persian mailshirts with iron scales?"

"Because we are riding, little man, and on ordinary horses, not Nisaean giants. If we load ourselves down with the whole bronzen panoply of a Greek spearman, our beasts will founder from the weight."

By the time that Bessas completed his purchases with a pair of light leather bucklers and some extra arrows, and his cuirass had been altered to fit his huge torso, the afternoon had fled. Back at barracks, as Myron prepared to write up the log for the day, he asked:

"How much more purchasing must we do?"

"Tomorrow morn we shall try the horse mart for mounts. That leaves but a few items of harness, a tent, and the like."

"Will you buy a slave or hire guides or men-at-arms?"

"Time enough for such fripperies in Egypt. Until we get there, we can find our way by asking. I have been on many such journeys—as the time my half brother Moccus and I beat our way across Hind—and I have seen what happens. The leader, too proud to saddle and feed and water his beasts, procures a groom. Then, misliking cold victuals, he must needs have a cook; and a body slave to brush his garments and shine his shoes; and a woman to keep him warm at night.

"Then he must hire guards to protect these unfighters. That means more animals, and they in turn require more grooms, who need camp men to care for their tents and baggage, who require more men-at-arms to guard them, and so on until we have a small army, straggling over the countryside at a snail's pace, getting lost, taking sick, robbing the natives, and being attacked by them in turn. By keeping our numbers down to the twain of us, we shall move far faster and more cheaply. Speaking of cost, have you found a way to get us our money at lower interest?"

Myron had to admit that he had not. The next morning they spent in the horse market. Here Bessas, who usually claimed to know and care nothing about trade and money, revealed himself as a very sharp bargainer. When Myron twitted him, he said with a shamefaced grin:

"Oh, well, a Bactrian can trade in horses and still be deemed a gentleman."

In the end, Bessas bought two horses—a powerful destrier named Vayu for himself and a smaller Cilician bay for his companion—and two mules to bear their belongings. "How is our store of darics holding out?" he asked.

Myron did a hasty computation. "They are half consumed."

"Plague! Riches certainly fly away, as the eagle flies into the heavens. We had better get some more money, if we must needs rob the temple of Marduk."

They made a few more purchases during the afternoon. Bessas, for instance, bought a silver whistle to hang around his neck. "It utters as loud a blast as a trumpet," he said, "with far less bulk."

Every coin had to be weighed out. Change was made in bits of silver, copper, and lead: rings, bars, squares, and irregular lumps, all of which had to be weighed in their turn; for the Babylonians had not yet come to the use of small coins.

Their last stop was at the saddler's shop of Shamu and Zeria. This was a large establishment, selling not only bits, bridles, and saddles, but also chariots and wagons. Horse trappings, smelling of freshly oiled leather and gleaming with polished bronze, hung from the walls.

Sounds of carriage-making came from the rear. A stout, blue-eyed man with a cheerful round face took them in charge.

"Why, if you go to Egypt, do you not drive instead of riding?" he said. "We could build you our special chariot with an attachable trailer, ideal for such journeys. We made one for Lord Masdaeus last year, and he will tell you how well it has pleased him."

"We lack time for the filling of such an order," said Bessas.

"Well then, we have a harmanaxa of a late model, repossessed from an owner who could not pay for—"

"A woman's wagon?" said Bessas in tones of deep scorn. "Do you take me for a dotard who can no longer sit a horse?"

"Nay, sir, your slave thought no such thing. My reasons are practical, to wit: that a horse can pull twice the load on wheels that it can bear on its back. So you could thus save the price of an extra horse to count against the cost of the vehicle. Also, you could go all day at a trot ..."

Bessas and the man fell into a long argument about horses, mules, and asses, and the proper loading and harness for each under every condition. At last Bessas said:

"You seem to know a thing or two about this business, my friend. Who are you?"

"Your servant is Daniel bar-Malko, once of Qadesh but now master wainwright for Shamu and Zeria."

When Bessas and Myron made themselves known, the latter said: "Your carriage is an attractive idea, Master Daniel, but I fear me the roads would not allow it. The postal people inform me that there is no paving beyond Kounaxa, only tracks in soft sand. Also, they say that some of the roads in Phoenicia are impassable to wheels because they go up and down the faces of crags by means of stone steps. We should need, instead of horses, a team of trained eagles, like those which bore aloft the flying throne of King Usan."

"I am sure you could get a well-made carriage over the roads, with a little local help to push you over the bad spots," said the Syrian. "After all, the king rides chariots and carriages all over the Persian Empire. When he finds a stretch of bad road he has it fixed, or somebody loses his head ..."

When the harness had been bought and paid for, Daniel bar-Malko invited Myron and Bessas to his house for dinner; for a warm friendship had sprung up between the friendly and voluble wainwright and the moody Bactrian.

At Daniel's house, near the Enlil Gate, the Syrian's women glided about, plying the three men with food and wine while, Daniel held forth:

"... if I could only get capital to start in business for myself, I should soon show these stodgy Babylonians a thing or two. What is wanted here is the light sporting chariot of the Egyptian type. Know you, my masters, that no less than six such chariots have been brought all the way from Egypt to Babylon in the past year, for sale to rich youths who are fain to cut a dash? I have talked my tongue off to make Shamu see the light; but no, he insists that the traditional Babylonian chariot—a slightly refined ox cart, in my opinion—has sold well ever since the Flood ..."

When his turn to speak came, Bessas told of some of his wild adventures on the eastern frontiers. He told, for instance, of the time some Massagetai caught him and stripped him for torture. He told how he broke away, vaulted on one of their horses, and galloped fifty miles with the whole tribe pounding after him. When his horse foundered, he escaped by diving into the Oxus River, coming up under a pile of driftwood, and spending a whole day there with his nose alone out of the icy water while the nomads raged up and down the banks in search of him.

At parting, Daniel lit the end of a link in the hearth fire and thrust it into Bessas' hand. "This will see you back to the barracks," he said. "Turn right as you go out, walk thirty paces, and you will be on Enlil Street. Oh—if you are fain to hire a guide in Syria, you could do worse than to obtain my brother's services."

"Oh?" said Myron.

"Aye. Ask in Qadesh for Kothar bar-Malko." Daniel chuckled. "You will find my brother a strange man. He is a former priest of El, cast out of his priesthood for unlawful magic. His family disowned him. Since then he has made a chancy living as a guide, trader, and wandering wizard. He is not what you would call respectable, but he is an able guide. He has been to Egypt several times and fluently speaks the speech of that land."

Daniel kissed his guests good-by and showed them out, saying: "May honey drip upon you, my friends! Tell me of your adventures when you return. Remember the name, Kothar bar-Malko."

A light overcast veiled the moon and transformed it into a faint opalescence high in the heavens. The link burnt with a smoky red flame, which threw writhing, misshapen shadows as Myron and Bessas, laden with their purchases of the afternoon, picked their way along Enlil Street.

Once they came upon a detachment of the night watch: four men of the merchant class, wearing pointed helms of an antique pattern and carrying pikes. These halted the travelers at the sight of the gear they bore and the swords they wore. But a flourish of documents from Myron, some gruff replies by Bessas, and the mention of their recent host convinced the watchmen of their honesty.

"We all know Master Daniel," said one. "Anyway, thieves do not carry links to light their way."

The twain continued northward until Bessas halted, saying: "By Mithra and Verethraghna, we are followed!"

Myron listened but heard nothing. They walked forward again, and this time he thought he heard stealthy footsteps behind them. When they halted, the footsteps halted.

"Are you sure it's not the echo of our own feet on the walls across the street?" whispered Myron.

"Not unless I'm growing deaf with age. But I have a trick for that. Come along."

They hurried ahead and soon reached the crossing of Marduk Street. Here Enlil Street ended, unless an alley opening on the north side of Marduk Street were to be deemed a continuation of Enlil Street.

Bessas turned to the right on Marduk Street, as if to take in the jog to Sin Street, where the diagonal road from the Zababa Gate crossed Marduk. Then he halted and set down the link, carefully so it continued to burn.

"Now run!" he breathed.

Bessas crossed Marduk Street with giant strides and turned left. He plunged into the alley that continued Enlil Street. Myron panted after him, staggering under his burden.

Darkness closed in about them. Noisome stenches made Myron gasp; he felt soft nameless substances under his boots. Ahead, Bessas stumbled and cursed luridly under his breath.

"This should be a short cut through to the diagonal road," muttered the Bactrian.

The alley bent this way and that and forked. Bessas halted, so suddenly that Myron blundered into him in the dark. In the instant that he stood silently, panting, Myron heard the sound of many running feet, from no definite direction.

"Take the right," said Bessas. "The other way will get us lost in the alleys."

They plunged off to the right but soon halted again. "The gods damn me to the House of the Lie for a stupid oaf!" breathed Bessas. "This is a bag-end. We shall have to try the other—"

"Too late," said Myron. Sound and motion from the mouth of the close revealed that their pursuers had trapped them.

Bessas dropped his burden, doffed his cloak, wrapped it around his left arm, and drew his sword. Myron did likewise, desperately wishing that they had with them the warlike gear they had bought the previous day, which now reposed in the barracks.

"Keep on my left and a little behind me," said Bessas. "Guard my back, and let them not grapple us."

"Well, don't amputate my head with one of those wild swings," said Myron, whose heart was pounding with painful intensity.

Without further words, Bessas charged their pursuers, who had penetrated only a few paces into the close. They were shadowy figures. Nothing about them stood out definitely, save that the faint traces of moonlight that seeped down between the high dark walls struck feeble gleams from their blades.

The Bactrian, moving with the swiftness of a storm wind, was upon them before they could brace themselves. The long Indian sword whistled. There was a hard sound of cloven bone, and the first man was down with a split skull.

Little clash of steel was heard. The attackers seemed to be armed with knives and short swords, but none had a weapon of the reach of Bessas' blade, and in the darkness there was little opportunity for fencing.

Myron, pressing after Bessas, stumbled over a form and stabbed downward, fetching a groan from the victim. He lunged at the man before him. The man gave back, and Myron heard and felt his own cloak rip as a foe's blade caught in it. Another man screamed and fell back before Bessas' attack. There was a slap of sandals and a hiss of hard breathing.

"Got you!" said Bessas. Another man shrieked.

From behind the throng at the mouth of the close came a voice, urging on the attackers: "Go on, fight! Get in close! They are but two! Go in low and stab upward! Seize them about the knees and throw them!"

"If you'll step up, General," snarled Bessas, "I will give you a chance to demonstrate."

The mob surged forward again. They could not get behind the travelers, as they could not advance more than three abreast. Bessas and Myron between them filled the alley from wall to wall, die Bactrian taking up the space of two ordinary men.

However, a man lunged forward in a crouch, aiming a stab at Bessas' midriff. Myron saw the blade go home and thought they were done for. But the Bactrian skipped lightly backward, knocking the man flat with a sword blow. He and Myron had now lost several feet of fighting space.

"You rear men, push forward and give the others a rest!" came the voice of the unseen leader.

"They'll wear us down," panted Myron.

Bessas, dancing, thrusting, and slashing, did not answer. Little by little he and Myron were forced back down the close. Soon, thought Myron, they would have their backs to the wall at the end. He shouted:

"Help! Murder!"

There was no reply. The dwellers in houses along the close, if they heard the call, would only brace things against their doors.

Then came a new trampling of feet, a clash of steel, and cries from the mouth of the close. The attackers melted away. They turned their backs and bolted out of the close in a jostling mob. Myron and Bessas were too winded for the moment to pursue them.

Another group of dark figures entered the close. Bessas brought his sword up to guard, but the first newcomer said: "Bessas of Zariaspa?"

"Who in demon land are you?"

"Friends. Come quickly! The gang outnumbers us and will soon return in force."

"All right, but do not get too close. No tricks!"

Myron followed Bessas, who followed the hooded newcomer. Others fell in behind Myron, who judged that there were about half a dozen of them. They went swiftly, sometimes walking and sometimes breaking into a trot.

They zigzagged among the alleys until Myron had no idea of where he was.

A door opened in a blank wall. A gleam of yellow lamplight momentarily splashed across the alley, showing a dead dog lying in the dirt.

Myron, still clutching his sword, filed in with the rest. He found himself in a narrow passage, at the far end of which a lamp smoked and guttered in a wall bracket. The leader lit a rushlight at the flame of the lamp and led on by this feeble illumination. The passage descended by steps below street level and wound this way and that. Occasional doors of crude, heavy timbers appeared on the side walls. They passed through a confusing sequence of doors, rooms, and corridors.

Then Myron found himself in a long chamber, lit by several petroleum-burning bronzen lamps. Benches ran along its sides, leaving a wide clear center aisle with a stair well in it. A narrow stair ran down from this opening out of sight.

On either side of the chamber, a statue stood in a niche. Each statue was that of a nude winged man with a lion's head, around whom a large serpent was entwined. Each leontocephalus stood on a globe and held a scepter in one hand and a thunderbolt in the other.

At the far end of the chamber rose an altar. Behind the altar, on the far wall, a scene was carved in low relief. Artistically, Myron thought it simply another example of stiff, lifeless Persian art. The subjects, however, excited his interest.

The relief showed a bull, which had been forced to its knees by a trousered youth. The man wore a cap with lappets, of the sort encountered among the more northerly Aryans. He gripped the bull's muzzle with his left hand and stabbed the beast with a knife in his right. A dog lapped the blood that flowed from the wound; a serpent writhed about the bull's legs; and a scorpion clawed at the dying animal's scrotum.

Myron brought his attention back to his human surroundings in time to see the hooded leader of their rescuers make a quick ritualistic gesture to Bessas, who made a responding gesture. Then the two men solemnly kissed each other's cheeks. The leader pushed back his hood, showing a lean, refined face. He gestured towards Myron. "Can we trust the Hellene?"

"I think so," replied Bessas. "He is my lieutenant, and if he blabs—" Bessas grinned horribly and drew a finger across his throat. "How did you happen by just then?"

"Your slaves heard that you were passing through Babylon and were likely to be beset. Remembering the great good that Phraates did for our brethren, years ago, we set men to watch you. Several times we lost you, what of that giant stride of yours. But we caught up with you just in time."

"Was one of your men a rather small fellow, very ordinary-looking, with dark hair and beard, wearing a shabby brown jacket and patched green trousers?"

The other frowned. "None of my men answers that description. But one of them did report that others besides themselves seemed to be following you. I—"

There came a disturbance. Four more men entered. Two of them dragged a ragged, ruffianly looking fellow, bleeding from a wound in his chest. The fourth man carried the gear that Myron and Bessas had dropped.

"This one still lives, Father," said one of those bearing the wounded man, "but not for long, methinks. There were three dead, and several of the knaves bore wounds away with them."

The leader said: "Take him below and see if you can get some truth out of him ere he dies. Yes, O Myron?"

Myron, who had been fidgeting, said: "Sir, I burst with curiosity. Be it as you wish, but at least tell me this: Are you not Mithraists?"

"Aye. As you see, the persecution of the usurper's son has forced us to hide our places of worship. However, it will do no harm to tell you that—"

A shriek from the chamber below cut off the leader's speech. When all had recovered their poise, Myron asked:

"What may your servant call you?"

"Call me Embas. How did you manage with Murashu the banker?"

Myron told him of the difficulty over interest rates. Embas thought awhile, then said:

"Murashu is a hard man. Perhaps the Lord of the Farmyard can aid in this matter."

More screams came from below. Presently one of the hooded Mithraists came up the stairs with bloody hands and said:"

"Father Embas, the robber is dead. Before he passed to the Land of Silence, he told us that he was one of Labashi's retainers."

"What else?"

"Little, save that two days past Labashi got word from Shushan, urging him to slay Bessas son of Phraates and promising rich rewards."

"That means Ardigula," said Embas. "Know you Ardigula of Baghdad, either of you?"

"Not I," said Bessas. "What is Baghdad?"

"A village on the Tigris, fifteen leagues or so to northward. You, Myron?"

"Nor I," said Myron. "But wait—the name is somehow familiar. I may have heard him referred to as a wizard and occultist. I paid no heed at the time, as I have nothing to do with such people."

"Know you any reason why he might wish you ill?"

"No, unless he were retained by someone with a grudge—say, the House of Daduchus. But I do know that we have been attacked four times in ten days, the first time definitely by emissaries of the Daduchids. We captured the leader and made him confess. At that rate, we shall sustain a hundred or more attacks before we return. And, even though Captain Bessas be a fell fighter with the might of Rustam and the luck of Odysseus, I doubt if we should survive them all."

"Rehearse me the whole tale," said Embas.

Bessas narrated the story of the rape of Tamyra. When he had finished, Embas said:

"The connection is plausible, though not proven. In any case, you will not wish to lurk for aye in our crypts; whereas, if you wander abroad in Babylon, we cannot forever protect you. You had better be on your way to Rush. Ardigula can scarce pursue you beyond the Syrian desert."

"But," said Myron, "how can we go without sufficient funds? And how do we get our beasts and our gear from the barracks? A bird cannot fly without wings."

Embas smiled thinly. "Snatch yourselves a few hours' sleep. You will be surprised at the succor the Sleepless One can render to those whom he loves."

As Myron and Bessas prepared to sleep in a small chamber off the Mithraeum, the Greek said: "How in Hera's name did you avoid that stab, which the fellow sent home against your middle? I thought you a dead man."

Bessas, with a deep chuckle, reached inside his trousers and brought forth a long girdle of stout cloth. When he unfolded it, golden coins winked yellowly in the lamplight.

"One of Xerxes' golden archers stopped the point," he said. "And belike my little prayer to Mithra helped."

On the next morning, an hour before the first light of dawn appeared above the canal-stitched Euphratean plain, Myron and Bessas joined a caravan setting out for Damascus. Yawning and shivering, each rode one of the horses that Bessas had bought and led one of the mules. To each mule's back was lashed one of the two spears. Myron wore his short sword in Median fashion, low on the right side, with the thong on the end of the scabbard tied around his thigh.

The caravan sorted itself out into a straggling serpentine column. Asses brayed, camels gargled and roared, horses whinnied, and caravaneers shouted commands, advice, and curses.

The column trailed northward along Processional Way and through the mighty Ishtar Gate, where sleepy Persian soldiers stamped their frozen feet and blew on their hands. Torchlight flickered on the bulls and dragons of the great blue gate; the nearest sirrush seemed to Myron to leer at him. Each caravaneer, as he passed through the gate, uttered a prayer to his favorite god.

Out through the northern suburbs they trailed and along the river road, into the morning mist. The city faded into the murk behind them.

In Myron's scrip reposed a parchment copy of their contract with Murashu and Sons, promising to pay back fifty darics with annual interest at twenty parts in a hundred. Myron had a blurred recollection of Bessas, leaning over both copies and signing by rushlight, scowling and licking his bearded lips as he painfully traced out each letter. Embas had explained that the temple of Mithra had guaranteed the loan. This brought Murashu down to the normal interest rate, even though the emissaries of the Mithraeum had hauled the banker out of bed to close the deal.

"Most of it is in bar silver," said Embas, "because such silver commands a premium in Egypt above the monetary value of the coinage. The Egyptians dislike coins, holding them a newfangled scheme to enable rascals to cheat honest men."

"I found the same stupidity in India," said Bessas.

"Then why cannot the traveler simply melt down his shekels in Egypt?" asked Myron.

"Because such defacement of the royal coinage, if found out, would only cost you your heads, as it cost the satrap Aryandes his."

When the sun stood high, Bessas said: "I see no sign of pursuit. Let's not loaf along with these stinking camels all the way to Id, but seek our own gait."

The travelers pulled out of line, spurred to a canter, and soon neared the head of the line of camels. Then, however, a man on an ass—a smallish, nondescript man—rode out in front of them.

"My masters!" he called. "Do you follow the Euphrates to Barbalissos?"

"What is that to you?" asked Bessas with a scowl.

"I thought you might permit your slave to go with you. I cannot stay with the caravan beyond Sirki, for there they take the desert road to Thadamora, and that road is impassable save to camels. Withal, one must pay a caravan toll to Shaykh Alman. So meseemed—"

Bessas began to slide his Parthian bow from its case, muttering: "By the waters of Ardvi, it is time we ended this damned—"

"Not so precipitate!" said Myron in Greek. "We don't even know whose side he is on."

"Well, then?"

"We can easily outrun him. That ass is no Pegasos."

Bessas grinned and called out: "You are welcome to stay with us whilst you can!"

Bessas and Myron clapped spurs to their steeds. Leading their pack mules at full gallop, they raced on up the palm-lined left bank of the Euphrates and were soon out of sight of the caravan and of the man on the ass as well.

Meanwhile, in another room in Babylon, as difficult of access as the Mithraeum but very differently appointed, Labashi received his minions. The room, though small, was hung with costly stuffs and gleaming ornaments. The air was thick with incense. Tables and floor were heaped with masses of documents: sheets of papyrus and sheepskin and clay tablets. Astrological charts were pinned to the wall hangings.

Labashi sat on a raised chair, clad in raiment of a thin shiny unknown stuff that had come from far to the east. Nobody else, not even the king, as yet possessed a garment of this lustrous material. Labashi was a hunchback, with a large head and regular features, which he shaved in priestly style.

As Labashi's lieutenant, limping from wounds, gave his report, Labashi's black eyes bored into him with an unwinking basilisk stare. Once Labashi slapped his thigh with anger when the lieutenant told of the arrival of rescuers. When he had finished, the lieutenant stood with bowed head, awaiting the blast.

It never came. Instead, Labashi said softly: "Well, then, another scheme we must try. Honor demands that we persevere and do not our colleague Ardigula disappoint." He rose and walked to one of the star charts, which he studied for several ush*(* 1 ush = 4 minutes.). At last he said: "Find me one of Shaykh Waliq's tribesmen, that I may send a message to the shaykh."