The Dragon of the Ishtar Gate

VI – The Tower of the Snail

South of the city of Hemesa, where bright sashes were woven, the blue Lake of Qadesh sparkled in the sun. Once this lake had been but a marsh, where the surly Serpentine paused in its headlong rush to the sea. But, in times of immemorial antiquity, the beings who then dwelt in the land had dammed the fractious flume with massive blocks of stone.

South of the Lake of Qadesh, the ancient city of Qadesh stood on the western bank of the Serpentine. The city shimmered in the soft warm air of the Syrian spring.

Orchards and vineyards surrounded the town, while the vivid green of young wheat spread across the plain and up into the foothills of the Libanos.

On the fourth of Ayaru, in his shop off the Street of the Woodworkers, Malko bar-Daniel the wainwright was cutting a tenon in the end of a wheel spoke. Beside his bench was piled a heap of freshly shaven spokes and newly sawn felloes. The hub lay in its wheel pit, waiting for Malko and his son Odainath to hammer the spokes into the mortises spaced around its circumference. Malko had just finished his tenon when one of his grandchildren ran into the yard.

"Grandfather, strangers stand at the gate! They come from Uncle Daniel in Babylon."

Malko, a tall stooped man with a long white beard, unfolded his creaking joints and went to the gate. Three men stood there, sun-bronzed and travel-dusted. One enormous man wore a Persian bashlyk, a Median jacket, and baggy leather breeches tucked into high soft boots. A shorter and older man, of medium height and broad-shouldered build, was similarly clad. The third, young, short, and rolypoly, wore a felt cap pulled over his ears, a tunic down to his bare knees, and stout shoes with the toes curled up.

"Peace," said Malko, touching his heart, lips, and forehead.

"Peace," replied the others, almost in one voice. But their gestures differed according to their origins. The giant thrust out a huge hand to shake. The medium-sized man held up his right hand and flipped it back and forth, with the palm turned inwards towards himself. The short youth crossed his hands on his breast and bowed.

Myron of Miletos introduced himself and his companions and told of their meeting with Daniel bar-Malko in Babylon. Malko said:

"In the name of the blessed gods, my masters, you must stay in my house whilst you stop in Qadesh. Use my humble hut as your own."

"Thank you, sir," said Myron, "but your servants were really looking for your other son."

"Mean you my son Odainath? He is in the smithy; I will call—"

"No; I mean your son Kothar, the traveler—"

"E! forgive us! Kothar is no longer my son."

"Oh. We are sorry to hear of troubles within your house; but we must find Kothar."

"I do not speak of the doings of apostates and blasphemers, Ramman smite them!"

Malko and his visitors stood silently staring until Malko said: "But come in anyway. By the tongues of Reshap, your mention of this unpleasant matter has made me forget my duty of hospitality."

"But—" began Bessas. Myron jabbed him in the back with his thumb and, with effusive thanks to Malko, led his companions into the court.

An hour later, washed and combed, the travelers, over a skin of the local wine, told Malko of their journey.

"By Hadad and Ashtarth!" exclaimed the wainwright. "You must have set forth on a lucky day, to have escaped so many perils unscathed."

"We anticipate worse," said Myron. "We're on our way to Kush."

"Where is that?"

"Kush lies beyond Egypt to the south. They say it harbors little men less than a cubit tall, called Pygmies, as well as other wonders."

"By the blessed gods, that is indeed a rash project! Beware of deadly foreign demons and the grim gods of strangers."

"Being on the king's business, we must take our chances," said Myron. "So you see, Master Malko, as none of us has been to Egypt, we need a guide who speaks the language and knows his way about that land." As the old man frowned, Myron hurried on: "I'm sure that any member of your family, whatever his shortcomings, would be more trustworthy than the sort of guide we should pick up in the wineshops."

Perhaps the wine had mellowed Malko bar-Daniel. After he had sat in silence for a while, he said: "Well, the last I heard of Kothar he was living in Marath."

"Where is that?"

"On the coast between Arvad and Athar, about a day's journey hence. You must go back to Hemesa and take the road to the coast, which crosses the pass between the mountain ranges and follows the River of Freedom to the sea. Instead of turning south for Palestine and Egypt, you will turn north for about four leagues along the coastal road."

"Do you mean we turn right instead of left?"

"Aye. Thus you will reach Marath. If you poke about among the tombs of the necropolis, you will no doubt find my former son Kothar."

"Is he then deceased?" asked Myron.

"Dead to his family and to the true religion of his forefathers, but not dead in the common sense. Natheless, he dwells in a tomb."

"A curious choice of residence! Is he trying to save rent?"

Malko chuckled. "He says he absorbs magical influences from this ancient monument, which, he avers, goes back before the Flood. And this aura of ancient necromancy, quotha, makes easy the working of his sorceries."

"What is this tomb called?"

"The Tower of the Snail."

Bessas grunted. "A sinister-sounding name. I care not much for sorcery myself. I had my fill of it from that knave in Kabura who enchanted fleas up to the size of dogs and set them on those he disliked."

"Well," said Malko, "say not that I failed to forewarn you. I pray to the holy gods that my information lead you not into destruction."

"He who would journey to the rim of the world must expose himself to the shafts of fortune," said Bessas.

During dinner, Myron and Bessas told their host of the quest for the dragon.

"By the tusk that slew Tammuz!" said Malko. "That is a task for a demigod. I regret that we cannot help you out here; but the only Syrian dragon is that which sleeps under Mount Libanos."

"What dragon is this?" said Myron.

"Our legends state that, back in the days of the Flood or thereabouts, a colossal winged serpent with golden scales despoiled the land until Hadad smote it with a thunderbolt. To escape the god, the dragon dove slantwise into the earth, with such force that it dug the bed of the Serpentine River and finally plunged out of sight altogether. And there it still is. When the earth shakes, we know that the dragon has awakened and is stretching its coils. But I do not advise annoying it."

"I fear that this is not of the same species as the one we seek," said Myron, smiling. "Besides, it sounds too large for even such accomplished dragon hunters as ourselves to subdue."

The sun was sinking in blood and fire into the Syrian Sea when the travelers rode up the coastal road to the city of Marath. South of the town the land, barren and salty, rolled gently away to the sea on the left. On the right it sloped up to the distant ramparts of the Bargylos, on whose shoulders many outcrops of gray limestone, painted pink by the sunset, thrust through the dark-green scrub. Four furlongs to the north rose the massive cyclopean wall of Marath. On the northwestern horizon, the island city of Arvad rode on the purple sea, a jagged sable silhouette against the scarlet sky.

Bessas was lecturing on the iniquity of the knobby bronze bits used by the Immortals. "Certes, you can stop any horse from bolting with that fiendish thing," he fulminated, "but that should never happen to a rider who knows his business and keeps his wits. And a fortnight of such a bit will ruin any horse's mouth for delicate handling. By the beams of Tishtrya, any knave who'd use such a tool of torture on a decent hoi-se should be dipped in dung and hung up by the toes to dry! Now the proper way to—" He broke off to twist in his saddle and peer back. "There's a company on camels behind us."

Myron and Skhâ looked back. Myron said: "I wish I had your eyes. I see some moving specks like insects, but I cannot discern what manner of creatures they are."

Bessas shuddered. "I have an ominous feeling, as if my fravashi were trying to warn me."

"Oh, you have been listening too long to Malko's tales of antediluvian magic. Probably this Kothar is merely a man who has learnt to think for himself, so naturally he is regarded as a sorcerer."

" 'Tis those who follow that most concern me. Camels are seldom used along the Canaanitish coast."

"Traders, perhaps?"

"We shall see."

They rode past several tombs, some near to the road and some farther away. No sign of human life did they see around these structures. They caught up with a flock of sheep being driven towards Marath. The shepherd's great fierce dog barked and snarled at them and made their horses shy until the kilted shepherd collared it. Myron asked:

"Do you know of a man named Kothar, who lives in a tomb called the Tower of the Snail?"

"Kothar?" said the shepherd.

"Yes."

The shepherd said something in Canaanitish and pointed northwest. Bessas led the way off the road in the direction indicated. The shepherd scowled after them and urged his flock to greater speed.

The ground was covered with tall yellow-flowered thistles, among which a host of lizards scuttled and rustled. In front of the travelers, standing in a patch of marshy ground, the Tower of the Snail rose stark and black against the sunset.

This edifice was a cube over twenty cubits on a side, built of enormous blocks of rough stone. An opening on the south side and another on the east gave access to the burial chamber. On top, above the cornice, rose the ruins of a pyramidal stone structure, like a small black ziggurat. Some of the blocks from this pile had fallen into the reeds below.

Looking at the tomb, Myron felt a horripilation of awe and fear. The style of the monument was unlike anything that he had seen in his travels. It was as if some intelligent but non-human race, dwelling in this land before the coming of the Canaanites, had built this tower and then vanished utterly, leaving no fragment of their history or legendry behind.

"I must pause to repair my harness," said Skhâ. in a terrified squeak. "Go on, gentles; I shall overtake you."

"You'll stay with us if you know what is good for you," said Bessas sharply.

Clutching his amulets, Skhâ obeyed. As the travelers neared the Tower of the Snail, their horses' hooves made wet sounds in the marshy soil. The beasts themselves acted skittish and uneasy. Bessas pulled up in front of the south entrance to the tomb and bellowed:

"Ho there, Kothar bar-Malko!"

The shout died away. Silence reigned, save for the rustle of lizards, the chirp of crickets, the hum of mosquitoes, and the eager munching of the horses and mules on the herbage. The red sun, wreathed in streamers of scarlet and purple, touched the steel edge of the horizon. Bessas repeated his outcry.

"Who calls?" came a voice from the tomb.

Myron felt a stir in the roots of his hair, so much was it like having a ghost answer out of a grave. Rational and skeptical though he was about things supernatural, he would have been happy to be elsewhere at that moment. Beside him, Skhâ jerked his horse around in a moment of panic, but at a bark from Bessas quickly recovered and reined back.

"Come out and see," said Bessas.

A man seated himself cross-legged in the entrance to the tomb. Between the failing light and the man's posture, Myron found it hard to tell much about him. But he got an impression of a lean, pale face. The man wore a long robe and a tall spiral Syrian hat, both of dark blue.

"Hail, mortals!" said Kothar bar-Malko.

"Mortal yourself," responded Bessas. "Why did you not answer the first time?"

"Because I was not here. My body was, but my spirit was far away. And who are you?"

Bessas gave his name and told of the expedition. "Now," he said, "do you want a job as a guide?"

Kothar sat silently for an instant. Then he said: "I must consult certain intelligences known to me ere deciding. Meanwhile, tell me more of your plans. You may come up here to rest yourselves." He lowered a light wooden ladder, which reached from the tomb entrance to the ground. "Have a care, Lord Bessas, as my ladder was not built for one of your poundage."

"Hold the beasts, Skhâ," said Bessas, sliding off his horse.

"Watch your heads," said Kothar as Bessas and Myron came up the ladder.

Myron began exploring like a hound on the scent. Behind him, he heard Bessas order Skhâ to hand up some of their weapons.

In the center of the tower, "the passage opened out into the sepulchral chamber. Another low passage led from this chamber to the entrance on the east side of the tower. Carved into the sides of the burial chamber were two tiers of niches for bodies, but all traces of the original occupants had disappeared. Instead, Kothar's gear, including a pile of old manuscripts, was stowed in these niches. Another grave yawned in the center of the floor.

A stairway, running around two of the four walls, led up to the ruined pyramid on the roof. Darkening blue sky showed through the gaps in the masonry.

When Myron had seen all there was to see of the inside of the tower, he returned to the south entrance, where Kothar and Bessas sat facing each other.

Kothar did not look at all like his brother Daniel. He was a tall man, lean and round-shouldered, with a sallow skin and a long pointed, projecting, and slightly hooked nose. This nose, together with the way he thrust his head forward, gave him the look of a bird of prey. His face was shaven save for a small tuft of a beard on the point of his chin. His large, dark, deepset eyes gazed upon Bessas with a luminous, unwinking stare. He spoke in a low, strangely vibrant voice:

"... if you think half a shekel a day exorbitant, good Captain Bessas, that is your privilege. But I am not desperate for work. In fact, you come when I am in the midst of my great operation, which I shall have to set aside to guide you."

"What's your great operation?" growled Bessas.

"It is an experiment in the spiritual sciences. I fear you would find an explanation tedious."

"Science or no, I can get plenty of competent guides for threepence a day. So if that is your final word—"

"Ay!" came a sudden shout from Skhâ. "We are beset!"

There came a yammer of voices, sounds of animal footfalls, the squeals and gurgles of camels, and the whizz of an arrow. The missile passed between Bessas and Kothar, missed Myron by a digit, and clattered against the walls of the burial chamber.

With a thunderous curse, Bessas leaped up and struck his head on the low roof of the passage. He fell back against the side wall, blinking and gasping. Myron pulled him back to get a clear view of the entrance. Kothar sat with his mouth open.

Myron had a glimpse of Skhâ. on his pony, leading the other two horses and two mules away from the tower at a gallop towards Marath. Then they passed out of sight around the corner of the tomb.

Thirty paces away and swiftly approaching were a score of Arabs on dromedaries. Some were stripped down to loin-cloths; others wore voluminous wrap-around skirts, leaving their upper bodies bare. In their midst rode an older man in a robe and head shawl. This man directed the attack, pointing with his crop. Most of the Arabs were archers, though some bore lances or javelins. More arrows struck the stone-work.

Myron hesitated. He had his sword. Two spears lay on the floor of the entrance, and Bessas' bow case lay beside the fallen giant. Bessas sprawled against the wall, still half stunned. Which weapon should Myron use? The Arabs came closer and the arrows flew more thickly; one whistled past Myron's ear.

The ladder! Standing in front of the south entrance to the Tower of the Snail, it was open invitation to the attackers to swarm up. Swiftly Myron reached down and began to haul the ladder up.

"Help me, Kothar!" he cried.

But Kothar did not seem to understand. He gazed vaguely at the scene as if he had gone into another trance. He got in the way, so that when Myron tried to thrust the ladder back into the passage, the upper end struck Kothar.

"To the afterworld with you, god-detested fool!" shouted Myron. "Either help me with this thing or get out of the way!"

When Kothar finally responded, he proved so clumsy and weak in the arms that he was no help. However, they finally got the ladder pulled back into the tower.

Then Myron scrambled for Bessas' bow case. He got the bow out and an arrow nocked just as the" Arabs swarmed up to the entrance. On their camels they could look right in. One loosed an arrow at point-blank range; Myron heard a yelp from Kothar as the shot found a mark.

Trying to remember all that Bessas had taught him about archery, Myron drew and loosed. He winced as the bowstring lashed his unprotected left wrist, but was pleased to hear a scream from the attackers. "Eleleleu!" he shouted, reaching for another arrow.

"Give me the bow, little man," said a familiar growl behind him. "Take a spear and guard the other entrance."

Myron handed the bow to Bessas and brushed past Kothar, who clutched at an arrow wound in his left arm. Myron went around to the other entrance. He arrived as a long-haired Arab, holding a spear, began to climb from the back of his dromedary into the portal.

Myron rushed at the Arab, gripping his spear in both hands. The man saw him coming. Unable, in his awkward position, to defend himself, he threw himself backwards and fell to the ground before Myron reached him.

Outside, more Arabs whirled about on their mounts. All shouted orders and advice at once. Arrows struck the stone-work and whizzed into the entrance; Myron flattened himself against the wall to avoid them. It occurred to him that the archers were loosing blind. In the twilight the entrances would look to those outside like featureless pits of blackness, in which they could not make out the defenders of the tower.

"Out of the way," said Bessas' voice behind him.

Myron squeezed past the giant into the burial chamber. The foe seemed to have been cleared away from around the south entrance, and Myron heard the snap of the powerful Parthian bow and Arab yells from the east entrance.

"Kothar!" he said. "Pick up the other spear and help us!"

"I am wounded," said the Syrian, trying to tie a bandage with his teeth.

"What of it? You still have a sound right arm."

While Kothar continued to struggle with his bandage, Bessas joined them in the burial chamber.

"They have all gone around to the northwest side, where we cannot see them," said the Bactrian. "Now, Myron, if you were the leader of this attack, what would you tell your Arabs to do next?"

Myron glanced upwards. "Those beasts are so tall, I think a couple of Arabs on camels could boost a third one up to the roof."

"And come down through those holes. Kothar, take a spear—for Mithra's sake, will you spend all night fixing that bandage? Here!" Bessas quickly completed the bandaging. "Now take that spear and go up the stairs—"

"I—I have no skill in such matters."

"Then learn, dolt—"

A scrambling noise caused Myron to look up again. Movement showed against the darkening sky.

Myron dashed up the steep stair. As an Arab lowered himself through the gaping roof to the topmost stair, Myron thrust him through the body. The man screamed, clutched the shaft of the spear, and fell off the stairs into the burial chamber below, tearing the spear out of Myron's grasp.

"Look out!" roared Bessas from below.

Myron looked around. Not ten feet away, another Arab, peering down through the same gap, was drawing an arrow to the head. The man was out of Myron's reach, and Myron had no missile weapon. He fumbled for his sword with some idea of throwing it. The arrow was aimed directly at Myron's midriff, and on the narrow stair he had no way to dodge or duck for cover.

A bowstring twanged; an arrow struck home with a meaty sound. The Arab's body jerked and his arrow flew wide. The man groaned and slid out of sight.

"Come down now, Myron," said Bessas.

When Myron returned to the floor of the burial chamber, he found Bessas pulling the spear out of the body of the Arab whom Myron had skewered.

"Good man!" said Bessas. "Yours is the only sure kill yet. I take back anything I may have said against the fighting ability of Hellenes."

"How about those struck by arrows?"

"I made a couple of hits, besides that knave on the roof, but it's too dark to tell if they were kills. Next time I say 'look out,' try to get out of the way of my shot. I must have missed your ear by the breadth of a hair." He grinned. "You should have seen the corpse land on top of Master Kothar here! I used to think you were absent-minded, but compared to him you're as keen as the boar-tusked Verethraghna himself. Now, O thinker, tell me what our foes will try next."

Myron frowned. "They have assaulted each of the three entrances to the tower in turn and been repulsed. If I were their chief, I should divide them into three groups, with orders to attack the three entrances simultaneously. If they can inflict a few more wounds and get inside the tower, they will quickly finish us off."

"Just so. Kothar, push this body to one of the entrances and lay it crosswise as a barricade. It will give us a little cover. If we get out of this alive, by Ahriman's iron yard, I'll see that every man jack of us has a bow and knows how to use it! Now, from this pit I can cover all three entrances, so I shall stay here save when I must help one of you. Take your spears and stand ready to rush to the roof or the lower entrances as I command you."

"But—" began Kothar.

"Shut up! If you be on our side, you shall do as I say. If not, your body will make another useful barricade."

Yelping cries told that the Arabs were renewing the assault. Bessas jumped down into the grave in the center of the burial chamber. There he stood, calmly wheeling from side to side, loosing arrows where targets showed, and bellowing:

"Myron, take the roof, quickly! Kothar, take the east entrance! Myron, come back down and take the south entrance! Kothar, lie down to give me a shot! Kothar, come back and take the roof! Hurry! Get that knave on the stair! Go on, stick him! Kill him!" bawled the Bactrian, as Kothar made timid, ineffectual jabs at his opponent until Bessas nailed the man with an arrow.

The giant was in his element, running his little battle with the smooth competence of a skilled lapidary cutting a gem. Myron, panting, dashed up and down the stair and in and out the passages, pausing to exchange spear thrusts with the swarming foe.

On one dash, Myron's right leg buckled under him, spilling him to the floor. He sat up, staring stupidly in the deepening gloom. His fingers found the shaft of an arrow that had pierced his leg.

"I'm hit!" he called.

"Plague!" exclaimed Bessas. "Crawl down the east passage and lie behind the dead Arab. If anybody tries to climb over the body, stick him."

Dizzily, Myron obeyed. He had no more than lain down behind the corpse when a hand from outside seized the point of his spear and tried to wrest it away from him.

"Ea!" he shouted. "Bessas!" The Arab was strong, and Myron felt the spear sliding out of his sweaty hands."

No help came. Myron strained to pull his spear loose. He could hear the Arab who had hold of the other end talking to a comrade. Then the point of another spear, just visible, came thrusting over the corpse, feeling in the dark for Myron's body.

Myron gave himself up for lost. He could let go the spear and get out his sword. But that weapon was too short to be useful in this extremity, especially as he did not have his shield.

Then a chorus of yells resounded from outside. The Arab released Myron's spear, and the other spear disappeared. Myron raised himself on his elbows to see."

The Arabs were streaming away from the Tower of the Snail. Down the road from Marath ran a crowd of people with torches and spears. At their head rode Skhâ of Barbalissos.

The Arabs fled away into the night. Myron, Bessas, and Kothar slid out of the Tower of the Snail into the arms of the kilted townsfolk, whom Skhâ had roused.

"Good lad! I thought you'd bolted," said Bessas to Skhâ. "It is well you got back when you did. Who is the physician of Marath? We are all wounded."

"You, too?" said Myron.

"Just a graze in the ribs." Bessas took his hand away from his side, showing a large dark spot on his jacket. "And a lump on my head the size of a simurgh's egg. How many did we get?"

Besides the two corpses inside the edifice, two Arabs lay dead near the tower. A wounded Arab huddled near the road. Myron would have questioned him, but before he could hobble to the spot the townsfolk had killed the wounded man. There was also a camel dying of an arrow wound. Bessas said:

"Master magician, can you tell who these men were, or why they sought our lives?"

Kothar stepped from one corpse to the other, studying the dead men and the camel, which the Marathites were preparing to cut up for meat. At last he said:

"These are men of one of the nomadic tribes of the Syrian desert. As to which tribe, or the cause of their attack, I shall have to consult the higher powers."

"Consult away."

"Do you still wish me to guide you?"

"Perhaps—for fourpence a day, no more. If you guide as you fight, by the fangs of Azi Dahaka, we are likely to find ourselves in Scythia when we aimed for Kush!"

A disturbance attracted Myron's attention. An Arab had halted a dromedary at the edge of the ruddy torchlight. Like the leader of the attack, he wore a long robe and, on his head, a square of cloth folded diagonally and held in place by a headband of rope. Although he held up a hand in greeting, some of the Marathites began to shout threats and insults and to throw stones.

"Stop!" cried Myron. "He wishes to speak."

The hostility of the Phoenicians only became louder, until Bessas shouldered his way to the front and cuffed a couple of the more violent townsfolk.

"Shut up!" he thundered. "What do you want, Arab?"

"I have a letter for Kothar bar-Malko."

"Who are you?"

"Adi ibn-Thabit, of the Banu Hassan."

"Are you one of those who just now attacked us?"

"Attack? The gods forbid! I am but a peaceful messenger."

"Know you aught of this attack?"

"I know only that I passed, on the road, a troop of the Banu Tarafa, having wounded men among them."

"They are not the same as your tribe?"

The Arab spat. "Those desert vermin? Nay! The Banu Hassan are civilized folk, who dwell in Thadamora and protect the caravans passing through. These others, are but sand thieves."

"How did you know who they were?"

"By their garments, their harness, and their speech."

"Did you speak with them?"

"Not I! They would have known me for a Hassani and slain me, as their Shaykh Waliq is at feud with our Shaykh Alman."

Kothar came forward, took his letter, and handed a small piece of silver to the Arab, who faded into the darkness. Kothar unrolled the letter in the light of a townsman's torch. He frowned over the spidery writing, then rolled the missive up and slipped it into his girdle. He looked at Myron and Bessas with a thoughtful expression.

"As soon as our wounds be healed, I shall be ready to guide you, at the last fee you named," he said.

As it fell out, Myron and Kothar became feverish from their wounds. Although Myron recovered quickly, the Syrian languished for several days. While waiting for Kothar to mend, Myron, who could not see any young person without an urge to teach him something, drilled his landlord's small son in the multiplication table. He also inquired about the origin of the Tower of the Snail, but of this the Marathites professed an ignorance as deep as his own.

At last, on the ninth of Ayaru, the company, now increased to four, set out for Athar. A day's ride brought them to this triple city, where the settlements of the Arvadites, the Sidonians, and the Tyrians formed separate walled inclosures within the outer wall.

The travelers put up at an inn in the Arvadite quarter. Bessas, Myron, and Skhâ sat down after their dinner to enjoy a qa* (* 1 qa = 1-1/2 pints.) of wine apiece, while Kothar who did not drink, engaged in low-voiced converse with the proprietor. Presently these two came to where the others sat.

"Gentlemen," said Kothar, "my familiar spirits have guided me to news that should interest you. Speak, good Master Ithobaal."

The innkeeper said: "A man was here two days ago, asking after Captain Bessas and Master Myron."

The two travelers named sat up so suddenly that Myron spilt his wine. Both burst into questions.

"Nay, nay," said Ithobaal. "The rogue did not give his name, and he was such an ordinary-looking little fellow that your servant would find it hard to describe him. A Persian, I should say from the cut of his trousers and the accent of his speech. He would not say what he wanted, and when I wist nought of those whom he sought he rode away."

Bessas asked: "On an ass?"

"Nay, on a fine riding camel."

Myron said: "When he found he couldn't keep pace with us, he must have changed his mount and cut across the desert by way of Thadamora."

"He must have, ridden as if the Corpse Fiend were after him," said Bessas, "to get here so soon."

"True," said Myron. "He no doubt traced us as far as Qadesh. Knowing our destination, but not knowing about our side journey to find Master Kothar, he inferred that we should turn south upon reaching the coast. Have you any idea whither he went, O Ithobaal?"

"Ere he departed, he said something about asking in Damascus."

"That," said Myron, "means that he is making a cast inland. If we remain on the coastal road, we shall keep clear of him."

"Unless," said Bessas thoughtfully, "he threw out that remark to deceive inquirers, like us." He smote the table. "By the four teats of Ishtar, but for those damned arrow pricks, we had been ahead of him yet! Hereafter we shall all wear our jacks whilst on the road, no matter how they irk us!"

Myron thought of replying that, as he and Kothar had been wounded in the limbs, their leathern cuirasses would not have saved them. But he knew Bessas too well to start an argument. Instead he said:

"I thought things had quieted down for the nonce, but it seems not. What with temples full of harlots, tombs full of antediluvian magic, and Persian spies, at least we are not finding our journey dull!"