The Dragon of the Ishtar Gate

VIII – The Fish-Tailed God

Beyond Yabne-el they reached the sea once more and rode down the coast of Philistaea among sand dunes and low hills dotted with palms and tamarisks. They passed caravans, single wayfarers, and once in a while a Persian post rider.

Some traveler was always in sight: a family group, trudging through the sand in search of opportunity; a private letter carrier, ambling along on his ass with his leathern letter bags; a pair of young nomads from some shaykh's family, with bright sashes and jeweled daggers, galloping recklessly down the middle of the road and shouting to make way; a gang of manacled slaves shambling sadly ahead of a whip-wielding overseer; a local magnate, borne in a gilded litter with guards and whifflers tramping behind and before.

Shimri ben-Hanun, for whom room had been made on a baggage mule by shifting loads, proved himself as able an archer as he had said. He was certainly strong, athletic, and handy.

But Myron still looked at the young man with reserved speculation. There was something odd about him. His face twitched and grimaced nervously, and he sometimes grinned or laughed without apparent cause. He wanted to stop at every village to buy a snack of food. As they neared Ashdod, Shimri said:

"It were better not to speak my name in Ashdod, or in Ashqelon."

"Why?" asked Myron.

"Be-because there are rival temples of Dagon in these cities—rivals to ours, I mean—and while I do not think that their people would attack us, there might be some unpleasantness."

Myron said: "If these three temples all worship the same god, and if all are threatened by the Yahvists, I should think you would find it expedient to unite your forces."

"What, our people take orders from lousy Ashdodites and Ashqelonites?" Shimri guffawed. "As our cult is the oldest, going back to the Flood, they ought to take orders from us! Besides, we are the only ones that perform the correct ritual of baptism, with total immersion."

"Perhaps; but we Hellenes have learnt some costly lessons from the Persians about the value of unity."

They passed through Ashdod and Ashqelon without incident and in mid-afternoon reached Gaza, set amid yellow sandstone hills half a league from the sea. The citadel stood on a hill surrounded by hundred-foot bluffs, while the town sprawled untidily about the base of the hill. The streets were crowded with trains of dromedaries and other beasts of burden, for here met the caravan routes to Egypt, to Elath on the Red Sea, and to the great Phoenician and Syrian cities.

The temple of Dagon stood on a seaward slope. Within the temenos, at a lower level than the temple, was a structure like a Greek theater, with many tiers of stone seats. Instead of a stage, however, the seats faced a large tank of water. The pool was filled from a fountain, which sprayed from a vase in the hands of a sculptured Dagon: a long-bearded, benign-looking god whose lower half took the form of a fish's tail.

Beyond the upper tiers of seats spread the broad temenos, planted with palms and pomegranate trees. Amid the greenery rose a many-columned temple. In front of this temple, Shimri ben-Hanun presented his fellow travelers to the high priest of Dagon, the most holy and reverend Meremoth ben-Achish.

"Peace to you, my sons," said Meremoth, a short man with a paunch and a pleasant smile. "Certes you shall be quartered on the temple grounds, without cost to you, as a small return for your charity to Shimri. Dinner shall be sent to your quarters within the hour." (Shimri burst into a wide and foolish grin, so that to Myron he looked more than ever like some stalk-eyed sea creature.) "After you have eaten and rested, perhaps you were fain to witness our vernal ceremony of baptism. Who knows? You might be converted to the worship of the merciful Lord of the Waters."

"What happens, sir?" said Bessas.

"There are hymns and prayers and a sacred dance, thanking the god for the bountiful crops and fisheries of the season past. Then all the initiates enter the tank, one at a time, and there their sins of the year are washed away."

Shimri laughed, spraying saliva. "That is what the accursed Yahvists most object to. They—ah—they have some silly idea that we ought to go swimming in our shirts!"

Meremoth cast a sidelong glance at Shimri. "Do I understand that your purpose to take this lion of the faith with you to Kush?"

"Aye," said Bessas. "Think you he will do? If he fights as he eats, he were an army in himself."

"I think it a noble conceit; Philistaea will not be safe for him for many moons to come. Kalev! Conduct these gentlemen to the quarters reserved for pilgrims of rank ..."

Bessas swallowed the last of his dinner and rose. "We cannot idle away the afternoon if we wish to see that ceremony Father Meremoth promised us. I must buy a horse and some gear for Master Shimri. Remain here to guard our possessions, Skhâ."

Kothar, who ate little, had already excused himself, saying that he wished to speak of spiritual matters with one of the priests of Dagon. When Bessas, Myron, and Shimri returned from their shopping, Skhâ had disappeared, too. The temple servants disclosed that the Karian had gone out shortly before, after asking the way to the best tavern.

"We sent him to Baruch's," they said. "He carries a good line of Judaean and imported wines and Egyptian beer, and he robs not the stranger. Three streets north ..."

Because of the hour, Baruch's tavern was not yet crowded. A low sun beat in through the small window; flies buzzed gently in the dusty heat. In one corner sat three long-haired Persians in low-voiced converse. In another, a clean-shaven Egyptian pored over the cryptic picture writing on a long strip of papyrus. An Arab and a Judaean played tjau, or Egyptian checkers.

Skhâ son of Thuvlo had backed Baruch himself against the wine counter and was talking a stream of chatter in a high, excited voice, waving his pottery mug until the beer slopped over.

"... so here we were, in this accursed Tower of the Snail, with a hundred wild nomads swirling about and thirsting for our blood, their arrows flying thick as hail ..."

Skhâ's voice died as he became aware of Bessas, looming over him with a dangerously ruddy face. "Oh, greetings, Lord Bessas! I hoped you would come along because I came in here forgetting that I had no money, and was that not stupid of me? I was just telling Master Baruch—"

"Shut up and put down that mug!"

"Why?" said Skhâ. "Is it that—"

Bessas' hamlike hand came around and dealt the Karian a terrific buffet, sending him clear across a table to sprawl on the floor. Myron ran to pick up the unconscious man, saying:

"I hope you haven't broken his neck!"

"I think not; it takes a harder blow than that." Bessas threw the remains of Skhâ's beer in the young man's face. "He revives. Drag him back to the temple. How much is the scot, taverner?"

On their way back, Skhâ stumbled along in a daze, with one side of his face reddened and swollen. "You loosened my teeth," he mumbled at last.

"Chew on the other side of your face for a few days, and they'll tighten up again," said Bessas. "That is nought to what will happen the next time you desert your post. A whip for the horse, a bridle for the ass, and a rod for the fool's back."

"I will not follow a leader who uses his men so cruelly! I am no slave! I will go home!"

"Go ahead. But you will find it a long walk."

"How dare you! That piebald pony is mine!"

"Horse dung! You have just as much right to it as I have, which is right of possession. And who gave you leave to blab our affairs in public, so that the whole city shall know our plans? You know that we have ill-wishers, and our safety demands discretion. Better to stumble with the foot than with the tongue. Well, what are you waiting for? Yonder lies the Ashqelon Gate and the road to northward."

Skhâ trudged a few steps in silence. Then a voice spoke behind them in Persian:

"Are you not Bessas of Zariaspa?"

Bessas whirled. Myron could not be sure, but he thought this might be one of the Persians whom he had seen in Baruch's tavern. The man wore a short-sleeved shirt, embroidered trousers, and a bucket-shaped leathern hat.

"Who are you?" demanded Bessas. "May God befriend you; call your slave Cyaxares. I have that to say which will interest you."

"What is it?"

"Not in the street, sir. Will you excuse your friends and step this way?"

"Myron here is my lieutenant. What is news for me is news for him, too."

"We prefer to talk to you alone."

"No Myron, no talk."

"Be it as you wish. Hither, pray."

"Skhâ!" said Bessas. "Hasten back to the temple and tell Shimri and Kothar that we have gone with this man. If we be not back by dark, arm yourselves and look for us."

As Bessas and Myron followed Cyaxares, Myron muttered in Greek: "Suppose that, instead of reporting to the temple, Skhâ carries out his threat to desert? It will be some time before he ceases to resent that blow, which would have staggered an elephant. You are so hasty!"

Bessas shrugged. "We must needs take some chances."

Cyaxares led them into a winding alley, through a door, down a short hall, and into a room. A pair of rush-lights on a small table dimly illumined this room; a curtain was fastened across the one small window.

Four men sat in the room. As Bessas and Myron entered, they rose and bowed with hands crossed on their bosoms in formal Persian style. All four wore bashlyks pulled up to their eyes, so that Myron could not tell whether they were already known to him.

Bessas and Myron seated themselves. After a short silence, one of the masked men said:

"Hail, Bessas son of Phraates! We heard that you were bound hither and hoped to intercept you. The loquacity of your Karian made our task easier than it would otherwise have been."

"Some day," growled Bessas, "I shall wring that young rattlepate's neck. But what do you wish of me?"

Again a short silence. Then: "We know the cause of your journey to Kush. Would you say that the king had used you justly?"

Bessas narrowed his eyes. "On that, men's opinions might honestly differ. But you brought me here to tell me something, not to ask me questions."

"Your slave begs your pardon. What I mean is: since King Xerxes has dealt so rudely with you, would you—"

The sound of scuffle interrupted. Cyaxares and another Persian burst in the door, dragging by the arms a small nondescript man, also in Persian dress. Cyaxares said:

"We found this knave lurking in the alley, trying to listen in at yonder window."

A masked man thrust a rushlight close to the prisoner's face. "I know this rogue. He is Datas son of Zamaspes, King's Eye of the third class. Hold him tightly." The masked man drew his dagger.

The prisoner began to struggle frantically. He shouted: "Help! Murd—"

The dagger found the heart of Datas, who jerked and went limp.

"Dispose of him after dark," said the killer. He turned back to Bessas, wiping his blade. "As my unworthy self was saying, would you list to place upon the imperial throne a legitimate prince, in room of the lecherous, bungling son of the usurper?"

Bessas gave a non-committal grunt. "And how know I that you are not more agents of Xerxes, striving to trap me in treason?"

"You have just seen what we do to Xerxes' spies when we catch them."

"But I still have only your word that things are as they seem, and that the dead man was in sooth an agent of the king."

The masked speaker turned. "My lord, this fellow is stubborn. Shall we discover all to him?"

"We might as well," said the seated man thus addressed. "Usually we sound a man out, little by little; but time is lacking for that approach." He rose and pulled off his bashlyk, revealing a shock of graying hair. The man, thought Myron, was elderly but vigorous. "O Bessas, you look upon Orontes son of Cambyses, rightful heir to the throne of Persia. How long will you supinely endure the misdeeds of the usurper's son, who throws away the glorious Persian armies in reckless and blundering forays against the barbarous Hellenes; who destroys his most faithful and virtuous follower, his brother Masistes; who ..."

Orontes declaimed an impassioned oration, reciting King Xerxes' faults, real or fancied, and promising to do better in every respect. He concluded:

"... and when I am king, the Empire shall be a paradise on earth. Taxes shall be lowered; the army shall be modernized and its pay increased; trade shall be fostered; the poor shall wax prosperous and the prosperous become rich. Honor and justice shall reign from Hind to Thrace, and from Scythia to Kush. By the sacred Mount Hukairya I swear it! Already I have hundreds of partisans among the Aryan nobility. Next year it will be thousands. I need such a mighty and valorous man as you. For years I have watched your career and planned how best to draw you into my following. In dealing with Xerxes you will earn nought but suspicion and ingratitude, whereas my supporters shall be greater than kings! And those who join before the victory shall have precedence over those who come later. How say you, Bessas son of Phraates?"

Bessas gave a small sigh. "Your proposal might beguile your slave another time, Lord Orontes. But now, gentlemen, I must needs carry out my mission and obtain the release of my mother."

"You know not that the false king will in sooth release your mother. He is as likely to slay the twain of you for some fancied grudge."

Bessas muttered to Myron in Greek: "Stand by for . trouble." His mouth was set in hard lines as he turned back to Orontes. "I am sorry, gentlemen, but I am not to be had. If I succeed in my mission, approach me afterwards and we shall see. Meanwhile you may trust me to keep silent—"

"I fear it is not so simple," said the man who had stabbed Datas, blocking the door. "We urged you to join us; very well, you refuse. But we cannot then let you go—"

In a flash, Bessas whipped out his sword and struck, not at the man facing him, but at two rushlights. Their bronzen holders flew against the wall with a double clank, and both yellow flames went out. Now the room was lit only by the little daylight that could pierce the curtain over the window.

"Come on, Myron!" roared Bessas.

Myron leaped up and threw the stool, on which he had been sitting, towards the other masked men. In the momentary darkness, before his eyes adjusted themselves, he heard the sound of a heavy blow and the fall of a body. With a loud rending of wood, the door flew open, tearing out its socket pins.

For an instant Myron saw the doorway blocked by the huge silhouette of Bessas. The augmented light also revealed the man who had killed Datas lying across the door sill. Of the other men in the room, some were rising, some drawing daggers, and one was picking himself up off the floor after having been struck by Myron's stool. So lightning fast had Bessas' action been that the conspirators had not yet been able to gather themselves for a rush.

Myron sprang through the doorway, hurdling the fallen man, and pounded down the hall after Bessas, who had already readied the outer door. The giant paused long enough to sheathe his sword and assure himself that Myron was with him.

They ran out into the alley as the Persians poured out of the room behind them, crying pursuit. Someone blew a whistle; shouts and tramplings came from other parts of the house.

At the end of the alley, Myron and Bessas came to the wall surrounding the temenos of the temple of Dragon. The alleys were deserted, as most of the people of Gaza were at dinner. Bessas took a few steps along the alley that followed the wall, then paused to listen.

"They come from both directions," he said. "Over the wall with us!"

Although the wall was higher than Bessas' head, he placed his huge hands on Myron's waist and effortlessly boosted the Greek up to the top of the wall. Then he caught the rim and swung himself up, straddled the wall, and dropped down inside. They crouched in a dense grove of palms.

Myron groaned. "Herakles! I turned my ankle when I fell in here. If I survive this frightful journey, I'll stick to school-teaching the rest of my life."

"A pox on your ankle!" muttered Bessas. "Listen!"

A clatter of feet and a rush of Persian speech revealed that their pursuers had reached the point outside the wall that was nearest to the fugitives. Orontes' voice sounded; "Less noise, you! We would not rouse the city. Where could they have gone, since we came out both alleys? We should have trapped them here."

"Belike they climbed the wall," said another voice.

"That must be it!" said Orontes. "That Bessas has the thews of a lion. Cyaxares, take your six men down that way to the small gate, break it open, enter the temenos, and beat up the bushes towards this place. Izates, make your men kneel to form a pyramid against the wall, so that we can scale it. Fear not the temple guards; they will not interfere when they see our steel. For our own safety, these men must be slain."

"The fellow has some ability as a captain," said Bessas. "Let's get out of here. Beware of snakes."

Bessas led the way, with Myron limping behind. Beyond the palms lay a band of ornamental shrubs and flowers, planted in rows in the Persian style. Beyond these loomed the temple, tinted pink by the setting sun. On their right they could see the corner of the theater, below which, out of sight, lay the tank of water.

"Merciful gods!" said Bessas.

Issuing from the temple, and winding past the theater and down towards the pool, came a procession of naked men and women. They came in no special order of sex or age: male and female, old and young, lithe and paunchy, all were intermingled.

"This must be Father Meremoth's baptismal procession," said Myron.

From the palm grove behind them came sounds of Orontes' men and snatches of speech: "Look into that dark clump ..."

"No, they are not here."

"Perhaps they have run into the temple ..."

The nude procession wound down out of sight to the right. The tail end of the line passed in front of Myron and Bessas, not over twenty paces distant, but driblets of tardy worshipers continued to issue from the side door of the temple, running to take their places at the end of the line.

Behind Myron, sounds of pursuit came closer. Myron said: "We cannot remain here. But I cannot run, alas!"

"What in the name of Ghu can we do?" said Bessas. "I cannot abandon my comrade!"

"Thanks, old man," said Myron. "Let me think ... By the Dog of Egypt, I have it! Do you see this big shrub? If we conceal our garments beneath it, we can dash out and join the end of the procession without anyone's being the wiser. The Persians would not recognize us without our bashlyks."

"Mithra! Me expose myself in that shameless fashion? I had liefer die!"

"Well, you will soon have an opportunity." Myron began to disrobe. "Those fellows behind us are coming closer. Think of your mother! Besides, we need baths, and these will be free."

With the look of a man led to execution, Bessas imitated Myron. Choosing a moment when no more latecomers were running from the temple, and those already in line were looking towards the pool, Myron limpingly led his huge comrade out of the shrubbery and up to the tail of the line.

They had no sooner joined than one more initiate, a beautiful, copper-haired, superbly formed young woman, fell in behind them. She at once began to chatter:

"Is the ceremony not thrilling? Does not Father Meremoth stage it beautifully? I am sure the gods are pleased. I have not seen you at these rites before; are you but lately initiated?"

Bessas, next to this beauty in line, answered with inarticulate grunts. He kept his head averted, blushing a rosy pink. Fearing that his comrade would arouse suspicion by this churlish conduct, Myron changed places with Bessas and gravely answered the girl's questions.

They were descending the slope to the pool when an altercation broke out behind them. Evidently the temple guards and the followers of Orontes were having it out. A priest, resplendent in a robe embroidered with golden thread, hurried up the steps of the pool, frowning portentously. Snatches of talk wafted down:

"... murderers hid in here ..." "How dare you disturb our divine services?" "Stand aside, or it will be worse for you!" "We will appeal to the governor."

"What is the matter?" said the girl. "Have strangers invaded our holy precinct?"

"If they are unauthorized, no doubt the Lord of the Waters will deal with them in his own fashion," said Myron blandly.

A Persian and a temple guard walked past them, arguing furiously in an undertone. Myron whispered in Greek: "Do not look around or display any interest!"

Bessas held up a skinned knuckle and replied in the same tongue: "I fear I broke that fellow's jaw."

The Persian and the Judaean passed on. Bessas and Myron found themselves at the edge of the pool.

The bald, wrinkled oldster who preceded them stepped down the marble stair into the pool. There a pair of naked priests awaited him, standing chest-deep in water. As the man submitted to being ducked by the priests, cymbals clashed, a drum rolled, trumpets called, and the audience on the theater benches burst into a song in an archaic tongue that Myron did not recognize, but which he supposed to be the dead Philistine language.

"Go ahead," he said to Bessas. "You are expected to swim the length of the tank."

Bessas cast a stricken glance back at his lieutenant and strode down into the pool. The priests pushed him under, and he came up coughing and spluttering. When he got his breath he began to swim slowly and clumsily.

A high, piercing voice, that of Shimri ben-Hanun, called out in Aramaic over the song of the worshipers: "Hail Bessas, the Bactrian hero!" A shriek of laughter in Skhâ's voice followed.

Bessas cast a ferocious glower towards the grandstand.

At once he missed his stroke and went under. He came up, coughing and spitting, and waded the rest of the way. Attendants with towels awaited him at the exit stairway. The scarlet sun sank below the edge of the Syrian Sea.

Back in the pilgrim's quarters, Bessas said: "You damned fool, Shimri, you might have gotten us slain by your folly! I ought to leave you here for that reason alone."

"Oh, master, it was not so bad as that!" said Shimri, giggling. "Nought went amiss. And we were so astonished, seeing you and Myron in the procession, that I could not help speaking out."

Bessas glared round the circle. Skhâ, sitting on his pallet, held his hands over his mouth in a futile effort to bridle his mirth. Even Kothar, who best maintained his usual gravity, allowed the corners of his mouth to twitch a trifle.

Myron said: "What I don't understand, O Bessas, is why you acted so standoffish with that girl behind us. She was a handsome wench and very friendly."

"Would you know, forsooth? The reason was that I have not exercised my lance since Halpa, and I feared that the sight of the filly would rouse my lusts, with results for all to see. Would that not be a fine addition to the cerem—"

A knock sounded, and there stood Meremoth. He came in gravely, exchanged pleasantries, sat down, and then burst into laughter.

"So you are now fully baptized Dagonites, without having been initiated! It is most irregular, but under the circumstances your servant blames you not. At least your sins are now cleansed from you. I have learnt of that gang who pursued you hither." He wiped his eyes. "All I can say is, lucky the lord who has such abandoned rogues as you on his side!"

Bessas managed a wry grin. "Next time I am to be shown to the world in this outlandish fashion, I will try to have my whiskers curled and my visage painted like a proper Aryan gentleman."

"I fear the paint would wash off; nor would the curls fare better." The priest became serious. "But I cannot advise you to tarry. We can afford you but little protection. The Persian governor at Ashqelon has only a few armed men. In the sight of our local magistrates, if one Persian cut the throat of another, that is all to the good and no concern of theirs."

"In other words," said Bessas, "we had better get out whilst our heads still adorn our shoulders."

Kothar said: "The omens are dire for leaving now."

"The omens are a lot worse for staying," replied Bessas. "Can you send a man to rouse us at the beginning of the second watch, Father Meremoth? We shall lie down and go to sleep at once, to strengthen us for the journey!"

Having bid the priest good-night, Bessas proceeded to do just this.

Before false morning raised its misty spear above the deserts of Shos, Bessas' company reached the frontier post of Rapih. Here they crossed from the satrapy of Syria into that of Egypt. Bessas' five mules were heavily laden with leathern water bottles against the hard march along the Sinaitic coast.

Bessas and Myron turned in their saddles to look back along the dark undulations of the dunes, cast into sharp shadows by the rising of the bisected moon behind them.

"Well!" said Myron. "Praise the gods and goddesses, at least we shan't have to worry henceforth about spies and assassins sent after us by kings, nobles, and pretenders. Although I bow to Adrasteia, they can hardly reach us in Egypt."

"If they come, we shall be ready," said Bessas. "In vain the net is spread in the sight of the bird."

"Let's hope so. They have made the journey a nightmare hitherto, but now we need fear only being gulped down by the great Serbonian bog."

Kothar looked from one to the other with a speculative expression. Off in the tamarisk clumps, a hyena laughed. At least, Myron hoped it was a hyena.

King Xerxes sat in the chamber of his wizard Ostanas. The king handed the seer a roll of crackly yellow papyrus, which the latter unrolled.

"What make you of that?" said the king.

Ostanas moved a lamp closer and squinted in the yellow light. He read slowly aloud:

DAURISES, SUBGOVERNOR OF PHILISTAEA, PROSTRATES HIMSELF BEFORE THE GREAT KING, THE KING OF KINGS, THE KING OF THE WORLD, XERXES SON OF DARIUS, THE ARYAN, THE ACHAEMENID.

Know, O King, that two days past, word came to your slave that a Persian had been slain in Gaza. Knowing how little the Judaeans care for sacred Aryan blood, your slave at once rode forth to look into this crime in person.

The man had been knifed and buried in the sand of the beach. His body was discovered when dogs were seen digging at the spot. Your slave brought the body back to Ashqelon, where a King's Eye, Rhambacas by name, identified the dead man as King's Eye third class Datas son of Zamaspes.

It may be more than happenstance that, the day before this discovery, the man Bessas of Zariaspa, concerning whom the Great King wrote his slave, left Gaza bound for Egypt. However, Meremoth ben-Achish, high priest of Dagon of Gaza, informs my unworthy self that Bessas and his followers lodged at the temple of Dagon during their sojourn in Gaza, and that as far as Meremoth knows they took no part in any stabbing affray. Your slave will continue to investigate this deplorable crime with the utmost energy and diligence whereof he is capable.

"Well?" said the king.

"Let us consult those wiser than we, sire," said Ostanas, blowing up his brazier and feeding it jasmine seeds.

As the seeds popped and the writhing thread of blue smoke arose, Ostanas stared at it, resting his white-bearded chin upon his knobby old hand. At last he said:

"Methinks the pretender Orontes is involved in this. The smoke tells your slave that Bessas sought out the pretender in Gaza to assure Orontes of his loyalty—to Orontes, that is—and that, when Datas espied them at their tryst, Bessas slew him."

Xerxes slowly closed his fist. "Datas was a good man; I shall miss him. We must make certain that, when Bessas returns, he slip not through our fingers. My Majesty has plans for that villain!"

Ostanas smiled a snag-toothed grin. "And so, my lord, have I."