The Dragon of the Ishtar Gate

Kothar stopped, raising his head to listen. "A mortal draws nigh," he said.

A scrambling noise was followed by sounds of running and heavy breathing. A man burst out of a patch of scrub. While the others sat and stared, Bessas stuffed the rest of his loaf in his mouth, rose, and drew his sword, all in one smooth blur of motion.

The newcomer was young, wearing a knee-length black tunic and a round felt cap of the Phoenician type. His clothes were torn and stained. He was tall and well-built, with a jutting nose, a receding forehead and chin, and prominent eyes.

"S-s-save me!" he gasped.

"From what?" mumbled Bessas, spraying crumbs.

The man clutched Bessas' forearm and tried to speak but failed at first for want of breath. At last he said: "The S-Scribes of Jerusalem are after me. They will slay me if they catch me."

"Why should they do that?"

"Because I slew one of their men."

"Why?"

"They captured me when I—when I entered the city this morning on an errand for my temple—but here they come. It is a long—ah—story, which I will tell you later. But hide me now, in the name of the, blessed gods! I can run no farther."

"Wrap him up," said Bessas.

Sounds of movement came from the southern end of the valley, and the tethered mules and horses stirred uneasily. Myron and Skhâ wound the fugitive in cloaks and horse cloths, tied him up, and laid him on the ground near the campfire as if he were but one more bundle of gear.

A man on an ass rode into view. Behind him came several others afoot. More men emerged from the olive groves at the sides of the valley. The mounted man was plump, snub-nosed, and well-dressed in the Judaean fashion, wearing a tall hat wound with a low turban in Syrian style. The rest were a rough-looking lot, girt with long knives. Several carried spears or bows. Strips of cloth knotted around their heads kept their long unkempt hair in place.

"Get your bows ready, boys," said Bessas, slinging his bow case over his shoulder and picking up his buckler. He faced the mounted man as the latter pulled up. "Peace!" he said.

"Peace be with you," said the newcomer. "Have you seen a fugitive? A man about six feet in height, in a black tunic, with a shaven face?"

"Nay; not here."

"If he be not here, you will not mind our searching your tent and gear to make sure that he be not hidden."

Bessas' voice rumbled like a distant storm. "On the contrary, I should very much mind. Who are you?"

"I am Ira ben-Shaul, a Scribe. We seek Shimri ben-Hanun of Gaza, a murderer and idolater."

"Well, I am Bessas of Zariaspa, a Bactrian nobleman, and I let nobody search my gear. So seek your idol fancier elsewhere. Who licensed you to hunt men through the countryside?"

Ira's eyes seemed to blaze in the twilight. "The Lord God of Israel, the only true god, authorizes us! We know the man is around here somewhere. We traced him to Eshkol and have searched the land on both sides of this vale. Stand aside, or it will go hard with you."

"Nock your shafts," said Bessas over his shoulder. His sword hissed out of its scabbard. "Know, pig face, that I am on a mission of the King of All Kings, and any man hinders me at his peril. Whoever touches me, or my men, or my gear, will greet his forebears in the Judaean hell!"

The Scribe drew in his breath sharply. There was a concerted movement as his men—now swollen to more than a score—closed in around him and edged forward, gripping their weapons.

Myron, standing with an arrow nocked, felt his heart pounding painfully. If the Judaeans rushed them, Bessas, with his superhuman size and strength, might cut his way out, leap to the back of a horse, and escape. But the rest were surely doomed. Even with bucklers and leathern corselets, he and Skhâ could hardly defeat such a force by themselves. They had no redoubt like the Tower of the Snail to make up for the difference in numbers. The best they could hope for would be to take a few of their enemies with them to the land of the shades.

Kothar had not even armed himself. The Syrian sat calmly on the bundle containing the fugitive. Now he spoke in his curious low voice, whose vibrancy carried his words as far as most men's shouts.

However, instead of using Aramaic, the common speech of the Empire, Kothar spoke in the Hebrew dialect of the Canaanitish tongue. As Kothar talked, Myron saw the eyes of the Judaeans widen, so that their whites gleamed in the firelight. The ruffianly men edged back. Even Ira the Scribe pulled on his bridle, so that the ass backed away from Bessas.

At last Ira spoke a curt sentence and rode off on the road to northward, followed by his men.

Bessas turned on Kothar with a puzzled frown. "What said you?"

Kothar gave a rare smile. "First, I told them that a man had passed us on horseback, riding hard, an hour ago, and that this was perhaps he whom they sought. Then I told them that you were a leper."

"Me a leper? By Mithra—"

"Why, yes. I said that you had come down with the dread disease and, all else having failed, were on your way to Jerusalem to pray to Yahveh for a cure. It seemed reasonable enough to them."