The Dragon of the Ishtar Gate
- Автор: Де Камп Лайон Спрэг
- Год: 1968
- Язык: английский
- Год: Lancer Books
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «The Dragon of the Ishtar Gate». Краткое содержание книги:
Dragon is probably closest in mood to de Camp's fantasy novels, while Bronze God and Arrows are closer to his science fiction, with their description of engineering problems, and personality clashes among researchers and engineers. Dragon also reflects de Camp's then-recent acquaintance with the Conan stories and other works of Robert E. Howard. Bessas, the huge Persian nobleman, is not only a close match for Conan in physique, but his mood swings, fixation on his mother, and tendency to toss of verses, seems a reflection of Howard himself. (Fortunately, his poems reflect de Camp's verbal dexterity and wit, not Howard's melancholy.)
"Nought. I had planned, at need, to say that he was insane, and we were taking him to a temple to pray for his cure. But the rabble became so bemused by my little tricks—which must not be confounded with the true higher magic—that they forgot about him."
Pnon had gone to the stable to fetch back the wretched Shimri. Myron looked sharply at the guide. "Let me see those dice for a moment." When Kothar wordlessly handed Myron three dice, Myron looked them over and said: "Now the other set, pray."
"What other set?"
"You know what I mean. Come on; hand them over."
"Do as he says," rumbled Bessas.
Kothar produced another triad of dice. Myron squinted and said: "I thought so; flats. Some day you will employ these on a man with the wit to test them for true squareness, and the results will be unfortunate for you."
Kothar shrugged. "I know my business, and I have not used my little lucky gems on you."
Myron and Bessas burst into laughter. The latter said: "By the boar tusks of Verethraghna, Kothar, you are a rascal, but too useful a rascal to be discarded."
Kothar smiled faintly. "If that opinion pleases you, cherish it. You know not to whom you speak."
Myron suggested: "Why don't you take a perfect set of dice and have weights inlaid in one side, as with that copper cat? You would achieve the same result with less risk."
Kothar raised his eyebrows and put away his baubles.
On the evening of the last day of Ayaru, Bessas of Zariaspa and his following crossed the Nile from Troyu to Memphis. As the ferry could carry but one horse or mule at a time, the crossing took more than two hours, while the sun sank behind the colossal walls of Memphis—the City of the White Wall, the Abode of the Soul of Ptah.
Over the towering walls of pearly limestone appeared the upper parts of a host of colossal statues erected about .die temples by the kings of yore: the Senuserts and the Rameseses. The citadel, called the White Castle, also loomed above the wall. This was an artificial hill, surrounded by forty-foot limestone walls. It rose in the midst of the city, bearing barracks and palaces on its top. Beyond the city, the points of a score of pyramids, great and small, rising from the edge of the desert, pierced the darkening sky with black triangular teeth. Behind the travelers to eastward, a long, ragged rank of purple hills dissolved into the oncoming dark.
The travelers put up in the foreign quarter, around the temple of Hathor in the southeastern part of the city. Kothar led them past spicy-smelling markets and stinking alleys to the inn of Hazael of Damascus. Here, in the tavern on the ground floor, pale men with yellow hair in long braids, and brown men in turbans, with beards dyed orange, blue, and green, and men with black skins marked by tribal scars gorged and guzzled, while thunderous snores wafted down from the dormitory overhead.
On the first of Simanu, they climbed, the long stair of the White Castle to present the documents entitling them to food and fodder from the royal stores. The official who indorsed their applications said:
"You should present your respects to the satrap. He holds audience this morning."
"Where?" asked Bessas.
"In the audience room of the east wing of the palace. Hand your letter of introduction to the usher, who will throw it through the audience chamber window."
As he turned away, Bessas said: "By Ahriman's arse, that is the most outlandish way of conducting an audience I ever heard of. Let us see how it works."
They easily found the jostling, chattering crowd around the east wing of the ancient palace of King Wahabra. Most of the crowd were shaven Egyptians in white linen, though here and there were seen the flapping trousers of Aryans, the knitted caps with dangling tails of Babylonians, the tall spiral hats of Syrians, the ostrich-plumed headdresses of Libyans, and garb from other parts of the Persian Empire.
They crowded around a wall of dun-colored brick, pierced only by one small door and one small window. Before the door stood a pair of trousered Persian soldiers, bearing shields with bosses of gilded bronze, which blazed with the light of the fierce morning sun.
A eunuch in a gauzy robe stood by the window. People thronged around, trying to press sheets and rolls of papyrus into the eunuch's hands. All shouted about the urgency of their respective petitions. The eunuch shouted back:
"Easy, pray! Get in line! Do not push! All shall be taken care of! Quiet, good people! Slowly! Get in line! One at a time!"
Paying no heed to the eunuch's demands, the crowd pushed harder and shouted more loudly. Bessas shouldered his way through the throng, which gave back before him with scowls and muttered curses. The eunuch picked him out by his towering stature and called:
"You there! Have you aught to present?"
"My respects to the satrap. Here is a letter from the Great King signed by the hazarapat Artabanus, commending me to all satraps and subgovernors. They told me to hand it to you, but I shall want it back."
The eunuch glanced at the sheet of parchment, rolled it up, and tossed it through the window. "Wait," he said, and turned back to the importunate horde.
Presently a voice from the audience room called: "Send them in!" The eunuch pushed aside the crowd and ushered Bessas, whose followers trailed in his wake, to the door.
Myron found himself in a room whose plastered walls were decorated with colored pictures in the old Egyptian style, depicting the deeds of animal-headed gods. Captions in Egyptian priestly writing, made up of little processions of men, animals, plants, and other objects, ran along the wall above and below the pictures. Costly Persian rugs lay on the floor, golden lamps gave off: a reek of castor .oil, and the satrap sat at a papyrus-littered table of ivory and ebony.
Achaemenes son of Darius, brother of King Xerxes and governor of the satrapy of Mudraya, was a tall, well-built, handsome man, with glossy black hair and the long hooked Achaemenid nose. He was younger than Xerxes, whom he otherwise much resembled. His robe was sewn with pearls; jewels winked red and green and purple from his narrow diadem of yellow gold. His expression was weary, sleepy, and bored.
There were six other persons in the room: a pair of bodyguards, a secretary, an interpreter, and two clerks. One of the clerks stood close to the small window. When he received a signal from the secretary, he called through the narrow opening: "Next!"
A piece of papyrus whizzed through the window. The clerk caught it with the skill of a seasoned ball player, glanced at it, and passed it to the other clerk, who sorted the missives into piles: those to be routinely dealt with by underlings, those to be brought to the satrap's attention, and those to be rejected out of hand.
The secretary took those for the satrap's personal attention and read them to Achaemenes in Persian, while the translator stood by to help with petitions in unusual languages. After each letter was read to Achaemenes, he dictated a reply. This, if short enough, was written on the original petition; otherwise the secretary wrote a separate letter and fastened the two together with a dab of gum. A murmur of talk between the secretary and the governor floated in the air:
"Another of these heirs despoiled by his wicked guardian ..." "... complaint of corruption in the Province of the Catfish ..." "... should be looked into; send the detective Sebek-hotep ..." "... tax gatherer slain by a mob in Duqau ..." "... has been ih prison six months without action ..." "... theft of arms from arsenal ..." "... brother-in-law threatens to slay him; he wishes governmental protection ..." "The villagers of Kaïs complain of a demon that haunts their fields; can we send an exorcist? ..."
At last Achaemenes looked up, yawned prodigiously, and asked: "Which is Bessas of Zariaspa?"
Bessas crossed his hands on his breast and bowed low "I am he, my lord. The gods give Your Highness long life and wealth."