The Dragon of the Ishtar Gate

The next month was the most terrible that Myron had ever experienced. Leaving the river a few leagues south of Tenupsis, they struck southeastward, trying to skirt the edges of the gigantic swamp of which Akol had warned them. This, however, was not easy, for the entire land was flooded, ankle to calf deep, and the swamp sent out tendrils and outliers for many leagues. League upon league they splashed through stagnant surface water. The watery plain, covered with long, brown, dead grass, stretched as far as eye could cast. Only rarely a low flat-topped ridge or hummock, crowned with trees and termite hills, raised itself above the morass. The elevations were not dry either, as the leaden skies poured rain incessantly upon the land.

From time to time they had to avoid a patch of swamp. Many leagues they wasted, blundering among the bogs and starting marsh, buck with grotesquely long, pointed hooves. Although Merqetek claimed to have been through this land before, he had not learnt his way. He was therefore useless as a guide, though still valuable as an interpreter.

Bessas said: "By the claws of the Corpse Fiend, this damnable country reminds me of the swamps of the Upper Oxus, near Zariaspa. They are good for marsh demons and venomous serpents but for nought else."

On the elevations they often found a village, with a group of naked, club-hefting villagers glowering at them. Sometimes they had to retreat to avoid attack, as they were now in no condition for battle.

They never knew how they would be received. Sometimes the villagers were implacably hostile. Sometimes they were suspicious but willing to live and let live. Sometimes they were friendly. One never could tell in advance.

Because the sun and the stars were hidden most of the time, the travelers often found themselves headed in the wrong direction. When the rain let up, biting flies appeared in swarms. One striped devil with an orange body and black and white wings bore a proboscis over half the length of its body, standing out before it like a lance. A man attacked by it leaped and yelled as though stuck with a hot needle.

Food and water were not yet problems, as Bessas sometimes shot a game animaclass="underline" a bounding tiang, a droop-eared roan antelope, or a burly waterbuck. For these hunts he borrowed one of the others' bows, not wishing to expose his precious Parthian war bow to the wet and risk having its laminations come unglued.

But the dampness and the attacks of insects began to tell. A camel died, and then a horse, and then another camel. The Arab who had been ailing weakened until he could hardly sit a camel. Then one night he, too, died. They mourned him, for of all the Arabs in the company he had been the most likable.

Skhâ, his taste for travel sated, wept for his distant home. Shimri glared, grimaced, twitched, and often muttered to himself.

Instead of letting up as Akol had promised, the rain became heavier. It rusted their weapons despite all the oiling and polishing they did. It got into their food and spoilt it. It got into some of the salt they had brought to trade and melted it together into solid blocks. It got into Myron's precious notes and made most of them illegible. At this, the Milesian burst into tears.

Bessas put an arm around Myron's shoulders and said: "Cheer up, old man. When we reach a dry clime, you can rewrite them from memory."

Myron gulped. "Never can I remember all those native names for plant:; and beasts!"

The ordeal brought out the best in Bessas. He was gentle with the weak, stern with the slack, and hearty with the willing. He was the first to leap to any difficult task. He drove his men, but he drove himself twice as hard. When they were utterly downhearted, he cheered with boisterous songs and crude jokes. Myron remarked:

"You are a greater man than I suspected, my boy. You seem to have learnt that there is more to leadership than hitting people over the head. Now, could I but persuade you to give serious thought to the nature of man and the universe—"

Bessas wagged a finger: "Flattery will gain you nought, teacher! I know you would fain make me over into a philosopher like yourself, but that were like teaching a horse to play the harp. A man of action I have always been; a man of action I shall always be."

"Well, Cyrus and Darius didn't get the name of 'great' solely by bashing in the skulls of miscreants, so why should you expect to?"

"Who said I wanted to be Cyrus or Darius? I enjoy life too much as Bessas of Zariaspa to wish to change."

Myron said: "Let me see if I cannot express your meaning by one of your Persian quatrains." He struggled with his muse for a few ush, then recited: