Semiramis: A Tale of Battle and of Love. Edward Peple

       Edward Peple

      Semiramis: A Tale of Battle and of Love

      Published by Good Press, 2021

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      EAN 4064066098148

      Table of Contents

       Cover

       Titlepage

       Text

      "

      PREFACE.

      The existing history of Assyria's greatest ruler, Semiramis, is so confounded with the religions and superstitions of the ancients that little or no authentic fact may be gleaned therefrom. Again, these legends were handed down from father to son among the Syrians and imaginative Persians, till finally recorded by the more imaginative Greeks. These latter gentlemen seemed seldom to allow mere truth to stand as a stumbling block in their literary paths, but leaped it nimbly for the entertainment of an admiring world.

      As for poets, they ever sing of Queen Semiramis at a period of her seasoned age and wickedness, though her "devilish beauty" continued to abide with her, being wielded as an evil scepter o'er the souls of men; yet much must be forgiven in a poet, because of that strange inaptitude of truth for a friendly relationship with meter and with rhyme.

      In every human, however bad, there exists a trace of virtue, even as, on the other hand, no mortal yet has lived without some blemish of flesh or mind or heart; thus Nature balances her weird accounts, leaving the extremes of vice or purity to mythical ideals.

      Given a woman without imagination or originality, and that woman deserves no credit whatsoever for her righteousness. She exists; she does not live; for her temptation possesses no attractive lure. Yet given another woman, of beauty, temper, brains, and for her the battles of good and evil will be waged till her fires are dead. Her better self must battle against ambition, passion, the blood of direct inheritance, the thousand ghostly guides that lead her into perilous ways, while on the scales of circumstances must hang the issue of her rise or fall. She must face still other foes, in men who are stronger than herself—men who seek her charms for weel or woe; for perfect love is a woman's highest goal, and a man may make or mar it by the mould of his great or little heart.

      If, therefore, in her later days Semiramis was evil, the fault was not all her own. She chose her master—not the master of her mind, but the master of her woman's heart, and to him she gave her all. What wonder, then, that when her all was filched by lustful treachery, departing peace awoke a sleeping devil in her blood?

      Great faults had Queen Semiramis, and many, as viewed by enlightened women from a reach of two thousand years; yet who shall say that evil would have claimed this splendid savage had fate not raised another savage to mould her destiny?

      It is not the purpose of this work to present a series of historical facts, for even the legends of Semiramis are too absurd and fragmentary to admit of such a hope. Its aim—in emulation of the worthy Greeks—is, at least, to entertain, albeit a truth or two may now and again be handled carelessly. It treats of ancient loves and wars, a tangle of myth and probability—a patch-work, woven into a quilt which, at worst, may assist the reader in going peacefully to sleep.

      July, 1907. E. P.

      SEMIRAMIS

      CHAPTER I

      THE RAISING OF THE SIEGE

      King Ninus sat his war horse, gazing sadly out across the walls of Zariaspa. His cheek was bronzed by the brush of many winds, his muscles hardened by the toil of battle in a hundred lands; the blood of dauntless youth ran riot in his veins, yet it whispered at his heart that the King had failed.

      Behind him the mountains of Hindu-Kush towered, dull and purple, in the morning light, their peaks obscured in coils of snake-like mist. Southward they ran, a ragged line of hills, till they reached the height of Hindu-Koh and claimed a brotherhood with the mighty Himalayas. To right and left the hill-steeps lay, a barren waste of rock and stunted shrubbery, while at the feet of Assyria's King stretched fertile valleys, and the plains of Bactria reaching away to the banks of the River Oxus.

      In the centre of the plain stood Zariaspa, the city which defied Assyria's might, a fortress whose walls rose thirty cubits above the earth, grim, battle-scarred, but still unconquered. Within, the defenders feasted from a never ending store of food which seemed to drop by magic from the brazen skies, while without, a hungry host of besieging foes sat, cursing, in the sand.

      So Ninus sat upon his horse in troubled thought, a monarch cheated of his heart's desire—cheated by craft and prowess more subtle than his own. To his side rode Menon down a mountain trail, a Prince of the house of Naïri, now travel-stained from a baffled hunt for the secret of Zariaspa's store of food. He made report, and Ninus listened, silent, nodding slowly, frowning at the distant walls.

      In feature and form these two were as oddly matched as the sons of a kindred race might be. The King was of massive frame and corded thews, a leader of men who ruled by the right of might, who offered to those he loved an open hand—to his enemies a hard-clenched fist. Haughty of mien was he, with the eyes of a restless hawk burning beneath the shadow of his brow; his strong, square chin lay hidden in his beard, while from his helm swept a mass of hair, resting in thick, oiled curls upon his shoulders.

      The Prince beside him was but a boy in years, with a beardless face of beauty to look upon, a slender, nimble frame, yet hardened in the school of hunting and of war. Where Fate was pleased to mark his path, there Menon[#] rode with a loose, free rein, mocking at danger as he played at love, yet scorning not discretion's padded shield.

      [#] This name is known to modern writers as Onnes or Cannes, but the historian Diodorus called him Menon and this name has been used by the author throughout.

      Where Ninus smashed his way through the bristling ranks of opposing force, Menon skimmed in crafty circles till he found the weakest point, then cut it cleanly, as the swallow cuts the wind. Where Ninus frowned and crushed obedience to his will, there Menon bought devotion's merchandise with the price of a joyous laugh; yet the boy, withal, had need to lean upon the arm of power, while the King was a king from helm to heel, a lord to whom his mighty armies gave idolatry and the tribute of their blood.

      "Menon," spoke the King at length, as he pointed across the plain to Zariaspa, "I have sworn by Bel and Ramân to lay yon city low, to sack it to the dust of its whitest ash. Thinkest thou we may some day cease to squat in the manner of toads outside its walls?"

      "Aye, my lord," the Prince returned, with a fleeting smile, "some day—when the toads have learned to fly."

      King Ninus nodded thoughtfully, and with his fingers combed at his thick, black beard.

      "True," he answered, "true; and yet we soon will be upon the wing. Look thou and listen." Again he pointed, not at the city's walls, but to the monster camp which circled Zariaspa as a girdle rests about a woman's waist. "See, Menon, thy King hath learned to fly."

      Now even as he spoke, the besieging army woke as from a heavy sleep. On the gentle wind came a clank and clatter of swiftly gathered arms, the squeak of wheels and the harsh, shrill cries of captains to their men. At first the sound was faint and far, a whispered echo through the morning mists; yet anon it multiplied and swelled into a busy roar, as the vanguard of Assyria's hosts turned tail upon their enemies and crawled toward the southern mountain-pass.