by Anthology
Another pandemonium of noise and cheering.
“And so, fellow men,” Jipfur concluded, “let us march on to Borbel and surprise our esteemed patesi and patriot by entering his palace singing his praises.”
On we marched, and thousands of lusty throats among us gave out with thundering anthems whose weird and freakish melodies I took to denote abounding joy. Even the two aristocratic ladies-in-waiting who accompanied Jipfur’s sister must have been singing; the squeaking chariot wheels couldn’t have made all the shrill sounds from that vicinity.
Within two miles of Borbel a pair of messengers raced ahead to be sure the way was clear. They didn’t race back. As we entered Borbel and approached Slaf-Carch’s palace we still saw nothing of the messengers.
There was a crowd of people milling among the glazed blue columns at the entrance. They must have seen us coming, but they didn’t come out to greet us.
This was strange. We couldn’t understand it. Our hilarious spirits suffered a mysterious chill, we slackened our pace, then stopped. Jipfur commanded us to wait and he rode up to the palace entrance alone.
For several minutes he seemed to be carrying on an earnest conversation with the group of peasants and slaves. Finally he rode back to us, and there was deep trouble in his face. He lifted his arms to silence the low murmur of voices, then addressed us in leaden tones.
“Bow your heads. The gods be with us while I tell you the awful thing that has happened. This morning Slaf-Carch was missing. No one knew where he had gone. The palace was searched, but there was no sign that he had planned to depart.”
Jipfur paused, mopped the perspiration from his golden forehead, took a deep breath, and continued.
“But he has been found. Even as we were approaching this village, three of Slaf-Carch’s slaves, searching for him in the garden, came upon his body. Slaf-Carch has been cruelly murdered.”
The groan that swept over the five thousand paraders was like an avalanche.
Jipfur waited for silence, then added a few words of dismissal to the shocked holiday crowd. It was all anyone could have done under the circumstances.
“If there is any further word concerning the cause of this ghastly deed, that word will be brought to you in Babylon. But as we all know, Slaf-Carch had no enemies. This very multitude testifies to the fact that all men paid him honor and respect. There is no more that any of you can do. Return to your homes, and when it is time for the burial rites we will gather at the Cave of Tombs . . .”
Two days later, I attended Slaf-Carch’s funeral.
The parade of honor had been vast, but it was nothing compared to this gathering. Fully fifteen thousand people swarmed the rocky hillsides, and you could hear the low-whispered praises for the deceased all about you. Not the cheap and shoddy kind, like cheers and noise-makings of a mob stirred by a speech, but the deep-felt praises that have been earned by kindness and fair dealing.
Kish and I stood at the service of Jipfur and his family of mourners during the ceremony. The afternoon shadows spread over us and we could see the thousands of faces gathered close around the mouth of the yellow rock cavern. I searched those faces until I spotted Betty.
There were no signs of weeping in her strong face, but I saw that she could not bear to look at me.
Many a patesi, including Jipfur, said words over the body. Jipfur’s egotism was somewhat tempered, for once; but I couldn’t help noticing that his eyes were furtive as if casting about to gauge the dramatic effect of his stoutly uttered prayers and tributes.
Everyone, of course, would remember the bruised and partially crushed face of Slaf-Carch. He had been stoned to death. That was all his dazed, shocked mourners knew; perhaps all they would ever know, I thought.
After the body had been sealed in its prepared niche deep within the yellow rock cave, a signal from a patesi indicated that the ceremony was at an end. And yet for a moment the multitude waited, motionless, as if reluctant to break the spell of its own silent tribute to Slaf-Carch.
Suddenly a voice sounded from the yellow rock cave.
“My people, I have witnessed your grief for me on this day.”
It was a rich, resonant baritone voice, ringing strong and clear, as if amplified by the cavern walls. It was the voice of Slaf-Carch.
Kish’s fingers dug into my arm. He gasped.
“What was that?”
Everyone who heard the voice was asking the same thing. The mourners turned to each other aghast. There was no mistaking that voice.
The throngs too far back to know what had happened began to crowd closer. What was the meaning of all this gasping, these frightened faces, this statue-like tension?
Suddenly the voice came again.
“My people, you have been outraged by the dastardly crime committed against me. Then let me say to you, the man who murdered me is among you.”
My suspicions were blow-torching in Betty’s direction by this time. I glared at her. She didn’t see me. Like a few hundred others she appeared to be in a frenzy.
Panic-stricken persons broke out of their nightmarish freezes and began scurrying away, glancing back through eyes of terror. But at this moment Betty caught the sleeve of a patesi, whispered something in his ear. He nodded eagerly, called three other men of importance into the huddle, swiftly convinced them of something.
Immediately one of these men began to call to the turbulent crowd. “Listen to me!”
He mounted a rock and succeeded in gesturing the restless horde to peace.
“What we have heard was the voice of Slaf-Carch.”
The people glanced to the cave and back to the speaker. No one thought of disagreeing.
“Slaf-Carch is living on,” the speaker continued, “in a manner that we cannot understand. It’s the old legend—”
There were rumblings of dissension. But once more the rich baritone voice vibrated through the walls of the yellow rock cave.
“I have looked upon the river—many, many times. In my own way I shall continue to live among you. Go, now, and remember what I have said.”
That was that. The speaker who had mounted the rock simply gestured toward the cave. Nothing more was needed. The people murmured with wonderment, telling each other that they had always believed that legend, but here, at last, was a living proof.
At once they grew excited over the prospects of Slaf-Carch’s new existence. He had been murdered, but he was still living, in his own way—and he knew his murderer.
The snap of fingers brought Kish and me to attention.
“Return to Borbel at once,” came Jipfur’s brittle command. “Inform the palace that I shall come this evening to assume possession of all properties, including lands, slaves, and livestock.”
CHAPTER V
Nobody but a sap would walk around all week with a sharp tack in the heel of his shoe, prodding him at every step. But that’s practically what I did—only in my case the tack was in the heel of my brain, and the pain throbbed even when I was supposed to be sleeping.
In other words, the steel-sharp memory of what Betty had said she’d do in case she fell to Jipfur—namely, consider throwing herself into the Euphrates—was driving me wild.
And the worst of it was, I couldn’t do a thing about it. I was Jipfur’s slave, as never before, and do you think he kept me on the hop? With all of his new business to look after, he was loading every competent slave to the limit with new responsibilities.
A few weeks earlier, when Slaf-Carch was still in there pitching for me, I congratulated myself that he’d made Jipfur give me a white-collar job. Now I began to envy the strong-backed lads and lassies who worked the shadufs for the irrigation streams. At least they got to rest while their buckets filled.
I tried my best, but I couldn’t manage to break away for a jaunt to Borbel. I needed a talk with Betty worse than I needed food or drink. What’s more, I was burning up for a chance to examine the scene of Slaf-Carch’s murder—for, as Kish said, that deal had the smell of
rotten figs.
Of course Jipfur’s guards, together with the king’s law-enforcement agents, were on the job. But they failed to unearth any murderer. Rumor was that they had questioned several night prowlers, including the Three Serpents, on general principles. But their investigation came to nothing.
One afternoon Kish stopped by to tell me he had cleared the inner palace garden for a unique occasion. Several slaves inherited from Slaf-Carch had just arrived. Jipfur would interview them this evening and assign them to their places.
“I shall be conducting the slaves to the inner garden as Jipfur calls for them,’ Kish said, lifting his eyebrow significantly. “If anything of interest comes along I’ll let you know.”
My work suffered the rest of that afternoon. The only thing of importance that I accomplished was to sharpen a small iron knife.
It was nearly sundown when Kish came scurrying past my room to whistle a signal. I dropped my work and slipped up a narrow stairs to the inner garden balcony.
I looked down on the luxurious scene Jipfur had chosen for his interviews. Long shadows from the evening sun painted broad stripes across the enclosed garden. The fountain under the open sky sprayed thin streams of liquid gold—which meant that somewhere under the garden promenade, where tunnels were hidden, slaves were carrying buckets of water to replenish the fountain reservoir.
Jipfur was the picture of leisure, lying on a red brocaded lounge, his cone-shaped cap pushed well back on his broad handsome head, his pudgy fingers idly counting the tassel strings of his gold and white robe.
He was facing the fountain in the center of the court, and I didn’t intend letting him know that I was eavesdropping from a point almost directly above him.
Then came the dreaded but inevitable entrance. Betty was conducted into Jipfur’s presence. The patesi suavely asked her to sit down, and he dismissed Kish.
A moment later Kish tiptoed along the balcony to join me.
“She’s just a child,” Kish whispered.
“Jipfur doesn’t think so,” I retorted.
It was plain, from Jipfur’s talk, however, that he was annoyed at her for coming in braids and a simple slave-girl dress. He had expected her to be adorned in something charming for this occasion.
Of course Jipfur didn’t guess that she had applied her skillful arts of make-up to accentuate this juvenile effect. I caught this at once; but I also saw that, in spite of her efforts, Betty was nonetheless breathtakingly beautiful.
“I’ll pardon you for your appearance this time,” said Jipfur. “You’ve spent too many days in field work. After you get used to indoor work and learn a few manners you’ll be worth all of six shekels.”
Jipfur laughed at his joke, but Betty didn’t see anything funny, and neither did I. I was right at the edge of the rail, feeling like a bomb about to drop. But I hadn’t realized, until Kish whispered, “Better put that away,” that I had drawn my iron knife from my pocket.
Now our lord and master was urging Betty to come closer. She quietly refused, and a flame of ill-temper reddened Jipfur’s face. He rose to his feet, began to pace before her.
Again Kish placed a restraining hand on my arm.
“I’d better take that knife,” he whispered.
I shook my head. The scared look in Kish’s face didn’t deter me. I was too intent upon Jipfur, whose every word and action was shooting my eyes through with red. The damned bull moose was flaunting his authority in the manner that was nothing short of bestial. I intended to do something.
Betty kept eluding him with cunning evasions. But Jipfur was the master. The weight of all Babylonian law was back of him. He drove his advantage with the finesse of a skilled executioner.
I crouched, trembling. No matter that this would be the end of me. The thing was to make my leap true, and make an end of Jipfur. Betty would be certain to fall into safer hands.
I glanced back of me. Kish was gone. That was just as well. No need for him to be dragged into this crime as an accomplice.
Now I was barely clinging to the balcony edge, gauging the twenty-foot drop. Jipfur had caught Betty’s hands, was trying to draw her into an embrace. The terror in her eyes was awful to see—worse because it was touched with a hint of resignation to her inevitable fate.
Then she caught sight of me, knew that I was about to jump. Instantly she cried out—in English!
“Don’t do it! Don’t do it!”
Jipfur let go one of her hands, whirling to see whether there was an intruder. Momentarily I jumped back out of sight. Then a booming voice sounded from out of nowhere—the rich baritone of Slaf-Carch.
“Jipfur . . . Jipfur . . . I am speaking to you.”
The power of that voice was no less than it had been at the Cave of Tombs. I sank to my knees, still clutching the iron knife, and bent to the rail’s edge to see—
Jipfur stood in his tracks, open-mouthed. Beads of perspiration showed at the edges of his black wavy hair.
The voice came again.
“Jipfur, have you everything you want now? Have you?”
Jipfur, turning dizzily, stammered an answer. He didn’t want anything. He hadn’t asked for this new inheritance.
“Have you everything you want, Jipfur?” The voice repeated.
Jipfur snarled. “Why all these questions? Are you accusing me—”
“Careful, Jipfur. People may be listening. Unless you mean to confess—”
“I’ve nothing to confess. Get away. Quit hounding me. I don’t believe in you.”
“Do you believe in yourself, Jipfur? Who was it that shouted to the parade, ‘Slaf-Carch is a man of great honor’? Have you forgotten your eloquence so soon?”
“Go away! Leave me alone!”
“Very well. I will leave you—for a price.”
“Price?”
“Give Betty another year of freedom.”
“Another year!” Jipfur roared. “That’s ridiculous. This is the fall—”
“There will be another fall, Jipfur.”
Out of anguished eyes, Jipfur stared at Betty, as if trying to convince himself she hadn’t heard. But she nodded to him, and a faint smile of victory touched her lips. Slowly she backed away from him and fled from the court . . .
Kish and I threaded our way, that midnight, by the light of the stars to the Cave of Tombs.
Kish had heard the conversation between Slaf-Carch’s voice and Jipfur, and somehow it got him worse than before. The first time he had excused as a sort of mass delusion. But now he was convinced that Slaf-Carch couldn’t be dead. Nothing would do but we have a look in the cave of the dead to prove it.
My own nerves, I must admit, were considerably joggled. This midnight jaunt to the Cave of Tombs wasn’t what my twentieth-century physician would have prescribed for one in my chaotic state of mind. Kish, however, expressed wonder that I could be so calm and collected, and demanded to know whether I had some insight. I evaded his question.
We began jabbing at the sealed door with our heavy metal tools—about three jabs apiece. What stopped us was Slaf-Carch’s voice.
“Why dig for me? You saw my crushed body laid away.”
Kish gulped hard. “I—I can’t understand. That foolish legend—”
“Believe it,” said the voice. “That will be simplest. And now—a word to both of you—about Jipfur. Watch him, but serve him, with vision. Now go.”
If I had had a flashlight I would have combed those jagged rocks and put my curiosity at rest then and there. But Kish had already bounded off at the word go.
It was good to be out in the fresh night air again, and we moved along at a good pace. It was what our pent-up nerves needed.
I suggested that we take advantage of the moonless night to swing around by way of Borbel. Kish was willing. He was an understanding cuss, no les3 so for his cynicism, and he hit the nail on the head when he said, “Anything to postpone crawling back under Jipfur’s thumb.”
I pondered his remark as we hiked along thro
ugh the blackness. Unquestionably there would be an electric tension in the air every time I entered Jipfur’s presence from now on, for I was potentially his murderer. Except for Betty’s outcry, and the diverting intrusion of Slaf-Carch’s mystic voice, I would have earned a one-way ticket into a fiery furnace.
Now there was a shadowy form ahead of us, moving along the crest of the hillside. We overtook it, or rather, her, for there was just enough starlight to reveal—Betty!
“I thought so,” I said accusingly. “Something told me you were out here in this midnight wilderness.”
“I was sent back to Borbel,” said Betty, “but there was no use trying to sleep after that horrifying fracas with Jipfur.”
“We’ve been at Slaf-Carch’s grave,” said Kish. “He spoke to us again.”
“Oh?” Betty seemed curious to hear all about it. When Kish finished, she commented, “Now, at least, you will believe the legend.”
“Personally, I’m not so dense,” I said skeptically. “But sooner or later, Betty, you’ll need a new electric battery.” I borrowed some words from English to finish my sentence.
She turned her starlit face toward me blankly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hal.”
“You’re very clever,” I said.
“Indeed you are,” Kish added, missing my point completely, “The way you defended yourself against Jipfur—”
“Kish,” said Betty in a low earnest voice, “you heard Slaf-Carch’s voice, the same as I did? And you, Hal . . .? Did you catch the implication? Jipfur murdered Slaf-Carch. There was no other possible interpretation—”
“Not so fast, Betty,” I warned. “Maybe that voice doesn’t know. Maybe it was just guessing.”
“But that voice is Slaf-Carch—his spiritual self, still alive—”
I sputtered and gasped for air. Was she pulling the wool over my eyes? This was exasperating.
