"Well, it is true natheless. But let us not waste time in futile recriminations. The king, enraged at having been befooled, will come down upon us like a winter tempest. He loves us not and would like nought better than a pretext to crush us utterly."
Belkishir mused: "Mayhap on their godless quest they will perish."
"Oh, aye, and mayhap they will find that the sirrush does forsooth dwell in the lands beyond Kush after all. But let us not upon either alternative count. They seemed to me a pair of hardy and resolute masterless rogues."
"Then belike we had better help them perish."
"My thought also, sir. One of our worshipers has underworld connections—"
Belkishir: "Nay, not in Babylon."
"It could be so arranged that the deed could not be traced to us."
"That is not the point. If some infortune befall our friends so close to their starting point, the king will hear of it and, like as not, send forth another expedition. But if it happen a goodly distance hence—in Africa, let us say—His Majesty may never hear of it at all. By the time he has waxed inquisitive enough to look into his explorers' evanescence, or to send out another party, many things may have occurred. He might even forget the whole business."
"How can we arrange such a disappearance at such a distance?"
Belkishir smiled. "Have I spoken to you of Kothar of Qadesh?"
"Nay."
"He is—ah—a political correspondent of mine in Syria. Through him I ofttimes know of developments in the western region or ever the king himself does. Kothar is a queer individual but useful in his way. I would ask him to do the deed himself did I not know him for an arrant coward. But if any man can arrange that things shall fall out as we wish, it is he. And the gods will forgive us, because the blow will be struck in defense of our sacred faith."
"How will you get word to him ere the barbarians have passed through Syria?"
"Through Shaykh Alman of Thadamora, who carries our letters across the Syrian desert. Marduk strengthen his camels' sinews!"
IV – The Shrine of the Sleepless One
Leaving the site of the Lofty-Headed Temple, Myron and Bessas crossed the Euphrates by Nabopolassar's great seven-piered bridge and entered the New City. They had no trouble in finding Iranu's bank, as all the folk of Babylon spoke Aramaic in addition to whatever other speech they used at home. Furthermore, most of the street crossings of Babylon were at right angles, so that it was easy to pick one's way.
"Natheless," said Bessas, "I like not being in debt. A loan is pleasant when there is need, but the repayment of it is like the filling of a house."
At the banker's office, however, they were disappointed. Iranu himself had gone to Uruk on business and might not be back for a month, while his subordinate would have nothing to do with a loan on such odd security.
An hour later, footsore and somewhat restored by a loaf and a sausage bought from an old peddler woman, the explorers arrived at the office of Murashu of Nippur.
A young man whose beard was beginning to burgeon ushered them into the inner office, where a huge fat gray-bearded man sat behind a table. The office was decorated with objects from many lands: a statuette of a bird-headed god from Egypt; a red-figured Attic vase on which was pictured the combat of Herakles and Hippolyta; a mailshirt from the land of the Sauromatai, armored with scales made from horses' hooves; and other curios. Tables were heaped with sheets of papyrus and parchment bearing writings in Aramaic, and dried slabs of clay inscribed with the complex signs of Akkadian, so that they looked as if they were covered with the tracks of tiny birds.
"God prosper you, my masters!" said the fat man. "Your servant is Murashu of Nippur, and the young fellow who showed you in is my elder son, Belhatin. How can I serve you?" A golden amulet in the form of Pazuzu the wind demon—winged, fanged, and taloned—hung round his neck.
Myron explained. Murashu frowned over the king's letter, which Bessas produced from his scrip.
"This is strange security! Title to an estate in Bactria, now overrun by wild stinking nomads, were of no use to me. If you defaulted, can you imagine me, vaulting aboard my Nisaean charger and scattering the savages with lance and sword?" The banker uttered a short, mocking laugh. "Were you permanent dwellers in Babylon, with masters, families, and other ties to fix you in place, we could arrange it, but—"
"Do you doubt the word of a Bactrian gentleman?" said Bessas ominously.
"Nay, but you are mortal like the rest of us, are you not?"
Bessas grunted. Murashu continued: "Now, in view of the lack of solid security, I should be compelled, alas! to charge you a higher rate of interest than the standard twenty parts in a hundred; double, in fact. If you wish fifty darks, you must pay back seventy within a year. I rely upon your Bactrian word of honor not to get your-self heedlessly and needlessly slain, Master Bessas." Murashu laughed and twiddled his thick fingers on his paunch.
Bessas scowled. "I trust, sir banker, that you seek not to take advantage of our simplicity to squeeze unwonted wealth from us. You money-grubbers would pick a farthing from a dunghill with your teeth."
Murashu's smile vanished. "My good Captain Bessas, if you like not my terms, you are at liberty to try elsewhere." His dark eyes flashed hatred as he burst out: "Unwonted wealth! Money-grubber, forsooth! As if my life were not a never-ending struggle to keep out of debt slavery! Know that I am pursued by night and by day by your Persian king's tax gatherers, who seek to wring the last shekel out of Babylonia as a man wrings water from a towel! Why think you there is such wretched poverty here? Because your foolish Persians fancy that gold and silver are true wealth, and that the more they squeeze out of us the better off they will be!"
Bessas looked bewildered. "What, are not gold and silver wealth?"
"Can you eat them? Can you weave a warm garment of them? Can you build a house of them? Do they make good sword blades or plowshares?"
"Nay, but—"
"So then, what are they? I will tell you! They are the counters in the game of commerce. Though they have but little value in themselves, save for rings and such gewgaws, they make the wheels of trade turn smoothly, as grease helps the wheels of a carriage to spin. And now the Persians tax and tax, withdrawing these ointments from the wheels of commerce. Instead of putting these metals back into use, they take them to Persepolis the Treasury, Shushan the Palace, and Hagmatana the Fortress. There they cast them into massy ingots and store them in the Great King's cellars. So, without its hub grease, the chariot of commerce runs slower and slower, and you wonder why business is bad!"
"I never thought of it thus," said Bessas. "And pardon me if I spoke discourteously. In matters of money I am the veriest clod."
"It is nothing. Now, what say you to this deal?"
Myron spoke up crisply: "We shall think about it and let you know, Master Murashu." He rose.
"By all means," grinned the banker. "Think hard, as any prudent financier would do. But think not to beat down my interest rate. I have cast up the reckoning of my risks, and I cannot let you have the money for less."
Outside in the swarming street, Bessas said: "What is it, Myron? Think you he tried to swindle us?"
"I am not sure. That interest rate is murderous, especially as we may be more than a year in getting back."
"But that would mean only another forty parts in a hundred, would it not?"
"No! You don't understand. The second year's forty parts in a hundred would be calculated on the total you owed Murashu at the end of the first year—not on the amount you originally borrowed. On fifty darics that would be—let me think—twenty-eight darics more, instead of twenty, making a total of ninety-eight. In other words, we should owe Master Murashu almost double what we borrowed. In three years our debt would almost triple."