However, a man lunged forward in a crouch, aiming a stab at Bessas' midriff. Myron saw the blade go home and thought they were done for. But the Bactrian skipped lightly backward, knocking the man flat with a sword blow. He and Myron had now lost several feet of fighting space.
"You rear men, push forward and give the others a rest!" came the voice of the unseen leader.
"They'll wear us down," panted Myron.
Bessas, dancing, thrusting, and slashing, did not answer. Little by little he and Myron were forced back down the close. Soon, thought Myron, they would have their backs to the wall at the end. He shouted:
"Help! Murder!"
There was no reply. The dwellers in houses along the close, if they heard the call, would only brace things against their doors.
Then came a new trampling of feet, a clash of steel, and cries from the mouth of the close. The attackers melted away. They turned their backs and bolted out of the close in a jostling mob. Myron and Bessas were too winded for the moment to pursue them.
Another group of dark figures entered the close. Bessas brought his sword up to guard, but the first newcomer said: "Bessas of Zariaspa?"
"Who in demon land are you?"
"Friends. Come quickly! The gang outnumbers us and will soon return in force."
"All right, but do not get too close. No tricks!"
Myron followed Bessas, who followed the hooded newcomer. Others fell in behind Myron, who judged that there were about half a dozen of them. They went swiftly, sometimes walking and sometimes breaking into a trot.
They zigzagged among the alleys until Myron had no idea of where he was.
A door opened in a blank wall. A gleam of yellow lamplight momentarily splashed across the alley, showing a dead dog lying in the dirt.
Myron, still clutching his sword, filed in with the rest. He found himself in a narrow passage, at the far end of which a lamp smoked and guttered in a wall bracket. The leader lit a rushlight at the flame of the lamp and led on by this feeble illumination. The passage descended by steps below street level and wound this way and that. Occasional doors of crude, heavy timbers appeared on the side walls. They passed through a confusing sequence of doors, rooms, and corridors.
Then Myron found himself in a long chamber, lit by several petroleum-burning bronzen lamps. Benches ran along its sides, leaving a wide clear center aisle with a stair well in it. A narrow stair ran down from this opening out of sight.
On either side of the chamber, a statue stood in a niche. Each statue was that of a nude winged man with a lion's head, around whom a large serpent was entwined. Each leontocephalus stood on a globe and held a scepter in one hand and a thunderbolt in the other.
At the far end of the chamber rose an altar. Behind the altar, on the far wall, a scene was carved in low relief. Artistically, Myron thought it simply another example of stiff, lifeless Persian art. The subjects, however, excited his interest.
The relief showed a bull, which had been forced to its knees by a trousered youth. The man wore a cap with lappets, of the sort encountered among the more northerly Aryans. He gripped the bull's muzzle with his left hand and stabbed the beast with a knife in his right. A dog lapped the blood that flowed from the wound; a serpent writhed about the bull's legs; and a scorpion clawed at the dying animal's scrotum.
Myron brought his attention back to his human surroundings in time to see the hooded leader of their rescuers make a quick ritualistic gesture to Bessas, who made a responding gesture. Then the two men solemnly kissed each other's cheeks. The leader pushed back his hood, showing a lean, refined face. He gestured towards Myron. "Can we trust the Hellene?"
"I think so," replied Bessas. "He is my lieutenant, and if he blabs—" Bessas grinned horribly and drew a finger across his throat. "How did you happen by just then?"
"Your slaves heard that you were passing through Babylon and were likely to be beset. Remembering the great good that Phraates did for our brethren, years ago, we set men to watch you. Several times we lost you, what of that giant stride of yours. But we caught up with you just in time."
"Was one of your men a rather small fellow, very ordinary-looking, with dark hair and beard, wearing a shabby brown jacket and patched green trousers?"
The other frowned. "None of my men answers that description. But one of them did report that others besides themselves seemed to be following you. I—"
There came a disturbance. Four more men entered. Two of them dragged a ragged, ruffianly looking fellow, bleeding from a wound in his chest. The fourth man carried the gear that Myron and Bessas had dropped.
"This one still lives, Father," said one of those bearing the wounded man, "but not for long, methinks. There were three dead, and several of the knaves bore wounds away with them."
The leader said: "Take him below and see if you can get some truth out of him ere he dies. Yes, O Myron?"
Myron, who had been fidgeting, said: "Sir, I burst with curiosity. Be it as you wish, but at least tell me this: Are you not Mithraists?"
"Aye. As you see, the persecution of the usurper's son has forced us to hide our places of worship. However, it will do no harm to tell you that—"
A shriek from the chamber below cut off the leader's speech. When all had recovered their poise, Myron asked:
"What may your servant call you?"
"Call me Embas. How did you manage with Murashu the banker?"
Myron told him of the difficulty over interest rates. Embas thought awhile, then said:
"Murashu is a hard man. Perhaps the Lord of the Farmyard can aid in this matter."
More screams came from below. Presently one of the hooded Mithraists came up the stairs with bloody hands and said:"
"Father Embas, the robber is dead. Before he passed to the Land of Silence, he told us that he was one of Labashi's retainers."
"What else?"
"Little, save that two days past Labashi got word from Shushan, urging him to slay Bessas son of Phraates and promising rich rewards."
"That means Ardigula," said Embas. "Know you Ardigula of Baghdad, either of you?"
"Not I," said Bessas. "What is Baghdad?"
"A village on the Tigris, fifteen leagues or so to northward. You, Myron?"
"Nor I," said Myron. "But wait—the name is somehow familiar. I may have heard him referred to as a wizard and occultist. I paid no heed at the time, as I have nothing to do with such people."
"Know you any reason why he might wish you ill?"
"No, unless he were retained by someone with a grudge—say, the House of Daduchus. But I do know that we have been attacked four times in ten days, the first time definitely by emissaries of the Daduchids. We captured the leader and made him confess. At that rate, we shall sustain a hundred or more attacks before we return. And, even though Captain Bessas be a fell fighter with the might of Rustam and the luck of Odysseus, I doubt if we should survive them all."
"Rehearse me the whole tale," said Embas.
Bessas narrated the story of the rape of Tamyra. When he had finished, Embas said:
"The connection is plausible, though not proven. In any case, you will not wish to lurk for aye in our crypts; whereas, if you wander abroad in Babylon, we cannot forever protect you. You had better be on your way to Rush. Ardigula can scarce pursue you beyond the Syrian desert."
"But," said Myron, "how can we go without sufficient funds? And how do we get our beasts and our gear from the barracks? A bird cannot fly without wings."
Embas smiled thinly. "Snatch yourselves a few hours' sleep. You will be surprised at the succor the Sleepless One can render to those whom he loves."
As Myron and Bessas prepared to sleep in a small chamber off the Mithraeum, the Greek said: "How in Hera's name did you avoid that stab, which the fellow sent home against your middle? I thought you a dead man."