All Zitra was en fête. All morning men and women in gala attire, rich and poor and middle class, even the blue men and women of Mazzerian extraction, the serving class of Tamarizia where their parents had been slaves, had been thronging into that immense central square of the island city, whose pavement was a tessellated expanse of rock crystal white and gold.
Always Croft had marveled at the beauty of the imperial capitol since first he saw it. Himyra—the red-walled queen of Aphur, brooding on the banks of the yellow Na, he had thought a dream of Babylonian splendor when first he came to Palos. Himyra he would always love, because it was there he had first seen Naia outside its gates. But Zitra surpassed it in the point of artistic magnificence. Himyra was a city of red and white, of palaces, parks and terraces along the river, studded with shrubs and trees. Zitra was a city of white and silver and crystal and gold—a thing undreamable unless once seen—and even so more like the city of a dream.
About the square, where, on the morning of the third day after Croft had awakened from what he considered his final trip to earth, a huge platform had risen overnight, the populace ranged themselves, close packed. The scene was brilliant in a degree. From the tops of the structures facing the square, built mainly of the predominating white stone used in constructing the city, and even its walls, canopies and streamers of azure blue and scarlet had been stretched as a protection against the sun and its midday heat. They made of the square a temporary auditorium of enormous size, into which the people jostled with a babel of voices, a soft yet vast shuffling of feet. Only at one point was an opening in the billowing covering of the canopies left. There at high noon a ray of the sun would strike through and lie on the platform in the center of the square.
Soldiers of the Imperial Guard, in metal greaves, short-skirted tunics, and breast-plates, armed as in former days, not with rifles, but with short swords, spears, and shields, since this was a formal occasion, were stationed at the end of each street which entered the square, and admitted the crowds in orderly fashion, assigning each arriving group to their proper place in the vast temporary enclosure according to their caste.
By degrees the audience came to seem a thing divided into particolored segments, each composed of the caste for which it had been set aside. There were the blue packed masses of the Mazzerians, with their almost indigo skins scantily covered, a jostling sea of swarming, whispering flesh. There were the laborers in their tawny smocks, their hair cinctured by a golden or copper band, supporting the draped cloth which protected their necks in labor from the sun. And beyond them were the tradesmen with their women, taking on a still more brilliant appearance according to the dictates of taste which had clad them in various shades and colors.
And again, nearest the dais was a rippling band of color marking the noble caste—men and women of station and wealth. And here gorgeous might describe the play of colors, the flash and glint of jewels and costly metals, the stately waving of plumes, the flicker of stalwart limbs, of white arms and snowy breasts and shoulders, the iridescent shimmer of diaphanous gauze scarfs. These were the select of the Zitran population. Each gnuppa-drawn carriage that whirled up to the end of the streets disgorged its recumbent passengers from the couchlike seats on which they reclined as they rode, and then retired.
By degrees the square became utterly packed save for a space about the platform maintained by more of the Imperial Guard, and an alley running toward the mouth of a single street. The hour crept on. Through the canopy the sun blazed dimly. Water-bearers with bottles made from the hide of the tabur—an animal widely raised, with the fleece of a sheep and the general shape of a hog—passed through the square, sprinkling the pavement to cool the air, doubly heated by the outer temperature and the multitude of bodies packed into so close a space. Never had there been a greater concourse or a more brilliant in the history of the state. Indeed, in all the annals of the nation, no more auspicious date would appear.
This day marked what might be regarded as a new era in national affairs. The Zollarian war was done. Tamarizia was stronger than ever before in the memory of man, and a new and more liberal government than any they had known was to be adopted within the next few days. And as though that were not enough, it was common knowledge that Zitu had sent the nation a teacher for their welfare; to greet and acclaim him they were gathered here.
Well might the crowd be in holiday attire and humor. Well, as it waited, might its blended voices rise in a cheerful fashion, a ceaseless diapason of sound, changing as there came a blast of brazen trumpets, and Tamhys appeared in magnificent silver harness, to a cheer.
Silver studded with diamonds were the casings upon his calves; silver was the cuirass upon his breast, whereon in azure-colored stones in the circle enclosing an equilateral cross, sign of Hiranur, was blazoned forth. Silver was his helmet, and white as purity itself his tossing plumes. Even the hair upon his head, mark of his years, was silver, as he came down the alley left open, between his guards, and mounted the dais and seated himself upon a silver chair.
Then from without, as the cheering subsided, there came a sound of harps, and in the mouth of the alley down which Tamhys had passed, the head of a procession appeared.
First came the harpers themselves, white clad, marching in ranks of fours. And back of them appeared a litter borne by the brown-clad lay brothers of the Zitran pyramid. Of burnished copper was the litter, inlaid with a silver filigree, and curtained with fluttering draperies of an azure, silklike fabric. From within it, as it advanced behind the harpers, Zud's old eyes peered.
At the foot of the dais it was placed, and the high priest of Zitu emerged, mounting the steps, while a sudden silence fell across the multitude assembled, a reverend figure in his azure robes with the scarlet cross ansata on his breast. He saluted Tamhys and took a second silver chair, leaving a vacant seat between the emperor and himself.
And now, as the harpers ranged themselves and struck the strings of their instruments in perfect unison, and Zud's litter was swept aside, a second litter appeared.
It was of silver, and its bearers, giant blue men of Mazzer, well-nigh staggered beneath its weight. A sigh, almost a gasp, ran through the assemblage. Zud had been borne by priests, but—the Mouthpiece of Zitu was carried by men—the serving class of the Tamarizian state. Always a people quick to recognize the involved symbolism of an occurrence, few of those present failed to understand Jason's intent in the manner of his appearance—that thereby he implied that he came to them, not as a spiritual teacher, but as a teacher of men.
And then silence came down once more as the litter was placed before the steps of the dais and Zitu's Mouthpiece appeared, and the harps died, and the figure in its azure draperies, whereon flared both the cross and the wings of Azil, mounted slowly to that vacant seat between Tamhys and Zud, the high priest.
The crowd jostled, straining forward to see the better, and then settled themselves once more to attention as Zud rose.
He lifted a hand, commanding silence. In his other hand he carried a long silver stave topped with the looped cross. He began speaking at once in the simple fashion which characterized most of the Tamarizian ceremonials:
"Men and women of Zitra and of all Tamarizia, give ear to Zud the high priest's voice, through which it is given to announce to you one who comes among you as teacher, endowed with a wisdom passing the knowledge of Zud or any other among you, by Zitu's grace.
"Jason, as he is named, cometh to instruct the people on whom Zitu smiles, as a sign that his pleasure is in his people, and shall remain while they are obedient to his laws.
"Mouthpiece of Zitu is Jason, and shall be so known while he shall remain among us, and afterward, when the spirit within his body shall have been withdrawn. Exalted he is by the knowledge which Zitu hath seen fit to instil into his mind. Worthy of honor is he from all true men. Yet is he man as thou art, and to him shall no knee bend. Obedience and respect alone are his due. I, Zud, the high priest, have said it. Let all men regard the Mouthpiece of Zitu as his brother as well as his friend."
As Zud paused a second ripple ran through the crowd, a sibilance of whispers. Croft looked down into the nearest rows of uplifted faces and encountered Jadgor's own.
The Aphurian king sat with arms folded, staring directly toward him, his dark face distorted by a frown. The glances of the two men met and held for the merest instant. Croft's was steady. Jadgor's repellent, a voiceless challenge more than anything else. Croft turned his own glance deliberately away, sensing that in whatever he might attempt in the near future he would meet antagonism from Aphur's king. His eyes fell on Lakkon with his countenance somber, and on Robur, just beyond. The crown prince met his regard fully and shook his head. In the gesture, and the expression of his strong face, there was all the poignancy of a groan. It came over Croft that in whatever he may have said to his father since their conversation three days before, Robur had failed.
But he gave over such considerations as once more the harps rang out. He became aware of a spot of sunlight on the platform directly before the chair whereon he sat—almost, indeed, at his feet. Even as he watched it seemed creeping closer—and the harps were thrumming, thrumming sweetly—and the buzz of the vast assembly was once more falling still.
Suddenly the blended voices of a female chorus rang out, rising and falling in rhythmic fashion in perfect time to the harps. Down the alley came a group of vestals bearing flowers in their hands. Clad all in white were they, save for a cincture of golden tissue that ran about the neck, down between the breasts, and fastened in front like a sash with pendant ends, hanging in a golden fringe to the edge of the knee-length skirt. Their hair fell about their rosy faces and bared left arms and shoulders, wholly unrestrained save for a silver cincture about the head. Singing, they came on with a swing and flash of their bared and tinted feet and dimpled knees.
And as they came there flashed into Croft's mind a recollection of the first ceremonial of the noontide hour of contemplation and prayer he had witnessed, not in Zitra, but in Himyra, the first day he had been on Palos.
In a way this was like it, save that then the vestals had sung and danced before the statue of Zitu himself—the statue of a man with a face divinely firm and strong, with purity and compassion written large in its every line. That figure had been portrayed as seated on a throne. And the rays of the noontide sun had shone through an aperture in the roof upon it, bathing it in pure light. With an inward gasp Croft began to understand—his own position, the nearness of the spot of sunlight before him, the position of the chair in which he sat. Zitu was the God of Tamarizia—and he was Zitu's Mouthpiece—and the sunlight was over his knees now. He felt its warmth.
"Behold the Mouthpiece of Zitu!" Zud's voice.
Croft sensed rather than saw the congregation rising—the vestals deployed to right and left in front of the dais, kneeling, holding their floral sprays toward him in extended hands. He became conscious that the spot of sunlight had moved again, was bathing him from head to foot now in its golden rays, was shimmering from a thousand facets of the jewels that etched the cross and the wings of Azil on his breast.
The Gayana burst into a triumphal song:
"Hail, Mouthpiece of the Omnipotent One,
Of Him from Whom nothing is hidden,
To Whom all things are known.
Hail, Mouthpiece of Zitu;
Hail, Dispenser of Knowledge;
Hail, all hail, teacher,
To whom those things permitted of
Zitu, are known!"
The chant ended. The singers rose. In a scented shower the floral sprays rained at the feet of him who sat on the silver chair with the sunlight on his face.
Croft's senses reeled. The vast concourse faded from his vision. The flowers fell about him unheeded. The graceful forms of the Gayana who showered them toward him grew into a blur. His vision seemed to narrow, contract, focus upon a single point, shutting out all else, making all else as though it were not, leaving him staring, staring at one single gold-framed face.
Naia. She was there before him—her blue eyes meeting his own in an almost angry blaze. Naia—clad as a vestal, in white, bearing a spray of flowers in her hands.
Then, as their glances met, and Croft's breath caught in his throat, she lifted the cluster of blossoms and threw it—threw it, not tossed it, so that it struck full against his breast, rather than fell at his feet—struck, not as a floral offering might strike were the distance of its throwing misjudged, but with a positive, definite force that hinted of some weighty object concealed within its crimson mass, and fell to the dais with a petal-muffled thud, leaving a tiny spot on Croft's flesh that tingled as though the scarlet flowers had been the fingers of a licking flame—as though their touch had seared him through the fabric of his robe.
By an effort he sat unmoved, unchanged in his position, giving no sign, holding his eyes on the haughty face of the white-clad woman before him, reading upon her smiling lips not the placid expression of the ceremonial that held her retreating sisters as they drew back to either side of the dais, but the curl of scorn, of contempt; so that the contact of the cluster of red blossoms came to seem to him as a slap in the face—a deliberately planned and executed blow. Nor to his whirling senses was that the worst.
His chest heaved in a well-nigh stifled effort at control as he contemplated the full meaning of her presence in the Gayana's dress. Naia a vestal—Naia—given to Ga! The thought slowed his heart for a moment and sent it racing into a wild, ungoverned, suffocating series of madly protesting beats.
Naia become Gayana—Naia forming a part of the chorus which acclaimed his new-found rank—Naia hurling these scarlet blooms, as red as her heart's blood, or his, against him as a farewell act, a sign, a tacit message that, in so far as he was concerned, it might as well be her blood which lay red on the dais at his feet; that she might as well have died; that to him, from now on, she was lost. The thought sickened him, appalled, blotted out everything save itself so that for a moment, despite the sunlight which fell upon him, he had the sensation of an enveloping darkness that threatened to rise up and engulf him. He began to tremble. Tremor after tremor of emotion seized and shook him. And then Zud touched him on the arm. The ordeal was over. A strange babble of voices assailed his ears. He realized that the vast assemblage was cheering him, and in quite automatic fashion he bowed.
The action roused him to some extent. Once more he caught Jadgor's eye, dark, piercing, filled with menace, as the Aphurian turned away in a haughty fashion and, followed by Lakkon and his son, began to edge his way through the departing throng.
"Thy litter awaits thee." Zud's voice was in his ear.
He saw that the blue men of Mazzer had indeed brought the great silver palanquin into position opposite the dais steps. But even so he took time for one word with Zud.
"The maiden—she has become Gayana?"
"Nay!" He met Zud's eyes and found within them comprehension. "She but asked a part in their ranks, and, being virgin, it was granted."
Not Gayana—not yet—not yet. Croft's heart leaped again into freer action. But why had she asked to be given a place in the ranks of the vestals who had hailed him Mouthpiece of Zitu? He stiffened. Why save to cast that bunch of scarlet blossoms, which had stung his flesh, against him? He recalled now that it had stung him when it struck—had stung his flesh even as Naia's expression had stung his spirit. Why had it struck with such unerring certainty the wings of Azil, on his breast? What had it contained save the crimson flowers of which it seemed to consist? What was it had directed its course—weighted it until its blow was a blow indeed, delivered sure and straight?
He glanced down. The thing still lay there, a brilliant spot of color among all the floral tributes at his feet. On impulse he stooped and caught it up and carried it with him, a flame-colored thing against his blue robes, as he descended the steps.
He reached the litter, and paused again as his ear was assailed by a single, quickly caught-in breath. His head turned. Once more his gaze encountered a pair of fixed pansy-purple eyes. The vestals waited in double ranks, one on each side of the dais. Naia of Aphur stood among them, one white hand lifted and pressed against her body, to the left of the golden cord that ran down and cinctured her garment between her breasts. And it seemed, in that instant, to Jason Croft that her eyes dwelt not so much upon himself as on the flowers in his hand.
He gave no sign, however, as he entered the litter and felt it lifted into tilting, swaying motion. He took with him that final vision of Naia, caught in a startled posture, of her parted lips, of a something like anguish in her eyes. Like the flowers in his gripping fingers, that picture was caught in his brain.
Swiftly the Mazzerians bore him out of the square and into a street toward the bulk of the pyramid. The streaming crowds gave way before them and stood waiting while they passed. Then, and then only, did Croft seek to learn the mystery of the flowers Naia had thrown. Then and then only did he thrust his fingers into their blood-red mass and grope amid their stems for something he knew was hidden there—though he knew not what.
His search was rewarded almost at once. His fingers encountered a hard object buried among the stalks of the flowers, and he drew it forth. It was a silver medallion, bearing a raised figure of Azil, the angel of life, and surrounded by blood-red stones, such as Tamarizian men gave to the women to whom they were betrothed.
Croft recognized it at a glance. He took it and laid it on his palm, and sat staring at it as the litter swung along. He had ordered it especially made, and given it to Naia himself at the end of the Zollarian war. Like the maids of her nation, she had worn it on her girdle as a sign that to one man, and one alone, Azil had set his seal upon her. And today she had flung it from her, against the wings of Azil himself, which Croft wore on his breast.
There was no mistaking the action. It was repudiation. It was the same as though her lips had uttered the declaration that henceforth she would no longer guard for him that shrine of mortal life which was herself.
Croft's lips writhed into a strange smile. He recalled how the thing had pained when it struck above his heart.