The House of Rimmon | Page 5

unsteadily, and stutters in his speech.]
HAZAEL: Here is Shumakim, the King's fool, with his legs full of last
night's wine.
SHUMAKIM: [Balancing himself in front of them and chuckling.]
Wrong, my lords, very wrong! This is not last night's wine, but a
draught the King's physician gave me this morning for a cure. It sobers
me amazingly! I know you all, my lords: any fool would know you.
You, master, are a statesman; and you are a politician; and you are a
patriot.
RAKHAZ: Am I a statesman? I felt something of the kind about me.
But what is a statesman?
SHUMAKIM: A politician that is stuffed with big words; a fat man in a
mask; one that plays a solemn tune on a sackbut full o' wind.
HAZAEL: And what is a politician?
SHUMAKIM: A statesman that has dropped his mask and cracked his
sackbut. Men trust him for what he is, and he never deceives them,
because he always lies.
IZDUBHAR: Why do you call me a patriot?
SHUMAKIM: Because you know what is good for you; you love your
country as you love your pelf. You feel for the common people,--as the
wolf feels for the sheep.
SABALLIDIN: And what am I?
SHUMAKIM: A fool, master, just a plain fool; and there is hope of
thee for that reason. Embrace me, brother, and taste this; but not too
much,--it will intoxicate thee with sobriety.
[The hall has been slowly filling with courtiers and soldiers: a crowd of
people begin to come up the steps at the rear, where they are halted by
a chain guarded by servants of the palace. A bell tolls; the royal door

is thrown open; the aged King crosses the hall slowly and takes his seat
on the throne with the four tall sentinels standing behind him. All bow
down shading their eyes with their hands.]
BENHADAD: The hour of royal audience is come. I'll hear the envoys
of my brother king, The Son of Asshur. Are my counsellors At hand?
Where are the priests of Rimmon's House?
[Gongs sound. REZON comes in from the rear, followed by a
procession of priests in black and yellow. The courtiers bow; the King
rises; REZON takes his stand on the steps of the throne at the left of the
King.]
BENHADAD; Where is my faithful servant Naaman, The captain of
my host?
[Trumpets sound from the city. The crowd on the steps divide; the chain
is lowered; NAAMAN enters, followed by six soldiers. He is dressed in
chain-mail, with a silver helmet and a cloak of blue. He uncovers, and
kneels on the steps of the throne at the King's right.]
NAAMAN: My lord the King, The bearer of thy sword is here.
BENHADAD: [Giving NAAMAN his hand, and sitting down.]
Welcome, My strong right arm that never failed me yet! I am in
doubt,--but stay thou close to me While I decide this cause. Where are
the envoys? Let them appear and give their message.
[Enter the Assyrian envoys; one in white and the other in red; both with
the golden Bull's head embroidered oh their robes. They come from the
right, rear, bow slightly before the throne, and take the centre of the
hall.]
WHITE ENVOY: [Stepping forward.] Greeting from Shalmaneser,
Asshur's son, The king who reigns at Nineveh And takes his tribute
from a thousand cities, Unto Benhadad, monarch in Damascus! The
conquering Bull has come out of the north; The south has fallen before
him, and the west His feet have trodden; Hamath is laid waste; He

pauses at your gate, invincible,-- To offer peace. The princes of your
court, The priests of Rimmon's house, and you, the King, If you pay
homage to your overlord, Shall rest secure, and flourish as our friends.
Assyria sends to you this gilded yoke; Receive it as the sign of
proffered peace.
[He lays a yoke on the steps of the throne.]
BENHADAD: What of the city? Said your king no word Of our
Damascus, and the many folk That do inhabit her and make her great?
What of the soldiers who have fought for us? The people who have
sheltered 'neath our shield?
WHITE ENVOY: Of these my royal master did not speak.
BENHADAD: Strange silence! Must we give them up to him? Is this
the price at which he offers us The yoke of peace? What if we do
refuse?
RED ENYOY: [Stepping forward.] Then ruthless war! War to the
uttermost. No quarter, no compassion, no escape! The Bull will gore
and trample in his fury Nobles and priests and king,--none shall be
spared! Before the throne we lay our second gift; This bloody horn, the
symbol of red war.
[He lays a long bull's horn, stained with blood on the steps of