Eodan went between the shields of marching men, through the city gates and a cobbled street of flat-roofed buildings shrieking with bazaars, where the escort clubbed a way, and at last up a hill to the palace. Heavy-armored men, with helmet and cuirass, greaves and shield, sword and spear, tramped up and down upon its walls like a moving arsenal; here and there squatted lightly clad archers holding the short Asiatic hornbow. Beneath posed a guard of Persian cavalry, tall arrogant hook-faced men, their helmets and horses magnificent with plumes, blue cloaks fluttering about scaly coats of mail, trousered legs ending in boots of silver-inlaid leather, lance in hand, ax and bow and small round shield at the saddle--"By the thunder-snake itself," muttered Tjorr, "how I'd love to sack their barracks!" A trumpeter preceded them through bronze gates. They went over a path beside which roses flared and Grecian nymphs leaped marble out of secret bowers; they saw a fountain shaped like Hercules and the hydra, so skillfully modeled and painted that Eodan grabbed for his sword; then the stairway opened before them, with sphinxes crouched at the foot, bulls at the head and two polished soldiers rigid on every step. There Arpad's escort was told to wait. The captain himself and his three guests surrendered their weapons to the watch. "Not this," protested Tjorr, holding his hammer. "It is my luck." "A god, did you say?" asked the Latin-speaking guard who wanted it. He looked at his officer, unsure; there were so many gods, and some of them were touchy. The officer shook his head. "No lesser god enters the Presence of Mithras, who is always with the king. Leave it here, fellow, you'll get it back." "But--" "Do as he says," Eodan broke in. Tjorr loosed the thong, his face miserable. "I tell you, my luck is in that hammer. Well, maybe your triskele will see us through." "Would you keep the king waiting?" puffed Arpad. He led the way, his best robe rippling about him, up the stairs and under the red and blue columns of the portico. Slaves prostrated themselves at the doors: once only, since the king received three such salutes. They were conducted down halls of lifelike murals; Eodan saw with a thrill how often the Bull recurred, sacrificed by a youth or shaking great horns beneath a golden sun-disc. Lamps in silver chains gave a clear unwavering light. But, when finally the carpeted ways opened on an audience chamber, the sun himself came through a great glazed window behind the throne. It was so bright that Eodan could hardly see the man upon that carven seat, except as a robe of Tyrian purple and a golden chaplet. He and his companions were held back by the door. Arpad advanced alone, between grave men--long-haired, sometimes bearded--in brilliant garments. Among them stood a few outland envoys; a turban or a shaven pig-tailed skull betokened foreignness. Around the room, motionless between soaring porphyry columns, were a guard of spearmen.