The Story of the Amulet, E. Nesbit [free ebook reader for iphone txt] 📗

“No,” said Cyril; “at least of course we try to, but not in this public sort of way, only in private.”

“Ah, yes,” said the Queen, “I should much prefer a private audience myself⁠—much easier to manage. But public opinion has to be considered. Doing justice is very hard work, even when you’re brought up to it.”

“We don’t do justice, but we have to do scales, Jane and me,” said Anthea, “twenty minutes a day. It’s simply horrid.”

“What are scales?” asked the Queen, “and what is Jane?”

“Jane is my little sister. One of the guards-at-the-gate’s wife is taking care of her. And scales are music.”

“I never heard of the instrument,” said the Queen. “Do you sing?”

“Oh, yes. We can sing in parts,” said Anthea.

“That is magic,” said the Queen. “How many parts are you each cut into before you do it?”

“We aren’t cut at all,” said Robert hastily. “We couldn’t sing if we were. We’ll show you afterwards.”

“So you shall, and now sit quiet like dear children and hear me do justice. The way I do it has always been admired. I oughtn’t to say that, ought I? Sounds so conceited. But I don’t mind with you, dears. Somehow I feel as though I’d known you quite a long time already.”

The Queen settled herself on her throne and made a signal to her attendants. The children, whispering together among the cushions on the steps of the throne, decided that she was very beautiful and very kind, but perhaps just the least bit flighty.

The first person who came to ask for justice was a woman whose brother had taken the money the father had left for her. The brother said it was the uncle who had the money. There was a good deal of talk and the children were growing rather bored, when the Queen suddenly clapped her hands, and said⁠—

“Put both the men in prison till one of them owns up that the other is innocent.”

“But suppose they both did it?” Cyril could not help interrupting.

“Then prison’s the best place for them,” said the Queen.

“But suppose neither did it.”

“That’s impossible,” said the Queen; “a thing’s not done unless someone does it. And you mustn’t interrupt.”

Then came a woman, in tears, with a torn veil and real ashes on her head⁠—at least Anthea thought so, but it may have been only road-dust. She complained that her husband was in prison.

“What for?” said the Queen.

“They said it was for speaking evil of your Majesty,” said the woman, “but it wasn’t. Someone had a spite against him. That was what it was.”

“How do you know he hadn’t spoken evil of me?” said the Queen.

“No one could,” said the woman simply, “when they’d once seen your beautiful face.”

“Let the man out,” said the Queen, smiling. “Next case.”

The next case was that of a boy who had stolen a fox. “Like the Spartan boy,” whispered Robert. But the Queen ruled that nobody could have any possible reason for owning a fox, and still less for stealing one. And she did not believe that there were any foxes in Babylon; she, at any rate, had never seen one. So the boy was released.

The people came to the Queen about all sorts of family quarrels and neighbourly misunderstandings⁠—from a fight between brothers over the division of an inheritance, to the dishonest and unfriendly conduct of a woman who had borrowed a cooking-pot at the last New Year’s festival, and not returned it yet.

And the Queen decided everything, very, very decidedly indeed. At last she clapped her hands quite suddenly and with extreme loudness, and said⁠—

“The audience is over for today.”

Everyone said, “May the Queen live forever!” and went out.

And the children were left alone in the justice-hall with the Queen of Babylon and her ladies.

“There!” said the Queen, with a long sigh of relief. “That’s over! I couldn’t have done another stitch of justice if you’d offered me the crown of Egypt! Now come into the garden, and we’ll have a nice, long, cosy talk.”

She led them through long, narrow corridors whose walls they somehow felt, were very, very thick, into a sort of garden courtyard. There were thick shrubs closely planted, and roses were trained over trellises, and made a pleasant shade⁠—needed, indeed, for already the sun was as hot as it is in England in August at the seaside.

Slaves spread cushions on a low, marble terrace, and a big man with a smooth face served cool drink in cups of gold studded with beryls. He drank a little from the Queen’s cup before handing it to her.

“That’s rather a nasty trick,” whispered Robert, who had been carefully taught never to drink out of one of the nice, shiny, metal cups that are chained to the London drinking fountains without first rinsing it out thoroughly.

The Queen overheard him.

“Not at all,” said she. “Ritti-Marduk is a very clean man. And one has to have someone as taster, you know, because of poison.”

The word made the children feel rather creepy; but Ritti-Marduk had tasted all the cups, so they felt pretty safe. The drink was delicious⁠—very cold, and tasting like lemonade and partly like penny ices.

“Leave us,” said the Queen. And all the Court ladies, in their beautiful, many-folded, many-coloured, fringed dresses, filed out slowly, and the children were left alone with the Queen.

“Now,” she said, “tell me all about yourselves.”

They looked at each other.

“You, Bobs,” said Cyril.

“No⁠—Anthea,” said Robert.

“No⁠—you⁠—Cyril,” said Anthea. “Don’t you remember how pleased the Queen of India was when you told her all about us?”

Cyril muttered that it was all very well, and so it was. For when he had told the tale of the Phoenix and the Carpet to the Ranee, it had been only the truth⁠—and all the truth that he had to tell. But now it was not easy to tell a convincing story without mentioning the Amulet⁠—which, of course, it wouldn’t have done to mention⁠—and without owning that they were really living in London, about 2,500 years later than the