Artaban must, indeed, ride wisely and well if he would keep the
appointed hour with the other Magi; for the route was a hundred and
fifty parasangs, and fifteen was the utmost that he could travel in a
day. But he knew Vasda's strength, and pushed forward without anxiety,
making the fixed distance every day, though he must travel late into
the night, and in the morning long before sunrise.
He passed along the brown slopes of Mount Orontes, furrowed by the
rocky courses of a hundred torrents.
He crossed the level plains of the Nisasans, where the famous herds of
horses, feeding in the wide pastures, tossed their heads at Vasda's
approach, and galloped away with a thunder of many hoofs, and flocks of
wild birds rose suddenly from the swampy meadows, wheeling in great
circles with a shining flutter of innumerable wings and shrill cries of
surprise.
He traversed the fertile fields of Concabar, where the dust from the
threshing-floors filled the air with a golden mist, half hiding the
huge temple of Astarte with its four hundred pillars.
At Baghistan, among the rich gardens watered by fountains from the
rock, he looked up at the mountain thrusting its immense rugged brow
out over the road, and saw the figure of King Darius trampling upon his
fallen foes, and the proud list of his wars and conquests graven high
upon the face of the eternal cliff.
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