The Assyrian (45 page)

That was how she would avenge herself upon
her coward lover, by forgetting his existence.

But I would not forget hers. My ears were
filled with the soft sound of her voice, my eyes with the sight of
her. Longing and remorse tore at my breast with their heavy claws,
and I knew she was right to hate me and believed I could not live
another night without her forgiveness and her love and the cool
touch of her little hands. I suffered then as I knew I would suffer
every time that her name sounded in my mind, and that would be
every hour of my life. Esharhamat. Esharhamat. Drive me mad, but do
not abandon me. Esharhamat.

Morning’s first gray light was like the mercy
of the gods, and it found me in a forgiving mood. I stepped
outside, and the parade ground was a changed place—the weeds were
gone, the dead leaves had been gathered up, even the barrack walls
were sparkling with whitewash. And the men themselves? I saw many a
haggard face, but at least their uniforms were clean and their
equipment in order. The night had worked a kind of miracle.

But I kept my face empty of expression—no
first effort can be allowed to seem sufficient.

“This, at least, is a beginning,” I said. “I
will allow you three hours of rest before the start of drill
practice. We will see then if you still remember anything of being
soldiers.”

Even as I let the door swing shut behind me,
I could hear the murmur of a thousand voices. The news had not been
sweet to their ears.

An orderly, one of my own quradu, took my
cloak as I headed toward my bed. He had been the luckiest man in
Amat last night, for there had been nothing to prevent him from
sleeping straight through till morning.

“Wake me in two hours,” I told him.
“Remember, two hours.”

I pulled a blanket around me and closed my
eyes, not even bothering to kick the sandals from my feet.

. . . . .

It was as well the mountain tribes could not
witness that afternoon’s drill, or they might have commenced
pouring over our borders like locusts. We stumbled through routine
exercises like sleepwalkers. Partly this was simple fatigue, for
everyone was clumsy with exhaustion, but the real blame lay with
neglect—one might have supposed these men had been conscripted only
that morning. Experienced soldiers fell from their horses or
impaled themselves on their own weapons. Our casualties would have
done justice to a small battle, and our war was against no enemy
except ourselves.

This giddy performance went on all afternoon.
My quradu formed up a battle square and took on all comers in a
mock engagement fought with wooden swords and javelins with padded
points. I led the chariot drills myself, since I would not have
these men think their new commander was but a mud scratching
soldier. Every man worked until he was ready to drop.

And finally, when the light died, we dragged
ourselves back to barracks for a hot meal—a wretched, thin, bad
smelling porridge but at least the same meal for all ranks—and a
night’s sleep.

But we made progress. On the next day and the
day after, the quality of drill improved, and on the third day the
supply officer himself came to me asking to be returned to line
duties—it seemed his brother officers had made him afraid for his
life. I granted the request, promoted Lushakin to rab kisir, and
turned the matter over to him. He was not pleased, saying that the
gods had not intended him for a kitchen soldier, but almost from
that hour the quality of rations improved—even the beer.

And also on the third day the ekalli I had
thrashed at the fortress gate was released from stockade and
brought to me while I finished my supper. He was a short man with
sloping shoulders and long, powerful arms; indeed, there was
something nearly apelike about him. His face was haggard and almost
gray from his ordeal, but as he waited for me to speak—doubtless
expecting the worst, that I would have him flogged to death now, or
driven from camp naked and bleeding, like the rab abru, or degraded
to a garrison slave—his eyes were too proud to beg. He had endured
cold and hunger and the terror of an uncertain fate, but he would
not lower himself to show his own weakness. He watched me with
something like defiance. “Do what more you like with me,” he seemed
to say. “You will find that I can stand that too.” I decided I did
not care to waste such a man.

“The next time you lead a watch, watch. I
could just as easily have put a javelin between your shoulder
blades, and then you would not be alive to cast covetous glances
upon your commander’s wretched meal. Here—sit down and feed
yourself. There is enough for two, and I don’t like a man to divide
his attention when I speak to him.”

He sat and ate, with his fingers, as greedy
as an animal. And when he had finished he threw himself back in his
chair and sighed with pleasure.

“Did you enjoy that?” I asked, as if only to
satisfy my own curiosity.

“No—it was no better than the slop the rest
of us get. I thought the officers took better care of
themselves.”

“Not anymore.”

The tone of my answer must have reminded him
that this was no social occasion and he rose to his feet, standing
not quite at attention.

“Go back to your barracks, Ekalli,” I went
on. “Get a decent night’s sleep for a change and have your men
ready for drill practice at the first hour after dawn. That is
all.”

“Then I am to retain my rank, Rab Shaqe?” His
voice reflected not so much relief as astonishment.

“Yes. But in the months ahead do endeavor to
show me that I have not made a mistake. And be sure to tell me if
you have any more complaints about the food.”

“I will, Rab Shaqe.”

Even as he walked away into the darkness, I
could hear him laughing to himself. His name was Girittu, and after
that he proved himself a good soldier. I never had cause to regret
that act of clemency.

And there were no further complaints about
the food, which perhaps made more difference than anything else.
Better food led inevitably to better morale, and that in its turn
led to better drill. Everyone, down to the humblest shield carrier,
was more cheerful, as if he had rediscovered his purpose in living.
Even the camp prostitutes began to look less slovenly. Within ten
days the garrison at Amat was actually coming once more to resemble
an army. I decided that at the end of the second week I could risk
taking a few companies into the mountains for field exercises.

It was on the night before our intended
departure that I received a reminder that some in Nineveh still
held me in their thoughts.

I had gone to my sleeping mat early, and,
knowing that for the next half month I would have no bed but a
blanket spread over the cold ground, had ordered the added luxury
of a brazier, heaped high with coals so that my room was almost
like a sweating house.

A man is generally punished for these little
extravagances, and I spent a restless night, visited by
nightmares.

Zaqar, that god who presides over the hours
of sleep, sends us our dreams as messages, glimpses into the future
and our own hearts. He punishes the wicked with visions of terror,
but even in this he is a gentle god, a merciful god, for through
these are we brought to seek pardon, and through pardon comes peace
and rest. That night Zaqar punished me for my brazier, as he
punishes the drunkard and the glutton, for my dreams were full of
violence and death.

I was in Babylon once more, and the banks of
the dry riverbed were piled with corpses. I was tumbling through
the air and into that mass of corruption. I was fighting to free
myself, climbing over slippery arms and legs that came away in my
hands. And somewhere in this tangle was waiting a man with a sword,
ready to cut my throat and leave me here among the rotting dead. If
I could not free myself he would kill me, or I would suffocate
among the dead. I could hear his voice calling me—distant, like the
squeaking of mice. I was sinking, sinking. . .

And then all at once I was awake, and I knew
that there was someone there in the room with me who meant me harm,
and that the god had sent me a warning.

I did not hesitate. I threw myself from my
sleeping mat and rolled away like a log. There was the sound of
wood splintering as a copper ax buried its blade in the floorboard,
just where my head had rested. In the dim red light from the
brazier I could see the outlines of my assailant’s legs, bent at
the knee as he tried to pull his weapon loose for a second attempt,
and I threw myself at these.

The man fell forward, toppling straight over
me, and we both scrambled to gain our feet. My javelin was leaning
against the wall next to my sleeping mat, but I could not come near
it without putting myself within reach of his ax. We both stood up
together—the ax was in his hands now and he grinned at me, seeing
that I had no weapon. It was a small room. I had no retreat. He had
only to step forward, swinging down at me. . .

I backed up, and my naked heel touched the
brazier behind me. I could feel its heat, a sudden, sharp pain,
like the blade of a knife against my leg.

The brazier, its coals still red hot—my one
chance to live.

With a quick twist I reached down and grabbed
it, holding it between my two hands. It seemed immensely heavy, and
my hands hissed against the fiery black metal. It would consume
me—I could not hold this terrible weight or my hands would be
burned away like dry grass.

Keeping my back bent, I threw it away from
me. I threw it at the man with the ax, catching him in the chest
and knocking him down. He screamed as the burning red coals
showered over him. For a moment he forgot everything except the
fact that he was covered with fire. He dropped the ax—he had no
time for that now. He did not even remember I was there.

It was the work of an instant. A few steps
and I had the javelin in my hands. The assassin was lying on the
floor, howling with terror, thrashing about like a madman as he
tried to free himself from the fire. I raised the javelin over my
head and drove it into his breast—his screams died with him, as if
cut off with a knife.

“By the gods, what. . ?”

I turned, and saw my orderly standing in the
doorway. I pushed past him, my hands throbbing with pain, my brain
dead. I had no word for him.

I waited on the porch while they put out the
fire, sitting on a stool, as unconscious as an idiot. Someone
brought a bucket of cold water, and I soaked my hands in it. They
were swollen, but not too badly burned. This surprised me—I felt
nothing else except this mild, detached surprise. I would be all
right, it appeared. At the time the fire had seemed to pierce to
the bone, so perhaps my sedu had protected me yet again.

At last, as the noise and confusion died
away, I began to recover myself and unanswered questions flooded in
on me of their own bidding.

“It is all right, Rab Shaqe. The fire is
out.”

I rose and went into my bedroom—a shambles
now, half filled with smoke, the walls dripping with water. The man
who had meant to kill me was dead himself, lying curled up on the
floor like a child asleep, my javelin still sticking up out of his
chest as if to mark the spot. I had driven the point most of the
way through him, and pulling it loose proved to be no easy
matter.

“Drag him out into the light,” I said,
handing the weapon to an orderly—my voice sounded thick from
disuse. “I want to see his face.”

A couple of soldiers, doubtless out of
consideration for the floors, rolled the corpse onto my scorched
and blood smeared sleeping mat and carried it thus into the room
where I was accustomed to take my meals. Several officers had
already collected there, some of them still in their night tunics,
and together we examined this dead assassin.

He wore the uniform of a common soldier and
looked somewhere between twenty and thirty years of age. There was
nothing extraordinary about him—he might have been anybody. I had
never seen him before.

“Does anyone recognize him?” I asked. There
was a general buzz of negatives and shaking of heads. No one knew
this man—or would admit to it. I took the dead man’s hand and
turned it to look at the palm.

“Collect the rab kisirs and have them look at
him, just to be sure he isn’t from the garrison, but I’ll wager
this one’s never been a soldier. Look—not a callus anywhere. His
hands are as soft as a baby’s.”

I asked for a cup of wine and poured it over
the dead man’s head as an offering to appease his ghost. Then I
gave orders that the roll be taken in all companies to see if
anyone was missing—this one might never have seen service, but by
the look of it his uniform had, and I wanted to know where he had
gotten it.

“Check the town. See if there have been any
strangers about—he couldn’t have appeared out of thin air.”

“What shall we do with the corpse, Rab
Shaqe?”

It was not an idle question. What does one do
in such a case, where the stakes are as high as the lordship of the
world and the players are of one’s own blood? I did not want it
known who had sent this man, but I wanted to be sure that another
would not be sent in his place.

“Cut off the head and have it packed in
salt,” I answered, standing up and trying to seem indifferent,
although my guts felt as if they had been tied in a knot. “It is
going to Nineveh, whence it probably came. There is someone there
to whom I would send it as a present.”

Chapter 17

The next morning, in the town, a soldier was
found dead in the alley behind a brothel, the hemp cord which had
been used to strangle him still around his neck. His uniform had
been stripped from his body and, when the one worn by the assassin
was shown to the woman who served the dead soldier as a wife, she
identified it from a tear she had repaired in the cloak. Thus was
one mystery solved. I gave orders that henceforth entry into the
fortress would be by a watchword, which was to be changed daily,
and let the matter drop. My warning to Nineveh would be my best
protection against armed men in the night, and there is a limit to
what a commander should be seen to do to safeguard his own
life.