The Assyrian (60 page)

He kept me with him during that time, as if
he could not bear to be parted from me—or, perhaps, was afraid of
letting me out of his sight. But we were hardly ever alone.

At last we came within sight of Amat, and for
the last beru to the fortress gates I once more surrendered my
mount and, taking the bridle of Esarhaddon’s lead horse in my hand,
walked beside his chariot like a common groom, leaving the soldiers
and citizens to cheer him alone. He was the marsarru and this
display of submission and loyalty was no more than his right, but
it pleased him just the same.

That night, at the banquet in the officers’
new mess, he put his arm across my shoulders as if nothing had
changed.

“The king speaks of making you his turtanu,”
he said, his tone confidential and secretive. “I do not know if he
does this merely to vex me or if such a plan is truly in his heart,
but he does speak of it. I thought perhaps you should know.”

“But what of the Lord Sinahiusur?” I asked,
thinking of my old patron. Esarhaddon shook his head.

“He has been sick in his legs this whole year
and now walks about with a staff to support him. Some men, once
they are past their prime, age quickly, and our uncle seems to be
one of these. How long can he last? Two years? Three? I think very
soon the king will need a new turtanu.”

I was grieved to hear this. What did I not
owe to the Lord Sinahiusur, who had saved me from the fate of
Nabusharusur and had guided my steps ever since? He had always been
an old man in my eyes, but what before had been merely the
self-centered prejudice of a child now seemed the very truth—the
great man, second voice in the Land of Ashur, had entered his
decline. It occurred to me that I would like to see him once more
before he died, to thank him for his goodness to me and to ask his
blessing, but there seemed little enough chance of that.

“When his bones are in a stone box in the
holy city, will you take his place, brother? Will you go back to
Nineveh as the king’s new turtanu?”

“No.” I shook my head. I wanted Esarhaddon to
talk of something else. I wanted to be alone, to bury my face in my
hands and pay my kinsman and friend the tribute of a few tears, but
not even that seemed possible. “No. I shall stay here as shaknu of
the northern provinces as long as the god permits me. If I never
see Nineveh again I shall count that as a blessing.”

“Good—I am glad of it.”

Esarhaddon lifted his hand from my shoulder
and picked up a skewer of honeyed locusts, pulling them off one at
a time and eating them in a single bite. Esarhaddon had always been
very fond of honeyed locusts.

“Do you remember when I came back from the
west?” he went on, licking his fingers. “That was the first time we
either of us gave thought to the possibility that one day one of us
would be king, and I said then that if the crown fell to me I would
make you my turtanu. Do you remember?”

“Yes. Yes, I remember.”

“I would not wish you to be turtanu before
then, Tiglath my brother, for the turtanu stands in precedence even
before the marsarru, and it would not be fitting that I, who will
be king, should yield to my brother in anything.”

I turned to look at him, keeping my face as
empty as a blank wall, although I felt a cold, dangerous anger in
my heart.

“I will not be the king’s turtanu, nor, when
you are king, brother, will I be yours. That too would not be
fitting.”

Although the smile never left his lips, he
was not pleased—I could see that, from the way the light changed in
his eyes. That was just as well, for now I had no desire left to
please him.

“You blame me for that villain dispatched to
murder you—is that not so? That is why you sent me his head. He was
not from me, brother.”

“I know that. I knew it then.”

“Then why. . ?”

“Because we both know whom he was from,
brother. Tell me—did you show my little gift to the Lady
Naq’ia?”

Esarhaddon grinned—no, I saw with some small
regret, he was not offended. It was beyond his ken why anyone would
imagine him offended by the suggestion that his mother trafficked
in assassins.

“She is a great and wise woman, Tiglath—you
would be wise not to underestimate her.”

“I think there is little enough chance of my
making that mistake.”

“But it is true that—well. . .”

He shrugged his shoulders, as if alluding to
some inconsequential but ludicrous weakness.

“Let us say that if there was ever any milk
in her breasts it has long since been replaced by adder venom. Yes,
I did show her the head, and do you know what she said? No—I will
not tell you what she said. You would not find it so amusing. She
has been made to understand certain things, however, and you need
not think there will be any more night visitors from Nineveh.”

“Good. I am pleased to have this unfortunate
misunderstanding resolved.”

But Esarhaddon, it appeared, was immune to
irony. From the expression on his face it was obvious he was
already thinking about something else.

“Why do you not wish to return to Nineveh?”
he asked at last, his brow tight with something between worry and
anger. “Is it because of Esharhamat? She is there, you know—the
king keeps her near him, even though she is my wife. Three times in
the month I must travel from Calah, a distance of nearly four beru,
merely to rut on her. It is a great inconvenience.”

“No. I did not know she was in Nineveh. But,
had I need of no other, that is a very good reason for me to stay
away.”

This, of all possible answers, seemed to be
the one he least wished to hear. His heavy fingers drummed against
the table, and he glanced about as if looking for some target for
his wrath.

“I do not know why you were wont to set such
store by her embraces, brother,” he said, his eyes, black and
angry, snapping around to fasten on my face. “Of all the world’s
women, she. . . With me she is as cold as pond water.”

What had he expected? I do not know. I only
know that I grasped his arm just above the wrist and squeezed down
with all the strength in my fingers, until I thought it just
possible that a little harder and I might break the bone.

“I think it best, brother, if we never speak
of this again.” The words were less a whisper than a hiss. “Really,
I think it best. . .”

“Yes—yes!” Esarhaddon, with some difficulty,
tore his arm away from my grasp. “As you will. I did not think,
after so long. . .”

“Then you are a greater fool than even the
king imagines.”

Suddenly he stood up from the table—as if he
had just seen a snake. Every eye in the hall was upon him, and even
the music of the flute players died away in silence. I had never
seen him look like that before, almost as if I had struck him.

Then he turned on his heel and strode
out.

. . . . .

This incident was doubtless the subject of
much discussion within the garrison, and it is not impossible that
it formed part of more than a few of the secret dispatches which I
knew perfectly well found their way to one or another eager reader
in Nineveh. What was made of it there I cannot guess.

For two days afterward I did not see
Esarhaddon. He closeted himself away with members of his own
suite—on the pretext of “official” business—took his meals alone,
and disappeared from sight. I was not surprised. It seemed to be
the wisest thing that we should stay clear of each other for a
time. I did not even think to concern myself with what he might be
planning.

“He is not happy, my son”—this was Merope’s
verdict on the matter. “The gods in their peculiar wisdom have
assigned each of you different destinies, and he is as discontented
with his as you are with yours. Esarhaddon is by temperament
lighthearted and careless. As a simple soldier he would have found
the world a place much to his liking, but as marsarru he is adrift,
not knowing what to do nor whom to trust. That mantle would have
suited your shoulders better.”

I could only shrug my shoulders, so well
suited to the weight of power, for my mother’s words were wise.

“Then what am I to do?” I asked.

“Only pity him, and be his friend—no matter
what.”

Except that it had become no easy matter to
be my brother’s friend.

On the third day, after Esarhaddon had once
more ventured into the daylight, one of his officers called upon
me.

“The lord marsarru wishes you to arrange some
hunting,” he announced, precisely as if he were speaking to my
cupbearer.

“Hunting?” I repeated. It was not so much the
substance of the request that astonished me as its form.

“Hunting—precisely. There is no need for
anything elaborate, just a few beaters and the like. What have you
in this area that is worth the trouble?”

He smiled faintly. He was tall, slim, well
tended, and about thirty, and he seemed to regard everything he saw
around him—including me, as if I had spent all my life wiping the
dust of Amat out of my eyes—with contemptuous pity. I could not
help wondering where my brother had acquired such a specimen, since
he was precisely the type of palace officer Esarhaddon had always
most detested. But tastes, it seemed, had changed with
circumstances.

“I think we can manage a wild pig or two,” I
answered dryly. “You may tell the lord marsarru that all will be
ready against the morning.”

I had thought in terms of an expedition
lasting three or four days—I had thought it would do Esarhaddon
good to spend a few nights under the stars, away from his
courtiers, living like a soldier again. I was that naive.

My first mistake was in underestimating my
brother’s wish for simplicity. When at daybreak he stepped out of
his quarters and looked around at the preparations I had made, he
grinned and shook his head.

“The Lord Tiglath Ashur has gone to too much
trouble,” he said—loud enough for everyone to hear. “What do you
say, my brother? Shall we just tether a couple of extra horses
behind a chariot and go off on our own? Shall we turn our faces
upcountry and disappear for a day, as we did when we were
boys?”

I answered his grin with one of my own, for I
was very pleased, and threw a bag of provisions on the back of my
chariot. Within five minutes Esarhaddon and I were driving out
through the fortress gates, alone.

The plains east of the city boast fine
hunting—gazelle, antelope, and wild boar roam there in great
abundance, and as the water holes dried up lions and even the odd
panther were driven down from the hills to take their chance near
the dwellings of men. If we caught sight of any of the great cats,
however, it would only be at a distance, for they are too wary to
be taken without the aid of beaters.

We crossed the pontoon bridge over the river
while there was still dew on the grass, and Esarhaddon mounted his
horse. Our plan was that I would drive around to the south while he
rode north, and we would see if we couldn’t catch a herd between
us.

“Give me the wineskin, Tiglath,” he said,
reaching out his hand for it. “Forgive my selfishness, but court
life has made me soft and I will feel the heat worse than you.”

“Do not distress yourself, brother, for,
knowing the greatness of your thirst, I brought two.”

He laughed as he took the wineskin and rode
away, his horse kicking a plume of dust into the air. I did not see
him again for several hours. I envied Esarhaddon, since this was
not very good terrain for hunting from a chariot. For all that the
fields were scorched by the sun, this was farmland and crisscrossed
with irrigation canals narrow enough to present no difficulties to
a man on horseback but which forced me to look for the rickety
little wooden bridges that the farmers had thrown across here and
there for their wagons to use. I managed to flush out a wild boar,
but he was clever enough simply to make for the nearest ditch and
thus outran me easily. At last I headed toward the foothills, where
the game would be thinner but at least I would be able to maneuver
better. There I was lucky enough to stumble upon a herd of
antelope, which stampeded at the sight of me but which I was able
to run down, picking off with my javelin two of the ones that tired
quickest. It was good sport, and a haunch of fresh butchered
antelope makes a fine supper. By the time the sun was two hours
past its zenith I began to think of looking about for my
brother.

“Have you had luck?” I shouted hailing him
from across the wide parched plain. He had tied his horse and was
sitting under the shade of an outcropping of rock—I could just
distinguish his outlines in the shadow.

He waved back, as if he realized the futility
of trying to make himself heard at such a distance. I whipped my
team back up to a canter. By the time I had blocked the chariot’s
wheel I could see that Esarhaddon could have spent but very little
time hunting. There was a bag of dates on the ground beside him and
the wineskin was cradled on his lap, looking a good deal gaunter
than when I had given it to him a few hours before. He didn’t say
anything, but he didn’t have to. His eyes glittered and the
expression on his face was intense and concentrated, which meant
that he had been drinking heavily.

“You do well to stay out of the sun,” I told
him. “But if all you wanted was to fuddle yourself we could have
tarried in Amat.”

“No—it’s more private here. Besides, I am not
fuddled.”

He sounded almost mournful, so I decided not
to tease him anymore. I took the water bag from my chariot and
poured some into my hands to rinse off my face. I don’t know just
when it was that I noticed his sword was out of his scabbard and
lying on the ground beside him.

“Tiglath,” he said suddenly, “why will you
not be my turtanu when I am king? It is because you still hope to
become king yourself?”