The Assyrian (61 page)

When I looked around at him I could see that
he was not merely trying to goad me. He was leaning forward, his
hands balanced upon his knees, as if he really wanted to know.

“I cannot be king while you live, Esarhaddon,
and this is not a matter I will discuss with you while your brains
are putrid with wine.”

“Perhaps you still have hopes?” he went on,
as if he had not heard me. “Perhaps you think that some one or
another of your many friends will put a dagger in my back, and that
when I am safely mixed with the dust you can then have
everything—the throne, Esharhamat, the god’s favor,
everything.”

“Be silent, Esarhaddon, before I forget that
I love you.”

“But if you love me, Tiglath my brother, then
why do you conspire with my enemies?” He had risen to a crouch now,
and he was holding the sword. I could see it now in his eyes as
they held me—he had drunk himself into a black rage. “Why did you
entertain Arad Malik and Nabusharusur in your house, when you knew
that they hate me? Why, Tiglath! Did Arad Malik offer you the
throne if you would join them against me?”

I could almost have pitied him. Arad
Malik—how typical of Esarhaddon to get it wrong.

“It is not for you to say, brother, whom I
shall see in my own house. Nor is it for me to turn away any who
are sent there with the king’s commission.”

“I knew it—the king!” He was so angry that he
actually stamped his foot, something I had not seen him do since
childhood. “Always the king! He hates me, and why? Simply because I
am not you!”

As a swordsman, Esarhaddon had few rivals. He
had always been able to best me in close combat, calling the
javelin a “coward’s weapon”—perhaps he was even right, for I had no
trouble acknowledging to myself that I was afraid.

“Do you deny that they have brought you into
their conspiracy?” he shouted, standing now, seeming to test the
sword’s weight in his hand. “Do you deny that you plot with them
against me?”

I could see quite clearly now that it had
been his design from the first to bring me out here to this
isolated place and to kill me. His mistrust and jealousy had
reached such a pitch as that. But still, there was enough left of
his old habit of love that he could not do the thing in cold
blood—he had to heat his liver with wine before he had the strength
to draw his sword on me.

My poor brother—I found I could not but pity
him, even now. It was as my mother had said, “. . .he is adrift,
not knowing what to do nor whom to trust.” Except that now he
seemed to think the thing to do was to strip me of my life.

I could have ended the matter quite quickly.
Nothing more would have been required than to raise my javelin and
put it through his heart, but we both knew I would not do that.
Esarhaddon wanted a duel, a fair fight between equals—he was not a
coward or a villain, and it was not his way to murder a man when he
is defenseless. Nor was it mine. He would have what he wanted.

He was swaying slightly as he stood there—he
was very drunk, but even drunk he was a formidable enemy. I could
only hope that he was even more drunk than he seemed.

“I do not deny that they hate you,” I said,
smiling slightly, letting my own anger rise. “And I do not deny,
brother, that they spoke to me of you—of your unpopularity, of your
unfitness to be king. All this is true enough. Can you deny
it?”

“I deny it!” The muscles in his face tensed
with anger as he shouted his denial. “I deny it—the god chose me
over you!”

“Did he? Or was something arranged with the
baru Rimani Ashur, who then hanged himself out of shame? They told
me of rumors about our sister—rumors that must have reached your
ears too, brother.”

“I am chosen of the god Marduk, King of the
Gods! I am chosen, I am chosen, I am chosen!”

So it had come to that. His mother’s
whisperings all these years—I could hardly believe. . .

“So now you wish to test the favor of heaven,
is that it?” I grinned at him, an angry, hating grin, for even as I
drew my sword, I could not drive a brother’s love from my heart.
“Then come—we will see whom the god honors. We will see who lives
and who dies.”

The suns heat was punishing, enough to burn
away the very air in a man’s lungs. As he stepped out into it
Esarhaddon wiped his eyes with his fingertips. He walked slowly,
with his feet wide apart. No, he did not relish this fight, any
more than I did myself. I waited, letting him come to me.

He was now almost close enough to touch me
with his sword point. If he was drunk now, it did not show; he
looked solid and impenetrable as he balanced on the balls of his
feet, looking for an opening. We circled around one another, each
searching for the other’s weaknesses. As boys we had done this a
thousand times in play, never thinking that someday we would fight
in earnest. On its first pass, Esarhaddon’s blade cut through the
air with a tearing sound—though he wasn’t even trying to reach me
yet, only testing, sure of himself, seeing how I would react. He
was like a cat with a cornered mouse.

I made a rush and he parried it aside with
ease, as I had known he would. He did not follow up his advantage,
however—he was not such a fool as to fall into a trap. He even
dropped his point a few hand spans, inviting me to try again. But I
knew that trick too.

He reached up with his left hand and wiped
his eyes again. He was sweating heavily and squinting in the light.
Yes, he had drunk too much wine to be fighting in the bright
afternoon sun. It oppressed him, like a shoulder pack filled with
stones. A narrow advantage for me—something to balance against his
skill.

Finally he lunged, leveling a blow at me that
cut from left to right and would have split my chest open like a
fig under a cart wheel had I not somehow managed to dance aside.
But this time he did press his advantage, slashing at me once,
twice, three times, each stroke coming closer until the last one
cut through my tunic at the shoulder, bathing my right arm in blood
as I scrambled to get away from him. I did not even know how badly
he had wounded me. I was too busy trying to stay alive to feel the
hurt.

And then, suddenly, he seemed to waver—not
long, but long enough for me to regain my balance. He stopped and
peered into my face, his eyes blinking, as if all at once he could
not remember who I was or how he had come to be there. It lasted
only an instant, this remission, and then he swung at me again. But
this time I caught the blow on the edge of my sword and turned it
aside.

He was tiring—I could see that now. That was
my chance, to let him wear himself down.

The sweat popped out on his face and arms
now. He was beginning to grow desperate. He had drawn first blood,
but he knew he did not have much time to press the advantage. He
wanted to finish me off before his strength failed him, so he kept
after me, hacking away at my sword blade like a man trying to cut
through a bank of reeds. It was becoming easier and easier to fend
him off.

At last he made his mistake. He let his swing
carry him just a little too far inside my range, and I caught him
on the back of the hand with my point.

It was hardly more than a scratch, just
enough to slit open the skin, and though it probably hurt like a
demon, it was, I think, more than anything the surprise that did
it. Esarhaddon cried out, and the sword dropped from his hand. I
did not need any more invitation than that.

For some unaccountable reason, it never
occurred to me to kill him then and there. I simply charged,
yelling at the top of my lungs and catching him in the pit of the
stomach with my shoulder. I could hear the wind shoot out of him
with a cough as we tumbled down together. Esarhaddon did not even
try to fight me off—he was too busy trying to remember how to
breathe.

When he came to rest I was on top, my knee
planted in the center of his chest and the blade of my sword across
his throat while Esarhaddon, making a series of short gasping
sounds, tried to fill his lungs again. It was a moment before he
even noticed that I was there.

“You were so sure,” I whispered between my
teeth—I could think of nothing except my anger. I was ready to kill
him in that instant. Perhaps all that saved him was that I wished
him to know how he had made me hate him. “May the gods damn you
forever, you were so sure. You have grown soft, brother. You have
turned into a soft, clumsy drunkard, or you would not now be on
your back with my sword blade under your chin.”

“Then be quick about it,” he croaked. “Go
ahead—do your will. Kill me.”

I could feel his body going rigid as he
waited for the blow. I raised my blade. He was already dead. I had
made the decision, and his head was as good as off.

Except that my arm would not obey. And then I
knew that I could not, that it was not in me to take Esarhaddon’s
life.

I pressed the edge into the flesh of his
throat until a fine red line of blood popped out beneath it.

“And who would avenge you if I did, brother?
Who? The army, perhaps? Do you think so? Or the king? No—he would
laugh with joy and beg the god to put me in your place. How long do
you think it would be before I entered the house of succession, my
brother? Then I would have everything, even Esharhamat. Would she
mourn for you, do you think? Would I have to guard my sleep against
your widow’s fury?”

He did not answer. If he tried—if he even
understood—the words came not. He only stared at me with wild eyes,
expecting death in the next instant.

“Or perhaps you count on your mother to
appease your ghost with my blood. Do you, Esarhaddon? I think not.
I think our father, who is wise enough to crush a scorpion when he
sees one, would have her head on the floor within an hour of
receiving word of your death. What do you imagine might stay my
hand?”

His lips opened and then moved to shape a
word that had no voice. And all the time his eyes never left mine.
Finally he licked his parched lips and tried once more.

“I will not beg,” he whispered. “Kill me, and
hear my curse as I die.”

I was almost weeping with rage. I grabbed him
by the tunic and pulled him up. I kicked him away from me, striking
a blow with the flat of my sword that would have broken another
man’s ribs.

But Esarhaddon merely grunted, as if in
surprise. Finally, when he had sat up again, he put his head
between his knees and vomited, staining the ground red with sour
wine. I went back to the chariot and fetched him my water bag that
he could rinse the taste from his mouth.

“Why did you not kill me?” he asked finally.
“Not even I would have blamed you.”

I was in no temper to answer. I turned away
from him, my bowels still trembling with an emotion compounded of
wrath and horror. For a long time I could not have spoken.

“Why did you not kill me?” he repeated at
last. Strangely, he sounded quite calm.

“You are alive—is that not enough for
you?”

He sat there, his elbows resting on his
knees, staring at nothing. He looked exhausted, spent.

“I suppose it must be.”

I did not reply.

“I will not ask you to forgive me, Tiglath,”
he said, staring at his injured hand as he made and unmade a fist.
“I would not deserve it in any case.”

He did not have to ask, for, although I could
not have brought myself to say so, I had already forgiven him in my
heart. We both knew, however, that this incident could never be
forgotten, that it would stand between us forever. This, as much as
anything, was what choked my voice, that he had brought us to this
final parting.

“How is your shoulder?” he asked.

In truth, I had forgotten all about it. When
I looked I could see the cut was clean and not very deep. It hurt a
great deal, but that was a good sign.

“It will not kill me,” I answered. “How is
your hand?”

“Nothing but a scratch, but my ribs pain
me.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

Our eyes met, and Esarhaddon grinned. He
really was sorry. I smiled thinly—it was the best I could do. I sat
down beside him and took a swallow from the water bag.

“But they are plotting against me, aren’t
they—Arad Malik and Nabusharusur, I mean.”

“Of course. They could hardly speak of
anything else.”

“You might at least have warned me.”

“Would I have been telling you anything you
did not already know yourself?”

He shook his head.

“The king encourages them—or at least
pretends to be blind and deaf. The king favors anyone who he thinks
will weaken me. I will kill Arad Malik, the first day I sit on the
throne.”

“Arad Malik is as toothless as a newborn
babe. Kill Nabusharusur instead.”

“What—that eunuch?”

“Yes, that eunuch. You will not last very
long as king, my brother, unless you learn to be afraid of men like
Nabusharusur. The fact that his scabbard is empty only means that
he is hiding the dagger behind his back.”

Esarhaddon nodded, as if he understood.

“We had better bind our wounds,” he said,
“and think of some story to explain them when we return. We can say
that the chariot overturned. Tiglath?”

“Yes—what is it?”

“I will never mistrust you again.”

I could but laugh. Even in my own ears it was
a bitter sound.

“You think not, do you?”

We drove back to Amat, and Esarhaddon, to the
great consternation of his entourage, issued orders that they would
leave for Calah in the morning. We embraced at parting, for we were
in company with many others, but I think we both knew that the next
time we met it would not be as friends.

Chapter 23

It was some five days after Esarhaddon’s
departure that word reached me of an incursion on the eastern
border. It was not in itself a very important incident—a band of
Median raiders had crossed over into our province of Zamua and had
attacked a group of villages not far from the headwaters of the
Turnat River, the sort of thing which one must expect every so
often after years in which men have almost forgotten the sound of
fighting. It was, however, the pretext I had been hoping for.