The Assyrian (68 page)

“Is she not fine, Tiglath my son?” He nudged
me with his elbow, almost knocking the wine cup from my hand. “Is
she not a pretty thing? Yes? And the way the oil glistens on her
breasts and belly! Would she not press the seed from a man’s loins,
eh? I will make you a present of her—do you hear that, you pretty
slut? I give you to my son, the mighty Tiglath Ashur, whom the gods
love. Ha, ha, ha!”

“Dread Lord, the Lady Shaditu...”

“Yes? What is it you want, Shupa, eh?” He
turned, scowling, but I think he was only startled.

“The Lady Shaditu. . .”

“Yes? What of her?”

“She begs your pardon, Dread Lord, but her
head troubles her and she will not come.”

“Yes? Well, what of it? Why do you pester me,
Shupa? Can you not see that I am with my son?”

And at last, when the late hour and the wine
and his own weakness overwhelmed him, I helped the master of the
wide world to find his bed. I unlaced his sandals and covered him
with a cloak and sat beside him the little time until he fell
asleep. The king was old and his life, like spilled wine, was
dripping away with hardly a sound.

I had grown to manhood in that great palace,
and I needed no lamp to guide my steps as I sought the door that
led outside to a courtyard shrouded in darkness. It was empty. No
one was there, only the still, quiet night. I sat down on an old
stone bench, cradling between my hands the wine cup I had carried
away with me, my heart filled with memories.

“I am Tiglath Ashur! My father is
Sennacherib, Lord of the Earth, King of Kings!”

The words rang in my memory, as if they had
just been spoken. And I had looked up and seen the king, shining
like the sun—just here, all those years ago.

Lord of the Earth, King of Kings. And now an
old man, my father, lay snoring in his room. And Tiglath Ashur—what
of him?

A glimpse of her, stepping out from behind a
pillar for one quick peek at her old lover. Esharhamat, in whose
eyes a man might lose himself. At least she had not forgotten me,
although doubtless it would have been best if she had.

I tasted the wine and set the cup down
between my feet. It had lost its savor for me, and the night had
lasted too long.

“My Lord?”

I turned to look but saw nothing. And then
someone stepped out of the shadows—a woman. For a moment I thought.
. . But no. It was only the Arab girl.

“No one could tell me where my lord slept
tonight, so I came looking for you.”

What could she be talking about? And then, of
course, I remember—my father’s little present.

And why not? What difference could it
make?

“Come here,” I said, gesturing to her. “Come
here, and let me look at you.”

She approached, moving silently on bare feet.
I held out my hand and she took it. She knelt before me. She
smelled of sandalwood and sweet oil.

“They tell me you are a great conqueror,” she
said. “Tonight you can conquer Arabia.”

Her laughter was like the music of silver
bells. She opened her tunic and let it glide from her shoulders,
knowing I would find her beautiful.

“Let us find a place to take our ease,” I
said, standing up. “We can go to the house of war and kick some
sleeping cadet out of his bed.”

Perhaps I had drunk more than I thought.
Perhaps I stumbled. My foot brushed against the cup I had left
resting on the ground, and its wine spilled across the stones like
blood.

. . . . .

“You are not in the house of women now,
Prince.”

I had been asleep, my nose pressed against a
soft breast that smelled sweetly of oil. Before I knew what had
happened I felt a hand closing around my ankle and myself being
dragged out from beneath the blanket.

It was Tabshar Sin.

“You have missed breakfast, and I will put
you to cleaning out the stables until dinner,” he said, grinning at
me. With the stump of an arm that protruded from his green uniform
he gestured toward the sleeping mat

“Who is your friend?”

I didn’t know. It suddenly came to me that I
had not the remotest hint of an idea.

“Who are you?” I asked, turning to her. She
grinned, as if at a fine joke. “The rab kisir wishes to know your
name, and so do I, for you are lovely. Who are you?”

“What name you wish, Lord—though I was born
Zabibe. My mother named me after a queen.”

“And very right she was.”

Tabshar Sin held a pan of water for me and I
washed my face, awake now and happy to see him.

“Doubtless I have been assigned rooms in my
father’s house, although I know not where. Go and find them—wait
for me there, Zabibe.”

She gathered up her robe and left, and I was
not sorry. A woman is a fine thing at night, when one feels lonely
and wishes to take one’s case, but the daylight belongs to men.

“Come,” I said, putting my arm across Tabshar
Sin’s shoulders—he was smaller than I remembered him. “You must
tell me all the news while we empty a jar together, for I have a
great thirst for the beer of Nineveh. . .”

We sat with our backs against the wall of the
old cadet quarters, enjoying the sunshine, already a little
drunk.

“Do you remember?” he asked finally, his eyes
closed and a faint smile playing on his lips. “I gave you your
first instruction with the sword, just here. I thought, ‘he has
tenacity, but the gods help him in a duel.’ I hope you have
improved since then.”

“A little,” I said, thinking of Esarhaddon.
“Enough to keep every drunken knave from cutting my throat, but it
is not my weapon.”

“No—it was Esarhaddon’s weapon. But that was
before he became the marsarru and forgot what it is to be a
soldier.”

I did not reply. I do not think Tabshar Sin
expected that I would.

“I have only one cadet left.” He sighed, like
a man numbering his afflictions. “One more royal prince—and he will
be with the army at the start of the next campaign season.”

Something in his voice made me look at him,
really look at him, for the first time, and I saw what had eluded
me before—that Tabshar Sin, like everyone else, had grown old.
There was more white than black in his beard now, and his face,
when he closed his eyes, was almost that of a corpse.

“What will you do then?” I asked him.

“I do not know, or even care very much. I
suppose I will go home to my native village, where I know no one,
and water date palms.”

“Come back with me to Amat. Train up soldiers
I can use to fight the Medes.”

“Do you mean it?” He opened his eyes and
looked at me, almost as if I had startled him awake.

“Yes—I mean it.”

“Then I might have the good fortune to be
killed in battle.”

“Then you will come?”

“Yes, of course I will come. I thank you,
Prince—it will be like old times.”

“No. It will be better.”

I took the beer jug that he had been cradling
in his lap and tipped it back until its contents washed to the very
back of my throat. I was very pleased with myself.

“Where is Esarhaddon?” I asked, not precisely
sure why.

“In Calah. But he will be here tomorrow, for
the king has summoned him. I think the king cannot resist any
opportunity to humble Esarhaddon, so he must be in Nineveh while
you are here that he may witness the people’s love for his
brother.”

“Am I loved?”

“Yes. But do not preen yourself too much on
account of it. It is true that you are praised because you fight
the Medes and hate the Babylonians, but you are praised all the
more because you are not Esarhaddon.”

“And yet he it was who found favor with the
gods.”

“But with no one else.” Tabshar Sin moved his
shoulders, as if he felt the cold. “There will be trouble. I shall
be just as happy to be gone from Nineveh when the Lord Esarhaddon
begins his reign.”

“And yet much may happen before then. The
king may yet live many years more.”

“Yes, but not reign many more. You have seen
him, Prince. How long must it be before your brother becomes
king—in fact, if not in name?”

He reclaimed the beer jar, but only to hold
it once more in his lap. He closed his hand around its neck and
then seemed to forget it entirely.

“So, you see,” he went on at last, closing
his eyes once more, “I shall not be sorry to be gone. Or if a
Median spear finds me; it is all the same.”

. . . . .

All the rest of that morning I found myself
sought out by officers and soldiers, some of whom I knew from the
wars in the south, some of whom I had never met. I seemed always to
be at the center of a little knot of men, some of whom asked me
questions—about how the Scythian cavalry fought, and if I had found
chariots of any use in the mountain campaigns—and some merely stood
about and listened. A few even asked if I would accept them for
service against the Medes. It seemed that my reports from the north
had enjoyed a wide currency within the house of war. My popularity
with the army, it seemed, had never stood higher.

But, as Tabshar Sin had pointed out, this was
less my doing than my brother’s—I was not he, and I did not follow
him in loving the Babylonians, so I was loved myself.

Ever since the Lord Sennacherib had sacked
Marduk’s city and left her a waste, a home for foxes and a nesting
place for owls, there had been two parties, two ways of thinking in
the Land of Ashur. One held that the king had done a wicked thing
in destroying the ancient power of Babylon. These spoke of her as
of a mother, and they feared the wrath of her god. These wished to
rebuild her walls, cleanse her sanctuaries, and have the king or
one of his sons take once more the hands of Marduk and be king
himself in Sumer. This was the will of the priests, and of many
besides. The other party—and these were strongest within the army
and among the common people—wished Babylon to lie in ruins forever.
“Why raise up another nation of enemies?” they asked. “Have we not
the barbarians in the north and east? Are these not enough?”

While the king lived, one brick of Babylon’s
great wall would not lie on top of another. Such was his will. But
when the king died. . . It was well known that the priests had
great influence with Esarhaddon, that he had spoken many times of
our crimes against the old gods. Thus many were afraid.

So the people and the army looked for someone
whom they could prefer over Esarhaddon. Thus I was respected where
he was scorned, and my name was on all men’s lips.

But to set myself up as my brother’s rival
was to break with the lawful succession and the will of the gods,
and this I was not prepared to do. When my mind was at last
understood, the people would set up another idol in my place. Hence
Tabshar Sin’s warning.

And Tabshar Sin was wiser than I, for I was
yet young enough to be greatly flattered by the attention of so
many. The vanity of soldiers, it is said, is like a hole dug in the
sand—it will swallow anything.

Yet the king was old enough to have grown
foolish all over again—and to have ceased remembering, or caring,
that one day another king must reign in the Land of Ashur—for he
encouraged my pride and hated Esarhaddon, whom he might have turned
aside to a wiser policy. The king did his part to make me an enemy
of my own brother, and for this evil we would each of us one day be
made to pay the price.

But, as I have said, I was flattered. It
seemed harmless enough to me that I should be made much of. Did I,
the conqueror of many nations, deserve any less? Esarhaddon was to
have the throne, so why should I not have glory?

Esarhaddon was to have the throne—and did he
not, even as marsarru, have that which meant more to me than any
throne? Did he not have the Lady Esharhamat? It had been a mistake
to return to Nineveh—even I could see this clearly enough—but now I
had seen her. I could not help it. The poison was already in my
blood.

I could do no harm by putting myself in her
way. Was this not what she had done? A few moments, a word—that was
all I would ask. She was heavy with child, so it must all be
perfectly innocent. There could be no scandal. This is what I told
myself, and even believed.

But neither could there be any thought of a
secret meeting. There are no secrets in a royal palace, and
doubtless Esharhamat was surrounded by spies—the Lady Naq’ia, if
not her son, would wish to remain well informed. Besides, if
Esarhaddon ever changed his mind yet again and decided on my death,
it would not be out of jealousy over his wife.

Thus I settled in my heart that I would go
that same evening and call at Esharhamat’s garden. Perhaps, out of
prudence, she would not see me, but I would go just the same.

In the last hour of daylight, I found myself
seated on the stone bench beside the fountain with the laughing
water. A eunuch slave had shown me in and left me there alone while
he sought his mistress—or almost alone, for a cat, stiff jointed
and too fat to jump up into my lap, rubbed her back against my
shins. I picked her up, for we were old acquaintances.

“Well, my friend Lamashtu,” I murmured,
scratching her under the jaw. At once she began to purr, burying
her claws in my thigh out of pure contentment. “You have grown
quite elderly since last we met. I see your mistress loves you
yet.”

“Her mistress was always constant in her
heart.”

I looked up, startled at the nearness of her
voice, and saw Esharhamat standing with her hand upon the
fountain’s rim. She had come without my hearing so much as the
whisper of her robes.

“It is not a claim which you can make,” she
went on—her expressionless face seemed as hard as polished stone.
“Why have you come here, Tiglath?”

“I should think that that, at least, would
require no explanation.” I smiled, feeling that I had made a
foolish blunder.

“You feel no scruples now, visiting your
brother’s wife? But of course—I had forgot. Esarhaddon is in
Calah.”