The Assyrian (72 page)

And then, at last, there was the procession,
a hushed and strangely awful ceremony, as if to mark the passing of
the world’s innocence. As his heir I led the mourners, walking
behind the plain wooden casket in which his body would be carried
to the holy city of Ashur, to a stone sarcophagus in the burial
vault of kings. There was no sound—the huge crowds around the royal
palace were still, respecting the silence that had descended over
the turtanu even while he yet lived.

At the city gates, the casket was placed
aboard a wagon and, with an honor guard following, we began the
five day journey to Ashur. On the road, each day was like the one
before. No one spoke. The Lord Sinahiusur, his body anointed with
fragrant oil, was at last in his tomb. The stone lid was slipped
into place and closed with seals of bronze. The light of day would
never reach him again. Could this really be farewell?

. . . . .

But where men die, life does not. Esharhamat,
whom I had not seen since first returning to Nineveh, had almost
reached her time of quickening. She sent for me.

“Esarhaddon’s son shall be named Shamash
Shumukin,” she said, lying on a couch in her chamber. I sat beside
her, and she held my hand tangled in her long, slender fingers. “Do
you see how he tries to bribe the Lord of Decision? ‘Shamash has
created a name.’ I fear this child’s first act may be to murder his
mother. I have had evil dreams, Tiglath. I am filled with fear and
I do not even know why. I should be beyond fear, as I am beyond the
god’s mercy. Why should I be afraid, since I would welcome
death?”

“What dreams, Esharhamat?”

“I dream of fire—everywhere fire, red and
gold flames like the tongues of serpents. The walls of a great
palace are burning around me. And I have set the torch myself. I
die by my own hand, yet it is not I. I see it all, as if through
the eyes of another.”

“Have you consulted a sha’ilu?”

“Oh yes—several.” She laughed, a little fever
of hysterics that was over in a second, and squeezed my hand all
the tighter. “In your brother’s house there is no shortage of all
manner of diviners. I have had my pick, and they all stroke their
beards and look grave and promise the truth. One says that the
flames are Ashur’s anger for some duty in which I have failed. Yet
another assures me that I carry the bright sun in my womb—can you
credit anyone believing such a thing of Esarhaddon’s seed?—and that
he will light the world. I have heard endless foolishness from
these wise men, enough that it all seems to cancel itself out. Yet
I believe the god means to avenge himself, to taunt me with this
warning of my own death.”

“You shall not die, Esharhamat,” I murmured,
putting my arm beneath her neck and gathering her to me—I spoke
what I knew to be the truth, yet I knew not how I knew. “You and I
cannot be finished with each other yet.”

She looked into my eyes and smiled, and I
found myself wondering, “Why would the god avenge himself on
Esharhamat? What could she have done?” But then she touched my lips
with her fingertips, and I could see the tears starting in her
great dark eyes.

“Forgive me—forgive me that I ever left
you.”

“I forgive you, Tiglath. Could I do less?”
Her arms were about my neck now, and I could feel her trembling—or
perhaps it was I who trembled. “I forgave you long ago, my love.
And did I not curse you? Only love me as you did before, and I will
lift the curse from your heart.”

“No, do not do that, for your curse was only
that I would be haunted by my love, and that is not a curse. I have
learned in all this time that when I have not your image before my
eyes I am less even than the dead.”

We both wept. We held each other and wept,
for we had found life again. Nothing mattered except that we
belonged each to the other while there was breath beneath our ribs.
“Turn your back on your god,” she had told me—and had I not at last
found the courage? Was she not mine now, in spite of gods and
men?

But the Lord Ashur is wise. Wiser than I
could know.

. . . . .

The blind man stands in darkness, imagining
himself bathed in light. “Your eyes still blind you,” the maxxu had
said. But I must have been deaf as well, for his warning meant
nothing to me. I was happy once more, dazzled by Esharhamat’s
love.

Was she as blind as I? I think not—women are
too cunning. She did evil, knowing it to be evil, not caring. She
dreaded neither men nor gods. It was a kind of courage that only
women can know.

“I have heard of your new Arab woman,” she
told me. “Ninsunna, my handmaiden, saw her when she went to your
rooms.”

“A present from the king.” I grinned like a
fool, being ashamed. “I will send her away.”

“No—do not do that. If you do, there will be
comment, for a scorned woman will talk, even if she is a slave.
Keep her. Sleep with her. Let her imagine herself favored. We will
be able to meet but seldom, and I do not care how you spend your
seed so long as I have your heart.”

Men are but fools when they imagine
themselves subtle. Only women and adders are subtle.

Twenty days later Esharhamat was delivered of
a healthy son, named Shamash Shumukin in accordance with his
father’s will, and her fears came to nothing. She did not die. She
was alive to bid me farewell when, after the feast of Akitu and the
spring floods, I took the road north.

. . . . .

I went first to Three Lions, thinking to
visit my mother and enjoy a few days of rest before joining the
companies of fresh soldiers who would accompany me to the garrison
at Amat. I would hunt, I thought, and drink beer in the twilight
with my peasants. I was quite looking forward to it all, but what
awaited me in my own house was yet another intrigue.

At dinner, on that first evening, Naiba was
nowhere to be found. I asked after her, but my mother merely
lowered her eyes and whispered a few words too indistinct to be
heard.

“Merope, is there something you wish to tell
me?”

“No, my son.” She shook her head, still
unwilling to look at me. “There is nothing I wish to tell you.”

That one sentence’s slight shift of emphasis
spoke most eloquently.

No—she did not wish to tell me anything.

“But if there were something, you would
speak. Would you not?”

Silence.

How many possibilities were there? Why did I
even trouble to ask, since I could guess easily enough what had
been going on while I was absent in Nineveh.

“Send Naiba to me in the morning,” I said,
rising from the table. There was a half full pitcher of wine by my
place; I decided to take it with me, since I would have no other
company at my sleeping mat. “I do not wish to see her before then,
but she must attend me while I breakfast.”

“Lathikados, I. . .”

“Yes, Mother?”

“Nothing,” she answered. And then she looked
up at me with dry, hot eyes. “Except—be kind, for my sake.”

“Yes, Mother. Tomorrow morning I will decide
on the limits of my kindness. See to it that Naiba comes to me
then.” I went to bed.

I slept that night as if I had been dead many
years. No dreams—nothing. But the next morning I felt much
better.

Naiba brought me in my breakfast. She was
very quiet and did not look at me directly, but averted her gaze. I
did not require an explanation.

“Have you conceived a love for this boy?” I
asked suddenly—the instant before, I had intended to say nothing.
“You know of whom I speak. Qurdi, the son of my overseer Tahu
Ishtar.”

“Dread Lord, I. . .” She glanced up, her eyes
welling with tears—her eyes, so much like Esharhamat’s.

Of course she was afraid, but I had had
enough of women’s tears.

“Well, if you want him, then I suppose you
must have him,” I said evenly, tearing the corner from a loaf of
bread and dipping it in my beer. “I shall speak to his father this
morning and see what he requires in the way of a dowry—no, no,
girl, rise. Enough of this.”

She had prostrated herself on the floor in
front of me and was embracing my ankles, covering my feet with
kisses mixed with tears. I almost wanted to laugh, it seemed so
simple to make at least this woman happy.

“Stop, Naiba—stop this at once! Yes, that is
better. We will speak again, after I have settled the matter.
Go—let me have my breakfast in peace.”

At last, Naiba dried her eyes and left me. I
could hear the patter of her naked feet against the floor tiles,
the sound dying away, like wind pushing at fallen leaves.

When one of the house servants came to take
away my breakfast things, I ordered that a fire be lit in the
sweating house and told her to fetch me a jar of the Nairian wine I
had brought with me from Amat—it was now nearly gone but this did
not distress me, since King Argistis, I had no doubt, would soon be
sending another ambassador seeking yet another favor. I went out to
the sweating house and sat for over an hour in the hot, steam laden
air. Then I dressed myself and anointed my hair and beard with oil.
I felt quite human again. Then I sent for Tahu Ishtar.

“Overseer, is your son of a mind to take a
wife?”

I could see I had taken him by surprise. His
face puckered with worry, and he bowed low.

“My Lord, I am shamed,” he began. “This
matter—this insult to my lord—is a great grief to me. . .”

“I asked only if he wishes to marry, Tahu
Ishtar. I make no inquiries. The slave woman Naiba knows her way
around a sleeping mat and will bring your son happiness. She is a
barbarian, true, and I fancy a few years older than Qurdi, but this
is not necessarily such a bad thing—it would not do if they were
both children. She knows how to work, too. I will give a hundred
silver shekels that she does not come to her husband a beggar. What
say you, overseer?”

I can only guess what Tahu Ishtar might have
expected, but in that moment his massive dignity deserted him and
he stood before me with his mouth open, unable to say anything. I
had to labor to keep from smiling.

“But—forgive me,” I went on, when it was
clear I was to receive no answer. “Perhaps you object to the
girl.”

“No, Lord. I. . . She has been your. . . You
honor my son to. . . A hundred silver shekels—it is a great
sum.”

“Then may we regard this bargain as
struck?”

I held out my hand, and after staring at it
as if he could not think what he was expected to do, Tahu Ishtar
took it and shook it vigorously.

“My son will be your debtor all his life,
Lord,” he said, almost shouting the words. “You raise my house to
honor when you could have—”

“Let us speak no more of that.” I disengaged
my hand—no easy thing—and we began walking back to my house. “Let
them marry when I return from Amat for the winter. In the meantime,
while I stay at Three Lions, I engage not to take the girl to my
sleeping mat again and she can live here under the protection of my
lady mother, who even now loves her as a daughter.”

“As to your sleeping mat, Lord, there is no
need that you be inconvenienced,” Tahu Ishtar replied, shaking his
head—he was a man who understood the proprieties of such a matter.
“She remains your property until she takes the veil from my son,
and a royal prince is not like other men. My son cannot fault
her—”

“Nevertheless, let her be as a daughter of my
house. I shall know her no more until Qurdi is prepared to claim
her.”

And that was where we left the matter. I
parted from Tahu Ishtar and sought my own house to tell Naiba and
my mother that they must prepare for a wedding. Then, weary of
talk, I had my horse saddled and went out with a quiverful of
javelins to hunt wild pigs. I did not return until after dark.

A week later, when the dust raised by the
columns of my new soldiers was visible from our rooftop, I bade my
mother farewell.

“I will be away for only three or four
months,” I told her. “I will be with the troops almost all the
time, so it is better that you stay here.”

She said nothing but merely nodded and kissed
me. In two hours I was with my army.

At my back as I headed north were three
thousand men, the first payment of my father’s pledge for the war
against the Medes. They would train through the summer and, after
wintering at Amat, would take their place among soldiers hardened
by the previous campaign.

But I would not place all my hopes on the
forces of Ashur’s arms, for it was my intention to make Daiaukka’s
lot harder than he could ever hope to bear. And to that end I had
sent a rider north, over the Kashiari Mountains and across the
Bohtan River into the Land of Shubria, whither he was to carry a
message:

“To the Lord Tabiti, son of Argimpasa,
headman of the Sacan tribe of the Scoloti, greetings and all honor
from his brother in blood the Lord Tiglath Ashur, son of
Sennacherib, who is king in the Land of Ashur. If the Lord Tabiti
remembers the love he vowed to the Lord Tiglath Ashur, he will
mount his horse no later than the first day of the month of Iyyar
and hasten to join him at the garrison at Amat, where they may
drink Nairian wine together and plan the conquest of a fruitful
land.”

He was there, waiting, camped beside the
river with fifty of his warriors, when I arrived.

“You have put on flesh,” he said, smiling his
catlike smile as he held my horse’s bridle and waited for me to
dismount. I had not even passed beneath the fortress gate but had
come directly to his camp. “Did the conspiracies of Nineveh give
you no time to take a little wholesome exercise?”

“Why did not you and your riders lodge within
the garrison walls? I sent word that you were to be received with
honor, and I find you here, squatting by the riverbank. Were my
instructions disregarded, or is it simply that the Scoloti hold all
comfort in contempt?”