The Assyrian

by Nicholas Guild

  Yes, now I remembered. I could feel my throat tightening as I remembered. The block of granite, like a sacrificial altar, still rested in the center of the stone paving—I remembered when I had seen it spattered with blood.

  All of this must have shown in my face, for the king nodded, no longer even smiling.

  “This is where old Bag Teshub brought you that your manhood might be cut away like his own—by the gods, I wonder if he is still alive. He brought you here, and the priests waited with their knives. But I see you have not forgotten.”

  “No, I have not forgotten. Nor that you saved me.”

  “I, and the lord turtanu, my brother Sinahiusur. It was more he than I. And he was right. Right—for you have made me proud of you, many times since that day. But the priests. . .

  “Did you know that the baru Rimani Ashur is also my brother? Did you, eh?”

  “No, Lord.”

  “But he is. The priests, most of them, favor Esarhaddon over you, but not Rimani Ashur, who favors no one. I trust him, for all that he is a priest. Moreover, the army loves you. And the army counts for more in this land than the priests, who love your brother only because he is known to be a great believer in all manner of omen readers and soothsayers—they hope they will be able to rule through him. Some speak against him—Kalbi, for one; he knows the god’s will—but most. . . Still, I trust Rimani Ashur. The god will not make Esarhaddon king—never! And as for his being my son by a lawful wife. . .”

  The Lord Sennacherib spread wide his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  “I would put the veil upon your mother’s head tomorrow were it not that. . .”

  “Were it not that the Lady Naq’ia would object—and that most strenuously. “

  We both laughed, as if sharing a secret.

  “Yes—what a misery she would make of life!” The king put his arm through mine, and we continued our walk. “By the gods, I am almost glad she has taken herself off to Sumer. I miss her already at my couch, but she has a tongue like a scorpion’s tail. Women, my son, they are the curse of life. . .”

  That night he ate in my house and lay with my mother, to let all know that Tiglath Ashur, son of Sennacherib, stood higher in his father’s favor than any, living or dead.

  The next day, the second of the festival of Akitu, was the great procession, when the Lord Ashur is carried through the city to his new year’s house, there once more to fight his fight against Tiamat the Chaos Monster and make again the world and the bright sky.

  The ceremonies surrounding the festival of Akitu are of great antiquity, and they are much the same throughout all the lands between the rivers. In Sumer, where, through the ancient prestige of Babylon, Marduk is king of the gods, it is his victory which is celebrated, his creative power which men hold in honoring memory. But whether the glory is Marduk’s or Ashur’s, the myth which is celebrated is precisely the same, and it is not on the names of gods that their divine, life giving sovereignty rests but on their storied deeds, for it is men who give the gods their names.

  This year’s Akitu was to be like no other, for it was the first since the long war in the south had ended, and all in the land of Ashur wished to render him thanksgiving for his preserving might. Thus the festival celebrated both our renewal and our deliverance, and all men’s hearts were light with joy.

  The last minutes before dawn of the great day found the king, his nobles, and all his family in the temple of the god, where he was called to wakefulness by the beating of drums, loud as thunder, echoing through the city like the voice of war. “Let the god awake!” we chanted. “Let Mighty Ashur, Lord of Heaven, King of the Gods, in whose name all things are done, let him rise from his slumbers! Let him shine like his own sun upon the race of his servants!”

  And the great golden idol of the god—not Holy Ashur himself but only his image, the god’s gift to us that men might approach his glory—looked down upon us with unseeing eyes. What were men that he should notice them? What were their voices that he should hear? Yet in his mercy he did hear, and his bright sun rose over the eastern mountains to give us the light of yet another day. And this day his, who was our strength and our salvation.

  And then, in an instant, there was no sound, only the decaying echo of our voices disappearing into silence. The air did not shake, and there was stillness as the multitude, who dared not even breathe, waited upon their king, Sennacherib, Chief Priest and Servant of Ashur.

  The king approached his god, in his hands a golden dish weighted down with meat hot from the fire, still steaming in the cold air. The king, too, was a thing of gold, flashing with reflected light as the folds of his tunic moved—a thing of splendor like his god.

  “I summon you to eat, Lord Ashur,” he cried. “I summon you, Lord of Sky and Earth, to accept this offering from the hand of your servant.”

  The dish was held before the god that his eyes might behold it and then was passed to a priest in yellow robes, who carried it away. The thing was done.

  “I summon you to eat, Lady Ninlil!”

  Only this time it was a woman’s voice. With everyone else, I turned to see who had been granted the honor this year, and what I saw was my sister Shaditu—naked, her body shining with oil. A murmur ran through the crowd, for it was not a thing anyone had expected.

  “I summon you, Consort of the Lord Ashur, Queen of Heaven, to accept this offering from the hand of your servant.”

  There was such quiet that I could hear quite plainly the soft sound of her tiny naked feet against the stone floor. She was beautiful. Her body was a thing of wonder, and, like all who saw her, I was stirred by the sight of it. I happened to be standing opposite the baru Rimani Ashur and I saw how his eyes glowed, as if the brightness of her flesh would blind him. Perhaps I should have realized the truth, even then.

  Shaditu held her offering before the image of the goddess—smaller, and at her husband’s left hand—and then, when the plate had been taken from her, she glided to her father’s side, and he drew her to him in a loving embrace. For the king loved her, and she could commit no folly or disgrace in his eyes.

  Merope, to whom these rites were new and strange, was with me and saw all that I saw. As we filed out of the temple and into the bright sunlight she plucked at my sleeve.

  “My son, is this—customary? That she be thus naked, like a harlot, without even a veil for her hair? It does not seem a proper thing.”

  “It is a venerable usage,” I said. I smiled and took her arm, for what could she have learned of such things in the house of women? “The Sumerians, all of them, both men and women alike, approached their gods in ritual nakedness—the priests of Elam do to this hour. But such a thing has not been seen in the Land of Ashur for perhaps a hundred years. Perhaps the lady seeks to stamp the day with a gesture of ancient piety, although I would not have suspected Shaditu of being possessed of so profoundly religious a nature.”

  “I think she is no better than a tavern wench, and wishes only that all men should desire her.”

  I laughed, not being able to help myself, that my mother was thus shocked.

  “Yes,” I said. “From what I know of the lady, your opinion is probably not very far from the mark.”

  But somehow, the image which I could not shake from my mind was not that of my wanton sister Shaditu, glorying in her naked beauty, but that of the baru, the king’s own brother, Rimani Ashur, his eyes fired with lust.

  At last the god, newly clothed in garments of the richest embroidery, the fabric shot through with gold and silver, his lips washed with water from the snows of Mount Epih, was brought forth from his temple, carried upon a litter borne by his priests. The king followed, leading priests, musicians, his nobles, the whole assembled multitude in chants of praise, so that the glory of Ashur sounded through the whole city and echoed in the mountains of the east. Never had I felt it more strongly than at that moment—we were the people of the god, blessed above all men, the servants of heaven’s sovereign lord.

&n
bsp; We followed the procession through the streets of Nineveh and through the great gate to the Akitu house, which had been built outside the walls as the god’s abode during the eleven days of festival. The house was a small structure, standing open on all four sides, its roof supported

  by pillars of cedar. Thus all might see the divine image as he witnessed the ceremonies held in his honor under the open sky. These were many and, on that day, celebrated the god’s triumphs over his enemies, both mortal and divine. That was the day on which Mushezib Marduk and his whole family were to meet their simtu.

  A king, while he prospers, lives in splendor, but when he falls his death is more bitter than the adder’s sting. Mushezib Marduk had been cowardly and, in the end, foolish. Because of him the siege of Babylon had been drawn out to tortuous length, until the king my father and all his soldiers lost even the memory of pity. Because of him thousands starved, and thousands more died by the swords of their enemies. And in the end, instead of asking one of his servants to search his breast with a dagger, he had tried to run away, disguised as a one eyed beggar. He would have been wiser to find himself an easy end while he had the chance.

  And where was Mushezib Marduk on this second day of Akitu? He was uniquely favored, for he would view the festivities—such of them as he might survive—from the very porch of the god’s own house, where he was chained to one of the cedar pillars. There was little enough

  need of the chain, however, since the Lord of Babylon would not be wandering off, not while his head stuck out through the neck of a bronze jar hardly big enough to hold him. It had been several days since Mushezib Marduk had even seen his legs.

  This contrivance, the last refinement of torture, was a wonder of simplicity. The great bronze vessel, which might have held eight or nine sutu of oil, had been sawn through at the shoulder so that the whole upper part could be removed and a man stuffed inside like so many

  measures of dates. Then the upper part had been put back on and bolted in place. This was to be the last home Mushezib Marduk would ever know. The precise means of his death was a secret, even from him, but he would never leave that jar except as offal.

  Thus he waited, the neck of the jar coming up to his ears, cursing the gods in a loud voice that cracked from time to time with excess of rage. The people laughed at him—the king laughed with his people. Merope and I stood silently among the other members of the royal family, and she held my hand in a tight grip.

  But before he was allowed to die, the Lord of Babylon would lose all that makes life sweet, for his queen and five of his children—only two sons, the rest having perished like soldiers—had been taken with him. My father wished to be very thorough in his revenge.

  The children came first. The eldest, a boy, had just a few tufts of beard on his chin, and the youngest girl was hardly more than seven. Their hands were bound behind their backs and, one after the other and before the eyes of their howling father, they were forced to kneel down so that the king’s executioner could take them by the hair, pull back their heads, and cut their throats. While Mushezib Marduk raged with grief—for he had not been told this would happen; the Lord Sennacherib wished to keep it as a surprise—the fruit of his loins bled out their lives with hardly a murmur. When the last was dead, their corpses were piled atop a waiting mound of brushwood and logs and left there to be burned later.

  And while Mushezib Marduk choked on his sobs and workmen spread straw over the blood-soaked ground, we waited for the next item of entertainment, the high point of the festival—the duel between Lord Ashur and the Chaos Monster.

  This is how the world was born: In the beginning were Apsu and Tiamat, gods of the sweet and bitter oceans. These begot Lahmu and Lahamu, brother and sister, husband and wife, and Anshar and Kishar, who surpassed their parents in strength, beauty and cunning. Anshar and Kishar, besides many other gods, brought forth Anu, God of the Sky, who sired Ea, God of Wisdom and Magic, who was far greater than his father.

  But the young gods were noisy and disturbed the rest of old Apsu, who went to his wife and said, “I will destroy them, that we may sleep.” Tiamat was dismayed and cried out in rage, “Let us not destroy what we have ourselves created,” but Apsu would have his way and set out to avenge himself upon his children and grandchildren. Ea, however, the wisest of gods, bound him with magic and killed him, turning his body into a mountain where Ea dwelt in majesty with his wife Damkina. It was there that Ashur was born to them, the most glorious of gods.

  Meanwhile, Tiamat had pondered the fate of her husband Apsu and her heart was moved to rage. She decided to attack the gods and destroy them, and even Ea was filled with fear. At last only Ashur dared to meet Tiamat in open combat and, with the aid of a great wind which blew into her mouth so that she could not close it, Ashur fired an arrow down her throat, which found her heart. When she was dead, Ashur cut her body in two, creating with one half the sky and with the other the solid earth. For these great feats of courage and wisdom he was exalted even over his father as king of the gods.

  It is this battle which every year the men of Ashur recall to life before the god’s eyes. He who plays the god’s part is called the limmu, and in all the chronicles the year takes its name from him. In the first year of his reign it is the king who is limmu, and thereafter his court officers follow in strict order of precedence. In this year it was Enlilbani, a good hearted, easy, soldierly sort of man, to whom fell the role of Ashur; he was master of the king’s table and had also been rab shaqe of the army which took Babylon—this last coincidence was felt to be a particularly felicitous omen.

  The role of Tiamat was to be filled by none other than the Lady Ahushina, lately the queen of Babylon and wife to Mushezib Marduk, who would witness all from his privileged place in the great bronze jug, for this year the slaughter of the Chaos Monster was to be no mere pantomime.

  The lady was led forth naked, her face and body painted yellow and black, the colors of salt and mud, chained by her wrists and ankles. Even under her paint she looked hopeless, already only half alive. She was tethered between a pair of poles and, while she stared at the bodies of her slain children, her eyes blank and uncomprehending, Enlilbani, dressed in the trappings of the god, came forth from the Akitu house, fitted an arrow in his bow, and shot her through the heart. She cried out only for an instant and then was dead.

  One of the yellow-robed priests handed Enlilbani a heavy, copper-headed ax, and with it he set about the business of cutting the queen’s body in half, hacking it apart from neck to crotch with several mighty strokes that spattered blood like rain. The crowd roared—it was a spectacle very much to their taste.

  And what of me and my Greek mother, for whom these things had all the power of novelty? What of us? My mother wept. She turned her eyes away, burying her face in my chest, and wept like a child. I, for my part, had seen many worse things and was moved only to a faint disgust. I had not expected this—the king had not told me of his plans. Of course I, as his son and a member of his inner circle, must be here, but I would have spared my mother had I known.

  At last, when the corpses of his queen and children lay together on the pyre, when the whole of life beyond his own poor flesh had been stripped from him, it became Mushezib Marduk’s turn to meet death. Soldiers came and took the great bronze urn from the porch of the Akitu house. They put an iron collar around its neck and pulled it down, dragging it along the ground so that it bobbed and rolled like a float in the running river. Then they set the urn in the center of the pyre and poured water down its neck, pushing Mushezib Marduk’s head to one side to make room. He was to be boiled alive. While his family burned to ashes beneath him, he would be cooked like a rabbit in the hunter’s pot. As this dawned on him he began to scream. At first words—“No! No! Not this! Mercy! No!”—and then, in the extremity of his fear, only high-pitched cries, like the screaming of a hawk.

  They lit the pyre at several points around its base, but the wood was green and filled with pitch so that it burn
ed slowly and with very little smoke. Mushezib Marduk would not have the blessing of choking to death before the fire reached him. The only sounds were the crackle of the flames and the wail of terror that never stopped, never stopped, until one wanted to cover one’s ears. The Lord of Babylon did not die until the water in his urn had already begun to boil and spill out over the neck—first white, and then pink with frothing blood. In time, after the urn had been heated red-hot, his head, coming loose of its own accord, tumbled off and fell into the fire. Thus was his end.

  When the fire had cooled, its ashes would be gathered and thrown into the Tigris River. There would be no burial for Mushezib Marduk and his seed, no offerings of wine and food. They would have no life in the next world and would be forgotten utterly.

  I took my mother away. We did not speak. There were no words, no words.

  Chapter 14

  I remember the taste of her breasts. I remember the way she moved beneath me, the habit she had of twitching her hips a little to one side as she neared her climax. I remember how she liked to bite my ears. I remember the blinding love I felt for her, and the memory is itself no less than love, as glowing embers are still fire. Esharhamat—oh, the passion of that name. Esharhamat.

  Once, twice a week, as often as we could, we made love in the house on the Street of Nergal. I would wait, wretched, certain she could never come again, until I heard her little hand tapping lightly at the wooden door that separated one building from another, and then, when I had her in my arms, I would carry her to our bed—for we had a real bed, with a mattress filled with raw wool, for there would be no soldierly scorn of comfort with my lady Esharhamat. For a long time we could hardly speak. We could not bear that our lips be parted. How I loved the whole of her sweet body. How I hungered to learn it all, every morsel, with eyes, hands, lips.

  We did not see each other during the eleven days of Akitu. The time was filled with rituals and banquets and great public events, all of which seemed to demand my presence, but now we were together again, and I covered her mouth with my own. I wanted to crawl inside her, to be part of her very self, to die and come alive again. There were no eyes for sight, no breath for words, only the careless need to be one and feel our limbs, our very senses dissolving into each other like honey into wine.