The Assyrian

by Nicholas Guild

  “That is not very surprising.” I tried, as I spoke, to keep all expression out of my voice, there was no telling with what success. “Producing children is rather the point of royal marriages, is it not? And I know for a fact that Esarhaddon has already fathered many on the bodies of his concubines.”

  “It is believed by some—by many, Lord — that you are the real father of this child.”

  “Only the Lady Esharhamat could know that for certain. And perhaps not even she.”

  “Yes, Lord. This I acknowledge.”

  For a long moment he sat quietly with his head cocked to one side, seeming to study my face. I was not such a fool as to fail to understand.

  “I think,” he continued, “I think that this belief is itself born of the hope that it might be true, for the Lord Esarhaddon is not popular. . .”

  I held up my hand in a gesture of annoyance—these were not things which I wished to hear, which it was even proper for me to hear—and Kephalos fell silent. It was a painful silence, which lasted until I broke it myself.

  “Have you seen my mother?” I asked. My slave’s face brightened with relief.

  “Yes, Lord. I stopped at Three Lions on my journey north. She is well and lives for the day she may join you—although, the gods know, there is little enough beyond your radiant person to tempt anyone to Amat.”

  I laughed and refilled his wine cup with my own hand, for Kephalos spoke no more than the truth.

  “And for that reason, my friend, as well as many others, I am glad you have come, for I have something in mind. Tell me, am I still rich?’

  “Yes, Lord, as rich as ever.” He nodded appreciatively and wiped his hands on the front of his tunic, as if the mention of wealth made them sweat. “As rich as any man in the Land of Ashur, save only the king, your brother Esarhaddon, and the lord turtanu—although I have found it expedient to. . .

  “To what, dog—speak!” I grinned, to show that I was only joking. “What have you done now to beggar me?”

  “I have thought it wise, Lord, to place some small share of your riches—my own as well, Lord, for these are unsettled times and a man must be prudent—into the hands of merchants in Tyre and Sidon, even in Egypt. And I have made these investments under other seals, that none might know these so and so many talents of gold and silver are the property of the Lord Tiglath Ashur, son of Sennacherib.”

  I must have looked puzzled, for Kephalos puckered his brow and frowned.

  “I think the day may come. Lord, when both of us will be forced to flee from this land—provided we are still able. And your brother Esarhaddon, when he is king, will have a long reach.”

  “I have nothing to fear from Esarhaddon, slave, nor he from me.”

  “Master, you have many virtues to which I do not pretend to aspire, but in these questions you are like a child and must be content to be led by a slave, whose nature is less admirable than your own but who is therefore much wiser in the workings of a world not at all admirable.”

  And Kephalos, who was of course quite right and served me better than ever I had served myself, stared down into his wine cup as if ashamed to meet my eye. But it was I, and not he, who had reason to feel ashamed.

  “I am sorry, my friend,” I said, and put my hand upon his arm. “I spoke in haste and anger. Do not be offended with the prattle of a child.”

  “I am not offended. Lord. What you have said is true—now. The Lord Esarhaddon is your brother and loves you. But what is true now may not be true forever. Things can change mightily when a man with a weak head finds himself master of the world.”

  He looked up and smiled, and I saw that I was forgiven. And, yes, of course he had been wise to prepare for a day that might never come. And if I did not care to think of such things, that did not make me any the nobler.

  It was time, however, to change the subject.

  “But I am still rich?” I asked. “You have not sent even last copper shekel to Sidon and Thebes?”

  “No, Lord—you are still rich. As befits a prince.”

  “Good. Then send to Nineveh that some of my wealth may be brought to me here. I have need of it, for I intend to build a mighty palace for my mother’s sake. And I will rebuild the garrison, and the town as well—it is my intention to turn poor little Amat into a great city. And not in brick but in stone. “And for this, if I am not to be robbed and plundered by every rascal who has something to sell, even if it be only the labor of his own muscles, I shall need my rascal of a slave, the great physician Kephalos, whose brain has more coils than a serpent.”

  . . . . .

  My faithful servant stumbled off to bed that night both very drunk and very happy. I had given him a precious commission, a gift of the most astonishing value. He was to have charge of building a great city—and from such a project, he calculated, the bribes alone would keep him in luxury into extreme old age.

  But of course, like a good guest, he had come bearing gifts of his own.

  “Your mother, the Lady Merope, described to me your state of mind as she understood it—she said you were like a man riding away to find death. I have made a few inquiries of my own since arriving here, and what do I discover? Everyone tells me the same thing, that you occupy your time with nothing except soldiering. The brothel keepers claim they have done no business with the garrison commander since his arrival, and I find not a single woman worth the name among your household slaves. I warn you, Lord, that you will never retain your respectability if you continue to go on in this fashion. It is neither proper nor rational nor balanced for one still in the first bloom of his youthful power to keep his fist clamped around his manhood as if it were for nothing except pissing through. Have a care for your health and a decent regard for appearances or, mark my words, in the end this behavior will lead to nothing but ugly rumors.”

  “And as my physician and my friend, Kephalos, what would you recommend?”

  Kephalos nodded and touched the side of his nose with his finger—a salute, of sorts, to my wisdom in seeking his advice.

  “I have already taken steps. Lord,” he answered.

  Steps? What steps? An hour later, when I went to my sleeping mat and found her waiting for me there, I could not account for my own surprise. The room was heated by a brazier which had almost flickered out, and that and the oil lamp I held in my hand gave all the light there was. Still, did I need the blaze of the bright sun to see that she was beautiful?

  “I am Naiba,” she murmured as I crouched beside her to peer into her eyes, which were large and black and reminded me so much of my lost Esharhamat. She pulled aside the blanket that I might see her naked body—she was only a slave girl, the gesture implied, and wished through her submission to find favor with a new master. “I am Naiba, Dread Lord.”

  “Yes. I can see that.” I said.

  This made her smile, for her name meant “beautiful” in the language of the nomad tribes. It was a smile worthy of her name, and made me glad I had kept my ears open among the Sacan.

  “Do I please you, Dread Lord?”

  “Yes. You please me.”

  “Then come into me, and find your rest.”

  She was hardly more than a child. I lay beside her and her girl’s breast barely filled my hand. And yet, when my mouth sought her own, I found her slippery; pointed little tongue pushing between my lips with an urgency that suggested no small experience of passion. I wrapped my hand around the neck of the lamp and snuffed out its light.

  In the darkness I was free to believe whatever I would, and in the darkness this girl became for me another Esharhamat. I was back once more in that tiny room in the temple of Ishtar, and the old force of my love flooded into me like new blood. As I entered her, and she shuddered beneath me, her name was on my lips like a cry of despair, but I could not speak it. The delight, the joy of her became the only tongue I knew. Had I found my voice it would only have been to choke on my own sobs—I had her once more in my arms and now, for a few moments, I did not have to be al
one.

  I knew her three times that night before we fell asleep in each other’s embrace and I think I gave her pleasure, although this is a matter in which no man may quite trust himself. She was not Esharhamat. Of course, I knew that. Even the illusion passed off after the first time, but I do not imagine the girl could ever have grasped all that she meant to me that night. Perhaps, however, she understood a little that I had given something of my secret self into her care, and if she did—and even if she did not, for what right had I to ask for understanding?—I was grateful to her. And my gratitude was to last forever.

  “She is one of the captive women whom you took as tribute from the conquered Uqukadi,” Kephalos told me at breakfast. “I have kept her as a slave in my own house and did not force my way through her maidenhood until last year, so she is just nicely broken to harness without having lost her bloom. I trust she did not bring shame upon your servant, Lord, and you are pleased?”

  All this he said while Naiba, in a thin linen tunic that clung to her breasts like a veil, knelt at my elbow, smiling and serving me my beer and honeyed barley paste. She might have been a block of wood or not even in the room.

  “How could I be otherwise than pleased?” I placed my hand on her hair, which smelled of cedar oil, and she twisted her head slightly and kissed me upon the wrist. “How old were you, child, when I robbed your parents of you?”

  “I had just turned eleven that winter,” she answered. “But my parents did not feel the loss, for my mother was already dead and my father was among those whose heads you had struck from their shoulders.”

  She smiled as she said it, as if speaking of indifferent things, but I felt a cold thrill in my throat.

  “Then truly you must hate me, for I have done you an injury.”

  “How is that, Dread Lord?” she shrugged her shoulders, as if puzzled at my meaning.

  “Because I had your father killed before your eyes.”

  “Oh! I hid my face, so I did not see it. And, besides, you were the conqueror—you killed only the clan leaders and thus showed mercy. If my father had triumphed. . .”

  She hid her face behind her hands and laughed at this amusing notion.

  “And since then I have been a house slave in Nineveh, where every cur in the street lives better than the Uqukadi, whose women must walk through the snow behind the horses of the men. And now I am the pillow girl of a great prince.”

  “You see, my foolish young master?” Kephalos grinned and folded his hands over his broad belly in amusement. “For all the scruples of your delicate conscience, the world is what it is, which even this slip of a girl knows better than you. You need have no fear—she will not push a kitchen knife between your ribs while you are sleeping, not to avenge a father who probably treated his hunting dogs with more kindness. To her you are Tiglath Ashur, Dread Lord, the mighty prince and warrior, whose manhood any woman would be honored to take into her belly. This one has made a good bargain with life, and she is wise enough to know it.”

  “And you have made a good bargain for me, my friend.”

  “I hope so. Lord,” he answered, reaching across the narrow little table to put his hand on my shoulder. “You have doubtless noticed her resemblance to a certain lady whose name we need never mention? I saw it even when she was but a skinny child and have saved her for you, knowing the day would come when you would need such consolation—any but a fool could have seen how that sad business would end. Use her as you will, believing whatever you like until at last it comes to seem true, for it is unhealthy for a man to harbor up his own seed like a miser, letting it turn putrid to poison both his body and mind. Any woman is better than none, and this one is better than many”

  Kephalos spoke no more than the truth, for in the months and years that followed the girl Naiba became precious in my sight. She could not have been any older than thirteen that first night on my sleeping mat, and yet from that time on she filled a woman’s place in my house. She took care of my clothes, scolded my servants, and looked after the household money. And she looked after me just as well. When I was away on campaign she prayed for my safety to both Ashur and to her own gods. When I returned she would lead me to the sweating house, strip herself naked, and rub hot oil into my weary, tender muscles. I did not eat a meal under that roof that she did not place the dishes before me with her own hands, smiling at me from the sweetness of her child’s heart. She poured the wine for me and my guests and helped me to bed when I had drunk too much of it. And every night, drunk or sober, I slept with her arm outstretched across my waist and her tight little breasts pressing against my back.

  And between us subsisted affection and regard and—so I hope and believe—even passion. But no love. Not, at least, such love as would ever have driven Esharhamat from my thoughts. Naiba, I am quite sure, although she never spoke a word of it, knew that story, and she was too wise to let her feelings for me go beyond a certain fondness. I was her lord, and she took pleasure in the touch of my body, but that was all. And I was not discontented that it should be so.

  For at that time I was very little occupied with domestic life—I had not forgotten, nor was I allowed to forget, that I was shaknu of the north and commander of the garrison at Amat, and that I faced the enemies of Ashur across a narrow divide of mountains.

  I had only to glance at the tablets which awaited me after my return from Urartu.

  Among them was a letter from the king: “Why have you not sent me any word?” it began. “Have bandits cut your throat and left you for dead in some rocky gully, or have you forgotten those who love you? I am an old man, beset with many troubles, and my eyes hunger for the sight of you. Send me some message that I may know you live and remember your father’s name.”

  Before my first morning in Amat had ended, I picked up a stylus and wrote out my reply.

  “To the King my lord, your servant Tiglath Ashur. May it be well with you the King my lord. May Ashur and Shamash be gracious to the King my lord. I have been on campaign north of the Bohtan River and beg to send you word of a great triumph. . .”

  I described to him the battle, the courage of the Scythians, my meetings with their headman Tabiti, and the alliance into which I had entered in his name. And I told him of the seventeen mina of gold I had extracted from the Urartians and gave my impressions of that place.

  “This is not a friendship to support us, for their king is a fool and the might of their armies no more than a boulder in the stream, around which, when the moment comes, the vast numbers of the mountain tribesmen will pour quickly enough—one need only look to the example of the Scythians. I think the snow which chokes their valleys and the passes over their mountains for seven months of the year a greater barrier against the nomads than all their might. I think we must look to ourselves for safety.”

  And I begged the Lord Sennacherib to send reinforcements that I might lead a series of campaigns against the eastern tribes. And I begged his permission to keep the gold and use it to support and strengthen the garrison.

  The king’s reply, when it came, made almost no reference to my report. The northern borders, it seemed, were too far away to interest him greatly. His concerns were nearer to his own bosom, and it was his pleasure to be querulous.

  “Your brother the Lord Donkey vexes me almost daily about Babylon. Can you credit that he would rebuild the city we were at such pains to destroy? He claims to fear the wrath of Marduk. He sits in Calah—out of my reach, or so he seems to imagine—surrounded by his magicians and his priests, and gives himself the airs of a king already. He fancies himself such a favorite of heaven that if he chances to wake up with a headache after a night of drinking, or if his favorite harlots come down with lice, he must be consulting the omen books to read the meaning of such strange and unnatural events. That, at least, is what they tell me. All men should have proper reverence for the gods, but even a king may dare to squat and empty his bowels without first consulting the soothsayers. I see his mother’s busy hand in all this n
onsense. . .

  “Yes, very well. Work your own will about the gold, and I will send you seven new companies of infantry and five of horse after the spring floods. I wish, my son, that you would return to Nineveh to fetch them yourself. Would that you could be here with me once again, for if your exile is bitter, so is mine.”

  When one’s father is a king and one’s brother is the heir, one is wise to tread lightly around such items of family gossip. I did not, therefore, respond in my next letter to these complaints about Esarhaddon. Instead, I asked after the Lord Sennacherib’s health, and suggested that if he was low spirited he should keep his diet spare and take more exercise, recommending hunting as good for the liver. Beyond this, I described to him such improvements as I planned to make in the garrison buildings, and I made it clear that these improvements would include a palace for myself to be built within the fortress walls. I wished him to understand that I regarded myself as fixed in Amat for some time to come and had no idea of returning to Nineveh. He would have to work out his difficulties with the marsarru without reference to me.

  If the king was chastened, however, he gave no sign of it. For all the years I lived in the north, he kept me regularly informed about “the Lord Donkey”—I hardly remember him referring to Esarhaddon under any other name.

  The king my father, who claimed to have had but two ambitions for his reign, to destroy forever the power of Babylon and to hand over the Land of Ashur to one worthy of succeeding him—and who witnessed in Esarhaddon the frustration of both these aims—the Lord Sennacherib, Lord of the Earth’s Four Corners, now decayed almost from hour to hour into sulking old age.

  All his letters to me he wrote with his own hand, for he trusted no scribe. And he wrote with most unkingly candor, so his mind was open to me and I had no difficulty in reading there the bitterness of one who had wearied of life.

  But I told myself that these things no longer concerned me, that I was a garrison commander and a shaknu and no more, that my share in the management of the state was confined to a stretch of mountain waste. I was now a prince in nothing except name and lineage, and it was my business to be the king’s soldier. The name of that king was no longer my affair.