The Assyrian

by Nicholas Guild

  “Why would Rimani Ashur have done such a thing?” I asked, hardly aware, until I heard the sound of my own voice, of what I intended. “What had he to gain? The priests, I know, wished to see Esarhaddon made heir, but what had the baru to fear from them while the king protected him?”

  “There were some things from which not even the king could protect him.” Nabusharusur’s reply sounded as softly as the dripping of water. “It was the king’s wrath which he had to fear, or so men say. For Rimani Ashur was subject to a weakness—an appetite, if you prefer—and this he fed at the king’s own table.

  “An appetite? What appetite?”

  “One in which I can have no share. And which you, Tiglath Ashur—if the stories one hears are to be believed—have already sated.”

  Chapter 22

  I did not attempt to understand Nabusharusur’s words—I did not wish to understand them. Even if what he said was true, I could not undo the damage of the past. Esarhaddon was accepted as the marsarru, and Esharhamat was his wife. Nabusharusur might not shrink from civil war, but I did. To quarrel with my brother’s claim would be to soak the Land of Ashur in blood, and who could say that when we were finished the winner would have strength enough to be more than an easy meal for the nations that prowled at our borders like jackals around a wounded lion?

  But I could not shut my mind to memory. I could not forget the look on Rimani Ashur’s face when he beheld Shaditu’s naked flesh as she made sacrifice on the day of the Akitu ceremony. I could not forget her words that last night in Nineveh: “Tiglath Ashur, favorite of the gods, true king.” “Did you think I would let that cold little bitch puppy have you?” I could not will myself to be as witless as that.

  Shaditu had seduced the baru. She must have threatened him afterwards—“I will tell the king,” she must have said. “He is old and loves me blindly. I will tell him you raped me. He will give you such a death as no man would envy.” And, Rimani Ashur, frightened of the king’s wrath, had declared the omens in favor of my brother Esarhaddon.

  The impiety of such an act was incredible, so that I could hardly bring my mind to accept its possibility. How would it have been possible for a man like Rimani Ashur to have committed such a betrayal of the god he had served all his life? Why? Merely to escape death? Such a deed was worse than death and, in the end, he had killed himself anyway. I could scarcely believe it. And yet I did believe it. I did not wish to, but I did.

  I had less trouble crediting my sister Shaditu with so unholy a crime. Nor did I have to consider long to find the motive—had she not told me so herself? “Did you think I would let that cold little bitch puppy have you?” If the woman I loved was safely in Esarhaddon’s house of women, would I not then turn to my loving sister? Was that not precisely what I had done? I was not even flattered that she should have taken such risks for my sake, for to Shaditu probably the whole affair had been no more than a game—the sort of game she had been playing ever since she was old enough to be aware of her own power. Men are but clay in the hands of clever women.

  But what had Rimani Ashur seen in the goat’s entrails that he should have hanged himself in remorse? Perhaps only that Esarhaddon was not the god’s choice. Perhaps only that. It seemed unlikely that I would ever find out.

  Or perhaps the baru had taken his life for some other reason, something that had not occurred to anyone. It hardly mattered, since my own case was not altered by it. Esharhamat was my brother’s wife, destined to be mother of a line of kings which would rule until the gods were dust, and I could not be king without bringing the nation to its ruin.

  Was the child she carried mine? Was that to be Dread Ashur’s final joke on us all, that I, who could not be king, was to be the father of kings? It was all a great muddle, and it made my head ache to think of it.

  I was not sorry, at the end of ten days’ time, to see my royal brothers returning to Nineveh. I stood on the half finished fortress wall and watched the dust raised by their escorts horses fade into nothing, hoping the two of them would never return to plague me more. I was weary of their mischief; when the time came, they would have to make their rebellion without me.

  “I remember them both as children,” my mother said.

  “They are not children now. When the time comes for the king to die, they will make us all dance.”

  “What did they want of you, my son?”

  “Want?” I could only shake my head and laugh, though the jest was bitter. “What do the likes of Nabusharusur always want? To spread poison and call it nectar. To make the world as empty as their own hearts. Nabusharusur hates Esarhaddon because Esarhaddon was once unwise enough to laugh at him. He hates me because as boys we were friends. But he hates himself most of all because of what the gelder’s knife and his own self-disgust have made of him. Of Arad Malik I say nothing, for he is nothing except the vessel into which Nabusharusur pours a moment’s wrath—he will hold no more than that.”

  To all this my mother made no answer, for she was wise and saw that I spoke as much of my own wrath as another’s.

  But if my mind grew dark when I considered the evils which lay ahead—and my own sense of helplessness against them—I was content enough with the present. I had the love of Merope, the friendship of Kephalos, and the willing embraces of Naiba. I had perhaps as much of domestic happiness as most men are allowed and this unblemished, for my mother and my concubine dwelled together in peace.

  Indeed, it was more than peace, for Merope, who knew all about slavery among foreigners, had taken this slave girl of mine into her heart so that they became almost as mother and daughter. Naiba always deferred to her as mistress, but I could never quite discover which of them was in fact running my house for they seemed to take every decision, even down to what it was fit I should discover on my breakfast tray, in the course of long consultations—I was always finding them huddled together somewhere, talking in low, conspiratorial voices about the outrageous prices charged for lamb in the market square. My servants, most of whom had families of their own, understood all this very well, and among them the word of one was taken as the word of both. If my mother had some little grievance, or a favor to ask, I was always sure to hear of it first from Naiba, and just as my head touched the pillow. And Merope was her advocate in much the same way. I have since learned enough from life to know that this is the way of women, how they make alliance to achieve sovereignty over their men folk.

  Thus life went along smoothly enough—and I had almost forgotten that there was a world beyond Amat—until the month of Tammuz drew close and I began to expect the visit of my brother Esarhaddon.

  Once the floodwaters had regained their banks, that spring was unusually hot and dry. The ground, baked hard by Ashur’s pitiless sun, cracked and crumbled away, and winds which scorched like fire swept the dust into great swirling clouds that blinded man and beast and choked their watering places. The crops burned and withered in the fields. It was a cruel season.

  A man’s nerves fray like old bowstrings in such weather. It is too hot to work and there is no escape save in drunkenness and quarreling. I know not how many of my soldiers I had to order flogged to keep even the appearance of good order. And this was the time the marsarru had chosen to make his “inspection.”

  I had word of his coming many days before he arrived. The Lord Esarhaddon traveled with an escort of two hundred soldiers and thus, for convenience’s sake, followed the river course. My outriders encountered his heralds near the point where the Upper Zab makes a vast bend, like a man’s elbow, and changes its course from east to west. They hastened home to tell me of the great pomp of my brothers retinue. I gave orders that twenty picked men were to be ready to ride by first light, and the next morning set off with them to meet this mighty host.

  A great prince who maintains his state makes slow progress, for we made and broke three night camps before we crested a hill and saw the travelers, stretched out and dragging their great weight along the river road like an army of ants c
limbing over fresh pitch.

  Esarhaddon no longer sat a horse as in the old days but journeyed by chariot, which was more befitting his dignity as a marsarru on progress. If he had been marching to war I have no doubt many things would have been different, but this was a state visit to the provinces. Even from a distance I could see him—or, rather, I could see the canopies raised over him to keep off the sun. I rode to the front of the caravan, which had drawn to a halt at the first sight of our company, and then dismounted and walked back through their ranks, leaving my weapons behind me. When I reached my brother, I placed my hand on the wheel of his chariot and knelt in the dust, bowing my head as I would have before the king. When I raised my eyes I saw him grinning at me.

  He was a splendid figure in his robes of silver and gold, with his oiled beard and his turban glittering with jewels, but he was still Esarhaddon. With a loud laugh he reached down his arm to me and, when I took it, hoisted me into the chariot like a load of wood. A rude kick sent his driver tumbling out onto the road.

  “Here—you drive,” he said, thrusting the reins into my hands. But he retained the whip, and suddenly the horses were at full gallop as soldiers and courtiers scrambled to the sides of the road to avoid being trampled to death, all the time Esarhaddon laughing to watch them run and lashing out at them with his whip.

  It was a wild career as we thundered down the road, our wheels bouncing over every rock, threatening each time to break the axle and kill us both, the horses snorting like devils in their almost panicked flight. We raised a cloud of dust that must have been visible for half a day’s ride.

  “This is a good place,” he shouted finally, his voice nearly drowned in the pounding of hoofs and the rattle of our undercarriage. “Stop here.”

  When finally I was able to pull the horses to a halt, Esarhaddon leaped from the car and started running like a madman toward the river, tearing off his glorious robes as he went. At last, stripped even of his loincloth, he jumped into the water, disappearing beneath its muddy surface for a long time. When at last he came up he was floating on his back, his hands clasped behind his head, looking mightily pleased with himself as he kicked against the current.

  I dived in after him, and very quickly we were splashing each other with silt laden water and laughing like children.

  “By the sixty great gods,” he said, after we had climbed out and were sitting on the shore, our backs drying in the sun, “I will tell you one disadvantage to being raised to glory, Tiglath my brother. All that gold and silver they weave into your tunic—you might as well dress up in a furnace. I thought I would roast to death. Oh, the mercy of Ashur—I am glad to be out of that rig for a while!”

  He lay back on the stony bank for a moment and closed his eyes, a contented half smile upon his lips.

  “Welcome to the north, O Dread Prince,” I said in a solemn voice, and in an instant we were both helpless with laughter.

  That evening, in Esarhaddon’s tent, we got very drunk together, chased out all the scribes and staff officers, and, for the particular edification of the five favorite concubines my brother had brought with him from Calah, sang all the obscene songs we could remember from our boyhood in the house of war.

  We had a glorious time. All either of us could remember was how wonderful it was to be together again—we were more drunk with that than with wine.

  It was to be the last such occasion for many years, for in the morning Esarhaddon, grown sober, wary, and perhaps a little frightened, remembered once more that he was the marsarru, and that a marsarru may love and trust no man, least of all a brother. As I rode beside his chariot along the road to Amat, I did not have to inquire into the meaning of his silence.

  “Perhaps you have not yet heard,” he said finally. “My wife the Lady Esharhamat has presented me with a son. Whether it is mine or yours she seems reluctant to guess. He is called Siniddinapal, but I think we have wasted our breath in naming him. He is a sickly child and will not last long.”

  He did not look me in the face as he said this but watched for my reaction out of the corner of his eye, all the time smiling a faint, triumphant smile, as if he knew perfectly well the child was mine and rejoiced that it was likely to die soon.

  “The little mother is well, however, and she will bear me other sons—many other sons, I think.”

  It was five more days before we reached the garrison and with each day Esarhaddon’s mood seemed to darken. We feasted together and drank wine, but there was none of the old carelessness. After the third cup I said enough. It was only Esarhaddon, with the sullen determination of one seeking oblivion, who made himself drunk. There is truth in wine, and when my brother was flushed with it and began to grow reckless he would look about him, as if each man at the table were his secret enemy, and talk of spies and usurpers. He never accused me directly, but the thread was there to follow.

  He kept me with him during that time, as if he could not bear to be parted from me—or, perhaps, was afraid of letting me out of his sight. But we were hardly ever alone.

  At last we came within sight of Amat, and for the last beru to the fortress gates I once more surrendered my mount and, taking the bridle of Esarhaddon’s lead horse in my hand, walked beside his chariot like a common groom, leaving the soldiers and citizens to cheer him alone. He was the marsarru and this display of submission and loyalty was no more than his right, but it pleased him just the same.

  That night, at the banquet in the officers’ new mess, he put his arm across my shoulders as if nothing had changed.

  “The king speaks of making you his turtanu,” he said, his tone confidential and secretive. “I do not know if he does this merely to vex me or if such a plan is truly in his heart, but he does speak of it. I thought perhaps you should know.”

  “But what of the Lord Sinahiusur?” I asked, thinking of my old patron. Esarhaddon shook his head.

  “He has been sick in his legs this whole year and now walks about with a staff to support him. Some men, once they are past their prime, age quickly, and our uncle seems to be one of these. How long can he last? Two years? Three? I think very soon the king will need a new turtanu.”

  I was grieved to hear this. What did I not owe to the Lord Sinahiusur, who had saved me from the fate of Nabusharusur and had guided my steps ever since? He had always been an old man in my eyes, but what before had been merely the self-centered prejudice of a child now seemed the very truth—the great man, second voice in the Land of Ashur, had entered his decline. It occurred to me that I would like to see him once more before he died, to thank him for his goodness to me and to ask his blessing, but there seemed little enough chance of that.

  “When his bones are in a stone box in the holy city, will you take his place, brother? Will you go back to Nineveh as the king’s new turtanu?”

  “No.” I shook my head. I wanted Esarhaddon to talk of something else. I wanted to be alone, to bury my face in my hands and pay my kinsman and friend the tribute of a few tears, but not even that seemed possible. “No. I shall stay here as shaknu of the northern provinces as long as the god permits me. If I never see Nineveh again I shall count that as a blessing.”

  “Good—I am glad of it.”

  Esarhaddon lifted his hand from my shoulder and picked up a skewer of honeyed locusts, pulling them off one at a time and eating them in a single bite. Esarhaddon had always been very fond of honeyed locusts.

  “Do you remember when I came back from the west?” he went on, licking his fingers. “That was the first time we either of us gave thought to the possibility that one day one of us would be king, and I said then that if the crown fell to me I would make you my turtanu. Do you remember?”

  “Yes. Yes, I remember.”

  “I would not wish you to be turtanu before then, Tiglath my brother, for the turtanu stands in precedence even before the marsarru, and it would not be fitting that I, who will be king, should yield to my brother in anything.”

  I turned to look at him, keeping my fa
ce as empty as a blank wall, although I felt a cold, dangerous anger in my heart.

  “I will not be the king’s turtanu, nor, when you are king, brother, will I be yours. That too would not be fitting.”

  Although the smile never left his lips, he was not pleased—I could see that, from the way the light changed in his eyes. That was just as well, for now I had no desire left to please him.

  “You blame me for that villain dispatched to murder you—is that not so? That is why you sent me his head. He was not from me, brother.”

  “I know that. I knew it then.”

  “Then why. . ?”

  “Because we both know whom he was from, brother. Tell me—did you show my little gift to the Lady Naq’ia?”

  Esarhaddon grinned—no, I saw with some small regret, he was not offended. It was beyond his ken why anyone would imagine him offended by the suggestion that his mother trafficked in assassins.

  “She is a great and wise woman, Tiglath—you would be wise not to underestimate her.”

  “I think there is little enough chance of my making that mistake.”

  “But it is true that—well. . .”

  He shrugged his shoulders, as if alluding to some inconsequential but ludicrous weakness.

  “Let us say that if there was ever any milk in her breasts it has long since been replaced by adder venom. Yes, I did show her the head, and do you know what she said? No—I will not tell you what she said. You would not find it so amusing. She has been made to understand certain things, however, and you need not think there will be any more night visitors from Nineveh.”

  “Good. I am pleased to have this unfortunate misunderstanding resolved.”

  But Esarhaddon, it appeared, was immune to irony. From the expression on his face it was obvious he was already thinking about something else.