The Assyrian

by Nicholas Guild

  “Will they? Yes, of course. Yes, perhaps it would be better for them.”

  “Then will you submit?”

  “I will not submit tonight, my lord.” He set the wine cup down beside his foot again and covered his face with his hands, as if to wipe away the exhaustion. “You will have my answer, if you wish it, in the morning, but not before then. My life is in your power and you may take it whenever you wish, but I will not pledge myself to anything simply because I am weary and weak spirited.”

  “Then you will have until tomorrow—guard!”

  Lushakin came rushing toward us, his sword in his hand, as if he expected to find Daiaukka at my throat and not sitting across the fire while we bargained like caravan drivers. I think he was disappointed.

  “You will find the shah-ye-shah a bed for the night,” I told him. “You will see that he has every comfort.”

  “Every comfort—yes, Rab Shaqe. I have a very comfortable copper chain I will put around his neck.”

  It was Daiaukka himself who laughed. The man seemed afraid of nothing.

  “Post a guard if it eases your heart,” I answered. “But bring him to me again in the morning, when I send for him.”

  Did Daiaukka sleep that night? From what I understood of his nature, it would not have surprised me to find that he did. I never closed my eyes. I remained beside the campfire, keeping my vigil beside the corpse of Tabshar Sin and with no other company except a wine cup, until the broad light of day.

  And perhaps, if I really was drunk, the wine fumes clouded my brain enough to allow me to think that I had trapped Daiaukka, for I intended to butcher him myself, to make him the first offering to the ghost of my dead friend, if he did not submit to the might of Ashur. This I would do in full view of his surviving nobles, that they might learn the price of defiance. I would humble their shah before their eyes, or I would give him to death, and this too before their eyes. All night I consoled myself with this idea. Yet a man may think himself profoundly clever and be a fool just the same.

  The morning came. I ordered that Tabshar Sin’s grave should be dug beyond the earthworks of our camp, on ground which he and I and many others had won with our swords for the greater glory of Ashur and our king. I lowered his body into the shallow pit and with my own hands covered him with earth. In a year, when the grass returned, no one would know his resting place. It was to be a day for burials; Tabshar Sin was only the first of many.

  On that blackened plain I performed for my old friend the last kindness one man can do another, and there were many to witness the deed. The soldiers of the northern army stood about in silence, knowing that soon they, too, would be called upon to perform the same service for their comrades who lay dead on the field of battle.

  The conquered Medes, our prisoners now, only yesterday our foes, watched too, doubtless wondering if they also were about to enter into the long darkness of death. Tabiti, who called me his brother, stood behind me—he smiled slightly, as if already counting his spoils. Daiaukka was there as well, but I had long since abandoned my attempts to see inside his heart.

  I rose and wiped the dirt from my hands. I had not slept in two days and nights and my head ached and the taste in my mouth was bitter, but that was only the last dregs of the wine jar and no more than I deserved. Still, I was quiet in my soul and somehow all my wrath had left me. It was clear what must follow.

  “If the Medes will have it so,” I shouted, that all might hear, “then Ashur’s war against them can end at this hour. I invite any who will to kneel and swear his oath of submission to the king my father, the Lord Sennacherib, king in Ashur and Calah and Nineveh, lord of the earth’s four corners, master of this place and all the world.”

  As one man the Median nobles, the great ones of the Aryan, knelt and swore—all of them, save one. For the Lord Daiaukka, the shah-ye-shah, he alone whose word I cared about, he stayed on his feet.

  “You will not swear, my lord?” I asked him, wondering why I was not disappointed. Why, I wondered, was I glad that he would not submit? Only because he was a great man, whom none would ever humble—yes, perhaps that was the reason.

  “No.” He shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “Others may, but not I. For I have sworn an oath to live as the one shah of the Aryan, and to drive my enemies from this my land or die in the attempt.”

  “You once told me we would have our battle and then see whom the Ahura favored. Can you not accept the judgment of your god?”

  At once, the moment the words had passed my lips, I knew I had made a great error.

  Daiaukka knew it too, and smiled thinly.

  “No, my lord—for you are alive, and so am I. The contest between your god and mine can only be settled between the two of us, no others. You have the power to kill me now, if that is your will, but you will have proved nothing. It must be one against the other and in single combat, to the death.”

  I could sense the tremor of excitement that passed through all who had heard his challenge. Tabiti stepped forward and put his hand on my arm.

  “You must not do this thing,” he whispered tensely. “Kill him now—or I will do it for you!”

  “None may kill him save I alone,” I answered. I was resigned, for I knew that it was not Daiaukka who had fallen into a trap, but I. “He has me. He demands trial by combat, his strength against mine—his magic, if you will, against mine. If I refuse, and slay him like a dog, then he will never die but be king in these mountains forever. He gives me no choice.”

  Tabiti released his grasp, for he knew I was right.

  “There is a condition,” I said, speaking for all to hear. “It will be in the god’s hands who lives or dies, but the war must be over. If I conquer, the parsua keep their pledge made this day to the king my father. If I die, the Lord Daiaukka must promise that in his lifetime the border between our lands shall not be violated.”

  “So be it.” He nodded—why should he not agree? What had he to lose? “And I ask one favor of the Lord Tiglath Ashur, that I might have three days before we meet to settle this between us. There will be no treachery, but I would see my son once more.”

  “So be it.”

  Thus everything was arranged, a duel to the death three days hence.

  Chapter 31

  I had treasured the hope that Daiaukka, once he came into my hands, could be persuaded to sue for peace. It was not so very unreasonable a thing to expect, since most men will accept decent terms in exchange for their lives, but once this hope proved vain a commander wiser than myself would have ordered the shah-ye-shah quietly put to death, thus preserving the fiction that he had fallen in battle. The Medes would have preferred this, for then he could have taken the blame for a lost war and, in later years, provided a convenient hero, a martyr, to serve as the rallying cry when they felt themselves strong enough to challenge us again. And, for a few years at least, it would have been to my advantage since, being his conqueror, I would have fallen heir to Daiaukka’s considerable prestige as a warrior. This would have been a poor substitute for the subservient, humbled, discredited figurehead I could have made of him alive—how, I wonder, could I have imagined that Daiaukka would allow himself to be used for such a purpose?—but it would have been worth something. I should have cut his throat while it was still within my power.

  Instead, I made the greatest mistake I could have made and extended to my most implacable enemy the chance for a public challenge which, once issued, could hardly be refused. Once the words were spoken, I could not have ordered his execution without looking like a coward in front of that most important of all audiences, his own defeated and demoralized followers.

  Now it would have to be single combat, my protective sedu against the renewed magic of his name—and Daiaukka was a man with nothing to lose. The shah-ye-shah had trapped me because he saw with painful clarity what I, for one unaccountable moment, had allowed myself to forget: that this was a war which would not end with one battle or one victory; that tactics and the
weight of armies, in the end, would matter less than the legends surrounding individual men.

  And thus I had presented Daiaukka with his opportunity to create a legend which would be treasured by his race until their final hour.

  But there would be three days before our final meeting. I loaned Daiaukka a horse and watched him ride away into the foothills, not knowing where he went nor caring. He would return, which was all that concerned me. He would not oblige me by making good his escape, for he was a man for whom death held no terrors.

  I could not say the same. A duel, where one man must die that another may live, is more terrible than any battle, for in battle the danger is less personal—no one of your enemies seeks your life alone—and it is a rare day on which half the men fighting will perish. And I am not ashamed to say that I feared Daiaukka, for he was brave and strong and cunning and since his earliest youth had known no life except that of warrior. The man who would not fear him could have no eyes to see with nor mind to think. I was not so insensible as a block of wood, so I was filled with fear.

  But at least, if this was a trouble I had brought upon myself, I alone would suffer from it. By the army it was viewed as a matter of great sport and the betting, so I was told, grew heavy.

  In my three days of grace I met with my officers and made plans for our withdrawal. We would establish a garrison at a place called Zakruti, not too far from our own borders, and leave three thousand men there. The rest of us would return to Amat and the garrisons in Zamua and Namri. All this would be the same whether Daiaukka triumphed or I did, for the fortunes of war do not rest with the life of one man.

  On the night before Daiaukka’s return, the Lord Tabiti, who called himself my brother, came to my tent, carrying his skull cups and a skin of safid atesh under his arm.

  “The Medes have their haoma, which they drink to make themselves wild with valor, but this is better,” he said, filling one of the cups and holding it out to me by the eye sockets. Here—drink. I know you do not fancy the taste of it, but you need something and wine will leave your senses dull tomorrow. Drink.”

  “Is it so obvious then, that I am afraid?”

  “No. You carry it as well as any man, but I do not need to be told what it is that cuts into your bowels. Who does not fear death?”

  “Daiaukka, perhaps.” I took a sip of the safid atesh and instantly made a face—it was not a taste that improved upon acquaintance. “I think perhaps Daiaukka does not fear death.”

  “If he does not, then he is not a man. And if he is not a man, then you may kill him by any means without staining your honor, for you will be ridding the world of a demon. Tell me—have you ever known this style of combat before?”

  “No.”

  I thought it prudent not to mention the incident with Esarhaddon and, indeed, the two cases could have nothing in common.

  “Then know that Daiaukka will expect you to meet him on horseback, carrying only a spear and a short sword. This is the way with all the tribes, the Cimmerian, the Scoloti, even these dogs the Medes. It will not be understood if you decline this way of fighting—everyone will believe you are a coward. I have seen you on a horse and you are well enough for a man born inside mud walls, but compared to a tribesman you are not much.”

  “Thank you. You are my friend indeed to speak so kindly of me.”

  “Do not be insulted, for I say no more than what you yourself know and all for your own good. Daiaukka is a fine rider. As long as he has a horse between his knees he will hold you to a disadvantage—remember that.”

  I had drunk much by then, for I wished a quiet heart, but I understood clearly enough that Tabiti spoke the truth.

  “The Medes hold horses in great respect—remember that as well. Daiaukka will be at pains to do no injury to your horse, for to cause its death would be a sacrilege for which he would have to answer to his god. You, however, are under no such prohibition.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Kill his horse. As soon as you can, kill his horse. Make him fight you on the ground, where you will at least stand an even chance. If you lose, would it comfort your ghost if I killed this Daiaukka for you?”

  “No.”

  “I may kill him anyway, for my own comfort. I have called you my brother, and the man who strips you of your life has offended against me. Yes, I think I will kill him anyway, that I be spared the reproaches of my conscience. But out of consideration for your fine sense of propriety I will do it with craft, after the custom of the Scoloti—I will invite him to dinner and give him a slow poison that none may know he died at my hand.”

  “This you must not do, Tabiti my brother. This is not an honorable end for such a man.”

  “Then, if you have such concern for him, you must kill him yourself, Lord Tiglath Ashur.” Tabiti smiled, the cunning smile of a wily, dangerous animal. “I will go now—remember what I said about killing his horse.”

  Then he rose to depart, leaving the skin of safid atesh with me.

  I sat up the rest of that night, with only a single oil lamp burning to frighten away ghosts. I drank only enough to dull the edge of my fear and keep me from thinking. No one else came near my tent that night—whether this was because someone had issued orders or because men thought me unlucky and avoided me on that account, I know not. In either case I was content that it should be so, for I wanted no company.

  At last, the morning came and Daiaukka with it. He brought a force of his retainers, some three hundred armed men, asking that they might be allowed to witness this duel between us and satisfy themselves that, should he fall, their shah-ye-shah had met with no treachery—he did not say so, since he could not without discourtesy, but I think he also wanted to ensure that, should he triumph over me, he would have some means of leaving my camp alive. I did not object, since both were perfectly reasonable precautions.

  He also brought his son, Khshathrita. The boy stood beside his father, for all his youth displaying the unselfconscious carriage of a man as he continued to study my face with his large, serious black eyes all the while Daiaukka and I settled the final details.

  It was agreed between us that we would fight on the narrow plain beyond the earthworks of my encampment, and that he would take his position at the north side and I at the south side, so neither man would have the advantage of the sun at his back. Daiaukka carried a lance, about five cubits long, and I would have my javelin. Beyond this, we each allowed ourselves a small round shield and a sword no more than a cubit in length, but nothing more.

  The horse Daiaukka rode was not the one I had given him but the fine black stallion I had seen twice before, so I can only assume that, for reasons best known to himself, he had not ridden it the day of the battle. I was mounted upon Ghost, who seemed to sense that this morning would see mortal combat and so whinnied and dug at the ground with his hoofs as if consumed with rage.

  There might have been forty thousand men, Medes, Scythians, and soldiers of Ashur, assembled there to view the contest, but the only sound was the stirring of the wind over our heads. No man spoke or laughed or even cleared his throat. I could not help but think, it is as if I had already died.

  I mounted my horse and rode to my starting point—Daiaukka was already waiting across the field and raised his lance in salute when I came to a halt and faced him. I raised my javelin to signal that I was ready.

  One of the Medes came into the center of the field and displayed a white banner. He released it from his grasp, letting it flutter to the earth—this was our signal to begin—and then ran back to join his comrades. It was now solely a matter between the shah-ye-shah and me.

  For a moment neither of us moved—it was almost possible to hope the thing would never happen—and then Daiaukka urged his horse forward at a canter. I followed his example, resigning myself to the gods. There could be no turning back.

  What would he do? How do men fight with spears from the backs of horses? Certainly a throw, under such circumstances, would have little
chance of hitting its mark. I had been trained to the useful arts of war, not to this. I would wait upon events.

  I did not have to wait long. Quickly Daiaukka gathered speed as he bore down upon me. At the last, when we were separated by perhaps no more than fifty paces, he lowered the point of his spear and aimed it at my chest.

  There was no time to dodge out of the way—I had no defense but the shield on my left arm, and Daiaukka’s point tore through the layers of its oxhide cover as if they were linen. In a second, as Daiaukka thundered past me, my shield was tumbling over the ground, rolling like a barrel hoop, and blood was streaming from my shoulder, but by some miracle I had stayed on my horse. I pulled myself up straight and turned to face him, the laughter of the Medes ringing in my ears.

  Daiaukka was in no hurry. He galloped well past me and then slowed to a walk before he wheeled around. He was calm, deliberate, perfectly well aware that he had drawn first blood and now had the advantage. There was something almost of contempt in the way he placed the palm of his hand on his thigh as he watched me.

  It made me angry—that was good, for I needed anger.

  The wound on my shoulder stung badly but showed no signs of stiffening up. I decided it would not kill me before Daiaukka did. I decided also that he would not be given the chance.

  This time it was my turn to charge. I balanced my javelin and, when I was within range, threw, pulling Ghost sharply to the right to avoid Daiaukka’s spear. It was a bad throw and passed harmlessly over his shoulder to bury itself point first in the dirt. I rode by and leaned over to pick it up.

  But my adversary had no thought of permitting me the chance to recover. Even as the javelin was in my hand I could hear the pounding of hoofs behind me, and it was only by throwing myself to the ground that I could retrieve my life. As soon as he saw that he had missed me, Daiaukka pulled his horse to a stop and reined it around—I had barely time to scramble onto Ghost’s back and make good my retreat.