by Ron Goulart
The little rowboat was about fifty yards from shore and Frazer was having a little trouble rowing against the strong current that swept down toward the roaring waterfall, when he felt something give way under his right foot. Almost instantly that foot was soaking wet up past the ankle. There was the sound of water gurgling and bubbling. With a little cry, Frazer looked down at the bottom of the boat. It was coming in around the edges of a square of wood that had been not quite sawed all the way through, right where his foot, braced for rowing, would be placed and pressure put upon it. The water was coming in fast. The bottom of the boat was already covered and Frazer’s other foot was immersed, in just those few seconds. He screamed, a shrill, horror-struck sound, like the shriek of some night animal.
“Lyman!” he gasped. “In case the poison didn’t work, he was going to get me this way! He was going to drown me!”
Frazier remembered that tomorrow was his turn to row across the river alone, take the road over there into the nearest town for supplies and cigarettes. Clever, cautious Lyman! It would be just like him to make doubly sure of a crime to have a second method all worked out in case the first one failed. It seemed in the sudden silence over the river that from somewhere, Frazer could hear Lyman’s high pitched, derisive laugh. The sound grew louder and Frazer realized that it wasn’t just his imagination. Somebody was laughing. At the same time, he realized that it wasn’t Lyman, couldn’t be the dead man. It was that damned sheriff, Clayburn, back on shore by the dock.
When the laughter cut off, Clayburn’s voice rolled echoingly across the river as he shouted: “Where are you, fella? Come back here! Serves me right, I suppose, but damned if I’m ever goin’ to josh with you again. Didn’t reckon you’d take me that serious! It is agin’ the law in this state to fish after nine o’clock at night, but I wasn’t really going to take you in for it. Was just goin’ to scare you some, give you a warning, but you…”
The rest of Clayburn’s words faded off, and Frazer didn’t seem to hear them. He was too busy trying, vainly, to bail out the water that was nearly filling the boat, with one hand, and to try and plug up the hole where the section that Lyman had sawed through had come loose, with the other. He wasn’t having any success other way. In another moment the little rowboat went completely underwater and heeled over, spilling Frazer, screaming, into the chill, swirling water of the river. He managed to reach out and claw a grip onto the side of the overturned boat and hold on for all he was worth. But he knew that only gave him another few minutes to live, at the most. The half-submerged boat was drifting fast toward the falls, carried along by the current, the oars gone.
As the roar of the falls grew louder, Frazer seemed to hear little Lyman telling him: “The trouble with you big, husky, stupid oafs is that you get panicky. You don’t think. You let your emotions run away with you!” Frazer had an idea that this would have never happened to Lyman. His dead partner wouldn’t have let the sheriff throw him into a scare like that. Smart-guy Lyman would probably have somehow figured it out that the sheriff couldn’t have possibly been talking about a murder. Frazer would have to tell Lyman about this, admit once and for all that he, Frazer, was just a big dumb slob like Lyman had always said. He had an idea that he would be seeing Lyman soon to tell him that.
Then he felt the terrible pull and drag of the water at the edge of the falls, felt his fingers yanked loose from their grip on the edge of the overturned boat and he stopped having ideas. There was nothing but the all-over pounding roar of millions of tons of water and the sensation that he was like one of the little matchstick boats that used to rush, spinning and twisting through the torrent of water in the gutter after a storm, back when he was a kid…
THE JUDGMENT OF THE GODS, by Robert Reginald
NINEVEH, CAPITAL OF ASSYRIA
Twentieth Day of Tebetu, in the
Year Named for the Eponym Nabu-Sharru-Usur
(January, 681 B.C.)
The Great King Sennacherib lay prostrate before the altar of the god, his face pressed to the cold tile floor, his arms outstretched in supplication towards the huge, flickering image of the eagle-headed deity looming above him. Torches mounted in alcoves on either side of the small hall provided minimal light.
“My relatives plot against me,” he murmured. “My enemies are legion. I have destroyed the city of Babylon to avenge the death of my eldest son, but those whom I let live now wish my death. Everywhere I see war and plague and famine. When shall it end? When shall the burden pass from my hands?”
A sudden breath of winter air pressed the robe against his legs. He shivered in spite of himself. A moan seemed to emanate from the mouth of the god.
“What did you say?” the Great King said. “Tell me what to do.”
A second groan echoed through the chamber. The guard captain standing just inside the door at the other end of the hall woke from his reverie at the noise, peering into the darkness.
Suddenly and quite without warning, the vast statue of the deity tipped forward and fell directly onto the king.
The guard screamed a cry of warning, echoed by the troop posted outside. But it was too late. As he could quite clearly see when he rushed to his master’s aid, Sennacherib, the Great King, the Mighty King, the King of the Four Corners of the World, was quite, quite dead.
“The judgment of the gods!” the captain said, as the other soldiers rushed to his side. “The gods have spoken!”
And so they had.
* * * *
Achilleus of Zmyrna in Asia Minor sends greetings to his father’s father in Chios. May the son of Meles sing a thousand more songs before he rests!
In the third year of the twenty-fourth Olympiad, I accompanied the expedition of your son Telemachos to Assyria, there to establish a regular system of trade with the Great King Sennacherib and his ministers, now that their hegemony extended to the shores of the Mediterranean Sea. By your instruction I had learned the art and science of lettering from the Phoenician merchants of Akko who were wont to visit our fair harbor, and this skill, it was thought, might give our party some small edge in the bargaining yet to come.
We were three months on our journey, first by ship around the coast of Anatolia, and thence overland up the Orontes and across the great waste to Mesopotamia. When we finally arrived in the walled city of Nineveh, not long after the close of summer, we were thoroughly tired of traveling and ready to meet with the king and his officials.
This proved, however, somewhat more difficult than we had imagined.
These “Black-Haired Men,” as they call themselves, are a strange folk indeed. They speak a tongue akin to Phoenician, yet etch their scratchings upon tablets of clay, like the tracks of birds upon the beach. Not even their rulers can read the inscriptions engraved upon their own monuments. They welcome the settlement of strangers within their chief citadels, so that their own people have become a minority in some of their cities, and promote such individuals to the highest levels of service in their government, but force them to bow and scrape as if they were no better than slaves. I do not understand how any man can tolerate such treatment.
We sent our embassies to various high officials, but none would receive us. We sought out the major trading companies in the city, but while all treated us courteously, none would treat with us without the approval of the government. Thus matters rested while fall advanced into winter.
I had been directed by Uncle Telemachos to acquire as much of their language as quickly as possible, and so I sought out one of the Houses of Scribes, a place where youths were regularly initiated into the mysteries of the stylus and the clay tablet. I asked the Headmaster if I could participate, even though I was older than most of these boys. A contribution to the god eased my passage immeasurably.
The study was most difficult. It was as if these men had purposely designed a system that would be impossible for the average citizen to learn, which was perhaps the whole point of the exercise. Scribes are highly valued for their services here, being a
mong the best paid members of society.
I befriended an older lad named Asarbaniplos, which is the closest I can render his name in the Greek tongue. I understood at the time that he was related to the chief families of the city, but exactly how, I did not know. Assyrians do not talk about such matters. I never learned, for example, how old he was, for the year of one’s birth is a closely held secret for these people. No one even knows the age of the Great King who rules them.
This “Banu,” as he was commonly known, had dark curly hair and a quick spirit that instinctively grasped that which seemed so elusive to me. We became great comrades in our battles over the meaning of the elusive stone tablets.
After four months’ residence in the citadel, Uncle obtained an interview with the Second Vizier, during which he asked to see the Great King. He was laughed out of the palace. “No man may talk with the emissary of the gods,” he was told.
Several days later I was studying in the House of Scribes when a commotion interrupted our lesson.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“The Great King is dead,” my friend said. He shook his bushy head, unable to comprehend what he was saying. “The gods have struck him down. They have cursed Assyria.” Then he ran out the door, not heeding my shouts to stop.
I returned to our apartment, and we stayed close to home the next few weeks. The streets were filled with thieves and rogues eager to steal money, food, even the clothing off one’s back. Finally, order was restored by two of the old king’s sons, one of whom was proclaimed his successor. Still, the evident dissatisfaction of the people was everywhere apparent.
When another month had passed, we heard of an army approaching from the west. Crown Prince Esarhaddon had gathered together his forces and was marching on the capital. The Substitute King went out to meet him, but was defeated and reportedly fled.
A few days later, a squad of guards knocked on our door, and ordered Uncle Telemachos and me to accompany them. We marched out of the Hatamti Gate, where we mounted horses and headed northeast onto the open plain. We could see our breaths blowing behind us upon the wind.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Speak when you are spoken to,” the guard said, emphasizing the point with a wave of his spear. I dutifully obeyed.
We rode until we spied a citadel, which I later learned was called Fort Sargon. We dismounted and the guard blindfolded us.
“Do not remove these on pain of death,” he said.
Then they took Uncle and myself by the elbow, and guided us through a series of long, echoing passageways paved with stone.
Finally, we entered a large hall, judging by the change in sound, where we were both forced to the ground, prostrated upon the cold floor. We heard the tramp, tramp, tramp of a squad of soldiers coming through a doorway and across the room. Our “gentle” companions raised us to our knees.
“What are your names?” came the harsh inquiry.
“What is he saying?” Uncle asked.
“We are Telemachos and Achilleus, traders from Zmyrna,” I said.
“Te-le-ma-khu,” the hidden man stuttered. “A-khu-i-lai,” he added. “These are hard for the Black-Haired Men to say.” He paused. “Why does your senior not speak for himself?”
“He does not understand your language,” I said. “No disrespect was intended.”
“Then you may become his voice,” he said. “Tell him what I have said and what I will say, and translate his responses for me, exactly as he gives them. Do you understand?”
“I do, sir,” I said, turning my head slightly so Uncle could hear, and relating what I had been told thus far.
“Who is this man? What does he want?” Telemachos asked.
I repeated these questions in Akkadian.
One of the guards struck me down with his spear.
“Enough!” he said. “Withdraw, all of you.”
“But, sir.…”
“Let them be seated. Then leave us.”
The stools were unpadded, but they were immeasurably easier on our limbs than that tile floor had been.
“I am Ashur-Akhi-Iddina, son of Sin-Akhe-Eriba,” the voice intoned, a hint of pride floating upon the air.
I sat suddenly upright.
“The Great King!” I hissed to Uncle.
“What?” he said.
“Esarhaddon! The new king!” I said again between clenched lips.
“Yes,” came the reply, “by right of succession and by conquest, but not legally until I enter the walls of Nineveh, which I must do soon, on a day and at an hour that the priests deem propitious.
“But I have a difficulty. My glorious father, contrary to popular report, was murdered. I have questioned my two rebellious brothers most vigorously (they did not escape!), but they deny any complicity in the death of their sire. I believe them. Someone else in my father’s court was responsible for his death, and I need to know who it is before I enter upon my patrimony.
“My son says that you Greeks have a strong sense of justice, and have been trained to discern fact from fiction. He also tells me that you desire to establish trade between your city and our empire. Therefore, we each have something to gain from the bargain.
“I give you seven days to find the culprit, no more. If you are unable to do so, you may depart in peace, but thereafter we will see no more of you within the boundaries of our kingdom, upon pain of death. If you succeed, you will have our blessing upon your enterprise.”
All the while I was translating his words for Uncle Telemachos, who paused before replying with my voice.
“O great and mighty king,” he said, “we are simple merchants, with no experience of crime beyond that of ordinary citizens, but we will do what we can to help. We will need the assistance of one of your men as intermediary, and will also require your authority to enter into any place at any time to question any person.”
I do not think that the Great King was overly pleased with Uncle’s reply, but he finally said: “My son will accompany you.” Then: “This interview is over.” He clapped his hands three times to call his guards.
We were escorted from the building and back to our horses, where we could feel the warmth of the winter sun, Great Eos, shining down upon us once again. When our blindfolds were removed, the first person I saw was my friend, Banu.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I am the son,” came the simple reply, and suddenly much that was murky became very clear to me.
* * * *
The next day we held a council of war, and Uncle expressed reservations over what we might accomplish.
“Will not the Great King kill us if we fail this task?” he asked.
I translated this.
“Father will not break his word,” Banu said.
“Who can help us while being discrete?” I asked Banu.
“My Turtanu,” the lad said. When I expressed some puzzlement over the word, he elaborated: “Erishum is my, well, you might call him my chief ‘officer.’ He manages my household and provides security and anything else I need.”
“I was not previously aware of his presence,” I said.
“That was deliberate,” came the reply, “but he is trustworthy.”
Uncle Telemachos said: “We must see the place where the crime took place.”
“The temple has been sealed since my grandfather’s death,” Banu said. He clapped his hands once, and a short, bearded man appeared at the doorway. He was armed with a long knife or short spear. “Erishum,” the prince said, and the man bowed. He sent the Turtanu to fetch the guards who would open the way for us.
We soon set out for the House of Nisroch, the god of wisdom. I had not previously heard his name, and so indicated to Banu.
“He is called Marduk in the south,” Banu said, “being reckoned there as king of the gods of Babylon.”
“But not here,” I said.
“Here Ashur is king,” he said. “That is why Nisroch dwells in such a small
house.”
The temple was a square building near the Halzi Gate, decorated with the huge images of winged bulls pacing around the outside walls. A troop of soldiers flanked the sole entrance. They came to attention when they spied the prince approaching.
Banu presented the stone cylinder of his father’s authority to the officer on duty, who identified himself as Captain Azizu. The prince had specifically asked for him to be present.
Azizu broke the clay seal linking the two massive cedar doors, and pushed them open. His guards rushed in to light the torches flanking either side of the hall.
My first impression was of the shifting images of a herd of great beasts ready to devour us if we stepped inside. Lining the inside of the structure were the images of the Assyrian gods and goddesses, culminating in the toppled stone statue at the other end.
“You were in charge that day?” the prince asked.
“I was,” the officer said.
“Tell us about your procedure,” Banu said.
“Whenever the Great King wished to talk with the god,” Azizu said, “I or Captain Ukin-Zer would gather a squad of thirty men, whoever happened to be on duty at the time, and would proceed to the temple. There the Great King would wait outside while I and ten others searched the interior of the hall, clearing out anyone who might remain. Usually, the Great King visited during my night watch, after his appointments had been completed, when no one else was present.”
“And that night?” the prince said.
“We found no one. After my men had cleared the changing rooms at the rear of the hall, I searched them again before allowing the Great King to enter. Then I stood duty just inside the entrance, as I always do, so that he was never left unattended.”
“No one was there?” Uncle asked.
“No one,” he said. “I swear. The temple was deserted.”
“Then what happened?” Banu asked.
“The god toppled over on him without warning. I could do nothing, although I rushed to help as soon as I saw what was happening. When I reached the Great King, he was already dead, crushed beneath the stone. We removed the body, as required, but everything else was left as you see it now.”