“Come out!” I shouted. “Come out, and may the
gods damn you.” I stepped away from the bodies of the two lions I
had killed to give myself room.
I do not know how long I waited for him to
show himself, but it was not long.
Suddenly he was there. I did not see him
come, or hear him—he merely appeared. He crouched low and began
slinking toward me, every muscle in his great tawny body tensed and
ready. He was not afraid—I could see it in his eyes that he meant
to kill me. He growled with a low, insinuating sound, almost like a
kitten purring. Almost as if he were taunting me with his
closeness.
I stood with my sword drawn, feeling the
strength ebb from my body, knowing that I must force him to make
his rush before I was too weak to have any chance against him.
It was an agony to raise my left arm, but I
brought the hand up as far as my waist, gesturing with the fingers,
inviting him to attack. My knees felt as if they were about to fold
under me.
“Come on, damn you. Come and taste
death.”
But he was not yet ready. He only snarled
contemptuously, bringing his shaggy head closer to the ground. He
would wait.
It was now or never—I felt quite sure.
As the war cry broke from my lips I charged
him, holding my sword low that I could strike up if he sprang. I
had the advantage of only a few steps before his great body shot
toward me through space and we came together with an impact that
seemed to jolt the air.
I remember nothing more. When I came to
myself I was lying in my own bed. Tahu Ishtar was using a red hot
knife to sear closed the wounds in my shoulder, and I could hear
someone groaning. There was pain somewhere in the room, but I could
not be sure if it was mine or someone else’s. I remember my
mother’s face, wet with tears. And then darkness closed over
me.
. . . . .
I had taken leave of the house of war for two
weeks only, and it was that long before I was strong enough even to
venture out of my own bed. To kill the pain I drank wine until I
was lightheaded, and my mother fed me thick soups that I might
recover from the loss of blood—I had the impression that, once she
was sure I would live, she rather enjoyed herself. Certainly in
those weeks she proved she was a better manager than she had led me
to expect.
At the end of the first week Tahu Ishtar paid
me a visit, carrying something rolled up under his arm. He spread
it out on the floor for me to see and for an instant my heart
almost died within me—it was the skin of one of the lions.
“The villagers are tanning all three that you
might have them as trophies. This is the first.”
He sat down on a stool near my bed, adjusting
his tunic around him with an air of great dignity and giving the
impression that this was something of an official call.
“They also wish me to tell you, lest you be
uneasy in your mind, that they poured libations over the dead
animals so that their ghosts will not seek revenge against
you.”
“What happened?” I asked, pulling myself up a
little on the cushions behind my back. “How did they. . ?”
Tahu Ishtar peered into my face, his eyebrows
raised in surprise. “You mean, you do not know? Then no one does.”
He laughed and shook his head. “We found them dead and you not far
behind. This one had the hilt of your sword sticking out of its
mouth—the point had
gone straight through to the brain. My
people, you know, think you are Gilgamesh come back to life. They
are grateful for what you have done.”
“I am grateful just to be alive.”
We talked for a while after that, of farming
matters and the concerns of the villagers, and then, when Tahu
Ishtar sensed I was growing weary, he took his leave. After that he
visited me often, sometimes bringing his son Qurdi, who would sit
upon the lion skin doubled over and staring into its open mouth.
Slowly, with the deliberate caution of a country man who is no
fool, Tahu Ishtar became my friend.
I had many visitors in that month of
convalescence. Kephalos almost moved in with us and had me awash in
his ointments.
“You must pay no heed to these Assyrian
physicians, Lord, for their whole therapy is based on the foolish
notion that illness comes from the gods’ anger and they will do
nothing but burn incense and pray over you. A little Greek
skepticism is all you require.”
He would consult endlessly with Merope over
my diet—he was worse than any mother—and at last, when I was sick
of his fussing, I chased him back to his patients in Nineveh. I
think he was glad to go, for country life was not much to his
taste.
At the end of the second week, when I was
strong enough to walk about a bit without tiring, one of the
farmhands came running with word that he had seen the dust from a
troop of cavalry that seemed to be coming in our direction, and
within two hours the Lord Sinahiusur himself dismounted at my door
with an escort of twenty men.
It was a raw day, so after I had sent his
soldiers to cheer themselves in my cookhouse I took the turtanu
into the best room my house had to offer. We sat across from each
other on a pair of stools, warming ourselves over a brazier and a
jug of Lebanese wine that tasted like honey and stung like a
wasp.
“The king has sent me. He only recently heard
of your mishap and wished to express his concern. You are
recovering, then?”
“Yes, Lord.” I smiled and shrugged my
shoulders, wondering what had really brought him—the turtanu
Sinahiusur would not have journeyed all this way from the capital
merely to pay a sick call. “In a week or so, when my strength
returns, I will have nothing to show for this adventure except a
few scars.”
He reached across to me and placed his hand
upon my arm, as if he would feel that strength for himself. And
then he nodded his head.
“Good, then. And since it seems to stand so
well with you, my boy, I will exercise my privilege as your uncle
and tell you to your face that I believe your mind turns too much
upon ‘adventures.’ You were a young fool to risk your life on so
light a pretext—the land of Ashur is filled with villages, but not
with princes of the blood. Be not in such a hurry for a glorious
name, for it will come soon enough of its own. You will be rab
shaqe before long—this I know. You should think what it is best to
do with such power.”
He tasted the wine again, quite as if he had
not another thing on his mind, and set the cup down upon the small
circular table that separated us.
“This is very good,” he said. “Where did you
get it?”
“A gift, Lord. You remember the slave
Kephalos?”
“Oh, that Ionian rascal! Yes, I have heard
that he has done well for you, and I rejoice in it. Perhaps that is
what I should have done with him—turn him out of the house to make
his own way. He is rich now, is he?”
“And has made me rich. Lord. You put me even
deeper into your debt when you gave me that Ionian rascal.”
The lord turtanu laughed and then, quite
suddenly, his eyes grew serious.
“Tiglath, you should know that the king is
convinced Arad Ninlil will never succeed him.”
He paused for a moment, as if expecting me to
speak. He searched my face—I know not what he saw there, but at
last he continued.
“He is a weak, foolish boy whom his mother
spoilt when she had the care of him, a great disappointment to his
father. The omens are all against him, and there is a seer named
Kalbi, son of Nergal Etir, who speaks of a reign of darkness over
the land. The king dislikes all priests and has since they told him
that our mighty father the Lord Sargon fell through his own
impiety, for the king loved his father. But these warnings against
Arad Ninlil frighten him.”
“Is that why he has delayed the marsarru’s
marriage to the Lady Esharhamat?”
“Yes—that is why.”
For a moment the Lord Sinahiusur watched me
through narrowed eyes, as if in warning, but he made no remark. He
was a wise man and held many secrets within the walls of his skull,
and I could not hope that my feelings for Esharhamat had escaped
his notice. But perhaps he judged that the time was not ripe to
speak of it.
“I myself favor the rightful succession in
this matter,” he went on. “After Arad Ninlil comes Esarhaddon, as
the son of the king’s second lawful wife. Do you concur with me in
this?”
“Yes—of course.” I could not keep the
astonishment out of my voice, for why should the Lord Sinahiusur
discuss this matter with me?
“Then know that it is the king’s hope that
you shall follow him on the throne of Ashur.”
It was as if someone had clubbed me on the
back of the head. I was struck dumb. The turtanu sat quietly,
seeming to wait for some answer, but I had none.
“Have a sip of wine, Tiglath,” he said
finally, and with his own hand he brought the cup to my lips. “I
wish to know what you will do.”
“Do, Lord?”
“Yes, do. Would you fight your brother for
the succession, boy?”
“Lord, I love my brother—if the god makes him
king, I will serve him with my life.”
“You know that whoever succeeds will marry
the Lady Esharhamat, do you not?”
“I would not set myself against the god,
Lord—not even for the Lady Esharhamat.”
“You are a good lad, Tiglath Ashur,” he said,
and once more he put his hand upon my arm. “I did not think you
would disappoint me.”
“My lord, as I have said many times, I am in
your debt.”
“Yes—but it is well to remember that neither
you nor I will settle this, nor even the king. This matter will
rest with the god.”
. . . . .
That night the Lord Sinahiusur was a guest in
my house, and the next morning he set out again on the road to
Nineveh, leaving me behind with a burdened heart. I did not wish to
be king and I loved my brother, yet I loved Esharhamat more than
life. I seemed marked out for misery. All this the Lord Sinahiusur
understood, for he was a wise man.
“Remember,” he said, as we made our farewell,
“the king may live many years yet, and Arad Ninlil may yet succeed.
Or Esarhaddon may die, or the god may speak against him. We do not
know what time will bring in its wake, but for now the Lady
Esharhamat is a widow and at her own disposal. The king will wait
as long as he may before he puts this question to the god, and you
have until then to be happy—that must be your reward, Tiglath. But
I promise you that until the god speaks, no one will interfere.
That must be enough to content you. Is it?”
“As you say, Lord, it must be.”
“Yes—it must be.”
“Lord?”
“Yes, Tiglath Ashur?”
“If my brother Esarhaddon is to succeed, then
he should be brought home from the west. The king should know his
son and, in any case, it would please my brother.”
The turtanu looked about him for a moment, as
if my house and farmyard reminded him of something, and then his
eyes settled on my face and he nodded.
“You must give this estate of yours a name,”
he said. “A name such as befits the seat of a prince. I might
suggest the name ‘Three Lions’ that your exploit will be remembered
forever.”
“It shall be as you think best, Lord,” I
answered, hardly knowing if he mocked me or was in earnest.
“No, it shall be as you think best, Tiglath
Ashur. I shall see that Esarhaddon is brought back, although I
fancy it will make little difference. Good-bye, nephew. May you
recover your strength quickly.”
I watched him ride away, and the cold winter
wind brought tears to my eyes. Or was it the wind? I knew not.
Chapter 8
I had not been to see Esharhamat since my
return from Three Lions, for during the days of my convalescence I
had had little enough to do except to think and I had thought
little enough about anything but her. If a man has time to think,
his duty always becomes clear enough—he is only betrayed into
weakness and sin when circumstances crowd around him. Viewed from a
distance, my own sick fancy of love seemed ridiculous enough. I had
allowed a childhood infatuation to loom too large in my memory, and
my liver had become inflamed because of a foolish abstinence from
women. I decided to be a sensible man and a loyal subject of my
father and to resume my visits to the temple of Ishtar. I would
renounce Esharhamat.
So I did not visit her garden where, in my
fancy, she waited by the fountain, her fingertips drifting over the
surface of the water as she dreamed of me. There is no limit to the
vanity of youth, so while I suffered I took a kind of smug pleasure
in the nobility of my sacrifice and the conviction that she must
suffer more. I filled my days with drill and hard exercise, and
after a time I began to sleep quietly enough. I would forget her
presently, I told myself. I even began to believe it.
The illusion was strengthened by the return
of my brother. Esarhaddon came back from the west with a black
beard that reached to his collarbone and an Ammonite woman who wore
a ring through her nose. He brought them both to my room in the
officers’ barrack, where he waited until a runner could bring me
notice of his arrival. My throat tightened when I saw him, and even
after we had embraced we both could hardly speak. I had not
understood how much I had missed him.
“Who is that?” I asked finally, pointing to
the woman in the purple-and-white linen robe who was sitting on my
bed as if she slept there every night, her arms tinkling with gold
bangles as she ran her hands through her hair. I had never seen
hair that particular color—it was black but seemed to glow from
within with a reddish flame. She smiled at me as though she would
have liked to break her fast with me.
“That?” Esarhaddon turned to look, quite as
if he could not imagine to whom I was referring. “Oh, that! That,
brother, is Leah, whom I won playing at lots with a tavern master
in the city of Salecah—I think, personally, that he was not sorry
to lose her on account of the vexatiousness of his wife. Would you
like to borrow her? She is not good for another thing in the wide
world, but she can press the seed out of your loins like juice from
a grape. Try her for a night—by the sixty great gods, the things
that woman knows to do to a man! It is like having the whole temple
of Ishtar all to oneself. Have you wine here, brother, or shall we
have to go into the city to get drunk together?”