“It is Esarhaddon’s name you must place
before the god,” I answered, not certain in my own heart if I spoke
out of duty to father and brother or only because I knew that, once
again, I would be pleased to hear myself preferred. “He is the son
of your lawful wife.”
“The god will withhold his consent.
Esarhaddon has a basket of mud where his head should rest. He will
do very well in the next reign, but only if he has you set over him
to keep him out of mischief. He is a good soldier, your brother,
whom you love so fondly, but he is a fool.”
The king seemed more and more to lean on me
as we walked, as if his hunger were weakening him.
“Esarhaddon would make a bad king,” he went
on. “The god will withhold his consent—has not Mighty Ashur shown
already how he favors you? Has he not granted you a mighty sedu?
Eh? Esarhaddon. . . paugh!”
We came to the end of a long colonnade, out
into the sunlight of an open courtyard. The king dropped his hand
from my shoulder and stretched himself as if rising from a
dream.
“Do you recognize this place? No?” He
laughed, bending at the waist to smite his knee with excess of
pleasure. “Look about you, Tiglath Ashur, Son of Sennacherib, Lord
of the Earth, King of Kings. Now do you remember?”
Yes, now I remembered. I could feel my throat
tightening as I remembered. The block of granite, like a
sacrificial altar, still rested in the center of the stone paving—I
remembered when I had seen it spattered with blood.
All of this must have shown in my face, for
the king nodded, no longer even smiling.
“This is where old Bag Teshub brought you
that your manhood might be cut away like his own—by the gods, I
wonder if he is still alive. He brought you here, and the priests
waited with their knives. But I see you have not forgotten.”
“No, I have not forgotten. Nor that you saved
me.”
“I, and the lord turtanu, my brother
Sinahiusur. It was more he than I. And he was right. Right—for you
have made me proud of you, many times since that day. But the
priests. . .
“Did you know that the baru Rimani Ashur is
also my brother? Did you, eh?”
“No, Lord.”
“But he is. The priests, most of them, favor
Esarhaddon over you, but not Rimani Ashur, who favors no one. I
trust him, for all that he is a priest. Moreover, the army loves
you. And the army counts for more in this land than the priests,
who love your brother only because he is known to be a great
believer in all manner of omen readers and soothsayers—they hope
they will be able to rule through him. Some speak against
him—Kalbi, for one; he knows the god’s will—but most. . . Still, I
trust Rimani Ashur. The god will not make Esarhaddon king—never!
And as for his being my son by a lawful wife. . .”
The Lord Sennacherib spread wide his hands in
a gesture of helplessness.
“I would put the veil upon your mother’s head
tomorrow were it not that. . .”
“Were it not that the Lady Naq’ia would
object—and that most strenuously. “
We both laughed, as if sharing a secret.
“Yes—what a misery she would make of life!”
The king put his arm through mine, and we continued our walk. “By
the gods, I am almost glad she has taken herself off to Sumer. I
miss her already at my couch, but she has a tongue like a
scorpion’s tail. Women, my son, they are the curse of life. .
.”
That night he ate in my house and lay with my
mother, to let all know that Tiglath Ashur, son of Sennacherib,
stood higher in his father’s favor than any, living or dead.
The next day, the second of the festival of
Akitu, was the great procession, when the Lord Ashur is carried
through the city to his new year’s house, there once more to fight
his fight against Tiamat the Chaos Monster and make again the world
and the bright sky.
The ceremonies surrounding the festival of
Akitu are of great antiquity, and they are much the same throughout
all the lands between the rivers. In Sumer, where, through the
ancient prestige of Babylon, Marduk is king of the gods, it is his
victory which is celebrated, his creative power which men hold in
honoring memory. But whether the glory is Marduk’s or Ashur’s, the
myth which is celebrated is precisely the same, and it is not on
the names of gods that their divine, life giving sovereignty rests
but on their storied deeds, for it is men who give the gods their
names.
This year’s Akitu was to be like no other,
for it was the first since the long war in the south had ended, and
all in the land of Ashur wished to render him thanksgiving for his
preserving might. Thus the festival celebrated both our renewal and
our deliverance, and all men’s hearts were light with joy.
The last minutes before dawn of the great day
found the king, his nobles, and all his family in the temple of the
god, where he was called to wakefulness by the beating of drums,
loud as thunder, echoing through the city like the voice of war.
“Let the god awake!” we chanted. “Let Mighty Ashur, Lord of Heaven,
King of the Gods, in whose name all things are done, let him rise
from his slumbers! Let him shine like his own sun upon the race of
his servants!”
And the great golden idol of the god—not Holy
Ashur himself but only his image, the god’s gift to us that men
might approach his glory—looked down upon us with unseeing eyes.
What were men that he should notice them? What were their voices
that he should hear? Yet in his mercy he did hear, and his bright
sun rose over the eastern mountains to give us the light of yet
another day. And this day his, who was our strength and our
salvation.
And then, in an instant, there was no sound,
only the decaying echo of our voices disappearing into silence. The
air did not shake, and there was stillness as the multitude, who
dared not even breathe, waited upon their king, Sennacherib, Chief
Priest and Servant of Ashur.
The king approached his god, in his hands a
golden dish weighted down with meat hot from the fire, still
steaming in the cold air. The king, too, was a thing of gold,
flashing with reflected light as the folds of his tunic moved—a
thing of splendor like his god.
“I summon you to eat, Lord Ashur,” he cried.
“I summon you, Lord of Sky and Earth, to accept this offering from
the hand of your servant.”
The dish was held before the god that his
eyes might behold it and then was passed to a priest in yellow
robes, who carried it away. The thing was done.
“I summon you to eat, Lady Ninlil!”
Only this time it was a woman’s voice. With
everyone else, I turned to see who had been granted the honor this
year, and what I saw was my sister Shaditu—naked, her body shining
with oil. A murmur ran through the crowd, for it was not a thing
anyone had expected.
“I summon you, Consort of the Lord Ashur,
Queen of Heaven, to accept this offering from the hand of your
servant.”
There was such quiet that I could hear quite
plainly the soft sound of her tiny naked feet against the stone
floor. She was beautiful. Her body was a thing of wonder, and, like
all who saw her, I was stirred by the sight of it. I happened to be
standing opposite the baru Rimani Ashur and I saw how his eyes
glowed, as if the brightness of her flesh would blind him. Perhaps
I should have realized the truth, even then.
Shaditu held her offering before the image of
the goddess—smaller, and at her husband’s left hand—and then, when
the plate had been taken from her, she glided to her father’s side,
and he drew her to him in a loving embrace. For the king loved her,
and she could commit no folly or disgrace in his eyes.
Merope, to whom these rites were new and
strange, was with me and saw all that I saw. As we filed out of the
temple and into the bright sunlight she plucked at my sleeve.
“My son, is this—customary? That she be thus
naked, like a harlot, without even a veil for her hair? It does not
seem a proper thing.”
“It is a venerable usage,” I said. I smiled
and took her arm, for what could she have learned of such things in
the house of women? “The Sumerians, all of them, both men and women
alike, approached their gods in ritual nakedness—the priests of
Elam do to this hour. But such a thing has not been seen in the
Land of Ashur for perhaps a hundred years. Perhaps the lady seeks
to stamp the day with a gesture of ancient piety, although I would
not have suspected Shaditu of being possessed of so profoundly
religious a nature.”
“I think she is no better than a tavern
wench, and wishes only that all men should desire her.”
I laughed, not being able to help myself,
that my mother was thus shocked.
“Yes,” I said. “From what I know of the lady,
your opinion is probably not very far from the mark.”
But somehow, the image which I could not
shake from my mind was not that of my wanton sister Shaditu,
glorying in her naked beauty, but that of the baru, the king’s own
brother, Rimani Ashur, his eyes fired with lust.
At last the god, newly clothed in garments of
the richest embroidery, the fabric shot through with gold and
silver, his lips washed with water from the snows of Mount Epih,
was brought forth from his temple, carried upon a litter borne by
his priests. The king followed, leading priests, musicians, his
nobles, the whole assembled multitude in chants of praise, so that
the glory of Ashur sounded through the whole city and echoed in the
mountains of the east. Never had I felt it more strongly than at
that moment—we were the people of the god, blessed above all men,
the servants of heaven’s sovereign lord.
We followed the procession through the
streets of Nineveh and through the great gate to the Akitu house,
which had been built outside the walls as the god’s abode during
the eleven days of festival. The house was a small structure,
standing open on all four sides, its roof supported
by pillars of cedar. Thus all might see the
divine image as he witnessed the ceremonies held in his honor under
the open sky. These were many and, on that day, celebrated the
god’s triumphs over his enemies, both mortal and divine. That was
the day on which Mushezib Marduk and his whole family were to meet
their simtu.
A king, while he prospers, lives in splendor,
but when he falls his death is more bitter than the adder’s sting.
Mushezib Marduk had been cowardly and, in the end, foolish. Because
of him the siege of Babylon had been drawn out to tortuous length,
until the king my father and all his soldiers lost even the memory
of pity. Because of him thousands starved, and thousands more died
by the swords of their enemies. And in the end, instead of asking
one of his servants to search his breast with a dagger, he had
tried to run away, disguised as a one eyed beggar. He would have
been wiser to find himself an easy end while he had the chance.
And where was Mushezib Marduk on this second
day of Akitu? He was uniquely favored, for he would view the
festivities—such of them as he might survive—from the very porch of
the god’s own house, where he was chained to one of the cedar
pillars. There was little enough
need of the chain, however, since the Lord of
Babylon would not be wandering off, not while his head stuck out
through the neck of a bronze jar hardly big enough to hold him. It
had been several days since Mushezib Marduk had even seen his
legs.
This contrivance, the last refinement of
torture, was a wonder of simplicity. The great bronze vessel, which
might have held eight or nine sutu of oil, had been sawn through at
the shoulder so that the whole upper part could be removed and a
man stuffed inside like so many
measures of dates. Then the upper part had
been put back on and bolted in place. This was to be the last home
Mushezib Marduk would ever know. The precise means of his death was
a secret, even from him, but he would never leave that jar except
as offal.
Thus he waited, the neck of the jar coming up
to his ears, cursing the gods in a loud voice that cracked from
time to time with excess of rage. The people laughed at him—the
king laughed with his people. Merope and I stood silently among the
other members of the royal family, and she held my hand in a tight
grip.
But before he was allowed to die, the Lord of
Babylon would lose all that makes life sweet, for his queen and
five of his children—only two sons, the rest having perished like
soldiers—had been taken with him. My father wished to be very
thorough in his revenge.
The children came first. The eldest, a boy,
had just a few tufts of beard on his chin, and the youngest girl
was hardly more than seven. Their hands were bound behind their
backs and, one after the other and before the eyes of their howling
father, they were forced to kneel down so that the king’s
executioner could take them by the hair, pull back their heads, and
cut their throats. While Mushezib Marduk raged with grief—for he
had not been told this would happen; the Lord Sennacherib wished to
keep it as a surprise—the fruit of his loins bled out their lives
with hardly a murmur. When the last was dead, their corpses were
piled atop a waiting mound of brushwood and logs and left there to
be burned later.
And while Mushezib Marduk choked on his sobs
and workmen spread straw over the blood-soaked ground, we waited
for the next item of entertainment, the high point of the
festival—the duel between Lord Ashur and the Chaos Monster.
This is how the world was born: In the
beginning were Apsu and Tiamat, gods of the sweet and bitter
oceans. These begot Lahmu and Lahamu, brother and sister, husband
and wife, and Anshar and Kishar, who surpassed their parents in
strength, beauty and cunning. Anshar and Kishar, besides many other
gods, brought forth Anu, God of the Sky, who sired Ea, God of
Wisdom and Magic, who was far greater than his father.
But the young gods were noisy and disturbed
the rest of old Apsu, who went to his wife and said, “I will
destroy them, that we may sleep.” Tiamat was dismayed and cried out
in rage, “Let us not destroy what we have ourselves created,” but
Apsu would have his way and set out to avenge himself upon his
children and grandchildren. Ea, however, the wisest of gods, bound
him with magic and killed him, turning his body into a mountain
where Ea dwelt in majesty with his wife Damkina. It was there that
Ashur was born to them, the most glorious of gods.