The Assyrian (18 page)

“My Dread Lord, I—”

“No!—Keep away from me! Do not approach
me!”

It was Arad Ninlil, his son and heir who had
come near him, and the king held up his hands to fend him off as if
he had been a leper. In an instant the room was silent.

“Do not approach me.” the king repeated, more
calmly now. We hardly dared to look at him, and the marsarru
glanced around at us with hatred darting from his eves. “Come, my
pretty little birds. Come—help me to my chamber, for I have drunk
too much wine.”

The women led him away. We his companions
stood about like logs of wood until he was gone, and then Arad
Ninlil stalked from the room, looking at no one.

When I could raise my eves they met those of
Sinahiusur. He did not speak. He did not need to speak.

. . . . .

For the days following I found it convenient
to forget that I was a son of the king—it was better, I felt, to be
just a simple soldier who knows his duty and obeys orders. In war
the king was my lord. That was enough. I would follow him through
the gates of Arallu; I would lay down my life if he commanded it. I
only wished him to forget that he was my father that I might forget
it myself. I did not know it yet, but I had lost my faith in
kings.

So I returned to the parade grounds at the
house of war to drill my men, wringing from their bodies all the
bitter humors that had collected there while they reveled through
the streets of Nineveh. They did not like it. I worked myself
harder than I did them, for I craved the oblivion of weariness, but
they did not find that a consolation. Thus I learned that it is
harder to keep soldiers under discipline in garrison than it is in
battle.

But I drilled them anyway, and soon enough
they forgot all about the pleasures of Nineveh. They were good men
and forgave me for being in the grip of an idea, for I kept
remembering the enemy cavalry at Khalule, how they had cut through
our lines like an axe through paper, and I had a notion for
stopping them.

“If we could keep our men bunched closer
together—make a wall of shields, and then protect that wall with
long spears sticking through, the butts firmly planted in the earth
and the shafts angled so that their horsemen would have the
prospect of riding straight in to be impaled on them. . . I think I
might turn aside rather than risk getting spitted like a roasting
goose. I think even the Elamites might turn aside, don’t you?”

Tabshar Sin listened with great attention,
watching as I drew pictures in the dust. He had lost his hand to
the sword of a Nairian cavalryman, so my strategy was not without
interest to him.

“The spears would have to be of a great
length,” he said finally, shaking his head. “Eight, maybe ten
cubits. A rider would have to know he had no chance of reaching
your line. How would the shield-bearers carry them?”

“With the javelins. Let them stick straight
up in the air to give the enemy warning. Let their horsemen learn
to dread the order to charge.”

“And once your men break ranks?”

“They would not. Drill them to run without
breaking formation. Twenty paces, then drop down on one knee and
plant the spear. Then twenty more paces. What will discourage
cavalry will have the same effect on foot soldiers. That was
something I learned at Khalule—the minute men break ranks, when
they no longer fight in concert, the battle ceases and what follows
is no more than a brawl.”

“Well, you might try it, Prince. But
remember, what works on the drill field will not necessarily work
in the heat of battle. It becomes a different matter when the men
opposing are not your friends from the next barrack but an army of
Elamites.”

“That is why it is necessary to drill men
until they hardly remember the difference between drill and battle,
until they follow orders as naturally as breathing.”

“Well, it cannot hurt to try. At least it
will give them something to do.”

And that was how I spent my daylight hours,
training men to use a weapon that did not even exist yet.

“No, Prince, bronze drawn to more than four
cubits will bend like a tree limb under a load of wet snow.”

The head of the royal armorers wiped an eye
with the back of his left hand—sparks from his hammer had long
since seared away the brows and lashes.

“I could attempt it in iron, perhaps, but I
should have to rebuild my furnace. We are not accustomed, you
understand, to working metal to such lengths, and iron is as
obstinate as my wife.”

He smiled shyly, as if he thought I might
take offense at his slight joke, but I could see that he was
already turning the problem over in his mind.

“What of the weight?” I asked. I did not wish
to turn my formations into so many hedgehogs, prickly but sluggish.
“I want something that men can carry all day, that they can run
with. Will not iron be too heavy for that?”

“No, Prince. It will weigh less even than if
I used bronze, for I can draw it thinner. Your soldiers will learn
to tolerate the weight quickly enough.”

“And by the spring could you produce enough
to equip an army?”

“An army?—no. But a few companies certainly.
Enough for you to test this new strategy of yours, Prince.”

He smiled again. He probably knew more of war
than I would after ten campaigns, but if he thought I was a foolish
youth he kept his opinion to himself.

“Let us try then.”

So I went on drilling my soldiers, making the
shield-bearers carry logs that the weight of an iron spear would
seem light to them in comparison. The work went on through the
months of Marcheswan and Kislef, while the wind turned cold and the
leaves began to wither on the trees. Finally the royal armorer had
our spears, and when the men grasped that these might protect them
from the Elamite horsemen they ceased to complain. By the middle of
the winter the men of my company, brought back up to strength with
replacements from the northern levies, worked together as easily as
the fingers of one hand.

And all of this took place under the careful
eye of the king. He came several times to witness the drills and
when the spears were ready he kept one of them for himself,
carrying it around with him as he paced back and forth to inspect
the defensive line of shields.

“But what of your javelin throwers, lad? Eh?
They can’t do much from behind a leather fence.”

“We will only assume this formation when the
cavalry are almost upon us, Dread Lord—the element of surprise is
important if we hope to panic the horses. And at such close
quarters a javelin is not worth much. The archers, as you can see,
need only to stand back a few paces and they can still reach the
enemy infantry.”

“You think it will work, yes? Brother, what
do you say?”

The turtanu Sinahiusur stroked his beard for
a moment and then at last nodded.

“I think it may work, Lord.”

“Yes, it may.” The king shook the spear he
held, as if to test if it would fly to pieces. When it did not he
turned his eyes to me and showed his teeth in a fierce smile. “Yes,
it may indeed. You are a clever lad, Tiglath Ashur, Son of
Sennacherib, Lord of the Earth, King of Kings. Come to me tomorrow
evening while I take my meal—tell me if you have any more schemes
for conquering the universe with fire and sword, eh? Hah, hah,
hah!”

The next night, when I was ushered into the
king’s private chamber, I was surprised to find him alone. He was
at a rough wooden table, the sleeves of his tunic rolled back as he
ate from golden dishes that glittered in the torchlight. I dropped
to one knee, but he seemed impatient of even that much ceremony and
beckoned me toward him.

“Come—sit,” he said. He poured wine for me
with his own hands. “I am sorry I can offer you nothing more—the
wine is my own, but the food is the god’s. The priests hold it
under his eyes and then bring it to me. Did you know that, eh? Thus
I eat the god’s leavings from his golden dishes, like a dog fed
scraps.”

I sat uncomfortably, staring at my wine cup.
I did not know what to say.

“That is what a king is, my son. He is the
god’s watchdog, kept on a chain before the door to bark at
strangers. Whatever I may appear to the world, that is all I am.
Here, drink your wine. The sight of you cheers my heart and I have
few enough comforts in my old age. Let us drink to the glory of
your name, Tiglath Ashur, Son of Sennacherib.”

So we drank to that, and to the glory of
Ashur and the confusion of the Elamites, and then to Ishtar,
Courtesan of the Gods and Lady of Battles, and then. . . And by
then, of course, I had forgotten all my doubts about the king, who
was my father and my friend and whom I loved.

“The god has cursed me in my sons—except for
you, lad.” He reached across the table to throw his arm over my
shoulders. “I blame myself for the death of Ashurnadinshum. I
should never have sent him into that dark land—Babylon, may Ashur
curse it! And as for Arad Ninlil. . . Well, you have seen him.

“But have you seen my daughter Shaditu?” His
eyes glistened. “Is she not a lovely creature—she speaks of you
often, so I am glad you are her brother, eh? Hah, hah, hah! She is
such a lovely creature and such a comfort, I could not bear to part
with her. No, she shall not marry while I live. Is that very
selfish of me, Tiglath, eh?”

He did not wait for me to answer, for which I
was thankful, but spoke of other things, of his old campaigns, and
his women, and the Lady Naq’ia, and his age.

“What will happen when I die, eh, lad? What
will happen, I wonder.

“But this new tactic of yours—we shall have
to try it in the next campaign. And if it works. . . You are a good
lad. You are a good soldier too, and that’s all that really
matters. I said once I would make you great, but I think, in the
end, you will do that for yourself. So all this is left for me is
to make you rich. There is a royal estate not two hours’ gallop up
the river—it is yours, my son. And there will be more in time,
much, much more. Is there anything else you would like now, lad?
Eh? Speak, and if it lies within my power it is yours.”

Since my childhood I had dreamed of this
moment. Why else had I sought to cover myself in glory except that
I might seek the king’s favor for this one thing? And yet the only
name that would form itself in my mind was that of Esharhamat. And
I might not ask her of the king, lest his eyes darken with anger,
for she was the one thing not in his power to give.

And yet the king loved me, and had drunk too
much wine. . . He might, even yet—but no. I could not ask it of
him. I was the king’s servant, loyal to him in all things, and I
could not trick him into betraying the god’s will.

So while my heart whispered “Esharhamat,” I
trained my frozen lips to speak another name.

“Dread Lord. . .”

“Yes, my son—speak! Name the thing and it is
yours.”

“My mother, Lord—that she might be with me
again . . .”

In the silence that followed I was truly
shamed, first that I had asked such a thing of the king’s majesty
and second that even in thought, in my secret wishes, I had
sacrificed my mother to Esharhamat, whom I was forbidden to love
but must love while there was breath in my body.

The king peered into my face, his arm still
across my shoulders.

“So small a thing, lad? That is all—just your
mother? Then so be it! Eh, lad? Hah, hah, hah!”

And the great king my father, who was perhaps
not so drunk as I had thought, was as good as his word, for the
next evening, when I returned from drill, I found a closed chair
carried by four slaves, a chair such as a queen might use, waiting
beside the entrance to the officers’ barrack.

Down from it stepped my mother, and in her
hand was the tablet transferring to me a royal estate of some one
hundred beru in extent. I set aside my mother’s veil that I might
see her face, and her blue eyes were wet with tears.

“Oh, my son, my son—and is it really true
then?”

“Yes, Mother, it is true.”

And thus it was that I fulfilled the promise
I had made as a child and by the king’s grace led my mother from
the house of women.

Chapter 7

That first night I took my mother to lodge
with Kephalos near the Gate of Adad. The following morning, having
left my ekalli Lushakin in charge of the company’s drill, I hired a
horse and cart suitable for a court lady to travel in, and Merope
and I set out on our journey to my new estate in the north. It had
been some years since I had seen her, but this quiet woman who sat
beside me in the cart while we picked our way over the narrow,
rutted road was still the mother I remembered from my childhood.
There were strands of white mixed in with the copper colored hair,
and the tiny lines around the corners of her mouth spoke the
language of a resigned sadness, but she was still, at least in my
sight, as beautiful as ever. She hardly spoke on our journey.
Instead, she watched me furtively, turning away her eves if I
chanced to look at her.

“I do not know what this place will be like,”
I said finally—I was beginning to find the silence oppressive. “I
do not think, however, the king would have made me a present of a
dog hole. But if the farmhouse doesn’t suit you, we can rebuild it.
I have instructed Kephalos to purchase some suitable house slaves
and a woman to attend you.”

“How can you afford all this,
Lathikadas?”

It was the first time she had called me by
that childhood name, and I turned and smiled at her. For once she
did not glance away like a bride on her wedding journey.

“You needn’t worry, Merope. The king is not
the only one who conspires to make me a man of substance—that
rascal slave of mine already seems to own half of Nineveh, and I
appear in his account books for enough silver to keep the likes of
you and me for the rest of our lives. He is a rogue but a good
friend and robs me, I think, only a little. Never fear. I will
build you a house worthy of the king’s lady and there, for once,
you shall be the mistress.”