The Blood Star (45 page)

We spent our first night ashore in a tavern
near the harbor, but as soon as Kephalos made himself known on the
exchanges we received an invitation to stay with a timber merchant
named Bodashtart, with whom he had deposited some fifty thousand
silver shekels to be applied to the cedar trade with Babylon—a
trade interrupted of late by the deteriorating relations with the
Land of Ashur. Thus the silver had remained in the counting houses
of Sidon, uninvested and producing no return, and thus Bodashtart’s
hospitality was not entirely without guile, for he showed himself
most unwilling to surrender so considerable a sum and doubtless
wished to keep Kephalos near him in hopes of awakening his interest
in some alternate commercial scheme.

“You have heard the proverb, Master,”
Kephalos said to me, after our first dinner in the house, during
which Bodashtart had spoken almost without pause of the riches to
be gained from exploiting the dye trade with Libya—the tribesmen
there, it seemed, had developed a passion for coloring their ragged
garments with the celebrated “Phoenician purple” and paid for their
infatuation with precious stones which, we were informed, they
could pick up out of the desert sand like acorns from beneath an
oak tree. “‘Trust an Egyptian before a Greek and a Greek before a
Phoenician, but never trust a Phoenician.’ This man is without
decency and treacherously attacks me where I and all others of my
race are most pitifully vulnerable, in my greed.”

“Do you believe what he says about
Libya?”

Kephalos shook his head, making a
contemptuous face.

“If the Libyans could gather up precious
stones like nuts in springtime, certainly there would not be so
many of them in Pharaoh’s army, for who would be a soldier in Egypt
if he was not starving? No, he merely wishes to keep our silver. He
is annoyed with his king, who has revolted against your brother
Esarhaddon and refused to pay the yearly tribute to Nineveh, thus
cutting off the lucrative trade with the east. Bodashtart is a
cedar merchant—he cannot carry his wood to the lands between the
rivers, and now Egypt is in chaos and he cannot be sure he will be
paid for what he sells there. Thus his hope is to cover his
expected losses by swindling me.”

“If his king of Sidon is not more careful, he
will have more to worry him than merely the displeasure of his
merchants. He will have the army of Ashur camped outside his
walls.”

But my servant only smiled at me, as if I
were a child.

“The king is not concerned, My Lord—he is not
concerned.”

“If not, then he understands nothing of my
brother.”

“Even your brother, Lord, would not be such a
fool as to attack Sidon, which has stout walls and can withstand
the longest siege as long as its sea lines are not cut. Doubtless
Abdimilkutte will come to some understanding with the Lord of
Ashur.”

And so I learned that even the Phoenicians
could be fools, for it is a foolish man who believes there his
nothing he cannot buy, and the king of Sidon seemed really to
imagine that he could defy Esarhaddon and then strike some sort of
bargain with him over the tribute money he owed. He might as well
have tried to bribe Death.

I was to discover the source of this folly
the very next day, when I returned from a visit to the bazaar with
Enkidu and Selana to find a royal herald, dressed in a purple robe
shot through with silver and carrying the willow staff that was his
badge of office, waiting for me in front of Bodashtart’s door.

“You are summoned, Lord Tiglath Ashur, Prince
of the Eastern Lands and Conqueror of Many Nations. The Lord
Abdimilkutte, Star of the World, King of Sidon, sends you his
greetings and requests that you enter into his glorious
presence.”

The man spoke in Aramaic, and Selana, who
spoke only her own tongue and the Egyptian of kitchen slaves,
stared at him as if she imagined he must be mad. When she had
recovered from her surprise she reached down to remove the new
sandals I had bought her and then wiped the dust from her feet.

“What is this?” she asked finally. “He
dresses like a harlot and gibbers like an idiot. I like not the
look of him—what is he doing here?”

“Inviting me to an audience, it appears.”

“An audience—with whom?”

“With the king of this city.”

“Well, take my advice and don’t go. Kings
always mean trouble, especially for you.”

I agreed—kings always meant trouble. I could
not possibly have explained how much trouble, since this one, it
appeared, possessed knowledge of my lineage and history. I had not
been in Sidon three days, and yet the secret I had preserved in
Egypt for as many years seemed open to everyone.

“Selana, go inside and tell Kephalos what has
happened,” I said, only to get her out of the way, for I had no
doubt Kephalos knew all about the matter. “Enkidu, go with her—I am
perfectly safe.”

My silent Macedonian, who all this time had
been measuring our visitor with his eyes, as if he thought him too
tall by about a head and was considering how best to remedy the
matter, growled like a dog and then took Selana’s hand, dragging
her into the house.

When we were alone, I smiled at the man and
opened the palms of my hands to him in a gesture of compliance.

“I am at your king’s disposal.”

The palace of King Abdimilkutte stood at the
highest point in the city, adjacent to its outer wall but otherwise
unprotected. As a structure it had much to say about the
Phoenicians’ view of their own position in the world and that of
their ruler living amongst them—as a Sidonian, Abdimilkutte needed
no protection from foreign aggressors except the city wall; as a
king, he was allowed none against his own people.

Neither Esarhaddon nor Pharaoh Taharqa nor
even Prince Nekau would have considered that the king of Sidon
lived with much outward show, for the palace was no larger than my
own house in Memphis. The Sidonians were merchants and their ruler
had accustomed himself to a merchant’s understanding of wealth and
importance. His subjects would have regarded it as both unseemly
and absurd if Abdimilkutte had tried to awe them into submission
with a great display of regal splendor. As a king his business was
to keep public order and to protect the city’s commercial interests
abroad, and any Phoenician knows that the measure of a man’s power
is taken in his counting house, not in his receiving hall.

So I was not overwhelmed as I waited with a
chamberlain to be admitted to the royal presence. I would not have
been overwhelmed in any case, for I had lived my whole life in the
shadow of kings and knew they were only men. I was, however,
curious to know what this one wanted of me.

“My Lord Tiglath Ashur—the glory of your name
is known to us even here, at the edge of the world,” he said, in a
voice that sounded as if he had a stone lodged in one of his
nostrils. “Please, be seated. Have you dined?”

Except for a few women servants to wait upon
him, Abdimilkutte was alone in the room, reclining on a couch. It
was only the middle of the afternoon, and every appearance
suggested that he had already been at table for a few hours at
least. The dishes before him were many and of gold, an extravagance
even for a king, and most of them were already nearly empty, but
the king himself gave the clearest indication of what progress he
had made in feasting—his eyes had already taken on that glazed
look, as if they might burst from their sockets at any moment,
which is often the first hint of drunkenness. The Lord of Sidon, it
would appear, was something of a debauchee.

He dipped his hands into a bowl of hot,
scented water, drying them on the hair of one of his women. His
fingers, even his thumbs, glittered with rings, and his short black
beard was shiny with oil and elaborately curled. He was as elegant
as any woman and his face showed signs of intelligence, yet his
body was soft and heavy, as if he had given over his whole
existence to voluptuous delights. Such a life is dangerous for a
king, for the constant and easy gratification of the senses
nurtures not only weakness but pride, and pride clouds the mind. I
did not envy the Sidonians their master.

I bowed and sat down and allowed a cup of
wine to be poured for me. I could see that Abdimilkutte was waiting
for me to ask his will, and how he had known who I was, but I saw
clearly enough that I would have all the answers without asking. He
was so looking forward to telling me.

“You have been so many years away from your
own land,” he said finally. “Everyone imagined that you were dead.
And now the gods choose this moment to bring you to my city. It is
as clear a sign of their favor as I could have hoped for.”

There are instants of time, and this was one
such, when a man has the sickening premonition of having stumbled
into a disaster.

“Is the king of Sidon in need of providential
signs?” I asked, smiling, mocking him just a little, for all that
my bowels were turning to water.

“I was speaking of the honor you do us, My
Lord. And you of all men, who has come through so much treachery
and covered yourself with such glory, should know how to value the
favor of the gods. As a friend I welcome you.”

As a friend? Yes, of course—why hadn’t I
guessed sooner? The Arabs had a proverb: “The enemy of my enemy is
my friend.” And the king of Sidon was in rebellion against the king
of Ashur.

There was a pile of figs on a dish just at
Abdimilkutte’s elbow. He took one and split it open with a small
silver knife.

“I offer you my protection as well,” he
continued, after he had scraped the flesh away from the tough green
skin. As I watched him eat I had the impression that he rather
resented this intrusion of business upon his pleasures. “We live in
a world where a brother’s loyalty does not always have its fitting
reward, and the favor of the gods can take many forms.”

“My Lord, what is it you want of me?”

He appeared startled, as if no one had ever
had the effrontery to ask him a direct question before. His eyes
widened and he set the little silver knife down on the table in an
absent-minded manner that suggested he had forgotten why he was
holding it.

“My Lord, I cannot help you in your quarrel
with the king of Ashur. My alliance is worth nothing.”

He smiled. It seemed I had made a jest.

“I see you have a soldier’s directness,” he
said, opening his hand, palm up, as if to weigh the usefulness of
such a virtue—it did not appear to be much.

“I have not been a soldier for many
years.”

“Perhaps it is time to be one again.” He
smiled once more, not very pleasantly. “What would you answer, My
Lord, if I offered you the command of the army I have garrisoned
within these walls?”

“Against what enemy?”

“The one we both share—your brother, the Lord
Esarhaddon.”

“Then I would say that the people of Sidon
should lament, for their king has gone mad.”

He laughed at this. At least, he laughed
until he saw that I was not laughing with him.

“Am I so mad to resist a despot, then?”

A man reclining on a couch has a difficult
time looking martial and defiant, but Abdimilkutte made the
attempt. I could almost have pitied him.

“My Lord,” I asked finally. “How many men
have you under arms?”

“Eight thousand.”

“If Esarhaddon comes against you, it will not
be with less than fifty thousand, and probably many more.”

“He will need them if he attacks this city.
You forget the wall.”

“The soldiers of Ashur are very skilled in
siege warfare. Do not forget, they took Babylon. They can take
Sidon if it is their will.”

“They could enclose Babylon—Babylon did not
face the sea. The men of Ashur are not, I think, a race of
sailors.”

“These eight thousand, are they mercenaries
or citizens?”

“Three thousand Sidonians, the rest hired
from Lydia.”

“You cannot depend on mercenaries if things
begin to go badly.”

“It is also possible that not all of
Esarhaddon’s soldiers will remain loyal to him.”

The smile had taken on a fixed quality by
this time, as if he imagined he had answered every possible
argument—as if everything were understood between us.

“Yes, of course,” I said, feeling in but
little humor to smile. “You imagine that my presence here will
divide the armies of Ashur against themselves. It is a device which
others have tried.”

“Yes, of course—and perhaps, by this time,
the Lord Tiglath Ashur will have learned enough to make it
work.”

But it was not Abdimilkutte who spoke. I
turned toward a curtained doorway, from which the voice seemed to
come, and saw there my royal brother, the eunuch Nabusharusur.

XIX

On the plain at Khanirabbat, it is said, the
grass grows waist high, nourished by the corpses of the men who
died there. Yet cattle that feed on it sicken. No plow breaks the
soil, for the people have all been driven off into the barren night
by the wailing of ghosts. So it is said. I have never been back,
not since the day of the battle my brother the king fought there
against his enemies, but I can believe the ground is under a
curse.

Esarhaddon had relieved me of my command,
thinking to shame me before the armies of Ashur, yet he did me a
kindness. In the years since, I have not had to remember how I
raised my sword against the men of my own race, the companions of
my young manhood, soldiers who had fought at my side in better
times. I merely had to witness the slaughter, for the king’s heart
was bitter towards those who had rebelled against him.

Among these had been Nabusharusur.

“Did Esarhaddon ever find out that you gave
me that horse and let me escape?” he asked in his reedy voice as
together we dined in his rooms at the palace of the Lord
Abdimilkutte. “Is that the reason he banished you?”