The Assyrian

by Nicholas Guild

  “My son, my son! My little son!” One of the women fell on her knees before us, seemingly unable to stand under her affliction. “Great Lord, Noble Lord, find my baby for me!”

  As she buried her face in the dirt, her hands clutched my ankles in supplication. She could not even speak now, and hardly weep, so great was the torment of this sorrow.

  “That is where the men have gone,” Tahu Ishtar said in a low voice. “They have no horses, but it is already too late.”

  “Still, we must do something.”

  I knelt and took the woman’s hands in my own, and she looked up into my face. I could not tell even whether she was young or old, such was her grief, and the words that had half formed in my mind seemed suddenly paltry things—what could I tell her? That I would bring back her child?

  “We must do something,” I found myself repeating, this time to her.

  I rose and mounted my horse. Tahu Ishtar lifted down his son and put him into the arms of an old man, they exchanged a few words, and the two of us headed out of the circle of mud brick huts at a gallop. Within minutes we had already passed the knot of men running over the rough

  earth like a pack of hunting hounds.

  We found the dead boy, or what remained of him, just beyond the first set of bluffs that marked where the mountains began their rise.

  “They must have sensed pursuit and abandoned their meal,” Tahu Ishtar said—the child’s breast had been torn open and one leg was gnawed to the bone. The ground was smeared with blood. He came down from his horse, wrapped the body in his cloak, and handed it up to me. “At least now his mother can bury him.”

  We rode back to the farmhouse in silence. I cannot speak for my overseer, but my own mind was ringing with the sound of a mother’s cries over the mangled body of her son. I kept remembering that these people were now my responsibility, that by ancient custom the tenants of the land had a right to look to their lord for protection. I had not been in possession the length of a single day and already, it seemed, I had failed them.

  “How long has this been happening?” I asked finally. Tahu Ishtar was a while answering, as if he too had been deep in thought.

  “Last winter and this. The villagers keep fires burning at night to frighten the beasts off, but in the preceding month they have become bolder. A week ago they snatched a goat that had been left tethered behind one of the huts, and now. . .”

  “We will need a chariot,” I said suddenly—the idea had just flown into my head. I could only wonder why I hadn’t thought of it before. “Have we a chariot? If not, I shall send to Nineveh.”

  “Lord, there are three great males. They hunt in concert, and their cunning is not to be despised.”

  “Have we a chariot, Tahu Ishtar—yes or no?”

  His little son, his arms clasped about his father’s waist as we rode along, watched me through huge black eyes, as if he could not fathom how I could dare to quarrel with the overseer.

  “Yes, Lord.” Tahu Ishtar stroked the chin of his great beard, doubtless wondering why the great gods had seen fit to visit him with a young fool of a master. “It has not seen use these ten years. The wheels are off and I cannot answer for the condition of the harnesses, but all of that can be seen to.”

  “It is well, then—have all things readied against the morning, and tell the villagers to organize themselves as beaters. We shall go hunting tomorrow!”

  . . . . .

  I made a wide circle about the farmyard in the chariot which, between yesterday afternoon and the king’s last visit some ten years before, had leaned against a wall in one of the barns like a crippled vagabond waiting for the rain to stop. Tahu Ishtar and his men had worked through the night by the light of torches, and they had worked well. The wheels turned with noiseless ease—my only anxiety concerned the horses, as well matched a set as I could find among the animals in my stables but unused to pulling as a team. More than that, I could only hope that they would not panic at their first sight of our quarry, but in the hunt, as in war, much must be taken upon trust.

  My mother stood in the doorway of our house, surrounded by the house servants, watching as I brought the chariot to a sudden halt to test how the platform rocked beneath my feet. As I whipped the horses up again I smiled broadly and waved to her, and she waved back. She had not tried to discourage me from this venture, although I had only to look at her to see that she was afraid of this “sport” in which I was indulging myself.

  “It is only a hunt, Merope. I have gone hunting a thousand times, and the king kills lions with a sword for an afternoon’s amusement.”

  What I did not tell her, of course, was that not even the king hunted lions without a retinue of armed men, but perhaps I did not need to. My retainers were only farmers, with nothing but their hand sickles and walking sticks for weapons, and I had never hunted anything more dangerous than the wild pigs that roamed freely over the plains east of Nineveh. Still, I was a warrior skilled with both bow and javelin and could handle a team of horses as well as any man in the royal army. In the pride of my youth I imaged these would be enough.

  I waved yet once more and whipped my horses to a gallop.

  In the village, Tahu Ishtar and all my tenants were assembled and waiting. They stood in silence as I drew to a stop—like an army before a battle they waited in sullen silence, knowing that all which followed would take its own course, that the time for choices was past. Now all they desired was to believe they were not entrusting their lives to a fool.

  “Overseer, have the goats been staked out?”

  Tahu Ishtar stepped forward and set his hand to rest on the railing of my chariot. We had settled all these matters between us the day before, but he understood the needs of his people and was therefore content to act the role assigned him in my little pageant.

  “Yes, Lord. All is prepared.”

  I hardly glanced at him. I kept my eyes on the villagers, holding them with my gaze one at a time—it is a trick known to anyone who has held authority over soldiers, as it makes the bond of command somehow a personal matter.

  “Then all that remains is to wait,” I said, speaking now to all of them together. “There are three of these great cats and they have not dined very well of late, so they will come down yet again from their mountains in search of prey. Let them find it—let them gorge themselves until their bellies are close to bursting and they want nothing more than to lie quietly in the shade by some watering hole and sleep. We have provided the meal, so we will know where to look for them when it is time to close the trap. Tahu Ishtar, see to it that the children and the old people stay behind their doors this day. You know where I will be.”

  I would have driven away that instant had not one among the men pushed his way forward and grabbed one of the horses by the bridle to keep me from going. He was a small man, no longer young, with eyes that looked as if they had not closed all the night. I raised my whip and he released the bridle instantly, holding up his hands in supplication.

  “Lord,” he cried, “Lord, allow me to come with you—I have a father’s right!”

  “Then it was your son yesterday?” I looked first to the man and then to Tahu Ishtar, who nodded in confirmation.

  “Yes, Lord—my son.” The tears started in his bloodshot eyes and for a moment his voice left him. “My only son, born when my wife and I were already past our best days—there will never be another for us. Take me with you, that I might see them die that tore my boy’s life from him!”

  “I deny you this, and may the god pardon you for asking it.” I allowed my voice to carry an anger I did not feel—for my heart was moved. “You are a farmer, not a wielder of weapons. What would you do, give your wife another corpse to mourn over? More than this, what you wish of me is an impiety. It is our business this day to rid the land of a danger, not to take revenge upon a dumb animal that merely follows the instincts he was born with and is therefore without sin. Tahu Ishtar, keep them all in a straight line—I will await the sound o
f your beaters!”

  I did not tarry then, but turned my wheels toward the wide plains, where I would seek out a hunting ground of my own choice.

  A chariot needs space. It is a clumsy affair, difficult to turn and stopped by anything that will not give way before it. A wheel can go over a rock and send the rider flying, or break off and leave him stranded. The only advantages it offers are speed and the fact that, like a boulder rolling down the side of a hill, it strikes terror into the hearts of any who stand before it.

  The plains thereabouts were speckled with scrubby little trees, hardly more than bushes but sufficient to entangle a team of horses. It was a long time before I found a place empty enough that my quarry would not simply dart for cover the first instant the ground shook under my charge.

  There was even an outcropping of rock that I could scramble up for a view of the whole landscape as far as the mountains. I would be able to see the line of beaters, perhaps even before I heard them, and perhaps I would even catch a glimpse of the lions. I tethered my horses, gathered together my weapons, and climbed the rock for a look about me. It would be many hours, I knew, before I saw anything.

  The lions had not made much of a meal of that village boy before they were frightened off, and if they had been desperate enough to forage so close to the abodes of men, they couldn’t have eaten for many days before that. Tahu Ishtar had seen to it that five of my fattest goats were tethered not far from a watering hole where the great cats would be sure to look for prey—they would feast to their hearts’ content and then have no thought for anything except languishing about out of the sun. Doubtless it would come as a disagreeable surprise when they heard the sound of a hundred men and women, strung out in a line and beating the ground with their flails, and when they smelled the smoke from the fires the villagers would set in their path. If Tahu Ishtar managed all according to plan—and Tahu Ishtar was a man to inspire perfect confidence—then his three great males, sluggish and confused, would be panicked straight into my path. With nowhere to run, they would stand and fight, and that I expected to have all my own way.

  I had perfect confidence in myself and I felt no fear, only a pleasurable excitement. After all, these were merely animals—not Elamites armed with swords and javelins of their own. Not men like myself. The biggest lion in the world has no more than teeth and claws, and I had no thought of allowing them close enough that I should be in any danger from those. This was merely a day’s hunting, no more. I had nothing to fear unless I committed some stupid mistake, and there was little enough danger of that. I was quite cheerful as I sat in the pale winter sunlight, waiting for some sign that the game was afoot.

  The sun had declined almost an hour from noon when the first traces of smoke appeared on the horizon. I climbed down from my lookout, untethered the horses, and strung my bow. The chariot was already rolling out over the baked earth when the first of the great cats loped out into the open.

  The lions of the east are not quite so large as those found in Egypt, whence the king imports those which he hunts for his private sport, but this one was as big as any I had ever seen, even in the king’s preserve. When he saw the chariot he pulled to a dead halt, cocked his head to one side as if surprised and annoyed at this intrusion, and then crouched to wait for what would happen next. I brought the team up to a canter, angling toward him, and when he saw that he was being challenged he broke the air with a mighty roar—it was all I could do to keep the horses from bolting in panic.

  In war each chariot is manned by two; one drives that the other is left free to fight with arrow or javelin. It is the same when the king makes war upon the lions of the royal preserve. But I had no one to drive for me, and thus I was compelled to stop before I could attempt a shot.

  I drew up some seventy paces from my quarry, who crouched as if to spring and roared out his battle cry. I did not dare step down from the car for fear the horses would simply gallop away without me, so on the rocky platform of the chariot I selected an arrow and took my aim. The lion faced me with fierce, hating eyes. As if sensing his danger, he took a careful step to the left, then another, and then, while he hesitated, I let fly. The arrow pierced him in the chest before, screaming with agony and rage, he tried a last headlong attack.

  But it was no good. The rush lasted only a few steps and then he slowed and stood quite still, watching me through eyes already grown clouded with pain, and then collapsed. He lay on his side, panting heavily, and a thin stream of blood spilled from between his great jaws. With my javelin in my hand, I came down from the chariot to give him a quick death.

  It was the mistake I had promised myself I would not make. I stood over him, ready to drive the javelin into his heart, when I heard the horses neigh with terror. I whirled around, dropping to one knee, just as the second male began his spring. My weapon was braced against the

  ground and the lion, intending to fall upon me, fell upon it instead, the copper point tearing open his belly before it broke off.

  But before he surrendered to death he managed to sink his great teeth into my left shoulder, tearing at my flesh in his last agony. By the time he dropped lifeless to the ground, he had given me a wound that went to the bone—in an instant I was washed in my own blood and sick with pain. The horses had of course bolted, so there was no retreat. I had only the sword in my belt, I could hardly stand, and already I could hear the last of the great males snarling in the undergrowth.

  He took his time—this one would make no mistakes. Perhaps he knew I was bleeding and hoped to wait until I was weakened to the point of helplessness. He wanted me to know he was there, for no wild creature makes so much noise by chance. I had killed his brothers and he was telling me that they would be avenged.

  But if I was bleeding, he had the villagers pressing down on him, burning their way ever closer. I could hear them now, the sounds of their shouting and the sticks they beat together. I could smell their fires.

  “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.