The Assyrian
Page 65
In all likelihood my officers were just outside the door, waiting for me to summon them. But I did not summon them. I was unprepared to speak to anyone, so I returned to my rooms and had a slave bring me a jar of wine. I needed time to think and I needed something to steady me.
Had I been right to answer as I did? And, more important, had I been wise? These questions filled me, yet I kept returning to the same inescapable conclusion—that I had had no choice. The time for rebelling against my brother’s succession was during the life of our father, when I could have made my ascendancy so compelling that Esarhaddon would not now dare to question it. Now I would invite nothing except civil war and, possibly, the ruin of the empire. I had made my decision long ago, and it was too late to alter it now.
Yet what would become of me now that the king was dead? I had no illusions about Esarhaddon—the fact that I had not joined in this foolish rebellion against him would not save me. I would not be forgiven. The moment he felt strong enough to act, he would avenge himself for the wrong I had done him by existing, and standing first in our father’s eyes.
But perhaps that moment might never come. Perhaps he would think again before challenging the shaknu of the north, the rab shaqe of a vast army staffed by officers loyal to their commander. In Amat, so far from Nineveh and Calah, so remote from the councils of state, I was not much of an irritant. Perhaps he would prefer not to run the risks involved in satisfying his bad temper. Perhaps he would be content to leave matters as they were.
I would wait. I would write my letter, a letter which contained both my pledge of loyalty and a reminder, if one was needed, that the northern army had not spent the last four years growing soft on barracks food. I would see what answer my brother made and act on that.
And if Esarhaddon should be foolish. . ? Then, I was not sure what I would do.
The wine was no help. I drank four cups, one straight after the other, and they did nothing except send me to the night pot to empty my bladder. When I returned to the audience chamber I found my officers assembled there, waiting for me.
“The king is dead,” I told them. “The Lord Esarhaddon now reigns in his place. There is some unpleasantness in Nineveh, but that is no concern of ours. The next seven days will be a period of mourning—tomorrow, when the announcement is read at parade, it will contain nothing except the fact that the king is dead. Now return to your beds.”
They left, without anyone offering to speak. Perhaps they had expected something more, or perhaps they could read the future better than I and did not like to say so.
I went out onto the balcony on the palace’s eastern side and saw that the sky was already turning pearly gray. My mother would be up now and should be told.
She wept. Somehow I had not expected it. She covered her face with her hands and wept.
“He was my lord,” she said, when at last the tears were spent. “He was my lord, the father of my son. It seems strange that he should be dead.”
I sat with her a while and then went out to the garden, where the only sound was the distant clamor of servants in the kitchen. Merope was right. It did seem strange that the king should be dead. It was the first I had thought of it except as a matter of state—the man who had sired me was at that moment dust in his tomb. I sat on a stone bench, trembling like a plucked bowstring while my overstretched nerves took their revenge.
. . . . .
Over the next several days dispatch riders—and sometimes ordinary officers and men who, for one reason or another, had deserted from their garrisons and found their way to Amat—kept us well informed of events in the south. Arad Malik had indeed proclaimed himself king and, what was more surprising, the Nineveh garrison had taken his side. Esarhaddon had marched to Ashur to assume the throne, and in both that city and Calah the garrisons had pledged their loyalty. Mardin, Tishkhan, and Samsat, among with many other cities in the west, where Esarhaddon’s policies toward Babylon were unpopular, had joined the rebels, but the garrisons of the south were all sending detachments to fight with the rightful king. There was to be civil war. I had had no hand in it, but it was to happen just the same. It was even possible—something which was pointed out to me by more than one of my officers—that I could have prevented it had I chosen differently. A man may think and do as he will, and in the end the gods will have all their own way.
Thus I watched events unfolding at a distance. As the first step in claiming his inheritance, Esarhaddon marched on Nineveh with an army of some twenty thousand. The garrison there, seeing themselves outnumbered, abandoned the city and withdrew to a town on the upper Euphrates called Khanirabbat, whither the rebels were collecting their strength. When Esarhaddon once occupied our father’s palace, so I was told, a man could almost walk across the Tigris on the waterlogged corpses of those among Nineveh’s citizens whom he had ordered punished for their disloyalty.
My letter to the new king contained all that was proper—praise of the Lord Sennacherib, congratulations, and a pledge of loyalty. I did not mention what I knew of the revolt. I made no offers. If Esarhaddon required help from my armies in this civil war, he only needed to ask. I would wait, I decided, until I was asked. I would not throw myself at my brother’s feet.
Yet no word came. The month of Sebat was held over, and still Nineveh was voiceless.
I went hunting nearly every day. There was a hard frost on the ground and precious little game, but it was a way to distract my thoughts from the impending storm and to be alone—I was weary of being watched by men with questions in their eyes: “What will you do, Rab Shaqe? What will you do?” The wild deer in the mountains west of the frozen river did not inquire into their future or mine. They also hardly ever showed themselves.
Since my convalescence I had taken to eating a midday meal—a man develops bad habits when he lies about all day being told to conserve his strength, yet it was true that I still needed the extra flesh. On this one day I tethered Ghost and sat down behind a break of stunted, wind-twisted trees to open my leather bag and see what Merope had provided against starvation. I was busy gnawing on a strip of cured and peppered beef when I saw a solitary rider approaching, purposefully but without hurry, his face concealed by the cowl of his tunic.
He reined his horse in some thirty paces distant and seemed ready to wait quietly until I acknowledged his presence. He was carrying no weapon, and there was nothing in his manner which implied a threat. I held up my wineskin for him to see.
“Stranger, if you thirst. . .
He pushed the cowl away from his face. It was Nabusharusur.
Yes, of course I was surprised. He smiled his strange, mirthless smile, as if he had won a victory.
“My spies reported that you came here nearly even day,” he said. “I thought it worth the risk to catch you alone.”
“Have you ‘caught’ me then, brother?”
“It is only a manner of speaking, Tiglath. I want nothing but to have a private word or two—will you grant me so much as that?”
“You are the murderer of our father and king, and a traitor to his heir. I should grant you nothing except the length of my sword under your ribs.”
“Yet you will hear me, brother.”
“Yes, I suppose I will.”
He dismounted and let the reins fall to the ground—his horse, I noticed, was a gelding, so perhaps they enjoyed an understanding.
When he sat down beside me I offered him the wineskin once more and he accepted it, drinking deeply. We had, after all, known each other from childhood.
“The cold,” he said. “I feel it, perhaps more than you.”
“I feel it too. It creeps into my wounds and makes them ache.”
“I heard that you almost died in the east.”
His smile was at once solicitous and, perhaps without his realizing it, mocking. Yes, he would give the great vain fool this chance to tell his soldier’s stories.
It is a mistake to hold other men in such utter contempt. I waited in silence.
“It could have been prevented if you had not murdered the king, Nabusharusur. If you had but stayed your hand we could all now be quiet, and our father would be alive.”
“It was necessary. Besides, I did not kill him—I was there, but Arad Malik struck the blow.”
“Which he would never have thought to do without you to show him the way. Do not split words with me, brother.” I stopped, and took a swallow of wine, telling myself there was no point in losing my temper.
“Why was it ‘necessary’ to kill the king?” I asked finally, when I was once more in control of my voice.
“Because he had yielded to Esarhaddon. The walls are already going back up around Babylon —they are rebuilding the city.”
“Why should you care about that? You, who dread the gods so little that you could murder the king.”
“You are right, I do not fear the gods.” Nabusharusur made a gesture with his thin hand, as if dismissing the whole of heaven. “I do not tremble before idols of wood—why should I? Do you believe the gods are real, Tiglath? Do you?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I believe what I can see. I believe the walls are going up around Babylon. I believe the king had resigned his power to Esarhaddon because he was old and no longer cared what happened in the world outside his palace garden. And who is to blame for that, brother, if not you?”
“I. . ?”
“Yes, you. The king died in his heart when he saw that Esarhaddon and not you must follow him.”
“And now you would make Arad Malik king.”
“Yes, if need be. Arad Malik is preferable to Esarhaddon, if only because he does as I bid. And he is not Esarhaddon—that is why men follow him, because he is not Esarhaddon.”
“And you would have the nation make war on itself to place one fool on the throne in place of another.”
“Yes, if need be. Yet that is up to you, Tiglath.”
There was the inevitable pause, during which I had just time to ask myself, Why am I listening to this? Perhaps because it was something I wanted to hear.
Nabusharusur, who was nothing if not cunning, gave me just time to frame the thought, and no more.
“The armies are massing to the west of here,” he went on, as if he had only paused for breath. “They are evenly matched, and there will be great carnage at the battle—and perhaps after as well. Do you remember when we were boys, Tiglath, and Esarhaddon, when he could not read the lesson, threw the tablet at old Bag Teshub’s head?”
“Yes. I remember.”
“Nothing has changed. What Esarhaddon does not understand, he destroys. He does not understand this rebellion, the reason for it, and if he triumphs he will destroy half the nation trying to salve the wound to his pride. Besides, as I said, the armies are evenly matched, and who knows better than you that at such times men drive pity from their hearts?”
“There is nothing I can do.”
“Is there not?”
As I sat there on the cold ground, the wineskin between my knees, I tried not to understand. I stared out at nothing, trying to blank my mind so that this viper would have no power over it. I would not accept the blame he wished to heap on me. I would not. . .
Nabusharusur smiled, as if he knew how it would end.
“There are many who follow Esarhaddon without loving him.” He continued, glancing away. “They know not what else to do, since they cannot side with Arad Malik without embracing the man who slew their king. And, as I said, Arad Malik’s only claim is that he is not Esarhaddon. But say the word, Tiglath, but proclaim yourself king, even at this hour, and Esarhaddon’s strength will melt away like spring frost.”
“And what of Arad Malik? Will he ‘melt away’ too?”
“Leave that fool to me.”
“Will you find someone to kill him too?” I asked, turning to look into Nabusharusur’s face, allowing myself to smile at him—he could read in it what he would. “Will he go the way of our father the king? And then after him, who else? Me?”
“After him, it is not I who will have power, Tiglath, but only you.”
“Yet you would make me responsible for my brother’s death—for two brothers, Arad Malik and Esarhaddon both.”
Nabusharusur merely shrugged.
“Two must die in any case. You must choose which two, no matter what you decide—Arad Malik and Esarhaddon, or Arad Malik and myself. I do not say the choices are easy, only that they are yours to make. Yours, and no one else’s. And you cannot evade them, for to evade is itself a choice. But here is something you might consider—if it is Esarhaddon whom you elect to spare, perhaps you too will at last find your head between your feet. Esarhaddon hates you, or perhaps it had slipped your mind.”
He rose, brushing the earth from his tunic with a careless gesture, as if all this mattered not at all.
“I do not expect an answer now, brother,” he said. “Think of it, and when I see you in the field I will know which way you have chosen—if you can bring yourself to choose.”
He mounted his horse and rode away, vanishing into the distance.
. . . . .
And finally, at what was almost the last possible moment, I received a reply from Nineveh. It was addressed to me not by name but only as the garrison commander at Amat and shaknu of the northern provinces, and it was not what I would have expected:
“The king commands that a force numbering 25,000 men shall be assembled from the fortress at Amat, and from those in Zamua and Namri, and that this force shall proceed with all haste toward the town of Khanirabbat in the province of Gozan, there to join with an army under the king’s own authority. And this no later than the last day of the present month.”
There was nothing else, no acknowledgment of my letter, no word to suggest that I was more than simply another faceless field officer in the king’s service. The signature was that of one Sha Nabushu, whose name was unknown to me.
I could hardly credit it. That Esarhaddon had intended the insult was clear enough, but had his only object been to goad me into the arms of his enemies, he could not have hit upon a likelier means. That my brother meant to hold me in contempt was no surprise, but even simple prudence should have made him conceal his purposes a little longer.
Twenty-five thousand men he asked for—rather, demanded. Twenty-five thousand men would deplete the northern garrisons to dangerous levels, but presumably, with a civil war on his hands, Esarhaddon would not worry about that.
I sent off dispatch riders at once, summoning the required forces to proceed by forced march to Amat. What I would do with them when they arrived, I had no idea.
Such matters cannot remain secret very long in a garrison of soldiers, and by nightfall there probably was not a soul in Amat who did not know of Esarhaddon’s letter. And as always, and in everyone’s eyes, was the same unspoken question: “What will you do, Rab Shaqe? What will you do?”
But one voice, however, presumed to make its advice heard, and that belonged, naturally enough, to Kephalos.
“There are now only two possible courses of action open to you,” he said, having chased away the slaves who had been serving us our dinner—I had been invited, on two hours’ notice, to spend the evening with him, so his intentions had been plain enough.
“The Lord Esarhaddon’s order means that you may no longer remain here in Amat preserving your neutrality. If you do so, then no matter who wins you will be a traitor, and if it is your brother he will doubtless march his army straight to our door as soon as he has dealt with the rebels. I would expect his forces to be in number vastly superior to your own.”
“His troops would be exhausted and weakened, where mine would be fresh. Besides, Esarhaddon has little experience of command. I would not be afraid to me
et him in the field, no matter if he brought fifty thousand men.”
“That is only your wounded pride speaking—you know your words are foolish. Besides, you would never subject the nation to two civil wars, one right after the other. No, you must choose now.”
I nodded wearily, staring into my wine cup, sick of life.
“This is so,” I said. “Everything you say is truth.”
“Then what will you do? You hold the balance in this conflict. Whichever side you favor will triumph. You can make Esarhaddon king, or you can put a ring through his lips and drag him back to Nineveh behind your chariot. Which shall it be?”
Always one returned to the same question: “What will you do, Rab Shaqe? What will you do?” And still I had no answer. I could only shrug my shoulders.
“You must remember, master, that you will stand in the greatest peril if you side with Esarhaddon. He will not be grateful.”
“Someone else told me that, only a few days ago.”
“Then someone else besides your poor slave sees the truth. I know not if Esarhaddon will require the breath from under your ribs, master, but he will surely end all that makes life sweet to you. You and all your friends will he made to suffer.”
He pulled at his great brown beard and looked at me with eyes full of supplication—I knew precisely what he meant.
“Besides,” he went on, straightening himself and taking a sip of wine, as if these were not matters which touched either of us, “you would make a better king than Esarhaddon. If Esarhaddon is king, it will be the magicians and soothsayers who rule—they and the Lady Naq’ia. You, at least, are half a Greek and therefore less a prey to these superstitious terrors.”
“Am I?” I laughed, being unable to help myself. “It is the god’s will that Esarhaddon follow the Lord Sennacherib on the throne of Ashur. That is the one fact to which my mind must forever return.”
Kephalos reached across the table and put his hand on my arm.
“And if that is so, master, then I despair for us all.”
. . . . .
In the gray light of dawn I could watch the companies assembling on the parade ground, eighteen thousand men. I would leave behind only five hundred until reinforcements could arrive from Zamua and Namri, and seven thousand of them would immediately follow my line of march to Khanirabbat. Even Kephalos was coming, although I had given him his release from slavery and arranged for him to travel with a trading caravan which would have carried him well beyond Esarhaddon’s reach. But no, he would come.