I drunk less that night I was robbed in
Tyre I would not be a slave today. Had I been less indolent I would
instead be home in Naxos, growing rich as a physician—such, indeed,
has been the calling in my family for uncountable generations.
“Nevertheless, I am the son of a physician,
and I did not walk through my father’s house with my eyes quite
closed. I have learned a few things, and the turtanu’s principal
wife, as perhaps you did not know, suffers from complaints
connected with her monthly bleeding, the precise nature of which
you are too young to understand but which have been a source of
great inconvenience to her husband. I have managed, with the aid of
a few little tricks I picked up in my travels. . .”
He stood back as if to consider what more
could be done in the arrangement of my tunic, and the subject of
the turtanu’s lady seemed to pass from his mind like a wandering
shadow.
“And now the turtanu gives you to me?” I
asked, unwilling to lose this highly interesting narrative.
He smiled, as one awakened from a trance.
“Who am I, master, to unravel the secrets of
the marriage bed? The lady is past her first youth, so perhaps the
difficulties have ceased of their own. Perhaps the turtanu has
grown impatient with her and has hit upon this means of—no, no,
young master, do not seem so shocked. When the gods see fit to
afflict you with a wife you will understand how trying they can be.
I myself have never taken a woman to wed, but every man has a
mother and I could tell you stories of mine. . . But enough of
this. It is time. Lord, for you to go to dinner, where you must
plead my case before the rab kisir, for if I must be a slave among
the Assyrians the gods grant at least that my master be a
Greek.”
I opened my mouth to remind him that I was no
foreigner here like himself but the king’s own son, but the
expression on his face made me think better of it. The Land of
Ashur might be my home, but I knew how it felt to be a stranger in
it and thus understood what was in Kephalos’ heart. I was no more
than a boy but not so young as I might otherwise have been.
. . . . .
“This slave, Prince, he is a gift from the
turtanu?” Tabshar Sin rubbed his check with the fingers of his one
hand as he leaned toward me, his elbow nearly knocking over his
beer pot.
He picked up his knife and began tapping the
blade against the edge of the table, a sure sign that his mind was
troubled. He had drunk deeply that evening and, at any time, a
matter such as this would have filled him with misgivings. He was
responsible for good discipline in the royal barrack, but the
turtanu was second only to the king as commander of the army.
I nodded, without smiling. Kephalos, who I
sensed was less than happy about entrusting his fate to a child,
had rehearsed me with great care.
“It is my impression that the Lord Sinahiusur
wishes me to have opportunities for prac¬ticing the Ionian
language, that I may not lose what might be of practical value in
years to come. The Ionians are an ambitious people, Tabshar Sin,
and who knows but that one day. . .”
It required no more than an equivocal shrug
to crease the rab kisir’s brow with anxiety. I had little enough
idea what my own words meant, for Kephalos had stuffed them into my
head like straw into a cushion, but it seemed that Tabshar Sin’s
grasp of these matters was less certain even than mine. He was a
soldier with a soldier’s virtues. He was brave, he was good at his
craft, and he followed orders with blind fidelity. Questions of
state, as mysterious as necromancy, were the king’s province and
the god’s.
So if the turtanu, who spoke with the king’s
voice, wished that Tiglath Ashur should be possessed of a slave
from some unheard of corner of the world, that was enough for
Tabshar Sin.
“But mind, Prince, that this soft little
Ionian of yours does not make a nuisance of himself,” he said
finally, gesturing at me with his knife, the point of which
Tyre I would not be a slave today. Had I been less indolent I would
instead be home in Naxos, growing rich as a physician—such, indeed,
has been the calling in my family for uncountable generations.
“Nevertheless, I am the son of a physician,
and I did not walk through my father’s house with my eyes quite
closed. I have learned a few things, and the turtanu’s principal
wife, as perhaps you did not know, suffers from complaints
connected with her monthly bleeding, the precise nature of which
you are too young to understand but which have been a source of
great inconvenience to her husband. I have managed, with the aid of
a few little tricks I picked up in my travels. . .”
He stood back as if to consider what more
could be done in the arrangement of my tunic, and the subject of
the turtanu’s lady seemed to pass from his mind like a wandering
shadow.
“And now the turtanu gives you to me?” I
asked, unwilling to lose this highly interesting narrative.
He smiled, as one awakened from a trance.
“Who am I, master, to unravel the secrets of
the marriage bed? The lady is past her first youth, so perhaps the
difficulties have ceased of their own. Perhaps the turtanu has
grown impatient with her and has hit upon this means of—no, no,
young master, do not seem so shocked. When the gods see fit to
afflict you with a wife you will understand how trying they can be.
I myself have never taken a woman to wed, but every man has a
mother and I could tell you stories of mine. . . But enough of
this. It is time. Lord, for you to go to dinner, where you must
plead my case before the rab kisir, for if I must be a slave among
the Assyrians the gods grant at least that my master be a
Greek.”
I opened my mouth to remind him that I was no
foreigner here like himself but the king’s own son, but the
expression on his face made me think better of it. The Land of
Ashur might be my home, but I knew how it felt to be a stranger in
it and thus understood what was in Kephalos’ heart. I was no more
than a boy but not so young as I might otherwise have been.
. . . . .
“This slave, Prince, he is a gift from the
turtanu?” Tabshar Sin rubbed his check with the fingers of his one
hand as he leaned toward me, his elbow nearly knocking over his
beer pot.
He picked up his knife and began tapping the
blade against the edge of the table, a sure sign that his mind was
troubled. He had drunk deeply that evening and, at any time, a
matter such as this would have filled him with misgivings. He was
responsible for good discipline in the royal barrack, but the
turtanu was second only to the king as commander of the army.
I nodded, without smiling. Kephalos, who I
sensed was less than happy about entrusting his fate to a child,
had rehearsed me with great care.
“It is my impression that the Lord Sinahiusur
wishes me to have opportunities for prac¬ticing the Ionian
language, that I may not lose what might be of practical value in
years to come. The Ionians are an ambitious people, Tabshar Sin,
and who knows but that one day. . .”
It required no more than an equivocal shrug
to crease the rab kisir’s brow with anxiety. I had little enough
idea what my own words meant, for Kephalos had stuffed them into my
head like straw into a cushion, but it seemed that Tabshar Sin’s
grasp of these matters was less certain even than mine. He was a
soldier with a soldier’s virtues. He was brave, he was good at his
craft, and he followed orders with blind fidelity. Questions of
state, as mysterious as necromancy, were the king’s province and
the god’s.
So if the turtanu, who spoke with the king’s
voice, wished that Tiglath Ashur should be possessed of a slave
from some unheard of corner of the world, that was enough for
Tabshar Sin.
“But mind, Prince, that this soft little
Ionian of yours does not make a nuisance of himself,” he said
finally, gesturing at me with his knife, the point of which
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