had
tasted any meat but the stringy flesh of game animals, walked over
to buy a goat.
In the end—such being the generosity of my
countrymen—the headman invited us to feast with him and his sons,
with which, it seemed, since they appeared to occupy nearly every
hut in the village, the god had graced him almost beyond counting.
He would roast the goat we had purchased from him, along with two
more of his own, and he would acquaint us with the many excellences
of his wife’s beer. The invitation was extended to Hiram and his
men and accepted by them with almost indecent haste.
Nor, it seemed, was our presence the only
cause for celebration among the villagers, nor we the only recent
arrivals. The headman had a cousin, the son of the son of his
father’s elder brother, a man who had been a soldier for many years
and at last had retired on his share of the booty from Esarhaddon’s
sack of the city of Tishkhan, which had sided with the rebels in
the late civil war.
This cousin, whose name was Tudi, was now
almost an old man. His beard was full of gray, and he was glad to
be out of the king’s army and still in full use of all his limbs.
He was now rich, being possessed of some fifty shekels of silver,
disposed to take a wife young enough to bear him children, and to
live out the rest of his life on the earth that held the sacred
bones of his fathers. Yet for all this, for all that Esarhaddon’s
fury against the rebels had brought him wealth and ease, he was not
comfortable in his mind about the new king, who he said lived under
the god’s curse.
I sat leaning my back against the wall of the
headman’s hut, whither Kephalos and Hiram had been invited to
shelter themselves from the night cold. I was a foreign slave, to
whom the Akkadian of these farmers was as the chirping of crickets,
so no one would have thought it impolite of me to fall asleep. Yet
I did not sleep. Instead, with my eyes half closed, I listened to
Tudi telling his cousin and his cousin’s guests the story of my own
life.
“The king walks in wickedness,” he said,
wiping his beard to clean the goat grease from his fingers. “He
offers sacrifice at the idol of Marduk, which his father carried in
chains from its temple in Babylon. He claims for Marduk the
lordship of the gods, when all pious men know that it is Ashur who
reigns in heaven.”
“A man may choose to honor what gods he
will—is this not so?” Hiram of Latakia shrugged his shoulders, like
one to whom all gods were but a childish illusion. “Is not a king
as free as other men? And if the Lord Esarhaddon is pleased with
Marduk, what is that to anyone else?”
“In this land, Ashur is king,” said the
headman, and the eldest among his sons, some five of them, who had
been invited to dine with his guests, nodded their heads, muttering
in agreement.
“The king affirms no less when he is
crowned,” he went on. “The fruits of the land, the land itself, the
men on it, all belong to the god—the king more than any. When the
king is impious, he involves us all in his sin. Already there are
stories of the births of monsters, and other omens yet more
terrible. It is the cry of heaven against the king’s wickedness.
Ashur will not long allow himself to be thus slighted, and he will
make known his wrath.”
“They say the mud walls of Babylon rise
higher every day. They say the king’s desire is that it shall be a
mighty city yet again, and thus shall Marduk’s anger be turned
aside.” Once more it was Tudi, the old soldier, who spoke. He spat
into the fire. “No more than that have I regard for the anger of
Marduk!”
Hiram laughed, as if he were politely
acknowledging a joke.
“You are a brave man then,” he said. “Braver,
it seems, than your king. Yet the rebuilding of a city is a thing
not to be despised, since there will be money to be made from
it.”
“Money—yes, money for foreigners. Power for
the Babylonians, the black-headed folk, and those who love
tasted any meat but the stringy flesh of game animals, walked over
to buy a goat.
In the end—such being the generosity of my
countrymen—the headman invited us to feast with him and his sons,
with which, it seemed, since they appeared to occupy nearly every
hut in the village, the god had graced him almost beyond counting.
He would roast the goat we had purchased from him, along with two
more of his own, and he would acquaint us with the many excellences
of his wife’s beer. The invitation was extended to Hiram and his
men and accepted by them with almost indecent haste.
Nor, it seemed, was our presence the only
cause for celebration among the villagers, nor we the only recent
arrivals. The headman had a cousin, the son of the son of his
father’s elder brother, a man who had been a soldier for many years
and at last had retired on his share of the booty from Esarhaddon’s
sack of the city of Tishkhan, which had sided with the rebels in
the late civil war.
This cousin, whose name was Tudi, was now
almost an old man. His beard was full of gray, and he was glad to
be out of the king’s army and still in full use of all his limbs.
He was now rich, being possessed of some fifty shekels of silver,
disposed to take a wife young enough to bear him children, and to
live out the rest of his life on the earth that held the sacred
bones of his fathers. Yet for all this, for all that Esarhaddon’s
fury against the rebels had brought him wealth and ease, he was not
comfortable in his mind about the new king, who he said lived under
the god’s curse.
I sat leaning my back against the wall of the
headman’s hut, whither Kephalos and Hiram had been invited to
shelter themselves from the night cold. I was a foreign slave, to
whom the Akkadian of these farmers was as the chirping of crickets,
so no one would have thought it impolite of me to fall asleep. Yet
I did not sleep. Instead, with my eyes half closed, I listened to
Tudi telling his cousin and his cousin’s guests the story of my own
life.
“The king walks in wickedness,” he said,
wiping his beard to clean the goat grease from his fingers. “He
offers sacrifice at the idol of Marduk, which his father carried in
chains from its temple in Babylon. He claims for Marduk the
lordship of the gods, when all pious men know that it is Ashur who
reigns in heaven.”
“A man may choose to honor what gods he
will—is this not so?” Hiram of Latakia shrugged his shoulders, like
one to whom all gods were but a childish illusion. “Is not a king
as free as other men? And if the Lord Esarhaddon is pleased with
Marduk, what is that to anyone else?”
“In this land, Ashur is king,” said the
headman, and the eldest among his sons, some five of them, who had
been invited to dine with his guests, nodded their heads, muttering
in agreement.
“The king affirms no less when he is
crowned,” he went on. “The fruits of the land, the land itself, the
men on it, all belong to the god—the king more than any. When the
king is impious, he involves us all in his sin. Already there are
stories of the births of monsters, and other omens yet more
terrible. It is the cry of heaven against the king’s wickedness.
Ashur will not long allow himself to be thus slighted, and he will
make known his wrath.”
“They say the mud walls of Babylon rise
higher every day. They say the king’s desire is that it shall be a
mighty city yet again, and thus shall Marduk’s anger be turned
aside.” Once more it was Tudi, the old soldier, who spoke. He spat
into the fire. “No more than that have I regard for the anger of
Marduk!”
Hiram laughed, as if he were politely
acknowledging a joke.
“You are a brave man then,” he said. “Braver,
it seems, than your king. Yet the rebuilding of a city is a thing
not to be despised, since there will be money to be made from
it.”
“Money—yes, money for foreigners. Power for
the Babylonians, the black-headed folk, and those who love
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