and appeared most unwilling to speak. He sat by the king’s
right hand, his fingers drumming against the sides of a golden wine
goblet, silent, almost absent.
And this, I thought to myself, this is the
man who will wed Esharhamat and take her from me forever—since I
knew by then that my brother Esarhaddon had spoken truly and that
this separation would he final—and in my jealous despair I cursed
Ashurnadinshum, for I was young and the sight of him tore at my
liver. I wished him misery and ruin. I asked the gods to strip him
of his life. If they listened, may his wandering ghost forgive
me.
But I was not suffered to stand there
invisible forever. At last the king glanced in my direction, and
then, when he was almost ready to look away, something about me
seemed to attract his attention. He turned to the turtanu, murmured
a word, and then nodded gravely at the answer.
The next instant he raised his hand and
beckoned me toward him. I came and knelt, clasping his knee in
token of submission, and with his own hand he raised me up.
“So this is what has become of the mighty
Tiglath Ashur, eh? ‘My father is Sennacherib, King of Kings,’ is
that not right? Yes? Hah. Hah, hah!”
I was not abashed, for I had heard that
laughter before and now it echoed from many throats. The king put
his hand upon my arm and brought me closer, as if he would look at
me.
“In a few years’ time this one will pile many
heads before my lord’s feet.”
I do not know who spoke, but in answer the
king laughed once more, and his laughter seemed to beat against me
like a fist. He struck me a joking blow with the backs of his
fingers and feigned astonishment that I could stand my ground. Once
more his laughter filled the great hall, for the lord Sennacherib
was pleased with both himself and me.
I brought my eyes up to see into his face,
for it seemed to me unworthy that the king’s son should stare
dumbly at the ground like any plowboy, and I was surprised to
behold that his gaze turned aside at once. He would not look at me
straight, so I found I had a moment—just a moment, for the great
are averse to being stared at—in which to study his face.
Yes. I had not been mistaken. I could read it
in his eyes, what I had sensed with a child’s quickness of insight
but could not have put into words. The Dread King, the Chosen One
of Ashur, the Lord of the Universe was afraid, weary and afraid.
Not of me, for who fears a boy?—but of life. He was but a man after
all, and his burden weighed upon him. And in my heart in pity I
called him “father”.
It was the thing of an instant. It was over
in the time it takes to draw a breath, and he was the king again.
He smiled at me and I felt the pressure of his hand upon my arm and
his dark, lined face resumed its majesty, but the impression stated
with me all my life.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said. “Who do
you imagine waits to see you tonight, boy? Eh? Yes?” He raised his
arm and pointed into the shadowy corner of the room. I tried, but I
could see nothing except a doorway standing half open. “Your
mother, boy! Eh? Yes, you are excused. Run to her!”
The great king, the Giver of Gifts, could not
more have won me to him had he cast half of Asia at my feet. In my
confusion of mind I did not even bow myself out of his holy
presence. The blood pounded in my veins and I flew to that shadowed
corner like a hawk falling upon its prey.
She was there, my beautiful bronze haired
mother, and she knelt in the murky light to open her arms to me and
crush my body against her. I could feel my heart pounding with a
joy that was almost like the agony of death as she dug her fingers
into my back. And she wept—she rocked me in her spasms of weeping
and I felt her tears upon my back. I had not known, until that
moment, how much I had longed for her. What was glory, what was the
favor of kings compared to the sweet embrace of my mother, whom
these things had stolen from me? Where else but here
right hand, his fingers drumming against the sides of a golden wine
goblet, silent, almost absent.
And this, I thought to myself, this is the
man who will wed Esharhamat and take her from me forever—since I
knew by then that my brother Esarhaddon had spoken truly and that
this separation would he final—and in my jealous despair I cursed
Ashurnadinshum, for I was young and the sight of him tore at my
liver. I wished him misery and ruin. I asked the gods to strip him
of his life. If they listened, may his wandering ghost forgive
me.
But I was not suffered to stand there
invisible forever. At last the king glanced in my direction, and
then, when he was almost ready to look away, something about me
seemed to attract his attention. He turned to the turtanu, murmured
a word, and then nodded gravely at the answer.
The next instant he raised his hand and
beckoned me toward him. I came and knelt, clasping his knee in
token of submission, and with his own hand he raised me up.
“So this is what has become of the mighty
Tiglath Ashur, eh? ‘My father is Sennacherib, King of Kings,’ is
that not right? Yes? Hah. Hah, hah!”
I was not abashed, for I had heard that
laughter before and now it echoed from many throats. The king put
his hand upon my arm and brought me closer, as if he would look at
me.
“In a few years’ time this one will pile many
heads before my lord’s feet.”
I do not know who spoke, but in answer the
king laughed once more, and his laughter seemed to beat against me
like a fist. He struck me a joking blow with the backs of his
fingers and feigned astonishment that I could stand my ground. Once
more his laughter filled the great hall, for the lord Sennacherib
was pleased with both himself and me.
I brought my eyes up to see into his face,
for it seemed to me unworthy that the king’s son should stare
dumbly at the ground like any plowboy, and I was surprised to
behold that his gaze turned aside at once. He would not look at me
straight, so I found I had a moment—just a moment, for the great
are averse to being stared at—in which to study his face.
Yes. I had not been mistaken. I could read it
in his eyes, what I had sensed with a child’s quickness of insight
but could not have put into words. The Dread King, the Chosen One
of Ashur, the Lord of the Universe was afraid, weary and afraid.
Not of me, for who fears a boy?—but of life. He was but a man after
all, and his burden weighed upon him. And in my heart in pity I
called him “father”.
It was the thing of an instant. It was over
in the time it takes to draw a breath, and he was the king again.
He smiled at me and I felt the pressure of his hand upon my arm and
his dark, lined face resumed its majesty, but the impression stated
with me all my life.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said. “Who do
you imagine waits to see you tonight, boy? Eh? Yes?” He raised his
arm and pointed into the shadowy corner of the room. I tried, but I
could see nothing except a doorway standing half open. “Your
mother, boy! Eh? Yes, you are excused. Run to her!”
The great king, the Giver of Gifts, could not
more have won me to him had he cast half of Asia at my feet. In my
confusion of mind I did not even bow myself out of his holy
presence. The blood pounded in my veins and I flew to that shadowed
corner like a hawk falling upon its prey.
She was there, my beautiful bronze haired
mother, and she knelt in the murky light to open her arms to me and
crush my body against her. I could feel my heart pounding with a
joy that was almost like the agony of death as she dug her fingers
into my back. And she wept—she rocked me in her spasms of weeping
and I felt her tears upon my back. I had not known, until that
moment, how much I had longed for her. What was glory, what was the
favor of kings compared to the sweet embrace of my mother, whom
these things had stolen from me? Where else but here
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