He realized this, did the mighty Lashu. He
looked around at the gaping faces and grinned, delighted to be the
center of interest. He would give them a show. I could see the idea
coming together in his mind like the pieces of a child’s puzzle. It
amused him. The muscles under his thick, heavy face, full of
unintelligent cunning, twitched with pleasure.
He would make a great spectacle of
humiliating this uncouth barbarian. Perhaps he would wound or maim
me, perhaps even kill me as an added entertainment. Who would stop
him? Who would object if he spilled some of my blood onto the
floor? I might, but would that matter? I carried a weapon, but so
did many men—many more than had any idea of using one. And, after
all, he was a soldier, trained in butchery and accustomed to it.
There was little enough risk. And no one would speak up for a dead
foreigner, not against Lashu, soldier in the king’s army.
His hand dropped down to his sword, and the
fingers closed about the hilt.
“The king your master must be desperate for
soldiers,” I said, not caring what I said, since my only object was
to goad this ox into losing his temper—anger, like fear, makes a
man hasty and prone to error, and an insult does not have to be
eloquent to do its work.
“I would have thought the Lord Esarhaddon
could have chosen better than one fool enough to call another man
‘foreigner’ when he himself was probably born under a blanket in
the hind parts of the world.”
I heard a woman’s nervous, high-pitched
giggle, and one or two men were incautious enough to laugh. Lashu’s
forehead creased with annoyance.
“Where are you from, Mighty Warrior? Is that
how they pick their soldiers, these masters of the world—if it can
walk on its back legs it must be a man? Where did they find you,
scampering about, covered with nothing but your own fur?”
I showed him my teeth in a smirking grin. He
was not quite ready to fight yet, but he was close enough.
“Dog!” he shouted. “Unclean pig! Son of a
leprous harlot!”
“Pleased to meet you. And I am Lathikados the
Ionian.”
This was too much for him to bear. In a
single movement he drew his sword and, with his arm locked
straight, reaching for my belly, swung it at me in a wide arc. I
had only to draw back a little to avoid the stroke, but Penushka,
pinned against the staircase wall, was not so lucky. Even as it
slowed to a stop, the point of Lashu’s sword cut across her naked
breast, slicing it open, covering it with her bright blood. She
screamed and fell to the floor as if she had been knocked down.
If Lashu noticed, he gave no sign. He merely
grunted in vexation that he had missed his chance to kill me. And
then something else attracted his attention.
For as I stepped back I had raised my
hand—whether to pull it out of the way or to ward off a second
blow, I could not have said. I raised it, nevertheless, and with
that unconsidered gesture exposed the palm, with its mark of the
blood star, for Lashu to see.
And he saw it. Perhaps no one else in the
room save he, but he saw it. I did not have to ask if he knew what
it meant, for his eyes, wide and staring, told everything.
“You!” he whispered, so that none but I—and
perhaps Penushka, whose attention was engaged elsewhere—could have
heard. “It’s you!”
“Yes. It is I.”
In that instant we understood each other
perfectly. We both knew that this petty squabble over the
attentions of a tavern girl had at once become a fight to the
death. He had to kill me now, or I would surely kill him. He knew
the secret that must spell my death, so I would have no choice. Now
neither of us had a choice.
And yet for an instant Lashu the soldier
could not move. He had been taken by surprise—nothing had prepared
him for this—and he hesitated. It was time enough. I drew my sword,
and made it an even contest.
His eyes narrowed, for he saw that he had
made a mistake, and once more he slashed out, this time aiming the
blow at my head. I caught his blade on my own and, nearly wrenching
my shoulder from its socket, managed to turn him aside. He was a
strong man, and it was not easy.
I am not gifted with the sword, but I was a
king’s son and had had years of practice on the drill fields of the
house of war, the garrison at Nineveh. I, at least, had been taught
its use. Lashu was a plain man who had somehow become a soldier; no
one had taken many pains with his training, but he had long arms
and knew how to slash. And he was strong. We were a match for each
other.
He cut at me again, more in control of
himself this time. It was a shallow jab, not meant to reach me—he
was only testing my reactions—and I let it pass harmlessly by
without even raising my sword point.
We faced each other, each looking for that
tiny opening in the other’s defenses, waiting to strike.
On the floor between us, leaving a little
trail of bloody handprints, Penushka had come to her senses enough
to have begun crawling out of harm’s way.
From one instant to the next, Lashu began a
furious attack, hacking at me like a madman. The close air of the
tavern rang with the sound of iron striking iron as I blocked and
parried. Crowded against the stairway, I had hardly any room to
retreat. I could only fend him off and hope he tired, or made a
mistake.
And then, just as suddenly, he stepped back.
His face was streaming with sweat, but he was not weary. He grinned
at me with ferocious pleasure—I belonged to him now, he seemed to
say. I was not without skill, but he was the stronger. He would
wear me down, and then. . .
He rushed at me again. There was the clash of
our swords, like the sound of ice splintering in the spring thaw. I
could hear him grunting with effort as he tried with each stroke to
break through and cleave my skull open.
He eased a bit—only for the space of a few
fast heartbeats—but it was only a feint, a trick to catch me off
guard. Before I could draw a breath he stepped forward again, and
his sword whistled through the air as it slashed at my chest.
I turned the blow aside, but this time, as he
attempted to recover, Lashu seemed to lose his balance.
His foot had slipped. He had stepped into a
pool of Penushka’s blood, and had slipped.
It was enough. I came in low, under his
sword, and drove up. I caught him just under the rib cage, and my
blade buried itself nearly to the hilt. I pulled it free and jumped
back, tense and waiting. A man can kill you even while his life
deserts him.
But I do not think he had time enough even to
be surprised. I think he died in that very instant.
There was not so much as a cry—not a sound,
not even a whisper of pain. Lashu simply collapsed. All at once he
lay on the floor, staring up at me with dead, reproachful eyes.
This fight was over.
Suddenly I became conscious of the sounds of
the crowd around us. All this time, it seemed, they had been
holding their breath, but now they buzzed with that uncertain
wonder men feel in the presence of death. I turned to look at them.
They were all staring at me, waiting.
“Remember who struck the first blow,” I said,
surprised at the loudness of my own voice. “I had no choice—he
would give me no choice.”
They continued to stare. Naked women, men
surprised in the midst of their pleasures—one, I remember, an old
fellow, his beard shot through with gray, fingering his chin with
strengthless, uncertain fingers—not knowing what to believe.
Knowing only that I had killed a man and still held the sword in my
hand. Prepared, perhaps—I could only hope—to believe anything.
“I am innocent of this man’s blood. I did not
seek his end. He brought death down upon himself.”
I waited. I could feel the blood coursing
through the veins in my neck.
And then, slowly, as they looked around among
themselves, I could see they accepted what I had told them. It was
the version they would tell when the soldiers came. It was what
would pass for the truth when I was gone—my absence, and their
unwillingness to stop me, would create of it what they had to
believe.
I must make my escape now.
I heard a whimper somewhere behind me. It was
Penushka, huddled on the floor, still bleeding. I bent down beside
her for a moment and saw that the gash on her breast was a clean
cut, too shallow to be dangerous.
In a sense, she had saved my life.
“You will be well,” I said, almost in a
whisper. “A physician will come and close the wound. In a few days
you will have nothing but the scar to make you remember.”
Her face tightened with grief, and her eyes
filled with tears. It was only then that I remembered that, for
harlots, scars were a discouragement to trade.
“Time to retire,” I said. I put my arm over
her shoulder. “Time to find some good man and take the veil of
marriage. Here—accept this for your dowry.”
I reached into my cloak and took out the
purse full of silver shekels Kephalos had given me, pressing it
into her hands. It was probably more wealth than she had seen in
her whole life. She could hardly believe it.
“Forgive me, Penushka—and kiss me
good-bye.”
She raised her face, and I brushed her lips
lightly with my own. Then I rose and hurried away.
In the street I kept waiting for the sounds
of shouting behind me. There was only the busy hum of ordinary
life. I broke off into an alleyway that led to another street. I
did this several times before I began to feel myself safe.
“Safe.” That word had little enough meaning
for me. How safe could I ever be when every common soldier knew me
on sight? I would never be safe until I found a place where no one
had ever heard of the mighty race of Ashur, where “Tiglath” and
“Esarhaddon” were only empty sounds in the dull air.
It was nearly dark before I returned to the
inn where Kephalos was waiting for me.
“There is blood on your tunic,” he said. “You
have had an adventure? No. Do not tell me of it now. Change your
clothes. No—I knew you would not remember, so I have purchased new
ones for you. They are in that hamper. Have you dined?”
I did as he instructed, throwing open the lid
of the wicker chest that stood against the bare wall and taking out
linen undergarments and a richly embroidered tunic of green wool.
It was scented with jasmine. I felt quite the dandy in it.
“Yes. I have dined.”
“Good—then that is at least one thing you
will be spared.”
I turned around to look at him. He was seated
at a long table, such as the inn might supply against a feast. The
only object on the table was a cup half full of what looked like
cloudy water. The expression on Kephalos’ face did not suggest that
he was finding much refreshment in it.
“I told you, did I not, that our benefactor
the noble Hiram is to be my guest tonight.” The worthy physician
put a hand on his stomach, as if his digestion troubled him. “He is
now at liberty to discuss terms, he tells me—the terms on which he
will allow us to escape the king your brother’s wrath. I entertain
no doubts concerning his sincerity, since I know he will sell us to
the garrison here no matter how liberally I bribe him. The
characters of some men are as plain as their footprints in the
mud.
“But you will oblige me by entertaining no
idea of murdering him, since he will be our guest and the gods
always punish such breaches of hospitality. And you will play the
good servant, say nothing, and not think to take food or drink in
the presence of your betters. Have I made myself clear?”
“No, but it shall be as you say. I have
already killed one man today and have not the bowels to kill
another—nor much taste for revels.”
“Then I was not mistaken in my surmise. Yes,
well. . . We will speak of it later. When we are safe.”
He picked up the cup and, after a pause in
which he seemed to be gathering his courage, bolted down its
contents. A drop slid down his chin, glistening like oil.
“You will leave this matter to me, My
Lord?”
“I will leave it to you.”
“Good, then—just remember to be Lathikados
the slave and not Tiglath the prince, and I think I can promise us
a good outcome.”
“If it depends on no more than that, we will
live forever.”
The thin smile that flickered over Kephalos’
face, like a shadow in the fire, suggested he was less hopeful.
We waited in silence. Slaves came in to
prepare the banquet, setting out bowls of flowers and scented water
and a brazier to keep off the night chill. There were jars of wine
that had been left to sleep all day at the bottom on the river so
they would be sweet and cold. Oil lamps were lit. The cook appeared
to receive her final instructions. At last we were left to
ourselves again.
It was already late before we heard the sound
of Hiram’s sandals on the stairs.
“Good! You have not begun without me,” he
said. Like Kephalos, like myself, he was dressed in new garments.
He wore a bright yellow turban fastened by a pin set with blue
stones. His beard had been freshly trimmed and shone with oil.
He sat down heavily, his eyes glittering. He
had been drinking.
“No, I waited. After all, you are the guest
of honor.”
Kephalos smiled and nodded to a slave, who
broke the seal on one of the wine jars, poured half into a great
bronze pitcher, and then mixed in three cups of water, one after
the other, from a silver jug that stood at Kephalos’ elbow.
“No more than that!” Hiram protested, a shade
too loud. “Too much water and a man cannot grow suitably drunk—hah,
hah, hah!”
“Too little and a man risks becoming sick,”
Kephalos observed, smiling again, dismissing the slaves that his
guest might not disgrace himself in front of them. He seemed in a
temper to humor this oaf, who he had said would surely betray us.
Or perhaps he still thought there was room for compromise.