The Blood Star (89 page)

“I will starve him out. I will undermine the
walls and sack the city. The Tyrians will follow Abdimilkutte’s
subjects into exile while their houses burn at their backs. These
Phoenicians—you would think they might learn.”

“You cannot starve them out because you
cannot cut them off from the sea,” I said. “This time you have no
allies.”

“I am entering into negotiations with the
seven kings of Cyprus,” Esarhaddon grumbled. I could only shake my
head.

“Then you will negotiate until we are all old
men,” I told him. “The Cypriots are cautious men. . .”

“You mean, they are Ionians—hah!”

“Yes, they are Ionians. They will not take
sides until they see who prevails, you or Taharqa. You cannot take
Tyre in less than five months, and if you wait around here much
longer you will find yourself trying to cross the Egyptian desert
in the middle of summer. This is madness.”

“It is not madness to punish traitors,” he
replied stiffly. Yet he knew I was right.

“If you conquer Egypt, Ba’alu will come
crawling to lick the dust from your sandals. If you do not, it will
not matter. We can ill afford this, brother.”

Still, we waited on the Tyrian plain for the
better part of a month. Every morning the king and I would ride out
to watch the progress of the earthworks being dug to undermine the
city walls, and every morning I told him the same thing.

“This is folly. Do you want Pharaoh’s double
crown, or do you want to chase after every copper shekel that rolls
away into the gutter?”

And above us the watchtowers of Tyre
glittered against the bright blue sky.

“They will laugh,” Esarhaddon would say.
“They will rejoice when we slink away like beaten dogs. Ba’alu will
mock at the glory of Ashur.”

“Let him laugh. He will stop when we return
from Egypt—if we return.”

But at last my brother allowed himself to be
persuaded. We struck camp and turned our faces to the south, to the
land of the Samaritans, to Israel and Judah. Always we stayed
within sight of the sea. We did not venture near Jerusalem,
although her king Manasseh was in revolt against the Lord Ashur and
had even given one of his sons the name of Amon, after the greatest
of the Nile gods. Esarhaddon listened to reason and did not allow
himself to be distracted by quarrels with petty rulers who would
abandon their impudent rebellion as soon as Pharaoh was
crushed.

The garrison at Ashkelon was another matter.
We did not relish the prospect of crossing the Egyptian desert with
thirty thousand of Taharqa’s Libyan soldiers at our backs.

We stopped our march and made camp about two
beru
from the garrison walls. We had seen their patrols, but
thus far the Egyptians had not seen fit to challenge us. As soon as
a defensive perimeter had been thrown up, the king and his
principal officers—myself among them, with Enkidu as my constant
shadow—rode out to have a look.

Ashkelon was a stone fortress with its back
to the sea. It had stout walls, and the ground around it had been
cleared for an hour’s walk in every direction. It would not be
easy.

“We shall have to take it,” Sha Nabushu
announced, with the air of stating the obvious. “Tyre was one
thing, and this is another. We have no choice.”

Ghost started at something, and I climbed
down to see what it was. I touched a flat stone with the point of
my javelin and a scorpion the size of a man’s hand scurried off to
find itself another bit of shade. The sand under my feet was so
blistering that I could have cooked an egg simply by burying it
under a few handfuls.

“Feel the heat?” I asked, looking up at
Esarhaddon—the sun was almost directly behind his head, so I had to
shade my eyes. I could not see his expression. “We are already near
the end of Siwan, and next month the desert will be like the inside
of a pottery kiln. We can reduce this fortress or we can invade
Egypt, but we cannot do both. Perhaps the garrison commander will
be convinced of the wisdom of staying within his walls.”

“Why should he do that?” Sha Nabushu asked
contemptuously. “He will say anything, but once we are in the
desert, he will be on us.”

There was a buzz of agreement from the other
officers, but the king, I noticed, kept silent.

“Yes, brother,” he said at last, “why should
he do that?”

“Because we have five men to his one, and
because the Lord of Ashur is not noted for his forgiving
temper.”

Esarhaddon laughed. Then he nodded in
agreement.

“Go talk to them,” he said. “You know these
Egyptian rogues—if they let you out alive, and if it smells right
to you, we will make a truce with them. If they kill you, brother,
I give my oath to avenge your death.”

He laughed again and yanked the reins around
to return to camp. In a moment, as the sound of hoofbeats died
away, only Enkidu and I were left. Enkidu glared at the garrison
walls as if he would have liked to pull them down with his bare
hands.

“You think all of this is mad,” I said, but
my mute companion did not even glance at me. “Doubtless you are
right.”

I climbed back on my horse and we started
toward the fortress. I found myself wondering if the Egyptians
would favor me with a cup of wine before they cut my throat.

The watch patrol offered no challenge until
we were some five or six hundred paces from the main gate. Four
cavalrymen rode out to meet us. All four had that sullen,
sun-hardened look one associates with Libyan mercenaries, and none
carried an officer’s whip. They stopped their horses about thirty
paces in front of us. No one drew his sword.

“I would speak with your commander,” I said
in my villainous Egyptian.

At first there was no reaction. The Libyans
kept their eyes on Enkidu whom, doubtless with perfect justice,
they must have thought the more serious danger.

“Who wishes it?” one of them asked finally. I
remember he bore three parallel scars on each cheek—the Libyans are
a primitive, brutish people, and these wounds had probably been
intended as enhancements to his manly beauty.

“An officer in the service of the king of
Ashur, Lord of the Earth’s Four Corners, Master of the World.” I
grinned contemptuously, showing my teeth, on the theory that
nothing would make a stronger impression on this lout than a
display of impudence. “His camp is not two hours’ ride from here,
as doubtless you know. I have come because the king has seen fit to
grant you a chance for your lives.”

Whether this speech had produced the desired
effect I was left to guess, since the four Libyans turned their
horses and rode back to the protection of their walls. There was no
choice but to wait outside in the sun.

Within a quarter of an hour another rider
came out through the main gate, an Egyptian this time. By the time
he was close enough for me to see it, his face was registering an
expression of the most profound astonishment.

“The Lord Tiglath Ashur, is it not?” he said,
sounding a little awed by his discovery. “Nefu, son of Hardadaf,
prince of Siut—I was once a guest at one of your famous dinner
parties. I had heard you were dead.”

“As you see, I am not.”

Did I remember this smooth-faced youth? No, I
thought not, but people had come and gone in my house in Memphis,
making themselves at home as if they were in a brothel. He could
have visited a score of times without my ever noticing him.

“I might never have recognized you with that
beard, but your servant is another matter. Come within, Lord, and
let us drink such wine as this doghole can offer and talk of
happier times. . .”

Nefu’s father, it seemed, had somehow run
afoul of Pharaoh.

“And, as you see,” he told me, gesturing
around with a hand that held one of the dried apricots that had
been served with dinner—I cannot fault his efforts at hospitality
in that forsaken place. “As you see, the disgrace extended to the
whole family. I have been out here a year, and it shouldn’t
surprise me if I die as commander of this garrison. Such is the
wrath of the Living God.”

He grinned, a trifle foolishly. We had been
at table not half an hour and already he was considerably the worse
for wine.

“You may die here sooner than you expect,” I
said. “That is what I have come to discuss.”

The temperature in that dark, stuffy little
room seemed to drop markedly. Nefu of Siut looked at me through
narrowed eyes, as if I were guilty of some lapse in etiquette.

“Whose soldiers are those out there?” he
asked finally. “One hears so little news in a wilderness like
this.”

“The king of Ashur—he is in personal command
of his army, which is some hundred and fifty thousand strong, and
he means to cross the desert into Egypt. The only question is
whether he will have to delay here the brief time it would require
to crush this garrison. You may be sure, should you so
inconvenience him, that he will make his resentment felt.”

“And what is he to you then, Lord
Tiglath?”

“My brother.”

At first, Nefu’s only response was a low
whistle as his wine-dulled mind struggled to take in this
astounding new fact. Then he laughed.

“I am astonished, then, that the king of
Ashur would put you so conveniently within reach,” he said,
refilling my cup.

“If you have some thought of using me as a
hostage, I would caution you to discard it,” I told him. I did not
even glance at my wine cup. “My brother loves me—not enough to
abandon the conquest of Egypt for my sake, but enough to visit the
most terrible revenge against the man who would presume to take my
life. You would not, I think, enjoy having your skin, from your
eyebrows down to the soles of your feet, stripped off in a single
piece. I have seen this done for lesser offenses and, trust me, it
does not improve one’s appearance. On the other hand, if you
require the king to stop here for a while, I think he will be
content merely to kill you.”

“You say he plans to invade Egypt through the
desert?”

“Yes.”

“Have you any idea, My Lord, what it is like
in the desert at this time of year?”

“Yes. And so has the king.”

“Is he mad then, or have all you eastern
barbarians bellies of iron?”

He shook his head in wonder at such folly,
and I knew at once that the garrison at Ashkelon would not impede
us.

“I would not go into that desert,” he
said—there was a note of real horror in his voice, as if the
terrors of the place were starkly visible in his mind’s eyes. “I
would not, for what you will find there is not the double crown of
Pharaoh, but death.”

“Which you will find here, should you attempt
to interfere with us.” I picked up my wine cup and drank, as if we
had already struck our bargain.

“Then it seems I have no choice,” Nefu
answered, even as his fingers closed around the neck of his wine
jug. He refilled first my cup and then his own. “Who do you imagine
will thank me if I throw my life away trying to stop you? Besides,
the desert will kill more of you than all the armies in Egypt. If
any of you do come out on the other side, Pharaoh’s soldiers will
have to compete with the vultures for the honor of stripping your
bones.”

He even smiled, as if at some harmless
jest.

“Go in peace, Lord Tiglath. I would not dream
of detaining you.”

As I rode back to Esarhaddon’s camp, many
things kept turning over in my mind. I was not afraid of any
treachery from Nefu. I had kept my eyes open while I was within his
walls and had noted the general laxness of discipline. For officers
and men alike, assignment to such a place is usually a form of
punishment and, from the commander on down, these were bad
soldiers. Besides, years of duty in this forgotten outpost had
rendered them too dispirited to pose any threat to us—most likely,
if he ordered them to pursue us into the desert, they would turn
straight around and cut his throat for him. And most likely, he
knew it. No, there was nothing to fear from the garrison at
Ashkelon.

Nefu had, after his fashion, even offered
himself as an ally.

“If, by some miracle, you should prevail. .
.” He shrugged his shoulders, giving the impression he was
embarrassed even to entertain such an idea. “If somehow you should
conquer both the desert and Pharaoh’s armies. . .”

“But you have declared that to be
impossible.”

“Yes, I know it, but you were reported dead
after the disturbances in Memphis, and here you are. You seem an
uncommonly durable man, My Lord.” He laughed—it was like a woman’s
giggle and was beginning to prey on my nerves. “Even Lord Senefru.
. .”

“Lord Senefru! Is he still living?”

“Oh yes,” Nefu answered, nodding vigorously.
“He is alive and prospers. He is Pharaoh’s governor of
Memphis.”

It seemed to give him pleasure that he could
report such a thing of one whom all the world had taken to be my
intimate friend.

“I heard it from his own lips that you had
been murdered by some foreign villain in Naukratis. He seemed much
affected by the news.”

“One can imagine.”

So—I had not missed my chance after all.
Senefru would be waiting for me in Memphis. Somehow this one fact
seemed to make the whole enterprise worthwhile.

“What favor would you have of Egypt’s new
rulers?” I asked, for suddenly I felt myself very much in Nefu’s
debt.

And the commander of the Ashkelon garrison
did not hesitate.

“Escape,” he said simply. “If you triumph,
send some other poor soul to guard the gateway to paradise, and let
me come home.”

If we reached the Nile, I told him, I would
intercede for him with Esarhaddon and he might count on spending
the winter in whatever fleshpot he chose. There was only the one
trifling condition: that both I and Ashur’s king live to see his
dream of conquest fulfilled.