woman’s
arms. In an instant, with a smile as guileless as when she was a
child, she had ended all of that for me. I could not regret it.
There is a place where the city wall appears
to step to one side to avoid getting its robes wet. The river
hurries by, Nineveh seeming to rise from its banks. In the season
of floods its waters almost touch the wall, but that time was past
now. I seated myself on the bluff, letting my feet hang down almost
to the river’s surface, and balanced the javelin across my thighs.
I had only to remember the moment Esharhamat had undone her veil
that I might see her face, and I was filled with a wretchedness
that was itself more profoundly joyous than anything I had ever
known. I did not know what I felt. I had become a stranger to
myself.
That I was a condemned man I had not a
moment’s doubt. The king’s favor did not extend to tampering with
the destiny of his house, so when he knew that I had raised my eyes
to her who must be the mother of all the kings to follow, he would
strip the skin from my body and nail it to the city gates. This
seemed right and just to me—I did not question it. That I must love
Esharhamat, this too seemed beyond my power to prevent. Thus I
regarded myself as a dead man. Perhaps not this year, or the next,
but soon enough. I had found my simtu, my fate, the end the gods
had selected for me. How could it be otherwise? Where else could it
lead, this love that had begun against the background of a public
execution? Somehow I could not bring myself to care.
But that I should involve Esharhamat in my
disgrace, this tormented me. For if I loved her more than my life,
how could I wish her to be otherwise than happy and safe? But could
she be happy parted from me when I was thus wretched away from her?
It seemed a knot that would never be untied. I almost wished that
the priest’s knife had not been stayed, that I were now a gelding
in the tablet house, my mind untroubled and Esharhamat safe.
And at the same time I was profoundly happy.
I had seen her again—I would see her tomorrow. What was this not
worth?
How long I continued thus I cannot say. All
at once I looked up and saw my shadow lengthening across the ground
and realized it was nearly night. If I did not return to the royal
barrack in the next hour, Tabshar Sin would make me spend tomorrow
cleaning out the stable and then Esharhamat would think I had
deserted her. I sprang up as if the river had suddenly turned to
boiling.
“Have I startled you, Prince?”
I saw him and heard his voice in the same
instant. He was standing at the edge of the bluff, seven or eight
paces distant, and in his right hand he held the staff of a
pilgrim. He was an old man—his hair and beard were whiter than a
pigeon’s wing and the sun had burned his face to the color of
harness leather. He stood with his head uncovered and wore the
yellow robes of a priest, although I had never seen a priest wear
anything so threadbare—the garment looked as if he could have been
born in it, and it and he had grown old together.
Moreover, I had never seen a priest who was
not smooth skinned and fat, for priests are great lovers of luxury,
and this man was as gaunt as a corpse dug out of the hot sand. His
collarbone was clearly visible under his thin tunic, and the ridges
of his brow were so prominent that his eyes seemed buried deep in
his face.
He smiled, but he appeared to be looking
through rather than at me. And then, of course, I understood—the
old man was blind.
“No, you have not startled me,” I replied.
His hand moved slightly on the staff—a small thing but eloquent in
its way, enough to suggest that he knew I was lying. “I simply
remembered that I have to be somewhere else. The hour is late.”
“Is it?” The old man turned his dead eyes to
the sky, as if he wished that they might at least feel the dying
day’s heat. “Not for you, Prince. “Your day has hardly even
begun.”
We stood on the bluff facing each
arms. In an instant, with a smile as guileless as when she was a
child, she had ended all of that for me. I could not regret it.
There is a place where the city wall appears
to step to one side to avoid getting its robes wet. The river
hurries by, Nineveh seeming to rise from its banks. In the season
of floods its waters almost touch the wall, but that time was past
now. I seated myself on the bluff, letting my feet hang down almost
to the river’s surface, and balanced the javelin across my thighs.
I had only to remember the moment Esharhamat had undone her veil
that I might see her face, and I was filled with a wretchedness
that was itself more profoundly joyous than anything I had ever
known. I did not know what I felt. I had become a stranger to
myself.
That I was a condemned man I had not a
moment’s doubt. The king’s favor did not extend to tampering with
the destiny of his house, so when he knew that I had raised my eyes
to her who must be the mother of all the kings to follow, he would
strip the skin from my body and nail it to the city gates. This
seemed right and just to me—I did not question it. That I must love
Esharhamat, this too seemed beyond my power to prevent. Thus I
regarded myself as a dead man. Perhaps not this year, or the next,
but soon enough. I had found my simtu, my fate, the end the gods
had selected for me. How could it be otherwise? Where else could it
lead, this love that had begun against the background of a public
execution? Somehow I could not bring myself to care.
But that I should involve Esharhamat in my
disgrace, this tormented me. For if I loved her more than my life,
how could I wish her to be otherwise than happy and safe? But could
she be happy parted from me when I was thus wretched away from her?
It seemed a knot that would never be untied. I almost wished that
the priest’s knife had not been stayed, that I were now a gelding
in the tablet house, my mind untroubled and Esharhamat safe.
And at the same time I was profoundly happy.
I had seen her again—I would see her tomorrow. What was this not
worth?
How long I continued thus I cannot say. All
at once I looked up and saw my shadow lengthening across the ground
and realized it was nearly night. If I did not return to the royal
barrack in the next hour, Tabshar Sin would make me spend tomorrow
cleaning out the stable and then Esharhamat would think I had
deserted her. I sprang up as if the river had suddenly turned to
boiling.
“Have I startled you, Prince?”
I saw him and heard his voice in the same
instant. He was standing at the edge of the bluff, seven or eight
paces distant, and in his right hand he held the staff of a
pilgrim. He was an old man—his hair and beard were whiter than a
pigeon’s wing and the sun had burned his face to the color of
harness leather. He stood with his head uncovered and wore the
yellow robes of a priest, although I had never seen a priest wear
anything so threadbare—the garment looked as if he could have been
born in it, and it and he had grown old together.
Moreover, I had never seen a priest who was
not smooth skinned and fat, for priests are great lovers of luxury,
and this man was as gaunt as a corpse dug out of the hot sand. His
collarbone was clearly visible under his thin tunic, and the ridges
of his brow were so prominent that his eyes seemed buried deep in
his face.
He smiled, but he appeared to be looking
through rather than at me. And then, of course, I understood—the
old man was blind.
“No, you have not startled me,” I replied.
His hand moved slightly on the staff—a small thing but eloquent in
its way, enough to suggest that he knew I was lying. “I simply
remembered that I have to be somewhere else. The hour is late.”
“Is it?” The old man turned his dead eyes to
the sky, as if he wished that they might at least feel the dying
day’s heat. “Not for you, Prince. “Your day has hardly even
begun.”
We stood on the bluff facing each
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