The Grace

The Grace

  By Jacob Magnus

  Copyright 2011 Jacob Magnus

  Looking back, he saw the dust kicked up by their horses. The Assyrians were gaining on him. Nabopolassar slapped his mount, but the tired horse refused to move. "Go," he said, "get me to Babylon." The lathering beast tossed its head and snorted. "They have good grass." It pricked up its ears, but stood fast. "So be it," he said, "but remember, the Assyrians will only flay me, but as for you...have they eaten since Nineveh?"

  The horse got moving.

  "All this because I wanted to bury my uncle? So he was a rabble-rouser," the horse worked up to a canter, "the empire's full of rabble-rousers. Toss a stick in any field, you'll hit some idiot telling the farmers to sharpen their hoes and shoulder 'em," the horse was snorting, "and I don't care if they kill 'em, I know my uncle was as irritating as a drunken wasp. I felt like killing him myself from time to time. But was it really justice, imperial justice, to skin him and hang the body in the gods-cursed street? Damned impious Assyrians," they were at a full gallop now, and the walls of Babylon were in sight, "Sennacherib himself was murdered by his sons. No wonder the whole empire is blood-mad."

  They had gone a good way towards the city when the horse let out a scream, and collapsed. Nabopolassar tumbled to the grassy earth, but the worst he suffered was a bruised shoulder. He held back the urge to kick the horse. "Damn you," he said, turning his back on it. Then he looked over his shoulder, "but thank you." He started running.

  ...

  "You filthy beast!" Just past the blue bricks, and the gaze of bulls and dragons, just through the Ishtar gate, and Nabopolassar was already assailed by oaths? But no, the adventuring Chaldean looked around and saw the insult was aimed at a small foal, pure white, and tied to the leg of a statue of beautiful Ishtar at the kerb of Processional Way.

  "Mangy creature," the fat sweaty owner said, and cursed it in rapid Babylonian. He raised a stick and struck the horse in the flank. It screamed, and strained at the rope, eyes rolling, foaming at the lips.

  Nabopolassar clenched his teeth. He knew the agony of a beating, remembered well the torment he'd endured at Assyrian hands, and as he looked at the child of a horse, he felt the old welts on his back sing with sympathetic pain.

  "Put that stick down," he said.

  The fat man took in the faded red of his linen tunic and the worn leather of his sandals, and if he saw anything worth respecting, he kept it to himself. He spat on the flagstones of the road, and raised his stick again. Nabopolassar stepped up and caught the stick before it fell. The fat man swore at him, but he gasped when he felt the Chaldean's strength.

  "You'll have no more quarrel with this beast, friend scorpion-tongue. I'll not stand by and watch you beat it."

  "What do you care?"

  "I am a holy man," said Nabopolassar. "The care of weak creatures is a religious duty."

  The fat man let go of the stick, and backed away a little. "Then you should keep your distance," he said. "That beast is unholy. I bought it this morning from Sarga the Assyrian, who sells to the palace. I was going to sacrifice it to the goddess Ishtar, may she smile on a poor soul, but it would go and bite the priest, and he threw me out of the temple, and now it won't hold still while I beat it before this sacred image," he bowed to the statue. "So you see, it's an unholy creature, and I must beat it."

  "It happens that the goddess has sent me to you, for my name is Nabopolassar. You don't speak Chaldean, do you? No, well, my name means 'grace of Ishtar', and I will bless you in her name, and take the beast from you."

  The devotee took on a crafty look. "I thank you for your blessing, he said, but that's a valuable animal," he said, "worth a fistful of gold."

  "So you hold mere coin in higher esteem than Ishtar's favour?"

  "No, no, I didn't say that..."

  Nabopolassar raised the stick, and the fellow shrank. "Hold still," he said, as he waved the stick over the man's head in what he hoped looked like holy patterns. He mumbled a few words in Chaldean, "thank you, Ishtar, for bringing me this sucker."

  "Thank you, thank you," the other man said, "why, I've been wanting to get the blessing of Ishtar ever since my wife heard about the Egyptian girl with the-"

  "Yes yes, you're welcome and twice welcome," said Nabopolassar, "now if you wouldn't mind..."

  "Hmm? Oh!" The man untied the little horse. "But I warn you, beat that beast every day, or you'll have trouble without end."

  ...

  He took lodgings in a shady part of the city where the mud bricks were so rotten, the buildings were half-collapsed. Houses were packed so close together that little sunlight reached into the narrow alleys. You couldn't even see the coloured steps of the ziggurat, though it was visible for leagues outside the city walls. He hid in his room for two days, by which time he was so bored, he was ready to wrestle with the ghost of Sargon, if it meant he could walk in the fresh air. What air wafted in through the cracks in the walls from the narrow streets was foul as a ransacked grave.

  As he left the lodging house, a bald man in the white robes of a priest moved out of the alley across the way, and handed him a loaf of fresh bread. "Life is a gift," said the priest.

  "Thanks," said Nabopolassar, "let me give you a copper." He dug into the pouch at his belt with his free hand, but his mind was galloping. The priest had been holding one loaf, apparently the last one, but he had no bag to carry others, and he'd been waiting in the shadows of the alley, waiting and watching? He felt tongues of ice lick his spine, and, going on the feeling, he tossed the bread to the bald priest, who caught it with a startled flinch, and then Nabopolassar followed it with a fist in the belly. "Watchers on high," he said, "you know how it is." The man doubled over, retching so loud the Chaldean almost didn't hear the pad of sandals behind him. He shot to his right, and then spun about, bronze dagger out of the scabbard at his side. The second man had an iron dagger, and eyes as hard as his blade.

  Nabopolassar ground his teeth. He'd seen enough dagger fights to know the most likely outcome was a mutual kill. Even a small cut would probably fester, and maybe he'd suffer a slow stinking death, with limbs black and rotten. He edged backwards, and the assassin smirked and came on, but he was too canny to rush in. Nabopolassar felt his sandals press against something hard, and he heard the scrape of loose bricks. It gave him an idea.

  "Hey Assyrian," he said, "how much are they paying you?" He didn't wait for an answer. He did what he would usually have called rank idiocy, and threw his blade at the man. The assassin was lithe, and he ducked it, and came up ready to strike, but by then Nabopolassar had reached down, and scooped up two loose bricks. He hurled one right into the assassin's midriff, and the man gasped and folded, arms clutching his belly. That gave the Chaldean his chance, and he threw the second brick with all his might, smashing the Assyrian's skull.

  Moments later he walked through the door to his room, and shut the door behind him. "The outside world can be eaten by demons," he said. "I'm staying here."

  ...

  "You are the one who killed a man in the street?"

  The question was sudden, and hard as a fist. Nabopolassar gritted his teeth, and looked at the rough, scarred man, noting his faded blue tunic, and the well-kept blade at his belt. He'd been trying to enjoy a mug of the local beer in the common room of his lodging house. Now he worried it might be the last beer he'd ever taste, and he shuddered. "You are one who attacks innocent strangers with cruel questions?"

  "No man is innocent. I am Lugash, a city guard. You killed that man?"

  "Are you rich, Lugash?"

  The man spat. "I cannot take a bribe. It would be criminal. I should arrest you right now." He scratched his chest. "How much?"

  He felt the tension ease. "Would you like to be captain of the
city guard?"

  "That will never happen. You're a foreign criminal, murderer of our honoured guests, the Assyrians. They will kill you soon. What do I have to do?"

  Nabopolassar relaxed in his chair, but he still had to force a smile. He'd met rotten guards before, and knew better than to trust one to stay bought.

  They spoke later, over mugs of dark, sour beer. "Those damned Assyrians have been trying to kill me for days," he said, "but to hound me from Nineveh to Babylon, just for burying my uncle? It's madness."

  "Had you known," said Lugash, "would you have left him to the sun and the wind?"

  Nabopolassar pictured the hanging corpse, swarming with filthy insects. He drew his lips back from his teeth, and scowled.

  "I thought not. How will you make me captain before they kill you?"

  He drank, and looked at Lugash over the rim of his mug. "I've heard the empire is not well liked in Babylon."

  Lugash nodded. "They rebuilt our city," he said. "But we do not forget, it was Sennacherib who smashed it."

  "They've been fighting wars in the north and east. Cimmerians, Cyarxes and his Medes, and bandits everywhere. Their garrison...?"

  "Small. They use the army of Babylon to govern the southern empire."

  "Prefer to spend southern lives to keep their land. That must make them popular."

  "As popular as crotch rot," Lugash scratched himself for emphasis. "How?"

  "A little rioting, a little propheteering. Tell me, Lugash, can you read Assyrian?" As he asked the question, he saw a flicker of the future pass across his gaze. This time his smile was real.

  ...

  "Assassins," cried Nabopolassar to the crowd, "assassins roam among us."

  He'd paid some boys to run around the city, chanting about the meeting at midday, and he'd picked the market square beside the temple precinct to ensure a crowd. With Lugash and the boys to set fires in people's ears, he soon had an excited mob. But the mob could swamp him, unless he gave it the right channel.

  "Do you want to know why assassins come for me in the night? The Assyrians fear me," said Nabopolassar, "that is why they send murderers among you."

  Lugash was deep in the crowd, working them up. "Why would the Assyrians fear you?"

  "Do you see this little white foal? It was sent to me by Marduk himself," he bowed his head a moment, "Ashur has offended against Marduk for the last time, and there is war between the gods. I am Marduk's servant, chosen by him, and to me has been given this gift, that I may know his will and speak prophecy before men."

  One man, quicker than the rest, spoke up. "If Marduk has sent you," he said, "then why does he give you one small horse, and not ten thousand full-grown steeds, bred for battle, and the soldiers to ride them against Nineveh?"

  Nabopolassar smiled. "Marduk," he said to the sky, "an unbeliever."

  The crowd stirred. "No," the quick man began again, but Nabopolassar reached his hands up to the sky and said, "lord, Marduk, reveal this man before us, that we may prove his heart."

  A lot of people looked up at the clear blue sky when he spoke at it, and when he reckoned he'd given Lugash enough time, he fixed his eyes on the sceptic, and bore down on him.

  "Now wait," he said, "what are you doing?" He tried to back up, but there were too many people around.

  "Do you fear the truth?" Nabopolassar didn't wait for an answer. In the sight of all, he ran his hands around the man's linen tunic, murmured, and then he opened the leather pouch that hung at his belt.

  "There's nothing but a few coppers," the man said, "I gave the rest at temple."

  "It seems you missed something," said Nabopolassar, as he took out the golden dagger, "what's this?" He didn't wait for a reply, but swept his hands around the ogling crowd. "Gold, is it? And look, the blade is marked: Assyrian writing, I'll swear it! Can anyone read Assyrian?"

  "I never saw that before," the man was saying, but the people shushed him as Lugash came to the fore.

  "I read Assyrian. What's this you got? Ah. Ah yes, I see this thing many time, when slave in north cities," he scratched at the markings with a grubby finger, "gift from great emperor, for loyal service," he looked at the man, who was fumbling in his leather pouch, and shaking his head, "what service you do, eh?"

  "Nothing," he said, sweating, "nothing. I swear it, I never saw that before. I swear it!"

  The old priest came to the front now, and he took the man's hand in his own. "Come now," he said, "speak truth before the gods, will you swear innocence before the vicar of Marduk?"

  "Yes, vicar, yes. My name is Pilath, and I swear I am innocent, in Marduk's name I swear it!"

  "Ho now," said the elder, squeezing his hands, "a traitor, and forsworn before the gods! It is death!" His personal guard seized the unfortunate Pilath.

  The crowd, watching, took their cue from the elderly priest. "Death," some cried, while many gave wordless shouts to show involvement, if not understanding.

  Nabopolassar took back their attention. "So," he said, "an Assyrian spy. It is as the god has told me, the cruel men of Nineveh have turned their hungry eyes again upon Babylon. Even now, in this very crowd, their agents watch and listen," the people grew quiet, as every man thought about the fate of Pilath.

  Lugash had done his work well, and one man asked, "what must we do?"

  "We must obey the will of Marduk," said Nabopolassar.

  "What does Marduk command?"

  "We must be pure in the sight of the gods. We must cleanse Babylon of the alien taint. We must hunt down the Assyrian spies and punish their treachery with death."

  Nabopolassar watched a shiver of fear run through the crowd. Every man would be wondering, 'if Pilath was a spy, what's to stop people suspecting me?' He tried to keep his face stern and certain, to keep the desperate fear from breaking out, for if he once failed to act his part, the men and women around him would see his lie, and tear him apart.

  The moment of fear passed. A cry broke out, "death to the Assyrians," and, "hunt down the spies," and Nabopolassar had to fight a grin from marring his triumph. He had his mob, now, and in the coming days he would shape it into an army. And then, then he would really teach the Assyrians the meaning of revenge.

  ...

  "I am in command of the army of Babylon. Your rabble-rousing has brought us to the edge of a riot. Sin-shum-ishkun, our Assyrian governor, has demanded you be impaled."

  Nabopolassar felt he was growing in stature, if he had gone from being picked on by guards to generals. This one had an old-fashioned woollen tunic, and enough gold on his arms to buy an army, if the present one didn't pass muster. His beard was long, and fresh-curled, although the barber had singed one corner with his irons. "Why would a governor ever make demands, general...?"

  "Babylon isn't some provincial swamp. We have responsibilities to meet. Trade cannot go on while our men are out in packs, hunting one another. Babylon needs peace. Will you give us peace?"

  "What kind of peace would you like?" He laughed. "Nameless general, what kind of peace is there in the Assyrian empire?"

  "The kind where you don't get a big sharp stick stuck through you, where you don't get hang from that stick in the sweat-sucking sun, bleeding and shrieking, in the sight of your family, until you die, surrounded and friendless."

  "Is that a good kind of peace?" The general looked upset. "You didn't come to warn me. You didn't come to threaten me, nor to arrest me. General, you came because the empire is breaking apart, and you don't want to see Babylon broken with it."

  The general looked away, as if he didn't want to own his words. "They impale more people every year."

  "And worse. They did worse to my uncle."

  "I have heard," the man tugged at his beard. "Trouble runs in your blood."

  "Trouble is done with running. He's looking for men to stand with him. Will you stand?"

  "They will kill us both. Even for talking, they will kill us. But they say..."

  "What do they say?"

  "You have a gif
t from the gods. Even...even the priests say it. Can you see what is coming?"

  "General, do you speak Chaldean? No? My name is Nabopolassar," he fought down a grin. "In my tongue, this means 'grace of Marduk'."

  ...

  "Word has come from our northern outposts. A host rides from Nineveh, crushing the cities as it goes."

  "As it comes," said Nabopolassar, "and it's late! Even so, it will come to a Babylon yet divided and weak."

  "If the Assyrians catch us fighting amongst ourselves," said the general, "then yes, they will tear down our towers, slaughter our families, and pound our blood into the earth. Sennacherib's shade will laugh to see the resurrection of his wrath."

  ...

  He faced the mob again, but this time it was an army.

  "The Assyrians will come. You have not seen their armies, you have not felt terror as you watched their host fall upon you. They sit on horses, bigger and stronger than any in the world, snorting and roaring as they charge. They bring towers to scale your walls, and carry in their hands, not bronze, but iron swords."

  As they listened, he could see them making the pictures in their heads. He could see their anger, and their fear. His own fear grew on him as he watched it in them, a terrible soul-tearing dread. He feared for his blood. He feared for his body. And beyond that, he feared where this was leading. He'd come to Babylon for sanctuary, to escape from Assyria, not to face her full might at the head of an army. He sensed he was losing control, had lost control, and now it was all he could do to run as fast as he could, and pray he could stay ahead of the crush.

  "Who among you has not suffered at the hands of Assyria? Who among you has not lost sons and brothers to their war lust? Who has not lost wives and daughters? They were born with a thirst for blood; vile old Sennacherib was murdered by his own sons. They are weak now, and we are many; let us unite, and cleanse this world of their evil for all time!"

  There were cheers and oaths and wordless shouts of excitement or rage or plain bestial bloodlust. The Babylonian mob had found its strength again, and all it wanted was a target.

  ...

  "What word from Chaldea?"

  "None, lord," the servant studied his feet.

  "Where is Lugash? I should have sent Lugash. He's the only one who can get things done around here."

  "He's briefing your generals, lord."

  "How long does it take to brief a general? 'These are our men, those are their men. Don't kill the wrong ones.'"

  Nabopolassar cursed Lugash for disappearing like this. He cursed the generals. What good was a general who couldn't think for himself, so he needed help from a city guard? Ha! Lugash was probably out for more gold, or a matched set of dancing girls. "Well may Ishtar bless him and damn him!" But his hgreatest curses were for his countrymen. What fools the Chaldeans were, his kinsmen yet slow to see what he could bring them. Babylon was his, from the streets to the soil, but his at the whim of a rabble. The mob was strong, yes, but weak in mind. He needed the Assyrians to come soon, else the city would break apart again into factions, dogs and wolves. And if he won?

  If they beat Assyria in the field, broke the armies of Ashur, he might be hailed as a hero prophet, before whom all would bow in awe. But would that be enough? The threat from Assyria united the people, made them his. Take away that threat, and the glue that held them would dry up. He'd lose the city, one way or another...but an army from Chaldea, that would change things.

  Of course, there was one problem. Babylon had a Nabopolassar to drive out the Assyrian governor. What did Chaldea have?

  "Lazy goats will have to shift for themselves," he said.

  ...