The Blood Star Page 30

  When he saw I was not angry, a faint glimmer of hope lit in his eyes.

  “Shall it please Your Honor that I send him away?”

  “No—I will see him now.”

  Disappointed yet again, Khonsmose shuffled off. He did not return, but a minute later another man appeared in the doorway—light skinned, spare of build, in stature a little under the average for that part of the world, his head and beard shaved and his eyes painted after the Egyptian manner.

  Khonsmose had been right, however, for he was “from the Eastern Lands,” from Sumer, I would have wagered much, although how I could have been so certain I could not have said.

  “I am in the presence of the Lord Tiglath Ashur?” he asked, in Aramaic—it was not merely a good guess, since my name, if nothing else, marked my origins. He smiled, as if we shared some secret.

  “Then we have not met?”

  I did not rise, but gestured for him to sit. Neither did I offer him wine, for I did not like this stranger.

  “No.” He shook his head—why did I imagine he was lying? I would almost have said I knew his face from somewhere, but that is a common enough mistake. “I have not had that honor. Had our paths crossed before this, I would have remembered.”

  “And certainly we are both a long road from home,” I said, in Akkadian.

  There was just an instant of hesitation, and then he cocked his head a trifle to one side and regarded me questioningly. It was perhaps even possible that he had not understood me—could I have been mistaken?

  I repeated myself, this time in Aramaic, and he smiled again.

  “I am a Hebrew,” he said, as if in answer to a question. “Born in Jerusalem, but raised up in Tyre. Egypt is an uncomfortable place for a foreigner—yes, sometimes it seems a long road home.”

  It was a safe story, for who in the wide world knows anything of the Hebrews? A man might be from anywhere and make such a claim.

  “You have lived here long?” I asked, letting the matter pass. After all, who should understand better than I that a man may have very good reasons for wishing to make a secret of his birth?

  “Only a few years, in Saïs until now. This is my first visit to Naukratis.”

  During our conversation he had sat with his hands folded in his lap, the right over the left, but suddenly he raised his right hand and smoothed down the breast of his tunic with it. There seemed no particular reason for the gesture. Then his hands returned to his lap, the left once more hidden by the right.

  Yet I had seen that none of his fingers was missing.

  “It is from Saïs that I have come, My Lord. And with no purpose but to see you.”

  There was a certain tension in his face, but I had a sense it was probably habitual with him—all sharp lines and abrupt angles, it seemed the sort of face that never relaxed. I had the impression he was waiting for some reaction, as if I should have known from the beginning what he wished of me.

  When at last I said nothing he made a small dismissive gesture, perhaps to indicate that he claimed no virtue from the journey.

  “I have come with another man, a noble of great wealth who in this instance has entrusted me to speak for him,” he went on. “It is my lord’s understanding that you are in quest of loans on behalf of Prince Nekau. Is such the case?”

  “If it were true, I would hardly declare the fact to a stranger.”

  I smiled, without much warmth, wondering why this man and his rich and illustrious patron should interest themselves in my mission for Prince Nekau—and, more immediately, how they had found out about it. There were only a limited number of possibilities.

  There was a faint flash of anger in his eyes, instantly controlled. He knew I was baiting him. He was not a fool.

  “You wish to know the source of my patron’s information. Your caution is admirable, My Lord; however, in this instance it is also misplaced. It only matters that he does have such knowledge and that he is prepared to make such a loan to the prince. Nothing else need concern us. We have only to discuss the terms and the rate of interest.”

  “And, of course, the amount of the loan,” I said, struggling hard to keep down a rising sense of excitement—Glaukon, I thought. He has arranged this somehow. I should have guessed.

  “Yes—of course.” The man drew back his lips in an unconvincing grin, as if I had made a joke. “The amount—whatever the prince requires, I should think.”

  “The prince requires a great deal.”

  “How much would that be?”

  “Five million emmer.”

  “Five million. As much as that, you think?”

  “Yes.”

  He pursed his lips, but no sound escaped them. He seemed to be considering the matter.

  “My patron may wish to limit himself to three million,” he said, raising his eyes questioningly to my face. “Would that be acceptable, or will only the full five million serve?”

  “It is possible that even five million will not be enough, but the prince was licensed me to borrow as much as I can, and on whatever terms I find reasonable. I will be happy to discuss this matter with your patron.”

  This pleased the man who claimed to be a Hebrew from Saïs, who might be anyone from anywhere. Nevertheless his eyes narrowed slightly, as if the conversation had suddenly taken a painful turn.

  “There are, of course, certain matters which must be agreed upon in advance of any such meeting,” he said. “The prince’s credit is not very high—and of course my patron, as a nobleman of Saïs, is his subject and understands quite well the embarrassment of his circumstances. Any loan made to the prince would naturally require that there be certain guarantees. You would of course have to offer your own fortune as security. The rate of interest, by the way, would be two parts in three of the whole—to be paid back within the year.”

  “My wealth is now almost entirely invested abroad. Nor does it approach such a sum as three million emmer.”

  “My patron is aware of this, and has factored the risk of default into his requirements by way of return.”

  “That risk is very great,” I said. “Your patron must know what everyone in Egypt knows: that Pharaoh plans to move against the prince. If that happens, or if there is another year of famine, or if the prince finds himself too pressed by his creditors and simply repudiates the debt, I would be left with nothing.”

  “You must decide for yourself, My Lord, how much you wish to interest yourself in the prince’s affairs. I can only repeat my instructions.”

  Still, it was clear that those instructions were not entirely displeasing to him. We had taken a dislike to each other, I and this man whose name I did not know, whose origins I could only guess at. We might find ourselves doing business, but the animosity would remain permanent.

  “I shall need time to consider the matter,” I said. “I will give you my answer at this time tomorrow evening, if that is convenient.”

  “It is quite convenient, My Lord. I shall wait upon you then and, if we can come to an understanding, I shall arrange a meeting with my patron.”

  “Does your patron have a name? Do you?”

  “My patron wishes, for the present, to remain anonymous. My own name is Ahab.”

  “And your patron would not by any chance be missing the least finger of his left hand?”

  Ahab of Jerusalem looked perplexed for a moment, as if he wondered whether some insult was being offered.

  “My patron is an elderly gentleman, Lord,” he answered finally. “He is plagued by many infirmities, yet such a loss is not among them.”

  “Then I bid you good night,” I said. “I will see you again tomorrow evening.”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  He bowed and departed. I was left to consider the matter in solitude.

  Ruin—that was what it would mean. I had no faith in Nekau’s chances in this crisis. And even if somehow he did survive, he was not a man to have any scruples about abandoning his friends. Should the prince default, I would not have enough fo
r bread to eat.

  Could I face that? I was the son of a king. All my life I had been surrounded by wealth and power. It is nothing to die a beggar, but could I live as one? I did not know.

  And then there was Nodjmanefer. I had to think of her as well.

  Glaukon had brought this upon me—I was sure of it. I was half angry with him, although certainly he had acted as a friend. Knowing that no one in Naukratis would give me decent terms, he had come up with this Ahab of Jerusalem. If that was who he was.

  I did not believe he had come from Saïs only to discuss this matter with me, as he claimed. Glaukon had seen me only that morning, and Saïs was a day’s journey. The man must have been in Naukratis to begin with, but why lie about it?

  Nothing made any sense.

  I sat in my tiny room drinking wine, I do not know how long. Certainly the street had been dark for some hours, and the tavern must have been closed, when the landlord’s wife entered my doorway. In her hand was a small papyrus scroll, sealed with wax.

  “A sailor brought this for you, My Lord,” she said, offering it to me. “His ship landed only half an hour ago, he told me to tell you. He came from Memphis.”

  I took the scroll, broke the seal, and read:

  “Tiglath, my love, there are terrible disorders in the city. A mob broke into our house this morning, and Senefru had to call soldiers to disburse them—many wretched people were killed. Senefru is half distracted in his mind and utters many frightful threats of what will happen if Pharaoh comes. Please return soon and take me from this city of death. For the first time I am really afraid.”

  The writing was Greek, but the name at the bottom was that of Nodjmanefer.

  So at last, it would seem, I was to have no choice. Suddenly the future stretched before me as a black, empty pit. A grave.

  “Will you require anything more, My Lord?”

  At first I did not even realize that she had spoken. Then I looked up and saw her smiling at me—she was thinking of twenty silver pieces. No doubt I looked a favorable chance, for I was drunk enough.

  But in that instant I hated her with a blind rage.

  “Be gone, harlot!” I shouted, throwing my wine cup at her so that it shattered not a handspan from her head. “Go and sleep in your husband’s bed for a change!”

  She screamed in fright and ran away. The whole house must have heard her scream—it seemed to echo in my mind as if it were trapped inside me. At last I covered my face with my hands to make it stop.

  XVI

  In the end, wrath is its own punishment. I slept but fitfully that night and woke up with a bad conscience and a worse head. In the morning Selana brought me breakfast and a small jug of very cold wine.

  “Drink this first,” she said, pouring me a cup. “No—I do not care if it does taste like pond water. You must drink yourself sober again before you will be fit for anything. You should be content to live a strictly temperate life, Master, for you always pay much too dearly for your debauches. The landlord’s wife, by the way, has been in a fearful rage all morning.”

  “I have no doubt of it.”

  The very smell of wine produced in me an almost overpowering impulse to vomit, but when I managed a few swallows I really did feel better. It was several minutes, however, before I could even look at the food.

  “It is safe to assume, then, that she did not collect her twenty silver pieces?” Selana raised her eyebrows in mockery. “I can almost pity her, since it must have been a great shock to her vanity. But at least I am consoled by the knowledge that I am not the only one whom you punish with your disdain.”

  “Damn you, you little bitch.”

  This, however, only made her laugh. I reached into my traveling chest and pulled out a small purse of coins.

  “Here—pay her her twenty pieces of silver. Pay her thirty. Tell her anything you like. Tell her I will sleep with her tonight if it pleases her. Better yet, tell her that as a boy of six I fell astraddle a wagon tongue and have been of no use to women since. Give me some more wine, Selana, and kindly school yourself to witness my discomfitures without such obvious relish.”

  She swept up the purse and disappeared, perhaps before I could change my mind. I had to pour my own wine, as it turned out, but by then it no longer tasted so evil and I was able to manage an enthusiastic start on breakfast.

  I felt better, and not only in my head and bowels. Perhaps that was more Selana’s doing than the wine’s, for she had the trick of reminding me that life was not all misery and darkness.

  And one’s affairs never seem as hopeless in the morning as they did the night before. I had other friends than Glaukon among the Greeks of Naukratis. I would consult with them—at the very least they might be able to tell me something of this deliberately mysterious Ahab of Jerusalem. If the man was to impoverish me, I owed it to myself better to make his acquaintance.

  The day’s inquiries, however, left me much as I had begun. No one was prepared to lend Nekau, Prince of Memphis and Saïs, the price of so much as a single measure of wheat.

  “Tiglath, you are a fool if you imagine he will spend any of what you give him to buy bread for the poor or peace in his own realms. It will all go to harlots and luxury, see if it does not. Pharaoh is wise to topple him, and his people will be the better for it.”

  “His people will not be the better for starving to death, or for being gutted by Pharaoh’s Libyan soldiers. And I will guarantee that the money is spent wisely—you may count on me to have enough sense for that.”

  “Nevertheless, if it is Pharaoh’s purpose that in Memphis they starve or perish by the sword, you will find no one here in Naukratis willing to oppose it.”

  Questions about Ahab of Jerusalem were just as fruitless.

  “His is not a name I have heard, but it is possible he may be in earnest. The Hebrews are a nation of poverty-stricken goatherds who understand nothing of statecraft or commerce.”

  This seemed to settle the matter. All doors were closed to me save one, and behind that one lay a threatening darkness.

  Still, I had no choice but to open it—how could I not?

  Enkidu and I went back to the tavern, and I shut myself in my room to lock out the din of Selana’s quarrel with the landlord’s wife, which gave indications of having been simmering through the full length of the day. Even among the Egyptians, normally the most placid of races, the heat was beginning to fray tempers.

  About an hour after sunset, Khonsmose made his customary apologetic entrance. This evening, however, he seemed unusually satisfied with life—he was smiling like a felon who, having confessed his crimes and repented of them, has been pardoned, given Pharaoh’s bounty, and once more finds himself turned loose upon the bright world.

  “Your Honor will be pleased to give his instructions concerning dinner?” he asked, even making so bold as to smile.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Only wine—I am expecting a guest.”

  He appeared not to hear me but continued to stand there, grinning, in an apparent stupor of bliss.

  “Are you quite well, my friend?” I finally felt compelled to ask.

  “Yes, very well, Your Honor, I and my wife both.”

  “I am delighted to hear it—and everything prospers between you, I trust?”

  He nodded vigorously, not at all taken aback by such a question, delighted to have found someone to whom he could confide the secret of his felicity.

  “Yes, Your Honor. My wife makes me the happiest of men.”

  Looking at him, I could well believe it. So it appeared that someone at least had profited from the distresses of the previous night.

  “Good. Then when the foreigner who was here yesterday comes again, will you bring him to me at once?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Still he remained, regarding me expectantly—was he waiting to render me a more complete account of his felicity? Perhaps a detailed history? I could very well imagine it all for myself.

  “Well then. . . Please g
ive your wife my most sincere respects.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  We continued in silence for several seconds more, and then at last Khonsmose seemed to recall something.

  “If Your Honor will excuse. . ?”

  “Yes, yes. . .” I dismissed him with a wave, watching him disappear through the doorway. In the end his wife would make his life a misery, but perhaps he already knew that—perhaps, today at least, he did not care. It was possible to envy him. I did not envy him his wife, but the fact that he loved her.

  My mind kept returning to Nodjmanefer and the child she carried in her womb. I had a son already, at home in Nineveh, but I could never acknowledge him—his mother was lady of the palace, so the king my brother must be his father. I had never even seen him.

  But there would be no one to stop me from owning this child as mine. I would take mother and child both and find someplace where we offended no one by being together. I was now eight and twenty years old, no longer young but still vigorous, and I would find a means of supporting those who depended on me.

  I would have a chance at real happiness. Was that not worth the surrender of all my wealth? It seemed so to me.

  Then perhaps I would no longer envy Khonsmose the tavern keeper, with his pretty wife.

  Several hours had passed before I raised my eyes and saw the face of Ahab of Jerusalem, who smiled at me as a cat might at a mouse. This time I did offer him wine.

  “My patron has considered the matter,” he said, almost without preamble. He sat before me, motionless, his hands hidden in the long sleeves of his dark-brown tunic. “He is prepared to loan the full five million emmer, but the additional two million must fetch a return of four million when the whole amount falls due.”

  “So at the end of a year Prince Nekau will owe nine million emmer. It is a considerable sum.”

  I paused and took a sip of wine, as if the matter did not concern me. In fact, it hardly did, for why should I care if the prince defaulted on nine million rather than five?

  “My own liability, however, must be limited to the sums presently deposited in my name with merchants both here and in Sidon,” I continued, smiling. “That includes virtually all my wealth, but you cannot extract from me what I do not have, and I will not tolerate that my family and household should be sold into slavery for no better reason than to reconcile your patron to having struck an unprofitable bargain.”