The Blood Star Page 8

  “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.

  The dinner was brought in—rice and millet, cooked vegetables, roasted lamb, even honeyed locusts. Kephalos, whose appetite I had never known to fail him, ate even more voraciously than usual, but Hiram hardly touched his food. He seemed only interested in wine.

  “Do you feel so starved after a few months on the caravan route?” he asked. “Or do you wish to show me that I have nothing to fear from poison—hah, hah, hah!”

  He shared the joke with no one. Kephalos did not laugh, and I, who sat behind him, still less. This seemed to annoy Hiram of Latakia.

  “I see your slave eats nothing,” he announced glumly.

  “He shows respect,” Kephalos answered. “He is a good servant.”

  “Perhaps not so good a servant to his last master—now, who would that have been?”

  This time he did not seem to care that he laughed alone.

  At last, and as if the subject had been forced on him, Kephalos shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’ve no idea. I know nothing of his history.”

  “Then perhaps he was a foundling, stolen by wicked genies. Perhaps his father was some great man—perhaps even a king.”

  “It seems unlikely enough to be true.”

  With his own hand, Kephalos poured more of the wine into his guest’s cup and his own. Hiram drank it off in almost a single swallow,
and Kephalos filled his guest’s cup yet again.

  “This is good wine,” Hiram said, as if he had just made the discovery. Already his speech was becoming slurred.

  “The best that this city can offer, the proprietor tells me—and I have no doubt that in Babylon the best is very good indeed.”

  Hiram shook his head, and then set the cup down. He seemed to have forgotten all about it. He was staring at me, frowning. He seemed to hate me.

  “Yes, I do believe it,” he murmured finally, almost to himself. “I do believe his father might have been a king.”

  His eyes narrowed, as if he were having trouble seeing.

  “You should light another lamp, Physician. It has grown confoundedly dim in here.”

  Kephalos nodded, without speaking. Then he reached across the table and took Hiram’s cup from between his unresisting hands. It was only then that I began to understand what was happening.

  “Come, Lord—help me with him.”

  Even as I rose from my seat, Hiram was beginning to sag in his chair. He was staring at us, his face expressive at once of the fear growing within his soul and the change, whatever it must have been, that had robbed him of all strength. He tried to speak, but his voice failed. He did not resist as Kephalos and I picked him up by his legs and arms and carried him over to a sleeping mat laid out in one corner of the room.

  “Look at his eyes,” Kephalos murmured. “This slackness will not last long.”

  I looked, and the pupils had contracted down almost to nothing. I did not know what it meant.

  “The doors of sight are nearly closed, as you see. It is no wonder he thought the light grown dim.”

  Kephalos took him by the wrist and raised his arm. When he released it, the arm hung suspended for a moment and then, only very slowly, sank back down to Hiram’s side.

  “He is already becoming rigid,” Kephalos said. “Excuse me, Lord.”

  He went into the next room, and I heard the sound of retching. When he came back, his face was pale and he seemed exhausted.

  “I lined my guts with oil, and made certain there was plenty of food in my belly to absorb the poison—a recipe I learned years ago from an Arab colleague of great learning. It was in the water with which we tempered the wine and it acts on the muscles, causing them to contract. It is like a cramp of the whole body. I am well enough, however. I have a headache but nothing more.”

  Then he squatted down beside the sleeping mat where Hiram lay, unable even to move now, and spoke to him.

  “Listen to me,” he said. “I have given you something to keep you quiet while my Lord Tiglath and I make good our escape, but it will not kill you unless you are very foolish. You are deprived of the power of motion, and even of speech. You must accept that. If you allow yourself to grow frightened or excited, there is a chance you will throw yourself into a convulsion, and you will be unable to breathe. Your own body will strangle you from the inside. Do you understand that?”

  It was impossible to know whether Hiram understood anything, since the only sound that came from him was a faint clicking inside his throat.

  “In three or four days, this paralysis will begin to wear off. You will be returned to the full enjoyment of health, but you must remain calm. By then we will be far, far away and out of your power to do us any harm. Remember, Hiram of Latakia, your life is in your own keeping. Stay quiet and you will recover.”

  Then Kephalos stood up and turned to me.

  “Take only your sword and javelin, Lord,” he said. “We must leave everything else—we must allow the proprietor to believe we have only stepped out for a little air. I have seen to everything. There is a boat waiting for us by the great bridge. Hurry, Lord—there is no time for reflection!”

  As we fled that place, I cast one glance back at Hiram, his lips trembling in a meaningless palsy. Perhaps it was all lies. Perhaps he would die—he looked like a dying man—and then my secret would have claimed another victim.

  IV

  “My guest has drunk himself into a stupor,” Kephalos told the proprietor of our inn. “I have left him to sleep himself sober—you would do well to advise your household slaves not to disturb him, since wine seems to make him quarrelsome and he will have a tender head when he wakes up.”

  The proprietor nodded sagely, stroking his beard. He was a man to recognize good advice when it was given to him. The walls of his inn were not thick and the doors no more than curtains, and yet he had heard nothing to suggest violence, not even the sound of raised voices. And he knew all about men like Hiram of Latakia. The Lord Hugieia of Naxos and his slave were taking the evening air to be out of the way of a troublesome drunkard—what could have seemed more natural? Besides, Kephalos had been wise enough to pay our reckoning for three days in advance.

  We walked calmly into the street. Babylon, like all the great cities of the east, never sleeps, so even at that hour of the night crowds engulfed us. We had not gone a hundred steps before we were lost in that multitude beyond any chance of discovery. We had made good our escape.

  “But did you kill him?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “You know perfectly well who.”

  Kephalos slowed his pace a little and glanced at me, his face puckering with annoyance.

  “My foolish young master, I am a Greek,” he replied, almost as if he expected this to be sufficient answer. “The farther we travel from Nineveh, the more forcefully I remember that I am, indeed, a Greek—a man born in the lands of clear sunshine, within hearing of the wine-dark sea. A Greek prizes his intelligence, he prefers cunning to violence, and he walks in fear of the gods. With each day of our journey I think more and more of my own gods, and of their horror at the deeds of men. No, I would not kill a guest at my own table, no matter how much he may have deserved it. Hiram of Latakia will recover to cause more trouble in the world.”

  “I am delighted to hear it.”

  “A man such as yourself, who has been a soldier, should be less dainty about the spilling of blood.”

  East and west, Babylon is divided by the width of the Euphrates River. Near the great bridge that spans it, famous for its stone pillars, like the legs of storks, we found a barge loading bales of oxhides. It was some forty cubits long and had a crew of five men. I saw Kephalos’ medicine box sitting on the pier, as if waiting for him.

  “I made all the arrangements through a leather merchant whose shop I noticed across the street from a brothel I happened to be patronizing—he robbed me, but I could hardly come down to the docks myself to buy passage. I was quite certain Hiram was having me followed.”

  “We will travel thus to Ur, which is as far south as your brother’s hand can reach after us. How we shall proceed from there I know not.”

  Neither did I, but, like Kephalos, I was content for the moment simply to be at liberty and thus willing enough to let the future look after itself.

  Kephalos introduced himself to the scribe who sat on the pier, making marks upon a clay tablet as each bale was loaded on board, and it seemed we were expected. The scribe, a eunuch with thin arms and the manners of a woman, sent his servant for beer, and we refreshed ourselves as the work progressed. It was nearly morning before the barge, resting low in the water, was ready to depart.

  So near its end, the Euphrates runs wide and deep, and its coils are as many as a serpent’s. There is hardly any current—one simply drifts—but the boatmen are not afraid to travel at night because they have only to keep to the great central channel to avoid running aground. Thus we were six days between Babylon and Ur, never once setting our feet on the dry land.

  Yet it was a pleasant journey. The wrath of kings seemed far away. It was as tranquil a six days as I have spent in my life.

  Ur is a famous city, but I remember hardly anything of it. We were there only a few hours—long enough to drink more wine than was good for us and then steam it out in the sweat baths. Long enough to hire another boatman who undertook to carry us to our destination, our on
ly hope of safety, the last place on earth.

  This time it was my task to strike the bargain, for the fellow understood only the thick, tortured Akkadian of the southern lands, a dialect to which Kephalos’ ears could not seem to grow atuned.

  “You want to go to the Great Water, then?” the boatman asked, screwing his eyes tight, as if looking into our faces were no different from looking straight into the sun.

  Our destination was a point that needed to be settled, but he had no curiosity beyond it. He was a man who had lived long enough to learn the virtues of minding his own business.

  “Can one find ships there?”

  “Oh yes, many ships.”

  He nodded—if we wanted ships we could have them, for it was nothing to him.

  Kephalos and I exchanged a glance. Yes, of course. He could only be talking about the Bitter River that flows around the circumference of the world. From there we would be certain to find places on a trading ship that would carry us to Egypt.

  “Then take us there. How long a journey is it?”

  “If we leave now, I will be back to sleep with my own wife tomorrow night. And we will leave now if you will pay me now.”

  That seemed all the answer we were going to receive.

  “Then we will leave now,” I said, counting out the agreed-upon number of shekels into his hand.

  Kephalos began to say something and then seemed to think better of it. His eyes fixed on the boat, which floated on the sluggish water like a dead leaf. He was not enthusiastic.

  I could not really blame him. The boat was hardly even a boat at all, merely bundles of huge reeds tied together and coated on the outside with bitumen—a little wider in the center and fitted with narrow wooden benches that a few men might sit down in her, but for the most part seeming as slender and insubstantial as a blade of grass that the wind had carried into a puddle.

  The boatman sat in the rear and pushed away from land with his oar. It was already evening, and behind us the lamps in the city watchtowers flickered like a warning. As the light faded, as the darkness became as tangible as the black river and the solid shore dropped away and out of sight, I began to share Kephalos’ sense of unease—it was as if we had separated ourselves forever from the ordered world of men and returned to that chaos that reigned before the god first divided the sky from the dry land and the water from both.