The Father's Curse
All knew that the oldest son of King Manishtusu was by no means the favorite. There was often talk that this may have had something to do with his bitch of a mother-she who had been stoned publicly for having dared to lay hands on one of the royal guard. Some said that he even resembled the woman-he had her eyes, and her fair skin. He seemed like a Northerner.
As he grew to manhood, certain differences between himself and his father became apparent. The young man was bright-his intelligence and capacity for study were the admiration of his teachers, but his father despised this in him-and as soon as he could-sent him into battle.
Part of Manishtusu hoped that this would break him-he hated the handsome child who seemed not to be his son. He hated the easy way he had with women, he hated the way he had brought a light to Sargon's old age-but above all-he hated the way the boy looked at him after Sargon died. And when Rimush died after a certain palace intrigue-and there had been nothing, Manishtusu was certain, to connect himself with this intrigue-that look in Naram-Sin's eyes only intensified. He thought that by sending this sensitive young man into battle-that look would be gone forever. He thought this would make him understand the importance of loyalty to his King.
This was a thing that had not happened. Naram-Sin proved to be a lion in battle. He quickly advanced through the ranks, and even at a young age, proved to be a leader of men. He had a trick of showing no fear-only confidence. Even older men appreciated in him his singular toughness of mind.
The King's son had returned from battle against the Lullubians-whom he had decimated. Already, the people spoke of raising a monument to commemorate that. He stood before him like a young god, strong and victorious. Never should a father be more proud of his own son.
Never did Manishtusu hate Naram-Sin more.
Already he could tell that his years as King would not be long. He was well familiar with the succession of Kings. If he had gained his own crown by intrigue-how might this popular warrior gain his own crown?
****
Well, to that there could be named one correction. There had been an instant in which he hated the boy more. There was the time when the sullen-faced boy was brought before his grandfather, not long after the bitch had been put to death. Sargon had placed one large hand on the boy's shoulder, and looked into his face, searchingly. Manishtusu had cringed, wondering what the senile old man might say, and when he finally said it, the cringe had turned to a blank look of rage.
"Yes, you would be the son of Anath-Sin. I knew your mother, very well, in fact. A fine woman. You should never be ashamed to have come from her. She is one of the bravest women I have ever known."
The worst thing about Sargon's senility was that he spoke of her as if she were not dead. And worse than that-he spoke of her endlessly to the boy-and the boy never seemed to tire of hearing it. Half of it had to be utter lies. What woman could take on a company of forty with a mere group of ten all equipped with short swords? What woman would ride over the course of two days and three nights to simply deliver a message? What woman knew enough about the art of war to devise schemes that bewildered battle-hardened generals?
But then he would think on the violently angry naked woman who held the point of her sword-some ancient copper blade-to his throat, and in one moment made his life flash before his very eyes. Perhaps she would. But surely she could not have had an acquaintance with Sargon as long as he made it out to be. That would have to be impossible-she had the face of a child even when her broken, battered body must have been carried away.
(Secretly, this worried him most of all-what had become of the body of Anath-Sin? He had dreams, at times, of her appearing by the side of his bed with that sword, and would awake in a cold sweat.)
It was in a rage at one of the ridiculous tales that Sargon spun for the boy, that he flung the sword at Naram-Sin, who caught it deftly-too damn deftly, for Manishtusu's liking.
"This was your mother's blade-you should carry it to remember her. After all-she is just a memory. Learn to use a sword bravely-make a name for yourself and have a legacy half of what hers was!"
How old had he been then? He had perhaps twelve years-and he held that sword out, pointing it at his father.
"I will."
The way the boy said it caused him to fear. He wondered if the boy did not think to use it against him-the boy always seemed to regard him with a look of suspicion, as if he blamed him for some great wrong.
He never knew Naram-Sin witnessed the stoning of Anath-Sin.
All he knew was that the boy hated him every bit as much as he hated the boy. As much as he once wanted him for an heir-he now rather wished there were a way to dispose of him.
****
As the young man stood before him, he could plainly feel his life flashing before his eyes again, just the way it had when Anath-Sin held the sword on him. Manishtusu now had other sons, after all-sons more like himself-sons he even felt relatively sure were his own. Sons whose eyes didn't frighten him with their intensity, and whose deeds did not make his own pale by comparison.
"My Father and my King-I have vanquished the rebels in the west. They gave up their spoils to me-they've sworn allegiance, as did the Goutis before them. Further could I have gone-to extend our realm, but I heard that you wished me to be by your side, and so I came. I came out of respect for you, Father."
If respect ever felt like anger, or "Father" ever sounded like "old man who should be kicked off of the throne," this was how it seemed to Manishtusu.
He gathered his composure. He looked at the man before him-realizing now how fully he had become a man. Part of him wished to say something less than political-but he would not, knowing how many eyes were before them. He would not be beheld displaying his feelings so plainly.
"I wanted you close to us, as you are dear to the people, and I would have them see for themselves their hero. You have done some very brave things, and are thought well off-particularly by myself," Manishtusu said, and made his features into a smile.
"I am always pleased to be welcomed back into the arms of the people of Akkad, and to see my father again. I would have you know, however, that I could have extended the realm further-there was more I could have done!" The young man strode forward with a purpose, and seemed close enough to Manishtusu that he almost perceptibly shrank in his seat before the will of the Prince. "I could have gone to the further reaches-to bring our reach out to where it went in the green days of Sharrukkin. In honor to Sargon, and yourself, I would do this."
The light in those eyes-suddenly pale and piercing-sent a shudder through him.
"But rather," he answered, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. "You showed honor to me by coming here." He lowered his voice to a whisper-imperceptible, he hoped, to any other nearby. "Son, you would have the world at your feet?"
The look never diminished. "Father, I would have the world at my feet, or I would have it burn."
Raising his voice again to where the assembly could hear it, the King then said, "It is good to have you home, our favored son."
But to himself, he added, where I might keep a better eye on you.
****
Naram-Sin had not lied when he said he would have preferred to go on and continue the war waged out to the very ends of the known world. When he found himself with a sword in hand, he felt alive. Although killing his fellow man had appalled him at first-he easily saw that this was a thing he did well-and this was a thing that would make his fame known-to be a great warrior. Was that not what his father wanted?
Was not that what Sargon had been? It was he who had united Akkad and Sumer, and raised this house to its excellence. And oddly enough-he believed that to be what Anna would have wanted of him. Sargon suggested as much.
He missed the old man. He was never certain if his grandfather was telling him tales-or telling him the raw truth-but one thing was certain-he had held Anna in high esteem. He spoke highly of her, and made it seem almost as if she were not gone. He brought her to life through his words, speaking of her knowledge of the ways of men. That was the one quality Sharrukkin came back to again and again-her wisdom, making it seem as if she had been herself old-like Sharrukkin himself!
Listening to the old man speak, he would think back on what he had seen-it was a thing he did not like to think on-but he did all the same. He had never been sure if it had been real, or just a hopeful dream-he wondered at times about this-and decided it might even be true.
Perhaps, after she was stoned, and seemed dead, she had risen, just as he believed he had seen. Perhaps she was borne away by some man on horseback. Perhaps she was still alive, and that was why there was no grave for her.
But he had no faith in this, or in anything else.
The only thing he could find to really have faith in, was himself.
What more could he need?
****
Being in battle had taught him watchfulness-and somehow, being under the same roof with his father made him feel the need to be wary. He had his suspicions about the death of his uncle, Rimush, and knowing what had befallen Anath-Sin, he found himself wondering if he knew why he had been called home.
He did not trust his father. He found himself watching every move the man made, as if expecting some action to give him away. Of course, nothing did. Manishtusu was very much the politician. That, of course, made him feel all the more concern.
That was why he felt a moment's relief when U'bad informed him that his father would not be at the feast. Apparently, he was quite tired, and had taken to his bed.
At least, the man could not be plotting mischief in his sleep!
The only downside to that would be that he would now have to make an appearance of his own at this thing. Although it was to be in his honor, he did not care for such things-being surrounded by people he did not care for, being forced into small-talk and pleasantries, and then, of course, there were the women. It wasn't that he had no use for them-he actually had found several uses for them. But they insisted on talking. And they seemed to view him as some kind of a "catch." Of course, being the oldest son of the king would have something to do with that.
Strange that the thing he least liked made him most popular with women.
And of course, the minute he entered the hall-eyes were upon him. He tried to convince himself that facing a roomful of dangerously boring people was no worse, really, than facing a horde of spear-wielding savages. He was less than convinced, but maintained his confidence. One's bearing, he had learned, was everything.
*****
It wasn't until he spied the men entering his room that he knew for certain why he was called home. He had not been able to sleep from his irritation with the entire evening he had suffered through-and a good thing that was! Two-only two. He felt insulted that his father had so little opinion of him. They died.
The house was quiet. Quiet even as he dragged the bodies into the chamber of Manishtusu. Quiet, even as the old man struggled, and died.
The tale the next day was of his bravery. The house was a-buzz with the tale. Two assassins, slain by the prince. Although, alas, he had come too late to save his father. And also, alas, he was wounded in the process.
But nevertheless, what he had done was brave, and it was thought he would make a fine king.