The Same
Even in far-off Lagash, twice-ruined, city of past indiscretions, the story reached her-told in whispered tones:
"The king is mad-he's been poisoned-he calls for his mother as if she were alive. He has taken himself to Uruk to be buried-he will not live."
When she heard the tale, she dared not stay. No, she could not stay-not if it were true. If it were poison, the king might not live, and it would be all her fault. She should have been there; no one would have dared come near enough to betray him if she had been there. Anath-Sin cursed at herself for the thousandth time in the days since she first reunited with him.
It was all her fault. He could actually die.
She knew this to be true. She had seen the light go out of a young one's eyes, permanently. If one were killed so slowly that the power was not caused to rise, flame-like, then the glow of the potential Immortality went out, like an improperly kindled ember. She knew it could happen.
Gritting her teeth against the wind and the dust flying into her face, she whipped the horse on, tears stinging her eyes. What would they think of a stranger woman on horseback? How would they let her see him? None of this mattered to her, nor did any of the things that had passed at their last meeting. No matter what he had done, she told herself, she could not let it go. Not like this, with him calling for her.
She thought of the time she rode from Nippur to pursuit of Manishtusu and his men. Could she have been more desperate then? She did not think so. But the feeling behind it was the same-she must see him again.
It was only that she did not know what she would do once she did.
The thoughts bled through her mind-take him, or let him pass. It should have been an easy choice-what sort of an Immortal would he become, with his stubborn will and carelessness towards life?
She knew the answer to that. He would only become like herself. He would be everything she hoped he would not be.
But still, knowing that he could yet live, did she have the right to let him die? This, she did not know. It would be selfishness, she knew. It would be valuing her own heart above what she knew to be right. It would be fostering another killer, a thing she had sworn she would not do.
She almost thought she could hear him calling out to her, and her heart was breaking as she continued riding, still beside herself. The notion of taking either course tortured her. Go with one, and disobey her reason. Go with the other, and disobey her heart.
*****
She came to the gate of the city. She looked to the palace, and she could see a procession of torches flowing from thence to the tombs. In a sickening moment, she recalled her last words to him-that she would meet him at the tomb. That she would see him dead. Her heart almost stopped. Long had it been her curse to utter a true thing-now it was working against her. Kicking against the flanks of the beast, she approached.
Anath-Sin knew the ways of death-it is devious. One might, for all the world, seem dead, and yet there be a spark of life. Or, a body might retain some warmth and tinge of color, and yet have no spark therein. She knew there may yet be hope, if she could only reach the body.
At her approach, the procession nearly halted. They knew not what she was-she seemed a spirit. She realized what she must have seemed, and so she hailed them,
"It is I, Anath-Sin, his kinswoman, who come. I heard the word-and I must see him ere he is entombed."
One man stepped forward, and she knew him instantly. He was Lilitu, the man who had brought her before Naram-Sin at their first meeting.
"It does him no good, lady. He is passed."
Her heart pounded. She would not believe it.
"Speak better, sir. How long has been his passing?"
The man shook his head. He could not speak. Another spoke in his stead, a man with a gray beard and wizened face.
"You are Anna? We thought he spoke of his mother-but it is you he called for with his last breath. Two hours have passed-he sank from raving to a sleep, and then to this. It is only fit to bury him before the corpse breed contagion."
Anath-Sin dismounted. "What manner of poison did this to him? My people know the healing art. If I know what manner of poison, I may know the means by which it acts, and work a cure."
"He is dead, or if he live yet, he shall not fare well," the man responded with certainty.
"You are the one who attempted his cure?" Anath-Sin asked, beginning to feel a rage burning in her breast. She knew the way of most men who claimed to practice the healing arts-they were often idiots, mumbling spells, and getting the medicines wrong, and often doing more harm than good.
"That I was," the man answered.
Anath-Sin drew her blade, and the company gasped. She sank the tip into the skin of her arm, and let it heal before their eyes, knowing it would seem to them a magic.
"Have ever you effected such a cure?" she demanded.
He shook his head. "Never. Never." He was in shock.
"So, the wise man can admit his ignorance. What was it that led him to this state? The poison made by men?"
"It was the bite of a cobra-an accident. But a cure for that is unknown."
She could remember the long-ago voice of Karn, explaining to Tarmok-"I have seen a man yet live."
"Lay him in the tomb, and leave us. I may yet work a miracle."
So long had it been her custom to lead men, and so surprising was the deed she had done, that it was done as she said. Long ago, she had learned one trick of dealing with many persons-realize that they are often less rational in numbers than they are singly. This had never proven to be otherwise.
They lay the litter on top of the bier of Manishtusu, and then exited, leaving her alone with the body and a torch to light the tomb. She concentrated, closing her eyes. The spark was there. It was like the glow of a tiny candle, but it was failing.
She looked on his face. He seemed but to sleep-but she could not perceive him to breathe. She realized he would hear nothing she could say. She went to her knees, and took his hand.
"I am sorry I could not have given you a life you would enjoy."
Her voice sounded hollow even to herself. Had she not told him never to get into the habit of lying to himself? And yet here she was, lying to herself. She could give him a life. It was not too late. The only question was, did she dare?
She saw a glint of something in the torchlight, and she rose to inspect it. It was her sword-the one he taunted her with when he went to her in Nippur. He had held on to it all those years since she had dropped it in the palace, and he had it even now. Could it be that he had intended to be buried with it? Did that not mean that he cared for her, even still?
She lifted it. The weight was not unfamiliar-the weight of a sword never was. It seemed that all she had done her life long was lift weapons to slay her fellow man-and she had liked this one a great deal. She could tell the story of this blade. It was crafted for her by a man name of Dur-Zaggisi. The intertwined snakes stood for life. With it, she slew thirty Elamites in a single day for Sargon. And once, for the memory of Uta-nammu, she lay it aside for what she thought was forever. Holding it, she knew what she would do-she knew she had never had a choice.
She could still feel that little spark within him-was this what Imhotep had called the ba? Was this the elusive soul-the thing she had caused to flee from so many breasts in her day? But now, she would not be sending forth that soul. She could not bear to see it go.
"My young god, Kronos. My gift for you," she whispered. "A good death."
She cradled his head in one arm, and then, holding the sword-handle in her hand, plunged the blade in. There could be no question now that life had still resided in him. His eyes flew open, and he gasped. Calmly, she drew the sword out, and waited. It would only be a matter of moments.
She could then perceive the sensation-one she had perceived before, but it never ceased to be a miracle. The spark grew to a fire. He would live. He stirred, and she held his arms down, tightly. He would live, but these first moments, he might be unpredictable.
"My dear young god, I could not see you go."
"Anna, what have you done?"
*****
When his eyes opened to fix upon her face, she was the first and the last person he thought he would see. He had dreamed she would come, and he had also despaired of her ever returning, even with her oath. He wondered if he might be dreaming still-but then he looked down to see the blood on his chest.
"Shh," she began, gently. "The first time is often the hardest. It grows easier, with practice."
"What have you done?" he asked again, and she could hear something in his voice. She did not know what it was, she was only too happy to be hearing it again.
"Dearest heart-we are the same," she said. "I wished I could have told you before, but it was better this way. This is your first death. You are like me. You can not die."
If she thought she detected something of horror in his eyes, she did not let on. She only released his arms that he might move freely. He sat up, still staring down at the blood on himself. He placed his hand to where the wound had been.
"Like you? I can not die?"
"This is only the beginning, my love. There is so much I need to teach you. There are so many things you'll need to learn. But I will teach you."
"Teach me?" he echoed, and then placed his foot on the marble floor. He flinched and she went to steady him. Now, she was certain the look on his face was one of horror. "Anna, how can this be? Was it the blood? Was it sharing the blood?"
She shook her head. "No. You were always to be this way, and needed only your first death. When I stabbed you, that was what made the trick work."
"And the poison?"
"Would have killed you. But now, only one thing can."
He stepped away from her. He regarded his hands, and then, he touched his face. His eyes widened.
"No. It won't heal an old wound. It will only work on a new one." She went towards him, but something stopped her. He didn't seem in any way happy to still be alive. In fact, he seemed horrified by the fact! "What is wrong? You are not dead. Is that not enough for you?"
He laughed then, a miserable sound.
"I taunted the serpent so that I might die."
She swayed on her feet, half-afraid that she might faint, but she dared not show such weakness in his presence. The simplicity of the statement was all she needed to feel that it was true, and she could only imagine what sort of unhappiness made it so. It was the sort of unhappiness she had given him. She wanted to reach out for him, but found that she couldn't.
"Say it is not true, Kronos. Please. It can not be so."
"A young god. You make me a king, and then a god." He reached out and seized her by the shoulders, so quickly and tightly that she bit her lip in fear. "What will kill me? What? You won't tell me, because that's how you would die. You and your secrets."
The tears began to stream down her face. "I have no secrets from you. That sword…pick up the sword. Take my head, and you'll know soon enough what will kill us. If I have made you so miserable, I deserve to die."
He let go of her shoulders, and then made no further move. She stared at him, sadly, and then she went to pick up the blade. She placed it in his hands, and let it rest on her shoulder.
"I'm old. There are people who slaver after my head like a dog for blood. If you survive the act of killing me…"
"No," he responded. "I can't do that." He lowered the sword to his side.
"Then come with me. I have done everything wrong by you-everything. Let me make it up to you. I can not help that you are Immortal. But I can show you things-things of which you never dreamed. We are the same. I should have realized this was no life for you. I should have known by looking on you what you were meant to be."
He stared at her, curiously. "What I was?"
She smiled, and kissed him. "Meant to be. It should have been obvious to me. I was right in placing you here-to be a king. Because of your anger. Your strength. You belong in battle. Remember my promise? I said I could teach you things-that I could deliver the world to you.
"Well, I will. If you will only ask for it."
He did not answer her, but wrapped his arms around her. She considered that answer enough. But feeling that they had spent quite enough time in the tomb, she then said,
"But my love, I believe this conversation would be better continued in the palace. In your chamber."
By which she meant, "in his bed." But she scarcely needed to say that.
*****
She lay beside him and looked at him. He was a mystery. Every man was a mystery-most were simply easier to figure out. She wondered if she would ever figure him out. Everything he did confounded her.
"Why would you have them bring you to Uruk to be buried, you, a king of Akkad?" she asked.
"My mother was of Sumer…so they will say."
"Ah."
"They will say that. And also, that my father was Sargon. But they will never know the truth."
"Already you begin to rewrite your life. Good. It is a thing we all do."
"Who had the man been?"
She stared at him, blankly. "Man?"
"Who led you away-on horse-all those years ago. The way you came here-and my memories are of you riding on an ass. This is not a common way-not even in Taurus. Nowhere in my kingdom is that a common way-but to you, it is. And you have carried a sword. That was another, wasn't it? He was like you."
She sighed.
"Of course. Why should there not be others? And from there, we traveled to places where that was the common way. It would not be a bad art for your army to learn-but of course, the expense." She turned, as if to sleep. She did not care to speak about Methos at the moment. It seemed strange that he should be so curious.
"You did not lie to me about not knowing my mother or father?"
Then she understood. Of course, if they were of the same breed, he could still entertain thoughts of her being his literal kin. She thought, for a fleeting instant, what manner of child she and Methos would have brought forth. The image she conceived nearly made her laugh-his features, her hair. But she did not laugh, knowing he was serious.
"Has any woman ever carried to you the report of being with your child?" she began.
"No…"
"But surely…from all that I can tell…you have been with women. More than a few." She took a careful look on his face; true to his breeding, he looked away from her. She kissed him. "No woman will ever carry that tale back to you, or if she does, she lies. None of us have children. We can not. And so our legacy lies in our fame."
"And what should I know of your fame? You can make a man a king? A god? Promise the world?"
She looked on him long and considered her answer. There were places in the world were her name was yet known. There were plains to the north she had ridden over and scorched the earth. There were cities even within his own kingdom she had a hand in the sack of at one time or another.
"Did Sargon tell you how he put down Elam?"
He said nothing. She smiled. Of course, Sargon had told him. Why would he not tell the tale of such a victory?
"My dear young god…not the cedars of Byblos, nor the gems of Tyre, not the copper mountains, not anything you ever desired, are beyond our grasp. Give me any river, any company of men, any ships, any oxen, any chariots-no, not such as are used in processions, but fine chariots drawn by mules. Have arrows made ready, and oil for burning. Have spears made ready. And they are useless, without a person who knows what to do with them.
"Should you ever find one person with a mind for warfare, you have a thing that gold can not pay for. I have such a mind. Now sleep! You've been dead today, and I've always found that a very tiring exercise."
And with that, she gave his arm a squeeze. "Made for the sword. If you dream of battle, then perhaps we are truly the same. I had thought it might be otherwise, but I am glad that I was wrong. But make me a promise, love." She could feel her eyelids growing heavy. She only just now thought of this thing, however, and realized it must be said.
"Hmm?"
"We rebuild the temple at Nippur. That was really wrong…wasting the city so."
When he finally had an answer, he saw that she was asleep. He was not certain what it was he was lying next to, only that she belonged to him, and promised him everything. He closed his eyes, and when he dreamed, it was of war.