Pumayyaton’s Treachery

Legend has it that a royal child conceived on her parents’ wedding night holds special powers. Some say they are magical powers. To encourage a fruitful coupling, the wedding chamber is bedecked with sacred amulets, dishes of sweet oils, and baskets of aromatic herbs urging a robust libido and timely fertility. Wind chimes and trickling water and trays of foods known for their aphrodisiac properties encourage the couple to relax and indulge their carnal desires. The wedding night of Elishat and Acerbas was no different, with one exception. A child conceived of the high priest Acerbas and the priestess Princess Elishat would be worshipped by the people of Tyre as a demi-god. When the child took his first tottering steps or wrestled a puppy, they would proclaim him a great athlete, a hero. If she gurgled a sound vaguely resembling a word, they would sing praises to her poetic genius. If he picked a flower and held it to his nose, they would consecrate the plant as sacred to the gods. Most notably, the child could pose a serious threat to the ruling power on the throne.

            Above the city, the new moon hung in a cloudless sky. Acerbas retired to the nuptial bedchamber. His servants had relieved him of his crown and ceremonial robes and prepared a bath of manly eucalyptus and juniper. They had combed his wavy, black hair and beard, dressed him in handsome robes and, leaving a guard outside the door, wished him a good night. He lay back on the comfortable bed, but his mind was not entirely free of concern. He had never trusted Pumayyaton, not even when the King was a young prince, and he knew he was inviting danger by taking Princess Elishat as his wife. He had confided in her completely, warning her of the risks, even telling her, in case something should happen to him, where the temple treasure was hidden. But, he told himself, this was his wedding night. The day had gone well. There had been no skirmishes and no arrests. The dim lamplight on the far side of the room gave off a soft, relaxing glow. He closed his eyes and dozed, waiting for his bride to come to him.

            Meanwhile, in her private dressing chamber, Elishat’s assistants lifted the golden crown from her head and placed it in a circular cedarwood box. Elishat sighed and stroked the muscles in her neck, glad to be relieved of the beautiful, heavy burden. They removed her wedding gown and bathed her with sea sponges drenched in rosewater, patted her dry, plaited her hair with orange blossoms, and held her robes as she slipped them on. They made a quiet fuss about her, telling one another what to do so that everything would be perfect. It was, after all, her wedding night.

            From an unseen place in the alleyway below, a figure dressed in black climbed swiftly and silently up the side of the building, taking hold in the crevices in the stone. He crept across the roofline, stopping only once to make sure he hadn’t been seen. He started toward Elishat’s window but stopped when he spied the Princess attended by a bevy of servants. He went a few steps further and, lying flat against the rooftop, whistled three short bursts. One might have taken them for the midnight call of a nightingale. The guard outside the bedroom door returned an all-clear whistle. The man in black slipped silently through Acerbas’s open window and approached the bed.

            Acerbas stirred. “Come to me, Elishat,” he whispered.

            Without hesitation, the man pulled a dagger from his belt and plunged it deep into the heart of the Melqart. Acerbas hadn’t a breath to call out and no time to resist. The assassin left the knife in place and fled across the rooftops while the unfaithful guard slunk down the steps and slipped unseen into the night.

            Elishat entered the groom’s chamber a few minutes later and whispered her husband’s name. When he didn’t reply, she thought he might be sleeping. She approached the bed and noticed a wedge of metal glinting in the lamplight and a strange pool of dark liquid surrounding his body on the bed. She called out to him but there was no answer. Suddenly, the truth of what she was seeing struck home. She shouted his name again. Desperate to revive him, she rushed forward and pulled the knife from his chest, but it was too late; the Melqart had died the moment the assassin’s weapon pierced his heart. Elishat stared at the bloody knife in her hand and staggered back, stunned by what she saw. This was not just any dagger. The finely crafted insignia PMTY above the handle very clearly identified its owner: Pumayyaton. She let the dagger drop to the floor and cried out in anguish as she collapsed against her husband’s lifeless body.

The servants rushed into the room, their oil lamps illuminating the gruesome scene. They recoiled in shock and stood motionless at the bedside. Elishat rose from the bed, her blood-soaked robes glistening in the lamplight. Hot tears flowed down her cheeks. She reached down and picked up the dagger and held it up for all to see. In a tone as sharp as the weapon in her fist, she cried out.

“Pumayyaton’s treachery! He didn’t even try to hide his crime. When the people of Tyre learn that the Melqart lies murdered by Pumayyaton’s dagger, they will condemn this evil deed and revile all those responsible for it. You had better decide which side you are on, for the consequences will be grave indeed.”

Elishat laid the knife on the bed and ran to a basin in the corner of the room, but emptying her stomach did nothing to relieve the wave of panic taking control of her body. Among the thoughts racing wildly through her mind, one clear fact stood out: If it hadn’t been for the presence of her servants, the assassin would have entered Elishat’s room and killed her, too, and now, without the Melqart to protect her, she had to face the danger alone. She felt the room start to sway. She thought she might faint until she heard the calm and familiar voice of Acerbas speaking decisively to her from the back of her mind: “Not alone. Make a plan and follow it. I will be with you—wherever you go.”

Elishat grasped the horn moon pendant that hung around her neck. The talisman endowed her with the right to rule, a right denied her for seven years since her father’s death. She looked at her servants, a petrified forest of fear. The words, “wherever you go,” made no sense. Why, she thought, I’m not going anywhere. The answer came in a flash: a solution so simple that it resolved several problems all at once. It also involved considerable risk. Her mind continued to race but her thoughts took a new direction. Make a plan and follow it, he’d said. Yes, she could do that. She would do that, but she would have to handle the next few hours very carefully. She wasn’t sure whom she could trust, and she couldn’t afford to make the slightest mistake. First, she would meet with General Barca, and then, she would prepare for the cremation ceremony.

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