The Eye of Treason
THE EYE OF TREASON
by Mike Holt
“You wanted my eyes, and now you’ll only see pain.” He drew his last breath. Through his single eye, he would forever see visions of his courageous mother, witnessing the eternal damnation of a man who attempted to change his fate all too late. He had captured redemption in his paradise.
Nimrud cautiously stepped in front of the prince to announce that thirty shekels were missing from the coffers. Thievery was not tolerated in any court, but especially not under Sargon. Once exposed, the malefactor would be dealt with severely by the Ensi, who paid his servants better than any ruler in the nearest or farthest provinces. To steal from this city-state was to spit in the face of Sargon’s graciousness. Intolerable. Incredible. Unforgivable. Death was coming.
Sargon instructed Nimrud to search the servants' quarters. “And bring me Ezra!” the prince demanded, calling for the court’s bookkeeper. As a skilled and loyal slave, Ezra held Sargon's respect—or as much respect as a prince could afford a servant. Because Ezra tracked the harvest, the silver mines, and the payments to the court's creditors, he occupied a privileged position. But even status could not save him. Death was coming.
After orchestrating a search of everyone with access to the mint, Nimrud escorted Ezra to the feet of the prince. Sargon demanded, “Is it true, according to your impeccable books, that the treasury is short, slave?” Ezra felt a chill. The prince normally treated him with familiarity, but now Ezra knew exactly where the accusation would land. He answered in the affirmative, promising his prince that he would uncover the discrepancy. While Sargon pressured the bookkeeper, Nimrud quietly slipped away, returning moments later with thirty shekels in hand. “My prince, this slave deceives you,” Nimrud announced. “I found the silver hidden behind loose bricks in the chamber you so graciously granted him.” Ezra was astonished but said nothing. A conspiracy was at play, but he did not yet know who was involved. Silence was his only shield. Death was coming.
“My prince, there is no need for further inquiry,” Nimrud said. “The bookkeeper has access to both the treasury and the ledgers. Why he did not alter the records to hide his crime, I do not know. But perhaps a session will lead us to the truth, my lord.”
“So be it, Nimrud. Bring in the enforcer.”
In truth, the enforcer was Nimrud himself, serving Sargon as both chief adviser and torturer. He had maimed, broken, and killed so many men for so many princes that he could see nothing but misery through his own woeful eyes. This session might be the last he could endure without renewed sight—a sight he fully intended to steal from the morally sound accountant. Yes, death was coming.
Over a lifetime of butchery, Nimrud had renewed his vision with the eyes of his victims many times. Eventually, the accumulated horrors of torment and execution grew too heavy, clouding his gaze with darkness. The rules of his grim ritual required the victim to yield their sight through a final, coerced confession. Nimrud specifically targeted those of unblemished moral character—souls whose eyes had never looked upon the evils he inflicted. By stealing their purity, he could start anew with clear sight, only to inevitably corrupt those new eyes over time. This was the true reason he framed the loyal Ezra. He coveted the bookkeeper's gaze. It was time, once again, for Nimrud to feed his vision. Death was calling.
At Sargon’s nod, the bookkeeper was dragged to a distant chamber, well out of earshot of the main court. The prince remained ignorant of Nimrud’s true motive, believing only that a thief was about to face justice. Nimrud began the ritual exactly as he always did. He strapped the slave to a raised, inclined bench so that his legs dangled uselessly off the edge, his arms pulled taut by ropes bound tightly at the shoulders and wrists. Ezra resolved to stay silent, though the session would be brutal. Death was near.
Ezra knew what awaited him, though he gave no sign. Having been a fixture of the court for so long, he had witnessed this pattern all too often. The enforcer’s grim work was hard to hide, even from Sargon, who simply looked away—keeping the evil close enough to exploit, but at arm's length. Sargon was far from benevolent, but he possessed something Nimrud lacked: a buffer for his conscience. Sargon, son of Nun, had learned from his father that ruling demanded sacrifice. Nun’s sacrifice had been appearing weak to his rivals to win the loyalty of his subjects. Sargon’s sacrifice was self-delusion; he projected absolute power, but lacked the stomach for the butchery required to maintain it. Those deeds were left to Nimrud and his darkening soul. He brought death.
Strapped to the bench, arms sprawled wide, Ezra forced his mind to anchor in the present. He wanted to be fully aware of what was coming. Before the enforcer began his grim craft, he leaned in and whispered the truth—a truth Ezra already knew. Nimrud admitted to the frame, confessing that it was the bookkeeper's eyes he sought. The ritual demanded verbal consent, and because Ezra remained silent, the coercion began. Nimrud, his vision choked with death, had to avert his gaze as he drew his blade and severed the great toe of Ezra's right foot, then his left. To the enforcer's surprise, Ezra did not utter a sound. The next two toes were claimed with the same defiant silence from the bleeding bookkeeper.
“How do you not scream in anguish, slave?” Nimrud demanded, perplexed.
Ezra replied, “I am already dead by your hand, lord. I will not give you the satisfaction. You cannot even look upon your own deeds; your face is turned away because your eyes are full to the whites with hate and devastation. You are weak. I am strong. Do your worst.”
The remaining toes fell to the dirt.
“I need your eyes, slave!” Nimrud hissed. “Yield them to me and I will hurry your death. I will quicken your ultimate demise.”
Ezra did not waver. His sight, for now, remained his own. Nimrud expertly fastened a tourniquet two hands down from Ezra’s hip, just as he had done to so many others. He produced a bone saw from his heavy leather satchel. Feeling one hand down from Ezra’s knee, and again looking away, he shredded through the shin and into the calf. Still, Ezra made no sound. He knew death was upon him.
With all his limbs reduced to bleeding nubs, it was finally Ezra’s turn to speak his truth. He had resisted until there was nothing left to cut but his throat. Only then did he yield a single eye. Nimrud claimed it greedily, embedding the stolen gaze into his own skull. For the first time all night, the enforcer was forced to look directly upon the carnage he had wrought. Ezra spat blood, a horrific smile breaking across his face. “You wanted my eyes, and now you’ll only see pain. I, too, had an ulterior motive, my lord. You craved my sight, but I craved your undoing. My eyes are not the pure, clean slate you imagined. I witnessed you rape and murder my mother. I watched her courage as you ‘convinced’ her to forfeit her vision so that I might live to serve Sargon. My eyes have always belonged to death. And tonight, while you cowered like a coward, turning your face away from your own butchery, I watched every single cut you made. I watched with absolute hate, burning those fresh horrors deep into the very pupil I just gave you."Go forth, lord," Ezra whispered, his voice fading. "Try to find another moral soul to bleed. You will find none in this court. You are trapped in a prison of your own creation.”
With a scalpel, Nimrud gouged out both of his own eyes. He screamed in anguish, but no one could hear him in that distant chamber. He wandered the palace grounds blindly until he finally fell silent at the feet of his Ensi. Sargon would never know the truth of what had transpired over a mere thirty shekels. Nimrud would never see paradise. Forever trapped in the dark, he was doomed to see his own cruelty and destruction, over and over for eternity.
“You wanted my eyes, and now you’ll only see pain.” He drew his last breath. Through his single eye, he would forever see visions of his courageous mother, witnessing the eternal damnation of a man who attempted to change his fate all too late. He had captured redemption in his paradise.
Mike Holt is a contemporary fiction writer specializing in psychological noir, dark literary realism, and allegorical prose. His cohesive body of work explores the themes of systemic captivity, moral compromise, human isolation, and the relentless search for internal peace.
