Without another word, he turned and walked into the temple. Without another word, Sharur followed him into the temple, as he might have followed—as he often had followed—Kimash’s steward Inadapa into the palace of the lugal. But he had never been so afraid, following Inadapa.
Through the forecourts of the temple they went, Sharur behind Burshagga. Other priests looked up from their tasks as the two men went by, as Kimash the lugal’s servants and slaves might have looked up when Inadapa led someone past them. Sharur tried to read their faces. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, but that failed to reassure him. He reckoned the priests simply took his condemnation for granted. No man could successfully oppose a god’s direct will. Kimash ruled by distracting Engibil’s will, not by opposing it.
Up the many steps to Engibil’s audience chamber strode Burshagga. Up the many steps to Engibil’s audience chamber strode Sharur after him. Down the steps from Engibil’s audience chamber strode no beautiful courtesan, not today. Sharur regretted that. He would have liked his last memories before the god condemned him to be of something beautiful.
His heart pounded as he reached the top of the stairway. He told himself that was because he had climbed one step for each day in a year. But he knew his heart would have pounded no less had Engibil chosen to meet him in the forecourt of the temple, down at the level of the ground.
Burshagga did not precede him into the audience chamber. He gestured to the doorway and said, “The god awaits you within.”
Sharur already knew as much; Engibil’s radiance, brighter than the sunshine, streamed out through the entranceway. Having no choice but to go forward, he went forward with the best show of spirit he could muster.
Inside Engibil’s house on earth, the god sat on his gold-wrapped throne. Sharur cast himself down before Engibil. He felt no shame in doing so; he should have done likewise before the lugal on his throne.
Rise. The word resounded soundlessly inside Sharur’s head. He could not have disobeyed even had he wanted to. Willing his limbs not to tremble, willing his face to show none of the fear he felt, he got to his feet.
“Great god, mighty god, god who founded this city, god who made this town, I greet you,” Sharur said. “Tell me how I may serve you, and all shall be as you desire. You are my master. I am your slave.”
“This I know,” Engibil said complacently. It pleased him now to speak like a man, to move his lips and let sound come forth. “I have been reflecting on your case, Sharur. I have been contemplating your circumstances, son of Ereshguna.” He folded his arms across his massive chest, awaiting Sharur’s reply.
That would have been easier to give, had Sharur had any idea how to answer. “Is it so, great god?” he said, temporizing as he might have done when a rival merchant said something unexpected and confusing during a dicker.
“Son of Ereshguna, it is so,” Engibil replied. “Hear now the judgment I have reached concerning you.”
Sharur bowed his head. “Great god, I will hear your words. Mighty god, I will obey your words.” What choice have I? he wondered bitterly.
“My judgment, then, is this,” Engibil said. “I have decided I held your oath in my hand too tightly. I have decided I held your oath in my heart too straitly. Thus I ease it; thus I loosen it. You have my leave to borrow from your father bride-price wherewith to pay Dimgalabzu the smith.”
“Great god, may I—?” Sharur had intended to try to talk Engibil into reducing whatever punishments he ordained. That was probably hopeless, but, being a merchant and a scion of merchants, he had intended to try. Now what would have been his protest gurgled into silence after a bare handful of words.
He stared into the god’s face. Engibil was, as always, divinely perfect, divinely awe-inspiring. Engibil also looked divinely pleased with himself, as if he had settled a problem to his own satisfaction. So, evidently, he had.
But it was not the problem because of which Sharur thought he had been summoned to the temple. He had to conclude, then, that Engibil had not been listening when he and Habbazu and Ereshguna discussed robbing the god’s temple.
As Sharur stared at Engibil, so Engibil stared at Sharur. “Are you not pleased, son of Ereshguna?” the god demanded. “Is not your heart gladdened? In my generosity, I give you leave to wed the woman you desire.”
He was indeed a lazy god. He could have searched through Sharur’s mind to learn why the man before him did not respond as he had expected. Sharur imagined coming before Enimhursag if the god of Gibil’s rival city needed to discover something. Enimhursag, if he saw anything out of the ordinary or suspicious, would have tom it from a man by force. But Engibil was content to ask.
And Sharur answered, “Oh, yes, great god, I am pleased. My heart is gladdened, mighty god. Truly you are generous, to give me leave to wed the woman I desire.” He spoke the truth there, nothing but the truth. He spoke it as quickly as he could, too, to give Engibil no chance to change his mind yet again.
The god smiled on him; beneficence flowed out from Engibil in waves. “It is good,” the god of Gibil said. “It is very good. Go now; son of Ereshguna. Go now, and give this news to your family. Go now, and give this news to the family of the woman you desire. May the two of you prove joyful together. May the two of you prove fruitful together. Go now. You have my blessing.”
Sharur prostrated himself once more before the god of Gibil. Then he rose and, with profuse thanks, left the god’s house at the top of the temple. Burshagga waited for him outside. “I gather you are a fortunate man, son of Ereshguna,” the priest said as they began to descend the great stairway.
“I gather I am,” Sharur agreed vaguely, being still too astonished for any more coherent reply.
Burshagga did not press him. No doubt the priest had seen many astonished men come out of the god’s house. Had he seen one more astonished than Sharur, Sharur would have been astonished.
“The god has blessed the son of Ereshguna,” Burshagga told the priests and temple servitors working in the courtyard while he and Sharur were walking out through it.
Ilakabkabu shuffled up to Sharur. “Are you worthy of the god’s blessing, boy?” the pious old priest demanded.
“I gather I am,” Sharur repeated. “Engibil thought I was.”
“Be worthy in your heart,” Ilakabkabu declared. “Be worthy in your spirit. Deserve well of the god, and he will do well by you.”
“You give good advice,” Sharur said politely. As in a dicker, he feigned feelings he did not have. He feigned them well enough to satisfy Ilakabkabu, who nodded gruffly, let out a sort of coughing grunt, and tottered back to the wall hanging he had been straightening.
“For once, I cannot disagree with my colleague,” Burshagga said. “His words are true; his doctrine is sound.”
“Any man can see as much,” Sharur said. “Truly, I am blessed that Engibil chose to look kindly upon me. Truly, I am fortunate that the great god chose to grant my heart’s desire.”
Truly, Sharur had no idea why Engibil had chosen to look kindly upon him. Truly, he did not know why the great god had chosen to grant his heart’s desire. So far as he knew, he had done nothing to deserve anything but anger from Engibil. Anger was what he had been braced—so far as any mortal could be braced—to receive from the god. After all, when Engibil so summarily ordered him to the temple, he and his father and Habbazu had not been singing the god’s praises.
But Engibil had not known. Engibil had not even suspected. Gods were very powerful. Gods knew a great deal. But they were not omnipotent. They were not omniscient. Engibil had proved that.