The rest of the Imhursaggi peasants surrounding Sharur cast themselves down on the ground before the one who for the time being embodied their god. They shouted out their delight in the course Enimhursag had chosen for them and their city. How could they do otherwise, in a land where the god could look into their hearts and look out through their eye$ whenever he chose, and where he frequently chose to do just that?
One of them asked, “Great god, source of our life, what are we to do with this Gibli who brought you this news you relish? Had the news not been to your liking, we should have slain him, but what are we to do with him now? What will you do with him now?”
Enimhursag might almost have been asking himself the question, as a man might ask himself a question while thinking aloud. Through the lips of the peasant he had chosen, he replied, “Take him to your village. Give him bread. Give him onions. Give him beer. Give him wine. Give him, for his pleasure, the loveliest of your maidens. I would reward him greatly. I shall reward him greatly, and more greatly yet after Gibil is in my hands.”
Sharur glanced from the peasant in whom the god dwelt to his comrades. That Enimhursag had ordered them to give him food and drink—well and good. That their god had ordered them to give him not merely a woman but a maiden ... How would they take to that?
“We shall obey in all things, as we always do,” one of them murmured, and the rest nodded. They neither looked nor sounded angry or grudging. If the god ordered it, they accepted it. Sharur was glad Enimhursag was not looking into his mind at that moment.
“It is good,” Enimhursag said, accepting the obedience as no less than his due. “Yes, I shall reward this Gibli more greatly yet after his city is in my hands. I shall not rule there as I rule here, not at first. I shall not reach into all men’s minds. I shall not reach into all men’s hearts.”
“What then, great god?” Sharur was curious to learn what Enimhursag planned to do if everything went as he hoped.
“I shall need time to tame the wild men of Gibil,” the god replied. His plans filled his thoughts, and he was not shy about setting them forth. While he spoke of himself and what he wanted, he would not be troubling himself with Sharur and what Sharur wanted. He went on, “The wild men of Gibil have lived too long under the wild god, Engibil. The foolish god let them run every which way, as goats will if the goatherd sleeps. They cannot at once be made to obey and hearken as they should.”
Sharur nodded. From the god’s point of view, all that made good sense. Were Sharur a god planning to subdue a restless, restive city of men, he would have looked at the difficulties facing him the same way.
Engibil continued, “This being so, I shall set a man over them. I shall instruct the man, and the man will instruct the people. He will be my ensi. Perhaps his son will be my ensi. His grandson will be my slave, as all men in Gibil, tamed from their wildness, will then be my slaves.”
Now Sharur had to make himself nod. If Enimhursag did conquer Gibil, such a scheme might well eventually subject the Giblut to him. Realizing that made Sharur remember anew what a dangerous game he was playing.
The peasant through whose lips the god spoke thrust out a forefinger. “And you, man of Gibil, you shall be my first ensi in Gibil. I shall instruct you. You will instruct the people. The riches of Gibil shall be yours for the taking. The women of Gibil shall be yours for the taking. Did I not say I should reward you greatly?”
“Great god, you did,” Sharur replied, more than a little dizzily. Kimash the lugal had offered him a daughter, which would have tied him to the ruling house of Gibil. Now Enimhursag promised to make him the head of the ruling house of Gibil—the chief slave in a great house of slaves. Enimhursag did not bother to pretend otherwise. The god did not see the need to pretend otherwise.
“You have earned this reward,” Enimhursag said. He— in the body of the peasant he inhabited—turned to the other peasants. “He has earned this reward. Take him to your village and make him glad.”
In the lands Enimhursag ruled, men obeyed their god. So Sharur had always heard. So Sharur had seen when he went into Imhursag in the guise of a Zuabi merchant. So Sharur saw now, when the peasants, following the orders Enimhursag had given them, took him to their village and methodically made him glad.
These were men who, when he had waded across the canal from the land of Gibil into their land, had been ready to tear him to pieces. But, because their god accepted him, they now accepted him as well—completely, without hesitation, without reservation. As they walked back toward their village, they chattered and bantered with him as if he were one of their own. Because Enimhursag accepted him, he was one of their own.
The village might have been a peasant village outside of Gibiclass="underline" a cluster of houses, a few of the finer ones built of mud brick, the rest of bundles of reeds and sticks. Ducks and pigs and chickens and naked children roamed the streets, all of them making a terrific racket.
Women came out of the houses to stare, when some of their men returned from the fields at an unexpected time. Whispers ran through them, alarmed whispers: “A stranger. They have a stranger with them.” Some of the women disappeared as quickly as they had come out. Others stared and stared. Sharur wondered how long it had been since the last stranger came into their village. He wondered if another stranger had ever come into their village.
Loudly, the peasant through whom Enimhursag had spoken said, “This is a stranger whom Enimhursag delights to honor. This is a stranger whom the great god intends to , reward greatly. This is a stranger whom the god commanded us to take to our village and make glad. We are to give him bread. We are to give him onions. We are to give him beer. We are to give him wine. We are to give him, for his pleasure, the loveliest of our maidens.” He clapped his hands. “Now, let these things be done.”
And those things were done, exactly as Enimhursag had said they should be. The women of the village brought Sharur bread. They brought him onions. The bread was freshly baked, and good. The onions filled his mouth with their strong flavor. When he asked for salt fish to go with the bread and onions, the women muttered among themselves. One of them said. “The god did not speak of salt fish. We shall make you glad as the god bade us make you glad.”
“Salt fish would make me glad,” Sharur said.
“We shall make you glad as the god bade us make you glad,” the woman repeated. Sharur got no salt fish.
They brought him beer. They brought him wine. The beer was tasty. The wine, as he would have expected in a peasant village, left a good deal to be desired. He drank a polite cup of it, then went back to the beer. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the villagers worriedly muttering again.
“You have brought me beer, as the god bade you,” he said, hiding his amusement. “I have drunk of your beer. You have brought me wine, as the god bade you. I have drunk of your wine. You have made me glad, as the god bade you. I am made glad. The god will be pleased with you.” The villagers relaxed.
Sharur did not ask them to bring him the loveliest of their maidens. Had they forgotten that part of Enimhursag’s instructions, he would not have minded. He still worried that the villagers would resent such an order, even from their god. He also worried that the maiden would resent it.
But, after he had eaten and drunk, the peasant through whom Enimhursag had spoken came up to him, leading a pretty young woman by the hand. “This is my daughter, Munnabtu,” he said, “the loveliest of our maidens. As the god ordained, I bring her to you for your pleasure.”
Her eyes were modestly cast down to the ground. Sharur could not see the expression on her face. He said, “If your daughter, Munnabtu, does not wish this, it need not be.”