When the time came, he rammed it through noisily, then slept.
NK-2 still was not reassured. His host, bemused by the implied sex-appeal of the correspondent, was eager to rationalize her sincerity—but the real question remained unanswered. Was she host to the enemy? There was unlikely to be more than one enemy entity on this planet, just as there was only one galactic entity, because this region of space was not important enough. But the enemy could have trained several sub-hosts for alternate use. NK-2 would do the same, at such time as he found suitable material.
Soon he would have to extend his penumbra and check directly, for surely time was running out. Though even that would not be certain, if the enemy elected to hide entirely within the host, as NK-2 himself was doing now. So his wait continued…
It was mid-morning when he woke, much refreshed. The breakfast bread was in the gate—but first he looked to see whether a message had arrived. It had!
YOUR LETTER UPSET ME. I THREW IT TO THE FLOOR WHERE IT SHATTERED. THESE OVEN-BAKED BRICKS ARE VERY BRITTLE AND SOME OF THE FRAGMENTS ARE SHARP. WITHIN A DAY I SHALL FASHION A PIECE THAT IS BOTH SHARP AND STURDY ENOUGH. THIS HAS BEEN AN ENTERTAINING CORRESPONDENCE. THEY WILL LET YOU GO IF YOU RECANT. GIVE MY REGARDS TO TAMAR. I SHALL NOT ACCEPT ANY FURTHER MESSAGES FROM YOU. TELL THEM THAT I SWORE FALSELY WHEN I EMBRACED ISHTAR. ATEN IS MY GOD—THAT ATEN YOU DESCRIBE SO APTLY. I SHALL NEVER BE PARTED FROM HIM NOW THAT HE HAS ANSWERED MY PRAYER AND GIVEN ME THE MEANS TO ESCAPE FOREVER THE CLUTCHES OF THE NAMELESS TEMPLE.
And the butterfly.
A brick blade could not carve a way outside; Enkidu had noticed the great stones lining the outer wall of the temple the day he first entered. She could not hope for any physical escape from the premises. The knife could be for only one thing: self-destruction.
Enkidu laid hold of a tablet, made ready to write—and remembered her refusal to accept any further message. In any event the normal delay of transmission was prohibitive. She would be dead before he could talk her out of it.
Was she feigning? He doubted a brick would shatter in this muck, and certainly not sharply. She wanted to shock him, to hurt him, and when one tactic failed she tried another. After a time she would be more calm…
But why the statement about Aten? She could not expect him to believe that her conversion to his god was the cause of her demise. Aten was merciful; if she had strayed, he would surely forgive her.
There was a stamp of sincerity in this letter that the other ones had lacked. She had decided to die; there was no further point in sarcasm.
What could he do? Tell Dishon? The eunuch would certainly have to look in on the matter, and perhaps Amyitis could still be saved.
Saved for what? Torture?
If her message were honest, she now worshiped Aten. The priests of this nameless temple hated Aten. This statement, in Sargan’s hands, could put her under the ultimate persuasion of Dishon’s instruments. No—if she meant to kill herself, she should be allowed to do so without interference.
Yet how could he stand by and let it happen!
“Aten—” he prayed. But there was no answer.
So that was it! Put pressure on his host, hoping NK-2 would have to investigate directly! And elegant stratagem—and one that would normally have worked, had he not happened to spot the enemy in that courtroom.
Dishon came, left the mid-day staples, departed. Enkidu shivered in his cell, stood, fell back, stood again—and did nothing. He paced before the door, struck his fists together, and sank back, not hungry. Was he doing the right thing? Or had he become answerable to Aten for the death of a woman he had never seen, whose voice he had never really heard? Had he skewered an innocent butterfly?
If she died, and Aten permitted this—what kind of god could he be? Could a merciful god give a worshiper over to death or torture? Did Enkidu worship a phantom?
Yet he had learned through experience that Aten did not work in obvious ways. Developments always appeared natural, as though they would have happened anyway. Why was the god so devious? Why didn’t Aten honor prayer dramatically, instantly, thus impressing people and making converts? Surely that would be easier. As it was, Aten had to influence a complete skein of human activity, directing the lives of many people—most of whom actually worshiped other gods. Was this reasonable?
He smiled unhappily. Look not to the gods for reason!
Of course Aten was not the most powerful of deities. Possibly he was able to accomplish his purposes only by selecting the appropriate natural means. It might have been easier for Aten to jog the speech of the child Enkidu and thus put him into the temple of Marduk for education, than to create masses of gold for the family or to impress years of tablet practice into a young mind in an instant.
But a man could scarcely evaluate the potentials of a god, or comprehend a god’s motivation. He could only accept the tokens he saw, and hope that he correctly grasped their import. He had to have faith, or his belief was false.
“Aten, I have faith. I know that what you do is right, even if it does seem strange to me at times. But please,” he added, “let it be right that she not die.”
She wouldn’t die, NK-2 knew, for then the artifice would be over. The enemy would hardly give up so soon.
The afternoon dragged mercilessly by. Dishon came, spied the unused bread and water, and opened the door to ascertain that the prisoner lived. “Loss of appetite—the next stage,” he boomed approvingly. “Soon you’ll recant.”
Night. Still no sign from Aten or Amyitis.
Sleep—restless, intermittent, beset by dreams that woke him shuddering. The stink of his residence, the confinement of the walls, the maddening activity of the rats.
Torture, too—horrifying visions of men on tall shafts, kicking, kicking while their lives dripped redly down to fertilize the sod. Great kettles of Ishtar Gate, brimming with bubbling oil, cauldrons of bone-dissolving agony. Water dripping, dripping like thin blood from a water clock. Sharp knives touching private parts—touches that could never be undone. The eunuch heating irons: “Recant!”
In the night he woke, scratching at the wall, tearing out loose bricks, grasping for a tablet that was not there, crying, crying against an evil he could not comprehend. The body of a young woman, hardly cold yet, face against the jellied muck, rats nibbling on toes, fingers, lips…
Yet suppose she were genuine, host to no one, untouched by the enemy. An excellent alternate host going to waste, perhaps forever. So easy to verify… no!
Morning, unrefreshed and unwanted. Enkidu observed the bricks he had scattered, miniatures of the stones around Nineveh. He rose mechanically to replace them.
A tablet was there.
Almost unbelievingly he drew it out, gazed at the wedging there.
FORGIVE ME.
She lived.
He had to answer immediately, and the tablet was too slow. Forgive her—when he had been the impotent one? He yanked off the bracelet of Ishtar and tapped against the wall. Pairs, triplets—anything to show that he had read the message, that he understood (though he did not understand) that he accepted the fact of her continued life and was glad.
Or had she been asking forgiveness for her suicide?
But even as his breath abated in horror, tapping came back, dissipating his suspicion.
Communication had been resumed.
NK-2 had to know—yet if the enemy lurked, Amyitis was the most likely host of the moment. If the enemy were there, his Amalek-host would be vacant except for the relatively helpless umbra. If NK-2 extended suddenly and touched a host while the enemy was elsewhere, he might set a counter trap.