Amalek listened—and remained silent.
“Well?” Sargan prompted at last. “Is this way not better?”
Amalek was doubtful. His black brows knotted. “No such disposition of a pretender has ever been tried. How could it possibly work? Even if you were successful from day to day, still everything—everything!—would depend on whether she cleaved to her recantation. Should she backslide, should she even temporize…”
Sargan brushed this aside. “I would stand warrant for her. It would not be a perfect solution—there is no perfect solution! It would be hard on her, and hard on me. But it would spare her the worst.” Then, as if to forestall any further objection Amalek might make: “Bring this pretender to me. When the business with him is settled I will write out the necessary papers, then release my daughter myself.”
Alone once more, Sargan paused to offer a prayer of thanks to the god, though distressed that he remained excluded from Aten’s presence. He brought a purse from his robe and laid it on the table beside him; it was heavy with silver. He waited.
The pretender was pale and unsteady, his torn tunic filthy. He had to be supported by the sweating Dishon, who still wore his gauntlets. Strange that the torturemaster never suffered himself to touch or be touched, skin to skin!
There was no visible mark on the pretender, but Sargan knew that there would be great red welts on his belly, and that every breath the subject took was excruciating. He was disappointed, almost, that the man had proved in the end to be so weak; he had succumbed in less than half a day. Even though this recantal came barely in time to foil the Ishtaritu raid! Sargan winced at the remembrance that he had pondered this man even for an instant as candidate material. Well, the torture room separated out the real beliefs from the superficial. The pretender’s expressions on Aten in the earlier interviews had been remarkably clear and forthright. This was a man Sargan might have judged fit to wed his own daughter, had things fallen otherwise. A lucid, honest scribe… but now he stood revealed as a weakling.
The thought of the girl was like the touch of a red-hot iron. He suppressed it and proceeded immediately to business. “Pretender, do you hereby recant your idolatrous belief in the god Aten, and swear never to utter that name, never to worship that god, never to direct any prayer to him in public or in secret, so long as you may live?”
Enkidu nodded wearily. “I never worshiped an idol, so it wasn’t idolatrous. Nevertheless I recant.”
“Are you prepared to fix your seal to a statement to this effect?”
“My seal was taken.”
Sargan fumbled in a pocket sewn into his tunic. Two seals were there. He brought out the pretender’s and set it on the table. “I am pleased that we have been able to save your spirit from the degradation of such a belief,” Sargan said, though he found in himself only a ponderous sadness. “Dishon—take this man to the fountain and bathe and dress him suitably.”
Actually, the lamp-bearer would do the job under Dishon’s supervision, for the torturemaster never soiled his hands on mundane tasks. Sometimes Sargan wondered who really ran the nameless temple: himself or the eunuch.
Amalek wrote up the document, using Egyptian papyrus and script according to temple tradition.
Sargan knew he should be glad to have this business finished. But he still could not feel Aten’s presence. The forms had been observed, the recantal had been secured. The raid of the Ishtar zealots was being foiled, and the nameless temple would be preserved sacrosanct. And Amyitis would not go to the merchant of lust.
Yet Sargan felt, quite illogically, as though he had been party to some monstrous evil.
Was this really Aten’s will? If Aten had wanted the pretender to recant, why hadn’t he arranged for this before the brutal business of torture became necessary? Why didn’t he arrange for all pretenders to capitulate so early, so that the persuasion chamber could be discontinued entirely? Surely Aten, in his grace and mercy, could not desire the infliction of pain on any person, even a pretender. Especially a pretender!
Strange were the ways of a god. Aten, the benign, yet required torture at his temple—while Ishtar, most fickle and indifferent of goddesses, sponsored in her temple the ultimate joys of union. Could a mortal ever really comprehend the true nature of divinity?
NK-2 tried again to return to the primary host, but there was still an impassable barrier of agony, both physical and mental. Transfer was impossible in such a storm. But this would surely pass within a few hours—and it would be easier when this alternate host relaxed, too.
Enkidu returned. The filth had been washed from his body and face, much improving his appearance. He was now a handsome young man in a plain but clean tunic and serviceable sandals.
Amalek presented the papyrus document; the recanter, a scribe himself, studied it. He obviously was not well versed in this form of writing, for his brow furrowed in perplexity. “But this is only a disclaimer of Aten!”
“As represented,” Sargan said.
“Don’t you want me to confess also to theft, unclean living, association with demons—?”
Oh. The ordinary man, in confessing his sins to a priest, habitually admitted to far more than he was actually guilty of, since it was better to be absolved for too much than for too little. This was an interesting insight into the pretender’s origins—and perhaps into his assessment of this temple!
“This is not a confession, but a recantal,” Sargan said. “Once you renounce Aten you may go to an established priest of the god you select to worship, and confess to him whatever you desire. There would be no point in confessing to Aten, since he is not your god.”
The man nodded, comprehending. He took his seal from the table, looked at it, then stared at the document, nonplussed. The seal could not be used on papyrus, obviously.
“You are a scribe,” Amalek murmured. “Surely you have also a quill-signature?”
“Yes.” Awkwardly the recanter signed.
“To which god will you now repair?” Sargan inquired, touching the purse on the table.
“Ishtar.”
Of course. The whore-priestess had married him! The recanter certainly did not look like a giant in lust—but it was never possible to tell. It would be an interesting reunion!
“Ishtar’s characteristic number is fifteen. The nameless temple therefore provides you with fifteen shekels for your severance.” Sargan counted them out. “We give you also a certificate of your freedom. You are no longer a slave.”
Enkidu straightened. “I did not recant for money!” he said angrily. “I recanted because your god betrayed me.”
“My god?”
The young man seemed to reconsider. “You have taken him from me; he is therefore yours. I was also not a slave. You bought me illegally.”
“We purchased you for the good of your spirit,” Sargan said, and hated the lie. “It was according to the laws and practices of this city. And you are free now. May you discover fulfillment in Ishtar.”
“Show me the way out,” Enkidu said.
Amalek moved to guide him. “Take up your silver and your certificate. The nameless temple bears you no ill will, and would not deny you what is yours,” he said.
“I will take neither!” the recanter exclaimed. “Nor do I want your good will.”
Sargan stared at him curiously from behind his cowl. “But it is our custom. You must accept these things.”
Enkidu stepped forward and swept coins and paper to the floor. “You did not buy my god from me!” he shouted. “You showed me your nature, and through yours, his. You helped my unbelief. And now I know what you do not: Aten is a false god, a hypocrite of a god, a god no man of integrity can worship. I will not touch the tainted goods of such a monster.”