Yes. She was strong enough. The flaw had been in her tutoring. One did not condemn the crooked stone for being imperfect, but the inept stonesmith.
He paused again outside her silent door.
My daughter! My daughter!
He would never see her again.
Grimly and with infinite sadness, Sargan passed on in silence.
Amyitis host to the enemy! It made less and less sense to NK-2. She had destroyed herself, when she hadn’t had to. She could have made up another name to fool Enkidu, arranged it so that all the blame would fall on him. In effect, she had sacrificed herself while helping him go free.
She must, then, be host to a friend. But at this moment, detached as he was from his own umbra, he could not check. His penumbra was entirely taken up with the occupation of this alternate host, acting as a temporary umbra. He would have to return to his primary, recover his unity and strength, then cast out on an exploratory basis.
By that time the girl would be under torture.
Amalek was back in the cloak room.
“She must be sold today!” Sargan said abruptly as he entered. “Delay only long enough to make her presentable.”
Amalek made no pretense of misunderstanding. “You have evidence that her recantal was not genuine?”
Sargan nodded beneath his cowl.
“Then we cannot sell her until a firmer recantal is obtained under duress—”
“I will take the responsibility!” Sargan interrupted. “I say this in the presence of Aten: the measure of recantal shall be filled to overflowing.”
Amalek departed softly, not deigning to debate, and the drip of the water-clock became loud.
Sargan brought out a new scroll, set up his pen and ink, and began to write. The first letter was addressed to Amalek.
“Sudden business has come upon me,” he wrote carefully, “and I find it necessary to depart immediately for Egypt. Until my return I appoint you head priest of the nameless temple, and I ask you to handle its affairs in the manner that befits our god.”
He went on to itemize the various properties and monies available to the temple, and noted the members whose contributions were in arrears. He recommended a man to serve as second, in Amalek’s old position, and gave sundry other instructions.
“If I do not return within a year,” he concluded, “cross my name from the roster and enter a vacancy in the membership. Admit a pretender who is worthy of our god.” He thought for a moment, fingering the cylinder in his sleeve-pocket once more. “I have assigned a special project to Dishon. Please close his office to all visitation and inquiry until he has completed his work.”
He signed his name and rolled up the letter. Amalek would be too busy with the affairs of the temple to pay attention to the torturemaster’s project for many days. Dishon was quite competent; he needed no supervision.
Dishon. Strange that the most intimate business of the temple—the final purification of pretenders—had to be accomplished by one who believed in no god. Dishon was certain in his own mind that Aten was a false god—false to the point of nonexistence—and that made the eunuch ideal for his position. His hand never held back in the hope that a pretender might endure. Dishon felt a genuine sense of accomplishment when he secured a recantal.
The second letter was addressed to Dishon himself. It would be necessary for the torturemaster to borrow a scribe in order to understand it, of course, but that would only briefly delay the honest slave. Dishon had been given instructions by letter before and would not question this.
“Dishon: You will find a new pretender in the second cell. Take this man immediately and put him to the torture until he recants. Pay no attention to anything he may attempt to claim in lieu of recantal. He is an ingenious and confirmed liar, and should be thoroughly gagged. When his complete recantal has been secured, relegate him directly to the bosom of the Euphrates.”
That avoided the technicality of death, though a man in such condition was unlikely to survive the river. “After this task is done, notify Amalek that some of the bricks in the cells are loose. These must be repaired before the cells are used again.” He knew Dishon would take this instruction literally, too; he would not mention the bricks until his subject floated in the Euphrates.
The slack-jawed lamp-bearer arrived in answer to his summons. “Take this to Dishon… slowly,” he ordered, speaking carefully so that the man would understand.
The dull eyes lighted. “Dishon!” The foolish smile, the departure. Slowly, as instructed—it would take many minutes for the delivery. Any task at all made this creature happy; comprehension and performance brought rare satisfaction. This time Sargan envied the mindless slave.
Alone once more, he stood up, put away the writing equipment, and left the letter on the table where he would be sure to find it. He faced the wall. “May your mercy extend to my daughter,” he said. “The fault belonged to another.”
The midnight stars glinted, watching him. But Aten was not on the wall.
He turned, sadly, and left the room without taking a lamp. The halls were long and eerie in the scant natural illumination. He found his way to the region of empty cells, not daring to verify whether Amyitis remained.
He re-entered the vacant place of the pretender Enkidu and swung the gate shut. By careful manipulation he was finally able to prop the bar in such a way that it fell into place outside when the gate was slammed. He had locked himself in.
Sargan removed his white robe and folded it neatly. He took off his finely constructed sandals. He pried loose the three bricks and withdrew the marriage tablet, running his fingers over its indentations. He held it firmly and bashed its surface against the wall.
Caked mud shattered, and in his hand remained an ordinary brick. Sargan fitted his robe and sandals into the space he found behind the inner wall, where so much gravel had been removed; then he replaced every brick. Except that one.
He was left standing bareheaded, barefooted, in his coarse white undertunic. After a moment’s consideration he removed this also. He dropped it in the dirt at the lower edge of the cell and delicately trampled on it. Then he redonned it. Now he was dressed for the part.
Dishon had never heard the normal voice of his master, or seen his bare face. The torturemaster would discover only another pretender whose disposition was covered by the letter.
He looked at the brick that had been his daughter’s marriage tablet, somehow passed through the wall. He picked it up and ran his fingers across its blank surface. He leaned against the firm gate and closed his eyes.
“Not the stone, but the stonesmith,” he said aloud.
And as he held the blank tablet and awaited Dishon’s footfall in the corridor… at last he felt the presence of Aten.
The host slept, the storm abated. NK-2 departed.
CHAPTER 14.
Enkidu had reason to regret his imperious refusal of the silver of the nameless temple. It was good to be free again, in the clattering streets of Babylon, neatly dressed. But his situation now was in fact worse than it had been that morning he had waked to find his tablet and money gone. He was without position, money or strength. Every step renewed the striped pain across his chest and belly. Dishon and the lamp-bearer had wrapped him in crude bandages soaked with unguents, but these could not undo the damage of the oil; they chafed him continually. What kind of wreck had his pride made of him?
And Amys, still imprisoned in the nameless temple…
It was late afternoon and the Harvest Festival was well under way. Two months had elapsed since his entry into Babylon. The time seemed at once like two days and two years! Few out here seemed disturbed by the presence of the army of Cyrus the Persian, encamped just north of the city.