In a way, Enkidu understood. Why worry about a barbarian who had taken over a Median empire that had submitted with almost no bloodshed. Who had outwitted the money-loving Lydian king. Who had brought backward eastern tribes to heel. Until now, Cyrus had never undertaken a siege against a major city. He had a lesson coming!
Babylon, well provisioned, well garrisoned, had the most formidable defenses ever constructed. It was inconceivable that the city should fall within a matter of years—if ever. Let Cyrus crash his Persian fist against the outer ramparts. He would retire with dust and a broken hand. And perhaps an ointment of rather warm oil…
Oil. Enkidu winced.
Meanwhile, no such thing as a futile siege was reason to delay the Harvest Festival. Gaily colored celebrants swarmed the streets and alleys. Priests emerged at intervals from temples to throw sheep’s heads into the river, the result of fresh sacrifices. Drink was in copious supply—mead, beer, palm wine, and even the expensive red grape wine flowed freely. Tipsy men stuffed their mouths with kidneys, cucumbers and palm hearts.
But Enkidu felt a great emptiness within his spleen, more painful than the outward burns on his belly. It was the void where Aten had lately dwelt. These overstuffed tipplers could worship the gods of their choice. Not he. He suddenly hated all celebrants. He thought of Amys—and stopped in midstride.
The circumstances of his departure from the nameless temple had forced him to leave the marriage-tablet behind. Now he missed it fiercely—that tangible token of their union. And he had to rescue Amys. But how?
The hawkers were out in force, calling out their wares above the tumult: perfumes, drugs, the tantalizing poppy seed. Enkidu found his nose over a tray of fresh river fish, boiled in oil, balanced on the head of a bandy-legged old man who looked dimly familiar. Oil. Sickening. He averted his face and hurried on.
He found himself at the verge of the enclosed Merkes district, but with no wish to enter. He detoured around its gate—and came upon the temple of Ishtar of Agade. The thinly veiled, thinly clad but full-bodied Ishtaritu girls were doing holiday business. He was hardly tempted.
Yet he was wed to the queen of Ishtaritu: Tamar. He was dizzy and weak and disoriented and dead inside. Why not go to Tamar for help? If he could find her amid this sensual mêlée…
“No,” he refused a perfumed veil. “I seek Tamar…”
Perfumed surprise. A twitter of laughter spreading through swinging skirts and high-cut tunics. The toad desired the princess!
Then he produced the lion-bracelet. Gasps; and a way opened abruptly. Such magic in so slight a token!
She was in a private room, dictating rather shrilly to a scribe. Figures poured from her red lips like blood from an offertory bowl after the sacrifice. This was a busy day for the temple and an accurate record had to be kept of the earnings of the Ishtaritu. She did not look up at Enkidu’s approach. “I can’t be disturbed,” she snapped.
Enkidu held the lion-bracelet under her nose. She paused and looked up at him, startled. Her eyes widened in recognition. She snarled—very like a lioness.
It was too late for him to adjust to the unexpected. His stomach knotted and burned. Dizziness overwhelmed him. He fell.
The host wished to unite with Amyitis. So did NK-2—for another reason. He had to know whether she hosted a friend or an enemy. If friend, he had to save her from destruction at Gabatha’s hands; if enemy, he had to see that she did not escape. He could check now—but it would be better to wait a few hours, until both he and his host regained strength. So long as the host was unconscious, he could relax; nothing would happen.
This time he woke in comfort. He was on a soft mattress on an elevated and elegant bed. No common man could afford to sleep like this!
Cool cloths were on his stomach, and little else. Someone was fanning him gently. There were tapestries on the walls depicting the adventures of the goddess Ishtar in alarming detail. There were many of them, for the room was spacious and the goddess had a considerable history. Yes—a domicile of the wealthy. Of Tamar, without much doubt.
He turned his head to view the person fanning him. It was a young slave, hardly more than a boy.
“Lie down!” the lad snapped. “You’re lucky you didn’t end up floating in the Kebar, with burns like that. Did you fall asleep on a festival pyre?”
Enkidu let his head drop. “Something like that.” What use to go into the actual story? Sargan of the nameless temple should have a taste of his own torture…
“Well, you arrived at a busy time. It’s a secret, but my mistress Tamar is planning something special for today.”
This was evidently one of the snoopy, gossipy breed of household slaves, trained to entertain while he worked. The boy wore the Jewish stigmata—a true child of the Kebar.
“Festivals are always special for Ishtar,” Enkidu said dryly, his eyes running over some of the more exotic tapestries. They amounted to an advanced course in sexual performance.
“Not that. She’s going to raid some little temple, a mystery sect. Break in with a mob of lush bitches under cover of the festivities—you know, things get out of hand accidentally sometimes.”
Enkidu understood well enough. “Would that be the nameless temple?”
“How did you guess? I thought that was original news!”
“I’m her husband—didn’t you know? Well, I’ll give you some gossip to replace what you lost. Suddenly, now, I know why she married me. And why she was so angry when she saw that I was free. She was planning on doing an Ishtar-into-Hades, and now she has no pretext.”
The boy looked blank.
Enkidu laughed. “You mean your people don’t let you listen to the tales of Babylon’s past? Don’t you even look at these tapestries you clean? You know nothing about the creation of the world, or the great flood, or Sargon in the bullrushes…?
The boy shook his head. “Adonai created the world in six days; and on the seventh day Adonai rested.”
“Rested! The other gods feasted! Was your god so weak he—?” But he saw the sober look on the boy’s face. “I’m sorry,” he apologized lamely. “I did not mean to disparage your god. I’m sure he’s a very good god. And—”
The boy sat up straight. “Adonai,” he said with dignity, “is the God. He will still be honored among men long after Ishtar and Marduk and all the others are forgotten.”
Enkidu suppressed a smile at the boy’s fatuousness. He felt almost jealous. Even a Hebrew slave was permitted his personal god, while the pretender now had none. After his own recent experiences he should be the last man to attempt to come between another man and that man’s god.
Dishon was wrong. Enkidu did miss Aten. There was a vast aching emptiness in him, a loss, a sense of great things that might have been, that now would never be; a bitterness of gall at the bottom of every cup of life he would drink.
Yet he might salvage something just as important. “You look as though you’re good at finding out things…”
“It’ll cost you,” the boy said without missing a beat of the fan.
“I don’t have money at the moment, but I may be able to get some later. The nameless temple has another prisoner, a girl, Amyitis. If you could find out whether she’s still there—”
The boy considered. “Prisoner in a private dungeon? You don’t pick easy assignments! I don’t know who’d know—”
“She is the daughter of their high priest, Sargan. The merchant Gabatha has a grudge against her—”
“Gabatha! That gives me a place to start. I know a couple of his slaves… five shekels.”