Between the Rivers

8

A peasant grubbing at the ground with a stoneheaded mattock looked up from his unending labor as Sharur strode north along the path. “Watch where you’re going,” the peasant warned. “Imhursaggi land starts just beyond that next big canal there.” He pointed. “The Imhursagut aren’t fond of men from Gibil, either, not even a little they’re not.”

“I know that,” Sharur answered, and kept walking.

The peasant took an especially savage swipe at the dirt. “City man,” he muttered, barely loud enough for Sharur to hear. “Has to be a city man. Men from the city never listen to anybody.”

He would probably be happier if Engibil told him what to do, Sharur thought. He doesn't seem to be very good at thinking for himself Everything that had happened in Gibil the past few generations—metalworking, writing, the rise of rulers who were merely mortal—was of no account to this man, and to thousands like him. Nothing that happened outside his own little village mattered to him, or to his neighbors.

Sharur came to the canal. The peasants working in the fields on the other side were Imhursagut. By looks, they were indistinguishable from the Giblut, save that rather more of them went altogether naked, being too poor to wear even a kilt of linen or wool.

Stripping off his own kilt, his sandals, and his hat, Sharur waded out into the canal. The muddy water was warm as blood. He did not know if he would have to swim in the middle of the canal; he had never come this way before. The water came up to his shoulders, but no higher. He had no trouble keeping his clothes dry.

He stepped up onto the northern, Imhursaggi, bank of the canal and stood there, naked and dripping. The breeze cooled him as it dried the water on his body. Only after he was dry did he don his hat and his sandals and his kilt again. By the time he had it round his middle, he was surrounded by Imhursagut.

Some had mattocks, some had digging sticks, some had nothing but their bare hands. All of them looked ready to beat Sharur to death. Their expressions were frighteningly alike, as if someone had used a cylinder seal to stamp out a long row of identical faces.

“You are a Gibli,” one of them said. “You are an intruder. You are an invader. Why do you come to trouble the land of Imhursag? Why do you come to disturb the peace of Enimhursag? Answer at once, lest we tear you to pieces. Answer this instant, lest we smash you down.”

“I do not come to trouble the land of Imhursag,” Sharur answered: his first lie with his first words. “I do not come to disturb the peace of Enimhursag. I come to escape the city of Gibil, which has fallen into chaos. I come to escape the god of Gibil, who has gone mad.”

That made the Imhursaggi peasants stare and mutter among themselves. Enimhursag did not look out of all their eyes all the time; at the moment, they were merely men, trying to make sense of the world as men will.

But the fellow who had threatened Sharur with tearing and smashing now took on the look he had seen in the trader from the Imhursaggi caravan, the look that said Enimhursag was present in his mind. He spoke slowly, as if listening to the god before uttering his words: “What nonsense do you speak? When I look into the land of Gibil, I see everything as it has always been. When I look into the land the Giblut stole from me, I see them doing as they have always done.”

“In the farms around the city, everything is as it has always been,” Sharur agreed, and he knew he was speaking the truth there. “In the land you can see, the Giblut do as they have always done. In Gibil, Engibil has gone mad, as I say.”

“Giblut are liars. They suck in lies with their mothers’ milk,” Enimhursag answered through the peasant. “What lie do you give me now?”

“I give you no lie, god of Imhursag,” Sharur replied, lying. “Hear me. Hear me speak truth. Judge for yourself: Engibil had in his hands, in his heart, an oath of mine. He would not let it go. He refused to let it go.”

Out of the peasant’s mouth, Enimhursag laughed a great laugh. “Why should he let it go? He is a god—not much of a god, being Engibil, but a god. You are a man—not much of a man, being a Gibli, but a man. He owes you nothing. You owe him everything.”

Sharur bowed. “Let it be as you say, god of Imhursag. But hear me. Hear me speak truth. After the god of Gibil did as I said, hear what he did. After the god of Gibil did as I said, he summoned me to his temple and gave me back the oath he held in his hand, in his heart. He let it go. Is the god mad, or is he not?”

“Giblut are liars,” Enimhursag repeated. “I do not believe what you say. I cannot believe what you say. No god would give back that which he had refused to give back.”

Sharur took a deep breath. “Look into my mind, god of Imhursag,” he said, knowing the risk he ran. He had not expected Enimhursag to be quite so dubious. “Look into my mind, god of the Imhursagut. See if Engibil held my oath and would not let it go. See if Engibil held my oath and then did let it go. Look for those two things. See if I speak truth.”

Out through the eyes of the peasant poured Enimhursag’s power. Sharur did not resist it. Sharur could not resist it. If Enimhursag chose to use that power to paw through everything in his mind, everything would be lost. But he had suggested to the god what he should look for. He put those things at the front of his mind, so Enimhursag might easily find them.

Find them Enimhursag did. “It is so!” the god cried through the peasant’s lips. The other peasants exclaimed in astonishment at hearing their god agree with a man of Gibil. Sharur stood very still, trying not to think of Enimhursag pawing through the rest of his mind.

Trying not to think about something, Sharur discovered, was like trying not to breathe. He could, with great effort, do it for a short stretch of time, but after that the urge grew more and more demanding until. . .

Enimhursag withdrew. Sharur felt the god leaving his mind, as he had felt his body leaving the water of the canal. “It is so!” Enimhursag repeated. “You have told me the truth. Truly Engibil must be a god run mad upon the earth.”

“So we of Gibil believe,” Sharur said, not inviting Enimhursag to search his mind this time. “So we of Gibil fear.”

“Men should fear the gods,” Enimhursag said. “You of Gibil should fear Engibil. You of Gibil fear Engibil too little. But men should fear gods because gods are gods, not because gods are mad.”

“Even so,” Sharur said.

When the peasant through whom Enimhursag spoke nodded, Sharur did all he could do not to fall to his knees before the tough, unwashed Imhursaggi. The god spoke again: “And what would you have me do about the madness of Engibil?”

“Rescue us!” Sharur cried with all the passion he could muster, all the passion his training as a merchant enabled him to counterfeit so well. “Muster your valiant warriors. Come down and drive from his city the god who is now a terror to it. The Giblut will welcome you as lord. The Giblut will welcome you as liberator, freeing them from a master on whom they may no longer rely.”

If Enimhursag was searching his mind at this moment, he was ruined, and he knew it. But he had read the god of Imhursag rightly. The eyes of the peasant through whom the god chose to speak glowed like the sun. “Vengeance shall be mine!” he cried in a great voice. “Vengeance on Gibil shall be mine. Vengeance on the Giblut shall be mine. Vengeance on Engibil shall be mine. The land Gibil, the Giblut, and Engibil have stolen from me shall be mine. And all the rest of the land of Gibil shall be mine as well.”

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 Gibil: 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.”

She looked up then, her eyes wide with astonishment. “The god has ordained it,” she exclaimed. “What the god has ordained here shall be. What the god has ordained here must be.”

When Sharur heard that, he knew he had not understood how completely Enimhursag ruled the people of Imhursag and its surrounding villages. He also knew he would cause more trouble by refusing Munnabtu than by taking her. And, if she was not quite so lovely as some of the loveliest women in Gibil, neither would taking her work a hardship on him. Far from it.

“What Enimhursag has ordained here shall be,” he agreed. Munnabtu smiled at him. So did her father. He made himself smile back. Making himself smile back proved not too hard.

The villagers cleared out one of their huts for Munnabtu and him. Several women brought in blankets and rush mats. They giggled as they went out the door and closed it behind them. That helped ease Sharur’s mind; women in Gibil would have done the same thing.

With the door closed, it was gloomy and stuffy inside the hut. “Let us begin,” Munnabtu said forthrightly, and pulled her tunic off over her head. Her body, high-breasted, with a narrow waist and broad hips, had no flaw Sharur could find. She lay down and waited for him to join her.

He wasted no time in doing just that. Because he was a stranger to her, because she did not lie down beside him out of love, he expected her to be still and let him do what he would, as the Imhursaggi slave woman was in the habit of doing. But, as his hands roamed over her body, she sighed and pressed herself against him. Her mouth was eager against his.

“What Enimhursag has ordained here is sweet,” she murmured, and then he saw that, because the god had ordained it, she gave herself to it with her whole heart, as the Imhursaggi slave had on that one occasion when Sharur went into her in fulfillment of his vow.

Munnabtu sighed again when Sharur’s mouth, following his hands, moved down her belly toward the triangle of midnight hair between her legs. Presently, she gasped and arched her back and urged him on with more murmurs that were not quite words.

Her legs spread wide. He poised himself between them. When he entered her, he discovered she was truly a maiden. She stiffened and grimaced. “You hurt me,” she said, sudden fear in her eyes.

He drew back a little, though he wanted nothing so much as to go forward. “I will be gentle,” he promised, and returned to the barrier he would have to break.

Munnabtu grimaced again, and made as if to pull away from him. Then something in her face ... changed. Sharur could not have described it more precisely than that. For a moment, Enimhursag looked out at him through her eyes. In a voice not quite her own, she said, “Go on. All will be well.”

He almost pulled away then. Never had he imagined coupling with a woman in whom the god dwelt. But her thighs clasped his flanks; her legs caged him. Instead of pulling back, he did go on, and all was well. Herself again, so far as Sharur could tell, Munnabtu gasped when he fully fleshed himself in her, but she was no longer afraid. She gasped again, a little later, in a different way, and squeezed Sharur so tightly that he groaned in his pleasure and spurted forth his seed.

She was bleeding a little when he withdrew, but it did not trouble her. Pleasure suffused her features, pleasure and ... something else? Now Sharur could not be sure. “The god helped me,” she said. “Enimhursag helped me.” Was it altogether her voice? Again, Sharur could not be sure.

He agreed nonetheless: “Yes, the god helped you.” He could scarcely deny it.

She looked up at him from eyes shining under half-lowered eyelids. “And you helped me, man whom the great god ordered me to make glad. You made me glad in turn, though the god did not order you to do that. You could have taken your own pleasure without caring for mine.”

“A man has more pleasure when a woman shares it,” Sharur said.

“Ah.” Munnabtu stretched. It was the sort of stretch that made him try to watch every part of her at once. It was intended to be that sort of stretch, for when it was done she sat up and asked, “Would you have more pleasure? Would you give more pleasure?”

Sharur’s manhood stirred. Knowing he could take her again, he said, “Are you sure? You have just had your maidenhead broken. You may take more pain than pleasure if we go again so soon.”

“I do not think that will be so, but if it is—” She shrugged. Her firm, dark-tipped breasts bounced only a little. “If it is, Enimhursag will make it right. The god watches over me.”

They began again. This time, Sharur could not tell whether or not Enimhursag aided Munnabtu. Whether the god of Imhursag aided the woman or not, she enjoyed the passage as much as he did, and he enjoyed it a great deal.

“Have I made you glad, as the god ordered me to do?” she asked, smiling up at him as they lay together covered in sweat, their bodies still joined. It was not the smile of a god. It was the smile of a woman, a woman who knew the answer before she asked the question.

“You have made me glad,” Sharur said. “You have also made me tired.” He took his weight off his elbows and flopped down limply onto her. She squawked and laughed and pushed him away.

She pulled on her tunic before he redonned his kilt. Picking up the blanket on which they had lain together, she went out of the hut. Sharur followed a moment later, as Munnabtu faced shouts from the village: “The stranger whom Enimhursag bade us make glad, is he made glad?”

“I am made glad,” Sharur said.

“He is made glad,” Munnabtu agreed, and displayed the blanket with the small bloodstain on it as proof. Everyone cheered.

Sharur would have been content—Sharur, in fact, would have been delighted—to stay for some time in the village near the border with Gibli land. That did not come to pass. After breakfast the next morning (bread, onions, beer, and wine: the peasants obeyed Enimhursag in every particular and went beyond his instructions in no particular), the god of the Imhursagut again spoke to him through Munnabtu’s father: “Gibli who warned me that Engibil runs mad in his city, you will now journey to my city, to see how I make ready to repay him for the many affronts and humiliations he has afforded me. This man whose mouth I use shall be your guide.”

“As you order, great god, so shall it be,” Sharur replied, bowing to the peasant and to the god who inhabited him. He did not want to go to Imhursag. He would have a harder time escaping Xmhursaggi soil from the central city than from regions near the border. But he dared not refuse Enimhursag.

He also wished Enimhursag had chosen a different guide; he would sooner have traveled with someone other than the father of the maiden he had deflowered the day before. But the peasant, whose name, he learned, was Aratta, still seemed content that he and Munnabtu fiad followed the god’s wishes.

When Enimhursag had withdrawn from him, Aratta said, “I will bring bread and onions. I will bring beer and wine. Thus you will be glad on the road to Imhursag.”

“Thus I will be glad on the road to Imhursag,” Sharur agreed resignedly. He had come to the conclusion that arguing with Imhursagut was pointless, especially when they were convinced they were acting as their god required them to act.

He and Aratta were far from the only travelers on the road to Imhursag. As the day wore along, more and more men joined them, so that they walked as if in the middle of a dust storm that never subsided. Some of the men carried clubs with heads of stone or, rarely, bronze. Some carried spears. Some carried bows and wore quivers on their backs. About every other man with a spear or club also bore a shield of wicker or leather.

“Imhursag arms for war,” Aratta said proudly. “Enimhursag arms for war. How the Giblut will cower! How Engibil will tremble!”

“Imhursag arms for war,” Sharur echoed. By echoing one part of what his guide said, he let the man—and the god who might be, who probably was, listening through him—gain the impression he was echoing all parts of what Aratta said.

Gibil’s peasant levies were not much different from Imhursag’s peasant levies. Sharur did not think his people would cower. He did not think his god would tremble. He did hope Engibil would notice.

He came under the walls of Imhursag a little before noon the next day. What he saw outside the city convinced him that Engibil would indeed notice what Enimhursag purposed hurling against Gibil. Already a large encampment had sprung into being, an encampment that grew larger by the moment as men came in to it from the countryside and out to it from the city. With so many men moving busily through it, it put Sharur in mind of an anthill: a thought he carefully kept to himself.

Through Aratta, Enimhursag said, “See the might Imhursag brings to bear against the god run mad. See the might Imhursag brings to bear under the god who is the shepherd of his people.”

“I see,” Sharur said, and see he did. Not only was Enimhursag summoning the peasant levies who would, for the most part, spread over Gibil’s fields to rob and bum, he was also gathering together the men who would fight battles in fi\e van. Some were his priests, striding through the camp with bronze swords and bronze-headed axes, helmets of bronze or of bronze and leather on their shaved heads, corselets of bronze scales over leather protecting their vitals. Some were Imhursaggi nobles, also armored, who rode in four-wheeled chariots drawn by donkeys, from which they would ply the Giblut with spears and arrows.

“See the might a ruling god can bring to bear when he chooses,” Enimhursag boasted. “See the force that will blow away the Giblut as the wind blows away chaff at harvest time. See the fierce, bold warriors before whom Engibil shall tremble. See the strong, brave warriors who will course Engibil as the hounds course an antelope.”

“I see the might, great god,” Sharur said. “I see the force. I see the warriors.” He took a deep breath. “Truly it will be fine to have men who know and honor the strength and majesty of their god come into Gibil once more.”

Had Enimhursag peered into his heart at that moment to learn whether he spoke truth, all his hopes would have crashed to the ground like a mud-brick house collapsing when its roof got too heavy. But Enimhursag, as Sharur had thought he would, had b^pome convinced Sharur’s story of Gibil in disarray and Engibil mad was so because he thought that was how filings in the neighboring city should be, and no longer saw the need of examining the words of the Gibli who had come to Imhursag to bring him such wonderful news.

Through Aratta, Enimhursag said, “Come and be made known to my warriors. Let them seethe man who will rule Gibil in my name after they drive the raving Engibil from the temple his presence now profanes. Let them see the ensi through whom I shall rule as the great god of Gibil.”

“I obey,” Sharur said, which was a reply always acceptable to Enimhursag. Sharur obeyed with something less than a heart full of gladness; the more who knew him here, the more he was kept at the center of Imhursag’s army, the more difficult would his escape be.

But Aratta took his arm and led him through the milling hosts of Imhursag, crying out with Enimhursag’s authority in his voice to clear a path for the man who had caused the god to assemble his army. He urged Sharur up onto a small swell of ground and went up there with him, calling to the growing army: “Warriors, see the man who will rule Gibil in Enimhursag’s name after you drive the raving Engibil from the temple his presence now profanes. See the ensi through whom Enimhursag will rule as the great god of Gibil.”

All the assembled warriors cheered. The peasant levies gaped at Sharur, as peasant levies throughout the land between the rivers habitually gaped on the rare occasions when they saw something new and unfamiliar. Enimhursag’s priests examined him with eyes as sharp as those of hunting hawks. And the nobles of Imhursag sized him up as a potential rival. He could see that in the calculating expressions they carefully hid—but not fast enough—when his gaze lit on them. He did a much better job of hiding his own smile. Even in Imhursag, some folk looked to their own advantage, not merely that of the god.

He knew he would have to say something, with so many men staring so expectantly. Taking a deep breath, he called out in a loud voice: “Imhursagut, may you gain what is rightfully yours in the coming war against Gibil. May Enimhursag gain all the revenge rightfully his in the coming fight against Engibil.” He suspected he and they had differing opinions on how much that was, but did not feel inclined to go into detail over the differences.

The Imhursagut took his words as he had hoped they would. The peasants cheered once more. The priests nodded in satisfaction; he took that satisfaction to mean Enimhursag was also satisfied with what he said. And the nobles looked as if they had bitten into plums not yet ripe enough to be sweet.

Through Aratta, Enimhursag cried, “We march against Gibil! We shall overthrow the Giblut! We shall cast down

Engibil! We shall liberate the city to the south from its mad god, who lets its men run wild.”

Now the cheers were loud and unending. When the god spoke, those he ruled agreed with and approved of what he said. It could hardly have been otherwise, as he helped guide them toward just such agreement and approval.

“In two days’ time, we march against Gibil!” Enimhursag shouted. The roar from his warriors left Sharur’s ears stunned and ringing, as if he had been caught in the center of a thunderstorm. The priests led the peasants in a hymn of praise to the might and wisdom and splendor of their god.

Giblut going off to war praised Engibil, too, and asked for his aid against their foes. But no Gibli since the time of Igigi—and probably since long before the time of Igigi— would ever have sung, as the Imhursagut sang, “With you, great god, we can do anything. Without you, great god, we can do nothing.” Giblut took too much pride—aye, and too much pleasure, too—in doing things for themselves to think they were impotent when they did not lean on their god as a feeble old man leaned on his stick.

“When we cross into Gibil, the Giblut shall flee before us,” Enimhursag said to Sharur. “When we cross into Gibil, Engibil shall not stand against us.”

“So you have said, great god,” Sharur replied.

“So I have said,” Enimhursag replied complacently. “So shall it be, for I, a god, have said it.” He took Sharur’s silence for agreement.

In two days’ time, the army of Imhursag marched on Gibil. Sharur marched at its head, still accompanied by Aratta, through whom Enimhursag had chosen to speak for the time being. Behind him came the nobles in their slow, heavy chariots and the warrior-priests with their armor and axes and swords. Behind them, eating their dust, trudged the peasant levies who made up the bulk of the army.

More peasants joined Imhursag’s army as it moved southwards. Some came in from the west, some from the east, and some, breathless with exertion, caught up with the host from behind, from out of the north. “Never have we gone to war with so great a host,” Enimhursag declared through Aratta’s lips. “Never have we gone to war with so valiant a host.”

“They are as many as the ears of barley nodding in the fields,” Sharur said, like any wise merchant quick to agree with the one in whose company he found himself. “Surely they will prove as valiant in battle as so many lions.” Aratta’s lips shaped a smile. It was not quite a man’s smile. It was the god’s smile, written on the flesh of a man. Seeing it made Sharur’s own flesh creep. Despite the effort it took, he smiled back.

He looked back over his shoulder at Imhursag’s army. Enimhursag had believed him and acted on that belief even more strongly and quickly than he had hoped. Uppermost in his mind was the question of how he would escape the army when the time came. He felt like a hare in a pot, waiting in the market to be sold as someone’s supper.

“Are they not splendid?” Enimhursag said. “Are they not magnificent? Are they not formidably armed and equipped?” The god paused, looking at Sharur through Aratta’s eyes. Such moments always made Sharur fight to hold in his fear: would Enimhursag be content to look at him, or would the god look into him as well? This time, Enimhursag was looking at him, no more. The god went on, “You, Gibli, are not formidably armed.”

“That is so.” Sharur touched the bronze knife that hung on his belt. “I have no other weapon besides this.”

“This should not be,” Enimhursag said. A moment later, one of his warriors came trotting forward and pressed into Sharur’s hands a bronze-headed mace. Enimhursag went on, “Now you have a proper weapon with which to chastise the wild folk and mad god of your city.”

“Great god, you are generous. You are forethoughtful. You leave me in your debt.” Sharur would have preferred a sword. If Enimhursag had chosen to give him a mace, though, he would take it without complaint. It was a better weapon than he had had before.

“I do indeed leave you in my debt,” the god said. “When Gibil is mine, you shall repay me. When Gibil is mine, Gibil shall repay me. Gibil has owed me for long, for long.”

Aratta’s eyes blazed. Sharur looked down at the ground. What he felt now was awe, not fear. Seeing the power of the god in the man reminded him he was truly a wild Gibil madman to play this game.

Enimhursag’s army moved no more swiftly than its slowest soldiers. The god halted the host well before sunset, too, so that his men might encamp far enough from the border to keep the Giblut from noticing anything out of the ordinary. That was sound generalship of the most elementary sort. Sharur was disappointed to find the most elementary sound generalship from Enimhursag.

Once in camp, Imhursag’s peasant levies acted as the peasant levies of Gibil would have acted: they made themselves as comfortable as they could, got food and drink, and then either fell asleep or sat around the fires talking and singing.

The nobles slept in pavilions of wool and linen; slaves fanned them to keep them cool in the warm night. A few did not sleep, but gathered round Sharur, questioning him about the roads down toward Gibil and about the opposition they might face. “The Giblut have invented nothing new since we faced them last, have they?” one of the nobles asked anxiously. “I never did see such people for inventing new things.”

“No, they have no new weapons,”' Sharur answered truthfully. The noble let out a sigh of relief.

One of Enimhursag’s shaven-headed priests gave the fellow a reproving look. “The ingenuity of the Giblut is of no account. They are only men, toying with the things of men. We have the power of the god with us.”

“Do not sneer at the things of men,” the noble returned. “The grandfather of my grandfather died by the sword in a war against Gibil, back in the days when the Giblut had such things of men and we had them not.”

“We have them now,” the priest said. “Enimhursag has ordained that we should have them, and so we do.”

He missed the point entirely. The noble rolled his eyes, understanding that he missed the point entirely. But most of the other nobles, all the other priests, and Aratta in whom Enimhursag was dwelling nodded in approval at the priest’s words. Sharur had noted before that Imhursagut thought more slowly than Giblut, not least because their god was doing part of their thinking for them. He saw it again here.

And the noble, who also saw it, bowed his head and said no more. Most of the Giblut whom Sharur knew would have gone on arguing. Justified or not, Giblut had confidence in their own wits. Confidence in their own wits was a large part of what made them Giblut.

Aratta lay down on the ground and fell asleep, as if he were still no more than a peasant. No. Sharur stared. Aratta floated a couple of digits above the ground, and slept on a cushion of air. When mosquitoes tried to land on him, they could not, but buzzed away unsatisfied. And when Sharur lay down, he discovered he did not touch the ground, either. Enimhursag granted him the same soft rest as he did to the man in whom he had chosen to dwell for the time being. Nor did insects bite him. He passed as luxurious a night as any in all his life.

The rising sun woke him. Beside him, Aratta was already awake and alert. Perhaps the peasant woke quickly every day. Perhaps, too, having the god looking out through his eyes roused him to early alertness.

Through Aratta, Enimhursag said, “Today, we cross into the land the Giblut stole from Imhursag. Today, we cross into the land Engibil stole from me. Today, that land returns to its rightful owner.”

“Have you sent scouts into the land the Giblut rule?” Sharur asked. “Have you sent spies into the land that once belonged to Imhursag?”

Enimhursag shook Aratta’s head. “I have not done this. In the land where I rule, I can at my will see through any man’s eyes, hear through any man’s ears. I can reach beyond my borders where the gods of the lands are not my enemies. But in the land of the raving Engibil, I am as one blind and deaf.”

“Ah.” Sharur nodded, remembering how the family’s Imhursaggi slave woman mourned the absence of Enimhursag from her spirit. He said, “If it please you, great god, I can go into Gibil, scout ahead, and then come back and tell you what I see. If an Imhursaggi tried this, he would give himself away, but I would not betray myself, having been born a Gibli.”

“Yes, you were born a Gibli,” Enimhursag said, as if reminding himself. Sharur was acutely conscious it was the god studying him through Aratta’s eyes. If Enimhursag did more than study him ... But, after that measuring stare, the god went on, “Yes, go into the land Engibil took from me. Accompanying will be the noble Nasibugashi. He, too, will scout ahead. You were born a Gibli. You will protect him, so he will not betray himself.”

“It shall be as you say.” Sharur bowed his head.

“Of course it shall.” Enimhursag allowed himself no room for doubt.

Nasibugashi proved to be the noble who had wondered whether the Giblut would bring any new weapons to the war. Sharur judged him a shrewd choice on Enimhursag’s part. He seemed more his own man, less drunk on the power of the god, than most Imhursagut. That would make him better able to act on his own in Gibil than others from his city might have been.

“Let us be off,” he said to Sharur. “Let us be moving. The farther ahead of the army we get, the deeper into Gibil we can go, the more we can see, the more word we can bring back to the warriors and the god.”

“These things are true,” Sharur said. Was Enimhursag looking out through Nasibugashi’s eyes, too? Sharur had trouble telling, far more so than he had with Aratta. Perhaps Enimhursag’s presence was lighter in the noble. Or perhaps Nasibugashi had more personality of his own than did the peasant, making Enimhursag’s presence harder to discern.

As Nasibugashi had urged, Sharur and he hurried out ahead of the host of Imhursag. When they walked through the village to which Aratta and the other peasants had brought Sharur after he crossed into Imhursaggi land, Munnabtu came out of her house and waved to him. “The god told me you were coming this way,” she said, smiling. “Did I make you glad?”

“Truly, you made me glad,” Sharur answered, and smiled back.

“You made her glad, too,” Nasibugashi said. Was he only a man, judging by a woman’s smile, or was the god speaking through him with certain knowledge? The latter, Sharur judged: he sounded very certain.

Sharur and Nasibugashi walked through the fields south of the village toward the canal that marked the border between Imhursaggi land and Gibli. The peasants working in those fields waved to Sharur almost as Munnabtu had done. When he entered Imhursaggi territory, their only thought had been to kill him. Now, because their god was well pleased with him, they, too, were well pleased with him.

On the southern side of the canal, Gibli peasants performed similar labor in similar fields with tools also similar save that rather more of them were bronze and rather fewer stone. Curious as magpies, they looked up from their work to see what the two men on the Imhursaggi bank of the waterway would do.

What Sharur did was slide off his kilt and shake his feet out of his sandals. After a moment, Nasibugashi imitated him. Together, the two men stepped naked into the warm, muddy waterway of the canal.

About halfway across, Nasibugashi let out a soft exclamation of surprise. “The god’s voice fades in my ears,” he murmured. “The god’s presence fades from my mind. I am alone within myself, as I have never been before.” He cocked his head to one side, as if listening internally. “I do not feel Engibil trying to fill the emptiness the loss of Enimhursag has left behind.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Sharur agreed. “Engibil isn’t— there—all the time, the way Enimhursag is.” Remembering the times when Engibil had spoken in his mind, he wished the god made his presence known even less often.

When the two men came up onto the Gibli side of the canal, peasants loped toward them. The peasants who had been working in the fields of Imhursag came down to the bank of the canal and stared across with round, wide eyes to see what sort of reception Sharur and Nasibugashi got.

“What are you two doing here?” one of the Gibli peasants asked. Unlike Imhursagut, he and his comrades seemed more interested in the new arrivals than angry about them. “Don’t often see people coming this way, where their god can’t yell in their ear all the time.” He spoke with good-natured contempt.

“It’s not so bad,” Nasibugashi said. Sharur nodded; Enimhursag had indeed made a good choice in him. A more god-assotted Imhursaggi—a priest, say—would have been as bereft as a canal fish suddenly thrown up on land.

“What about you?” the peasant asked Sharur.

“I don’t think it’s so bad, either,” Sharur said. “Shall we get out of the reach of all the big, staring eyes?” He nodded toward the Imhursaggi peasants, through whose eyes and ears Enimhursag was no doubt seeing and hearing.

One of those Imhursaggi peasants would have failed to understand what he meant, would have made him explain more than he wanted to explain, more than would have been wise to explain. As he had hoped they would be, as he had thought they would be, the Giblut were quicker on the uptake. “All right, we’ll go for a walk,” their leader said.

The Imhursagut kept staring after them. After a bowshot or so, they went up and over a tiny hillock, so that the border canal and the Imhursagut on the other side of it were no longer visible.

Sharur pointed to Nasibugashi and said, in bright, conversational tones, “This man is an Imhursaggi spy. You should seize him.”

With commendable quickness, the Gibli peasants did just that. With equally commendable quickness, they also seized Sharur. Their leader asked, “And why should we listen to you, whoever you are?”

“Because, sometime before nightfall, Imhursag’s army will swarm over the canal,” Sharur answered. “Enimhursag sent us ahead to spy out the land.”

Nasibugashi’s eyes looked as if they would bug out of his head. “You betray the god!” he gasped. A moment later, he found something even more appalling to say: “You deceived the god!”

His horror convinced the Giblut to take Sharur seriously. That horror probably did a better job of convincing them to take Sharur seriously than anything he could have managed on his own. The peasant who had been doing the talking for his comrades asked, “Who are you, anyhow?”

“I am Sharur, the son of Ereshguna the master merchant,” Sharur answered, which made Nasibugashi’s eyes get even wider. Back in the lands of his own city, Sharur smiled an enormous smile. “I have indeed betrayed the god of Imhursag. I have indeed deceived the god of Imhursag.”

“It is well done!” the peasant cried. He and his friends pounded Sharur on the back for fooling the god of the rival city. Sharur wondered what they would have done had they known he had fooled Enimhursag into launching an attack on Gibil.

“How did you deceive the god?” Nasibugashi asked. He sounded half astonished that Sharur should have imagined such a thing, let alone accomplished it, half curious to learn his exact method.

“Never mind.” Sharur spoke to the Gibli peasants: “Spread the word that the Imhursagut are coming. Women and children should flee, men should get weapons, harry the invaders, and fall back on the main army, which will, I have no doubt, muster between the city and the invaders.”

Some of the peasants—those who had been standing around and those who had been holding Sharur—dashed off to do as he had asked. Nasibugashi stared again. “Does not the god of Gibil tell his people what needs doing?” he said, astonished again.

Sharur and the peasants who still held the Imhursaggi noble looked at one another and started to laugh. “Sometimes he does and sometimes he doesn’t,” Sharur answered. “Sometimes the people figure out what needs doing before the god does.”

“How can this be?” Nasibugashi cried in honest bewilderment.

“Not hard at all,” one of the peasants answered with another chuckle. “Engibil is that kind of god—and we are that kind of people.”

“Be gentle with this one, as gentle as you can,” Sharur told them. “For an Imhursaggi, he is very much his own man. Had he been born in Gibil, he would be his own man. Had he been born in Gibil, he might well be a great man.”

“As you say it, master merchant’s son, it shall be,” the peasant said. “What shall we do with him now?”

“A good question.” Sharur had not thought past laying hold of Nasibugashi. He spoke in thoughtful tones: “He is my captive. Perhaps I shall make him my slave and have him serve me.”

The Gibli peasants burst into laughter. The Imhursaggi noble burst into curses as vile as any Sharur had ever heard from caravan guards or donkey handlers. The curses made the Gibli peasants laugh louder.

Sharur said, “Or, perhaps, I shall see whether his kin or his god care to ransom him. He is a clever man; he would make a clever slave, and might escape. He is a bold man; he would make a bold slave, and might seek to slay me. For now, let us take him back to Gibil. We can decide his fate there.”

“It shall be as you say,” the peasants said as one. And then, almost as one, they went on, “Master merchant’s son, you will reward us for helping you take him to the city?”

“I shall reward you for helping me take him to the city,” Sharur promised. “The house of Ereshguna does not stint.”

“No,” Nasibugashi said bitterly. “The house of Ereshguna cheats.”

“It is not so,” Sharur said. “I am a Gibli. I serve my own needs. I serve the needs of Gibil. I serve the needs of Engibil.”

“You are a Gibli,” Nasibugashi agreed. “You put the needs of your god last. Were you a proper man, you would put those needs first.”

“I am a proper man. I am a proper Gibli,” Sharur said. “Now your god is out of your mind, Nasibugashi. Perhaps you, too, will learn to be a man first, a creature of the gods only afterwards.” .

Nasibugashi did not answer. Sharur studied him. Of all the Imhursagut he had met, this noble was the first who indeed might learn to be a man before he was a creature of the gods. Sharur wondered if his wisest course might not be to keep Nasibugashi in Gibil for a time, to let him learn what living in a city full of men who were their own men was like, and then to let him return to Imhursag, to see if he might sow the seeds of such a city under Enimhursag’s nose.

“Let us go on to Gibil,” Sharur said. One of the peasants gave Nasibugashi a push. Outrage still mingling with astonishment on his face, the Imhursaggi noble stumbled south toward Sharur’s city.

Engibil might not have warned the folk of Gibil that the Imhursagut were invading, as Enimhursag had assembled the folk of Imhursag for the invasion. But news of trouble with Imhursag had far outsped Sharur’s coming to the city. Already, peasants with spears and bows and clubs and shields were forming into companies to oppose the Imhursagut. Already, nobles in donkey-drawn chariots rode north toward the canal that marked Gibil’s boundary with its hostile neighbor.

“Where are your warrior-priests?” Nasibugashi asked as yet another chariot rumbled past, ungreased axles squealing.

“We have only a handful,” Sharur answered. “Most of our priesthood serves the god in his temple. That is his home. That is where he needs servants. Men take care of the business of the city.”

“Madness,” the Imhursaggi noble said. “Madness.”

“It could be so,” Sharur said. “But I, a mad Gibli, deceived Enimhursag, and had no great trouble in doing so.” He exaggerated there. He knew he exaggerated there. But Nasibugashi did not know and would not know he exaggerated there. He went on, “And, when we mad Giblut go to war with Imhursag, who these days comes off victorious?”

“It will be different this time,” Nasibugashi said.

Sharur showed his teeth in what was not quite a smile. “I doubt it,” he said. “Come—now we go into Gibil.”

“Well, well,” Ereshguna said when Sharur and the Gibli peasants led Nasibugashi into his presence. “Well, well. My son, you not only thrust your hand into the jaw of the lion again, you come home with a prize as well. He looks as if he will make a fine slave.”

“Actually, I, was thinking of ransoming him, if we can get a good enough price,” Sharur said. “He is a noble in Imhursag; I am not sure how well he would take to slavery.”

“A taste of the lash would probably convince him to obey—it does with most slaves,” Ereshguna said, his voice dry. “Still, he is your captive, and so your property. You may do with him as you wish.” He examined Nasibugashi more closely. “Mm—perhaps you are right. He does look to have a wild horse’s spirit doesn’t he?”

Nasibugashi threw back his head and gave forth with the bugling cry of the donkey’s untamed relative. Sharur and Ereshguna stared at him, then burst into laughter. Sharur said, “These men need to be rewarded for helping me bring this horse from the border with Imhursag to the city. I promised them we would repay them for their aid.”

“We shall do it,” Ereshguna said at once. ‘‘We should have done it even had you not promised.” He gave all the peasants small broken bits of gold.

They were loud in the praises of the house of Ereshguna. One of them told Sharur, “Truly, master merchant’s son, you knew whereof you spoke when you told us your family did not stint.”

“How can you have so much gold, to give of it to peasants?” Nasibugashi asked as those peasants, rejoicing, headed back toward their village. “The gods hate Gibil. Folk from the surrounding cities, folk from the surrounding lands, hate Gibil. They will not trade with Gibil. And yet you have gold, to throw away to peasants. How can this be?”

“I have honor,” Ereshguna said. “I have pride. Were it the last gold I possess—and it is far from the last gold I possess, Imhursaggi—I would give it to these peasants for the sake of my honor, for the sake of my pride. I am a man. These are the things a man does. Do you understand that?”

“In Imhursag, these are the things the god would have a man do,” Nasibugashi said.

“I do not need the god to tell me what to do,” Ereshguna said. “By myself, I know what to do. This is what being a man means.”

“You Giblut are strange,” the captive Imhursaggi noble said. “Word by word, what you say makes sense. Idea by idea, oftentimes what you say is madness.”

Horns blared outside. A bronze-lunged herald shouted the name of Kimash the lugal. Down the Street of Smiths came Kimash, not in his usual litter but in a chariot with gilded sides drawn by donkeys with gilded reins and harnesses. His helmet, all of bronze, was also gilded, as was his armor, and as was the bronze head of the spear he brandished.

People on the Street of Smiths cheered themselves hoarse when Kimash and his retinue went past. The lugal’s guards were less splendid only than Kimash himself. Their gilded shields and helmets sparkled in the sunlight. They looked hard and tough and at least a match for any of the warriors Sharur had seen in the Imhursaggi force.

“Great is the lugal!” cried the people. “Mighty is the lugal! Strong in Gibil’s defense is the lugal! The lugal and his bold men will drive back the wicked invaders! The lugal and his men will bring home slaves and booty! Engibil loves the mighty lugal!”

“So this is what it means to have a lugal,” Nasibugashi said. “You have made him into a god, and mention the true god of your city only as an afterthought.” His lip curled to show what he thought of that.

“No city can be without a ruler,” Sharur said reasonably. “We have a ruler who is one of us, not one who treats the men and women of Gibil as if they were cattle and sheep in the fields.”

“We are the cattle of our god,” the Imhursaggi noble said. “We are proud to be the cattle of our god. Enimhursag is our master. Enimhursag is our lord. We are his, to do with as he would.”

“We are ours, to do with as we would,” Sharur answered.

Ereshguna pointed to Nasibugashi. “What shall we do with this divine cow here?” he asked. “We, too, shall have to go to war against the Imhursagut, you know, and we can hardly take him with us.”

“I know, Father,” Sharur said with a sigh. He had succeeded better than he expected, and started a larger war between Imhursag and Gibil than he had thought he would. As his father had said, Gibil would need every man who could afford good bronze weapons and armor of leather and bronze. He sighed again. “This is liable to interfere with our other business.”

“So it is,” Ereshguna agreed. “That cannot be helped, though, not when Gibil depends on its men to save it. And I have a scheme for dealing with that other business.”

“Have you?” Sharur said. “Good.” Neither he nor his father spoke of Habbazu or Engibil’s temple or the cup within Engibil’s temple, not in front of Nasibugashi. Now Sharur pointed to the noble he had captured. “Let us give him into the hands of Ushurikti the slave dealer for safekeeping.”

“Wait!” Nasibugashi cried. “You said I would not be a slave—well, you said I might not be a slave. Have you now changed your mind?”

“No,” Sharur answered. “Ushurikti will house you and keep you from escaping until you may be ransomed. We will pay him for your keep, and add the cost to the ransom we receive for you. Only if your kin or your god refuse to ransom you will you be sold as a slave.”

“It is good,” Ereshguna said. “So it will be.”

“It is not good,” Nasibugashi said. “I believed you, Gibli. My god believed you. You deceived me. You deceived my god.”

“I do not serve Imhursagut,” Sharur said. “I do not serve Enimhursag. I serve the Giblut. I serve Gibil.” Here, he did not bother adding that he served Engibil. He was used to deceiving his own god. Since he had done that for so long, deceiving another god came easier.

Ereshguna said, “Come. Let us take him to Ushurikti.”

“Let us warn Ushurikti to watch him with care,” Sharur said. “He may seek to run away, and he is clever.”

“Were I so clever, would I be here?” Nasibugashi asked.

Neither Sharur nor Ereshguna heeded him. They had no need to heed him. He was a captive, in a city not his own. They took him to Ushurikti the slave dealer.

Habbazu bowed to Sharur. “Master merchant’s son, you have done what you set out to do. Engibil now surely heeds the northern border, not his own temple. This is surely the time to snatch from it the Alashkurri cup.”

“No, my friend from Zuabu, it is not quite the time, not yet,” Ereshguna said to the thief. “Here: see. We have fine gifts for you, better than any you could steal.”

Sharur presented the gifts to Habbazu: a bronze sword, its hilt wrapped with gold wire, in a leather sheath; a helmet of stiff leather, reinforced with bronze plate; and a leather corselet with overlapping bronze scales. “All these are yours,” Sharur said.

“They are very fine.” Habbazu bowed. “You are indeed generous to me. Whether they are finer than any I could steal, I do not know. I have pride in my thieving, as you have pride in your trading. But they are very fine. Still, I must ask of you: why do you give me a warrior’s tools, when I am not a warrior but a thief? Why do you give me these tools now, when thievery is needed? Why do you give me them now, when fighting is not needed?”

“Because fighting is needed: fighting against the Imhursagut,” Ereshguna answered. “After we have beaten them, while Engibil’s eyes remain on the northern border to make sure Enimhursag does not renew the fight, we shall hurry back to Gibil. Then indeed will thievery be needed.” Habbazu’s skinny face twisted into a grimace of distaste. “You think that, if I steal this Alashkurri cup while you are away from Gibil, I will keep it for myself. You think that, if I steal this cup while you are away from the city, I will take it back to Enzuabu.”

“Yes, we think that,” Sharur agreed. “Did you stand where we stand, would you not think that as well?”

To his surprise, the question made Habbazu grin. “Well, perhaps I might, master merchant’s son. Perhaps I might. Will you also pay me to fight for a city that is not mine?”

“We will,” Ereshguna said, and then he grinned, too. “Who says you are not a merchant as well as a thief?”

“I say so,” Habbazu replied with dignity. “Being a merchant is hard work. Being a merchant is also boring work. Being a thief is hard work, too, I cannot deny. But being a thief is never boring work.”

“Not even when you have to wait and wait before you can commit your theft?” Sharur asked slyly.

“Not even then,” Habbazu said. “While I wait, I commonly sit in taverns. I drink beer. I eat salt fish and onions. Sometimes I even eat mutton. If I see a pretty courtesan, I give her metal or trinkets to lie down on a mat with me and do as I desire. Perhaps some men would be bored with this life. If that be so, I am not among them.”

“That is not all there is to a thief’s life,” Ereshguna said. “If it were, all men would be thieves. No one would run a tavern. No one would brew beer. No one would catch fish or salt it. No one would raise onions. No one would herd sheep or butcher them. No courtesan would lie down on a mat for metal or trinkets if she could more easily steal them.”

“Master merchant, what you say is true, but it is true only in part,” Habbazu answered. “Many men are merchants. How many of them lead the life of a master merchant like yourself? Only the handful who are also master merchants, as you are. Many men, too, are thieves. How many of them lead the life of a master thief like myself? Only the handful who are also master thieves, as I am.”

“Indeed, you are not to be despised in argument,” Ereshguna said slowly.

“Indeed, he is not,” Sharur agreed. “If he can fight as well as he can argue, the Imhursagut will have yet another reason to flee the might of Gibil.”

Habbazu said, “I am not part of the might of Gibil. I am part of the might of Zuabu.” He held up a hand. Like his face, his fingers were long and clever. “If you would call me a Zuabi mercenary serving with Gibil, I should not quarrel, over that.”

“How generous of you,” Sharur said. He laughed to show he meant no offense. Habbazu laughed to show he took none. Sharur looked around. Shadows were thickening. Colors were fading. “Let us eat supper, then let us sleep. In the morning, we will march to the north with my brother Tupsharru. We will help beat the Imhursagut, and then we will return.”

No sooner had the words gone forth from his mouth than Tupsharru came into the house. “I see you have given Habbazu weapons,” he said. “He will fight for us before he steals for us?”

“He will,” Ereshguna said. “He is a Zuabi mercenary serving with Gibil. He says as much, so how could it be otherwise?”

“You mock me,” Habbazu said. “I am cut to the quick.” He mimed staggering about after having taken a deadly wound.

When Sharur, Ereshguna, Tupsharru, and Habbazu set out the next morning, they were not alone. The Street of Smiths was emptying. The men who made the weapons for Gibil also carried them to defend their city. Even bald, heavy Dimgalabzu shouldered a long-handled ax with a great head.

“Going to chop down some of those Imhursaggi palms, are you?” Ereshguna called on seeing the fearsome weapon.

“That I will,” Dimgalabzu answered. “That we will, all we smiths. We shall fight in the first ranks. Being full of the power of metalworking, we dread less than others might the force Enimhursag can bring to bear against us.”

“It is good,” Sharur said. “Kimash the lugal is wise to arrange his line of battle so.”

“It is good,” Ereshguna agreed. “We have had great profit by fighting thus against the Imhursagut in our past few wars.”

Habbazu looked interested. Eventually, Sharur suspected, Enzuabu would hear of the way the Giblut fought against Imhursag, and why they fought thus. What the god of Zuabu would make of that remained to be seen.

Dimgalabzu also looked interested—in Habbazu. “Who is this man who marches with you and your sons?” he asked Ereshguna.

“His name is ... Burrapi,” Ereshguna answered. “He is a Zuabi mercenary. Sharur here became acquainted with him when leading caravans through the land of Zuabu. He was here in Gibil when word came that the Imhursagut have gone to war with us. We will pay him well to fight for the city.”

Habbazu took for granted being named by a false name. He dipped his head to Dimgalabzu. The smith gave a similar walking bow in return. Chuckling, Dimgalabzu said, “Be careful that he has come here to fight, not to steal. You know what they say about Zuabut.”

“A few thieves have spoiled the reputation of all of Zuabu,” Habbazu complained. Tupsharru coughed, as if at dust hanging in the roadway. Sharur and Ereshguna held their faces straight. They were both more experienced merchants than Sharur’s younger brother. Sharur did not have an easy time of it, experience or no.

On they marched. The smiths, who were men with powerful upper bodies, did not use their legs so much in their work. They were also wealthy men. They clubbed together to buy a donkey in a village through which they passed, and loaded their weapons and accoutrements onto it. After that, they tramped along with lighter loads and gladder hearts.

Peasants marched north, too. Before long, the road became crowded, for other peasants, men and women and children, were fleeing south, often leading their livestock. “The Imhursagut!” they cried, as if men heading toward the foe with weapons in hand did not know whom they would be fighting.

In time, Ereshguna pointed toward the northern horizon. “Smoke,” he said. “They are burning our fields. They are burning our villages. They will pay the price for burning our fields and villages.”

The Gibli camp not far from the border was a city in its own right, a city with guards and winding streets and with tents taking the place of houses. The mood inside the camp was confident. As someone past whom Sharur walked put it: “We’ve beaten the Imhursagut plenty of times before. What can be so hard about doing it again?”

Kimash the lugal advanced with his force against the Imhursagut the next day. Sharur shouted to see the men from Imhursag drawn up on Gibli soil in a ragged line of battle. Then he shouted again, on a different note, for there near the head of the Imhursaggi force appeared Enimhursag, angry and armored and ten times the size of a man.