Pretender

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.

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.”

Enkidu sat up indignantly, then winced. “That’s robbery! One shekel!”

“Three,” the boy bargained, pushing him down again.

Enkidu caught a glimpse of a veiled woman in the doorway. “Two!” he whispered. Aloud he said: “Well, I’ll tell you about Ishtar’s descent into—”

“You’ll never convert my slave to civilized worship,” Tamar said. “These Hebrew tribesmen will not listen to reason, and their whelps won’t either. They’d all be better off back in the wilderness we hauled them out of. Depart!” she snapped.

The boy looked momentarily rebellious—whether from Enkidu’s bargaining or Tamar’s tone it was difficult to judge. Then his face cleared, and Enkidu was sure he meant some minor mischief. But he faded out like a genie.

“He’s such a good houseboy, but impertinent,” she said casually, coming into the room. “I may have to have him gelded for permanent use. Now—what am I to do with you, husband?”

Enkidu found the context a bit alarming. He sat up again, catching at the cloth before it could slide off and expose his geldables, and discovered that he was feeling better. No—she could hardly do that to a husband for better performance!

It did not seem wholly wise, however, to ask his imperious first wife for aid in obtaining his second wife. A certain delicacy was in order.

But Tamar had another melon to slice. “Do you realize how inconvenient your escape is right now? I spent two months preparing for this day. Now you—”

“You sound muffled through your veil, wife,” Enkidu pointed out.

“I will wear what I choose in my own house!” she cried; but she flung the veil aside. “How did you break out?”

Enkidu started to stand up, then clutched his scant habiliment, changing his mind. If only he had a tunic! “I didn’t break out, I—I gave them what they wanted and they let me go. You were wrong when you told me that no one ever—”

“Did I say that? I may have exaggerated slightly,” she said, lowering her eyes in a flash of demureness. “But if you could have stayed there just one more day—”

“And let them keep me entertained with hot oil until it suited your convenience—”

She put a cool hand on his bare shoulder, and his flesh tingled in spite of his anger. He knew her now for what she was—and the knowledge translated too much of his righteous wrath into guilty desire.

Salutation, Galactic!

NK-2 whipped into defensive posture. You are the enemy! I am TM-R. Not necessarily your enemy.

Necessarily! NK-2 cried. When did you take over this host? I have been here all her life—and seventy years before that, in other hosts. But our hosts touched two months ago—

Yes. I felt your penumbra, and investigated directly. Naturally I concealed my location from you. NK-2 was appalled. If the enemy could do that—

I could extinguish you in a moment, TM-R said. But I need your assistance. The strength of the enemy was awful. NK-2 knew that this was no bluff. His existence was in peril—unless he could get his host away, and avoid any further physical contact. He could probably fight off the enemy penumbra, but not a direct invasion.

Tamar paused, conscious of the power she had over him. He knew himself to be an amateur in the hands of a professional. He could rage, but he could not prevail. “Why should I suffer so that you could plunder an isolated temple?”

“It is not a recognized temple,” Tamar whispered, seating herself beside him. Her warm thigh pressed against his leg. “It was not for silver…”

Were was his tunic! “For power, then. With such a thread in your veil, you might become head priestess of Ishtar!”

“You would not have suffered long,” she murmured, running her hand down his chest, just short of the angry welts. “You were destined for that dungeon anyway—but I would have saved you, as my goddess saved—”

“Ishtar into Hades,” he agreed sourly. “You would exploit the legends of your own religion for—”

Her caressing fingers jumped over the burns and touched his cloth. Enkidu tried to move away, but she held one end of the towel and he was constrained to stay. He had no way to escape—The curtains of the door parted to admit a slave bearing an enormous tray of fresh fruit.

Tamar bounced to her feet, furious. “How dare you interrupt!”

The slave, a eunuch, retreated in confusion. “But Jepthah said you had ordered food—”

That would be the young house-slave—Jepthah—he had sent to find news of Amyitis. So this was the boy’s vengeance on them! Enkidu rather admired the imagination.

“May an arallu take that boy!” she cursed. Then, sensing the disadvantage her temper placed her in, she reversed her mood. “Bring it here, then. My husband is hungry.”

He was, too. Enkidu accepted the platter and maneuvered it onto his lap, admiring its gleaming abundance: yellow apricots and purple plums, medlars and bananas, and even a decanter of spiced palm wine. It would not be hard to adjust to such a life…

Yet a tiny voice within him cried escape, escape! Tamar padded restlessly as a lioness before him. “You said something about exploiting my religion—”

Enkidu bit into a plum. “Was it for love of me, then, that you planned your foray into the nameless temple?”

She glanced at him with sultry speculation and he realized that he had committed a tactical error. Now she would feel challenged to demonstrate her supposed love for him, and it would be more difficult than ever to help Amys. But all she said, with deceptive gentleness, was: “You don’t understand religion very well, do you?”

“I suppose not. Babylon has made me very uncertain about religion.” Ah, Aten, false god! “All I see is silver-grabbing and sex and torture, and now and then an orgiastic festival.”

“You think the gods are aloof and distant and take no part in these things,” she murmured. “Supreme deities that can never be understood, whose needs and passions are entirely strange. Or perhaps, like that nervy Hebrew slave of mine, you worship only one god, lonely as that must be, and see him as omnipotent and above human emotion—the great judge in the sky, the eternal provider and defender. You prefer him far removed.”

“He has been far removed from me whether I prefer it or not!” What was her point?

“You look at Marduk and you see grasping priests and the wealth of kings. You look at Ishtar and you see a huge brothel,” she continued, with remarkable accuracy. “You assume that because you are able to see no deeper, there is nothing more to see. Thus you both magnify and diminish the gods, and you do them great injustice.”

Enkidu remained silent. He was sure there was more to this than rhetorical debate. Escape! Escape! “If you were to look at a god—any god—with any real comprehension, to see him as he is, you would realize that he is very like a man.”

“Why bother with him, then?” If only she could answer that question!

Tamar seemed scarcely to have heard. “Not only does a god have the virtues of a man, in greater degree; he shares the vices too. The gods are like people! It is this that makes it possible for a mortal to worship a god. He worships what is good and bad within his own self, and it comforts him to know that the god does understand. I would not worship a remote, unhuman god, whether good or evil. It would be impossible for me to do more than mouth sentiments my body did not share. I will not be a hypocrite!”

Enkidu chewed mechanically, absorbed by her growing intensity. She was beginning to make sense. He had expected too much of Aten—and too little.

“Ishtar is a goddess—and a great one,” Tamar continued, gliding smoothly about the room as though dancing. She was impressive. “But more than that, she is a woman, with a woman’s desires, a woman’s feelings, and a woman’s temper. She is fickle. But though she loves often, and forgets often, she does indeed love. And that love is not really so destructive as men claim. It is true that she loved the lion, and led him into the pits set by man. But to this day that lion is immortalized on her gate and in her statues and amulets. She also loved the proud horse—and so destined him for the halter, the goad and the whip. But now he is cared for at night and he need not fear the hunter or the beast of prey.

“But most of all Ishtar loves man—and while she has taken him out of the wild, free fields and mountains and put him in walled cities on the drear plain, she has also given him rich harvests and beautiful temples. She comes to help him when he gets into trouble, even as she came for Tammuz.”

Tamar was beside him again, lifting away the platter of fruit and holding him with eye and hand. Again he felt that excited tingle. “Even as I come for you, my lover,” she breathed. “Even as I—”

You can not escape, TM-R said. Give me what I want, and I will spare you. I will not deal with you! NK-2 cried desperately.

Your ship. Mine crashed before I could summon aid. I will be stranded here forever, unless—

A serving girl glided in with a platter of fresh-toasted pastry triangles, the traditional cakes of Ishtar.

Tamar shot upright. “By the great stiff beard of Gilgamesh!” she swore. “Did I not warn you hence?”

The girl faltered. “Jepthah told me—”

“By all means,” Enkidu said quickly. He accepted the cakes while Tamar glared.

NK-2 extended his penumbra guardedly—and met that of the enemy. You lie, he said. You would never have let me enter Station A-10 if all you wanted was my craft. I never let you make contact with the station, TM-R replied. My host put her identification on your host, so that your station agent would know you came from the enemy—NK-2 collapsed his penumbra, breaking contact. The Ishtar lion-bracelet! No wonder the station representative had eschewed contact! And NK-2 himself had been afraid to check, because he thought the enemy was hosted in the nameless temple.

TM-R was playing a devious game—and was obviously too strong and too clever for him. Probably there was a major enemy thrust in the making, and TM-R wanted his ship not to escape the planet but to destroy. Meanwhile, the enemy agent had tried to use NK-2 himself as a foil against his own kind.

He would be a fool to have any further contact with this powerful and crafty entity. He had to locate and unite forces with the local galactic representative; only together could they hope to overcome TM-R.

He had gained two things from this encounter, anyway: he had learned the identity of the enemy host, and he had verified that another galactic did survive on this planet.

Now he had to get away—and that meant getting his host away from the enemy host. To do that, he had to motivate the male to renounce the female—and that might be the most difficult chore of his life. If only this planet had spawned good, normal, unisexual animal life!

“It seems,” Tamar said as the girl disappeared, “that the slavelet is too solicitous of your wants. Eat, then, of the food of my goddess—and I shall dance for you and show you the meaning of my faith.” She moved into the center of the room while Enkidu made alternate selections from the two platters.

Twice-thwarted, she was single-minded now, he knew. And she was a woman of considerable physical attraction. Best not to mention Amys at all. Not, at least, until—“Tammuz was god of the harvest,” Tamar said, moving about sinuously, “and Ishtar loved him well. And he—unlike the selfish Gilgamesh—loved her for what she was. When he died she was overcome with grief. So great was her sorrow she braved the terrors of the underworld itself to snatch him back from death. Allat was queen of the nether regions, and she hated her beautiful sister Ishtar. By Allat’s orders the gatekeeper, Cutha, seized Ishtar as she approached the first gate and tore the golden crown from her head and threw it aside to roll, sparkling like the evening star it was, in the dust.”

With a shake of her head Tamar flung off headband and dangling veil and let them flutter to the tiles. Her golden hair, unbound, fell below her waist. She moved more languorously, her body flexing against the flowing lines of the tunic.

‘Oh why, thou Keeper, doest thou seize my crown?’ the goddess demanded. ‘It is thus our Queen her welcome gives,’ Cutha replied.

“But Ishtar’s love for Tammuz made her continue on into the depths of Hades. At the second gate Cutha seized her again and hurled the precious pendants from her ears. And now the goddess shakes with fury. ‘Slave, why then mine earrings do you take away?’ ‘Thus Allat bids,’ he says, unmoved.”

And Tamar’s Ishtar-earrings dropped to the floor.

“At the third gate the Keeper strips the pearl necklace from her throat, and now she quakes in fear. ‘And wilt thou take from me my gems away?’ she cried; but Cutha shows no mercy. And thus at each nether gate she leaves her ornaments: the jewels upon her breast, the girdle from her waist adorned with fine birthstones, the bracelets from her hands and feet.”

These articles joined the decorations on the floor.

“And at the seventh gate,” the priestess said, “her only robe he takes, and sets her before the Queen in nakedness.”

Enkidu swallowed a plum-pit. He had never actually seen a woman in undress before. He had to admit that the goddess took very good care of her own.

Tamar cupped her breasts in the classic gesture of Ishtar. “See,” she said. “I am a woman, and this is my body, and my body is of Ishtar. This is what I am, this is the goddess in me. Nothing on this wide flat earth can match the gift of Ishtar to woman.” She advanced on him.

“No woman has the right to withhold from man the gifts of the goddess,” Tamar continued. “When she offers herself to man she offers Ishtar to him. Thus may they both partake of that which is divine—he because he makes offering of his purse and of his seed, she because she makes use of the goddess’ gift in the fashion intended from the dawn of man’s existence. And Ishtar smiles on them and rewards them both with ecstasy if their offerings are good.

“And as the mating of Ishtar and Tammuz brings fertility to the fields and makes good harvests possible, so does the mating of any man and woman reflect this divine union. If this were not so, there would be no seasons, no time of plenty, no harvests. It would be a terrible crime to deny the race of men its right to partake of this ceremony.

“To this have I dedicated myself. And when the passion is on me, I know beyond doubt that my god is in this union. There is nothing I can do more holy.”

Enkidu stared at her, her barley tresses wrought about her artfully, exactly as the goddess of legend draped herself in beauty. He saw the flesh of her skin, the radiance of her face, and understood that he had been narrow. Tamar had given herself to Ishtar, sincerely and completely, and her way of worship was as valid as his own had ever been.

“Even so, would I have come for you in your confinement,” she repeated gently, and this time Enkidu believed. “And if I could thus advance the cause of Ishtar, it is good. Everything I do is for Ishtar.”

Enkidu might have questioned this last—had he not been dazzled by the splendid body of the priestess. Ishtar had been thrown into a cell in Hades and tormented by every imaginable disease; her gallant rescue operation had succeeded only in making herself a prisoner. In this manner had the first winter come to Earth, for without the goddess of love and fertility nothing could flourish or reproduce.

But Tamar had stripped—figuratively and literally—the pretense from their relationship. What remained was the worship of Ishtar—Ishtar’s way.

Enkidu pulled her body to the couch beside him, heedless of the sudden pain of his burns. Again he felt that magic tingle of contact. His lips reached hungrily for hers, and she was warm and lithe and eager.

It was the death-struggle: invasion of host. TM-R had tried to bargain with him and had failed; now the enemy was out to destroy him.

NK-2 had the immense advantage of operating within his own host, whose byways and foibles were familiar to him. But TM-R had such sheer, raw power that tactical nuances became irrelevant. He was being driven back—He made a desperate effort to invoke a negative reaction in the host, to throw off the enemy host. This failed. He cast his penumbra out, searching for help he knew was not available. TM-R’s penumbra was there first, foiling even that effort. All he could do was fight… until he died.

The curtains parted to admit yet another figure.

Jepthah, the Hebrew slave, stood over them, not missing a detail. “I had no idea Ishtar was so tired,” he observed. “How nice of you to let her rest upon your pallet.”

Enkidu, keenly embarrassed, jerked away and dived for his towel. Tamar rolled over on her belly, furious but not in the least ashamed. “I will have you flayed a sliver at a time,” she muttered, and for a moment Enkidu wasn’t certain whom she was addressing.

The boy, already demolishing a banana from the platter, was not alarmed. “I would hardly be able to redeem my purchase price, then,” he pointed out. He dropped the yellow peel on Tamar’s left buttock.

“I will use your skin for an offertory bowl!”

The boy selected an apricot. “I suppose you aren’t interested in the juicy Kebar gossip I bring…”

“Oh?” Tamar’s wrath abated miraculously. She was insatiably curious.

“Please,” Enkidu said, still glowing with embarrassment, “could you bring me a tunic?”

“Immediately,” the boy said, turning to leave.

“Hold!” yelped Tamar. “What gossip?”

The boy paused, savoring the moment. “Cyrus is outside the walls. Or at least his army is. Right outside, I mean. The Persian will have Babylon by morning.”

“Ridiculous!” she exclaimed. “The city cannot be taken by siege!”

“Who said anything about a siege?” And without explaining himself further, he turned to Enkidu. “Amyitis has been sold.”

Enkidu jumped. “To whom?”

Tamar sat up. “What do you mean—no siege? And who is Amyitis?”

Jepthah smiled. “Five shekels.”

“You Kebar thief, I own you!”

“Three shekels, then,” he bargained, smirking.

She puffed up like an overfilled wineskin, but changed her mind before bursting. “Three shekels—but I’ll add it to your sale price!”

“His wife,” the boy said.

She looked blank. “What?”

“You asked who Amyitis was, so I told you. For three shekels.”

Now she did explode. “Pig of a Hebrew! I meant the Persian!” And to Enkidu, dangerously: “Your wife… husband?”

“His second wife,” Jepthah explained helpfully. “Prettier than his first, I hear.”

Tamar hurled an apricot at him. It occurred to Enkidu that she would never have put up with such insolence from a slave unless she wanted to. “Who bought her?” he demanded again.

“Three shekels—remember?”

“Give him three shekels, wife,” Enkidu snapped. What could he lose?

“Three shekels,” she agreed. Enkidu didn’t like the sudden intensity of her interest.

“Gabatha.”

Enkidu had been afraid of this. The pit of his stomach felt like a stone. “Get me a tunic!”

“Stay where you are!” Tamar cried, and the boy stopped in his tracks. “Why no siege?”

“Because the Persian enters by the nether gate, tonight.” The boy left as he spoke.

Tamar wheeled to face Enkidu. “I demand an explanation!”

“I don’t know. They must be tunneling under the walls. Though how they could do it with no noise—”

“The wife!”

NK-2 saw that TM-R’s host was not entirely docile. She had drives of her own. And now he realized how he could force a separation of the hosts. Jealousy!

Tell her! Tell her! NK-2 urged the host. He was weak from the ravage of the enemy’s invasion, but there was no point in conserving his resources now. If the two hosts made contact again, he was finished. Tell her! Tell her! Tell her!

Why not tell her? She would learn the whole story soon enough anyway. Maybe, just barely maybe, she would help. “In the nameless temple I took a second wife.”

“A concubine? You took a concubine—without my approval?”

“You were not available for consultation,” he pointed out. But he knew he had to avoid antagonizing her any further if possible. Tell her! Tell her! Tamar said, “Her name is Amyitis?”

He nodded. Why was he so eager to confess, when he knew it would only infuriate her?

“Well, I’ll forgive you, I suppose,” she said graciously. “A concubine is easily spared, and I’ve been known to dally with a man or two myself. As a matter of fact, after this hour with you I’m going to be quite busy with temple affairs. I will buy you the prettiest maidens you can imagine. We’ll just have time to—”

Enkidu was amazed at her tenacity. Even knowing they would be interrupted in the act, she—but of course, this was her normal business. Doubtless she had performed in public many times, and united with Marduk himself in the Ziggurat temple during the new year’s festival.

“I’m out of the mood,” he said lamely. “Gabatha will torture her.”

“No doubt. Gabatha is a monster. He’s cost the temple many a shekel by his illicit competition, undercutting our prices. Who is this girl?”

“Sargan’s daughter. Stepdaughter, really.”

“Sargan—head priest of the nameless temple?” She knew that name, of course. “That’s right—he does have a daughter. And—” Here her eyes lighted as she remembered. “She must be the one who poked out Gabatha’s eye! I couldn’t have done better myself!”

Enkidu nodded, hardly daring to hope. Had his little shedu voice advised him correctly? If Tamar also hated Gabatha, she might be willing to help the girl who had maimed him!

“Well, sometimes a little torture softens a girl’s nature. Makes her more pliable. I, of course, have never been tortured.”

“I assumed as much.”

“But you’ve no doubt had the best of her already. You wouldn’t want her after Gabatha finishes with her. You’ll find that variety is—” Enkidu’s expression stopped her. “Such sentiment! Was she really so beautiful, then?” she asked softly.

“I never saw her at all!” Enkidu burst out. “I married her while we were both imprisoned. We—corresponded.”

Tamar’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You never embraced her?”

He nodded innocently.

“Never saw her face, her body?”

Assent.

“And her you choose over Ishtar!”

Enkidu looked into her face. Better his head had fallen into the river beside those of the sacrificial sheep! But he blurted out, “I don’t think I can get her back without your help. I—”

Tamar’s voice, once she recovered it, was hoarse. “You had better do it without my help. If I rescue her for your pleasure, I will bring her breasts to you on platters. I will knot her hair around your—”

But Jepthah was back with Enkidu’s tunic. The slave seemed to have a real talent for appearing at interesting moments. “She’s already at Gabatha’s house. Better hurry.”

Enkidu looked at Tamar. She was standing with arms folded, legs spread: naked, glorious, unashamed.

“I must have your help!” he pleaded. But he knew it was useless.

Nebuchadnezzar’s ovens raged in her eyes.

So long, bitch! NK-2 cried, extending his battered penumbra just enough to make contact.

The responding blast of fury was amazing!

Get out of here! he prodded his host. Fortunately this was exactly what the host had in mind, now that he had the tunic.

It had been a close call—and TM-R would surely pursue, just as soon as the priestess could be managed. But now he could run!