Pretender

CHAPTER 15.

Can you show me the way?” Enkidu demanded as he stepped out of the house.

“Yes,” Jepthah said, keeping pace.

“How many shekels?”

“No charge. You made my mistress madder than I ever could! That’s payment enough. Anyway, I hear Amyitis is Hebrew, so I have to help her if I can.”

Enkidu decided not to discuss Amyitis’ various changes of religion. She might, indeed, be worshiping Adonai again by this time.

The clamor outside assaulted his ears. Apparently no resident of Babylon remained inside; all had crowded out into the streets to take part in the festivities.

Jepthah guided him out of the wealthy residential section near the temple of Ishtar and on toward the Euphrates. They crossed the Processional Way westward. Even on this great avenue the citizens had set up cooking pots over smoking scraps of palm-wood and dry animal dung, and were heating entrails and joints of rare meat in offerings to their gods. The priests ate best of all, sampling any pots they came across.

Down Adad Street, toward the river; and now they came in sight of Esagila, Marduk’s temple, with its gold-leaf cupola dazzling in the last rays of Shamash as the sun-chariot entered the nether world. From Esagila’s course to the south came the beat of kettledrums and hand cymbals, and above that the thin music of pan-pipes. Enkidu also made out the sweet notes of the harpists and cithern-players. If Babylon were about to be conquered, the music-makers didn’t know it!

The middle of the street was blocked by lines of dancers facing each other, advancing and retreating in approximate time to the music, while spectators cried and clapped. The wine jugs were passing freely from mouth to mouth.

The two sober persons skirted the main dance and moved rapidly on down Adad—only to be held up again. A stool had been set up, and on this stool stood a naked girl holding a lyre. She was attempting to play the instrument and dance, but the precarious balance of her perch and her dubious sobriety demolished her efforts and left her simply wriggling suggestively. A man in a short tunic crouched with a tambourine, shaking it as he pushed his legs out in a clumsy dance.

Amazed, Enkidu stopped. It wasn’t the sight of the bare girl that shocked him, though in other circumstances that would have been sufficient. These clods were trying to emulate one of the sacred dances of Marduk! But here there was no feeling of sacredness. Every drunken motion was obscene.

As he watched, the girl lost her balance and fell off her pedestal. With a cry of glee the man sprang up and caught her in his arms. She screamed coquettishly and plastered herself against him while he growled and explored her body with his big hands. The ring of spectators emitted laughs and hiccupy cheers as he dragged her squealing into an alley.

Another tipsy woman doffed her tunic and mounted the stool. Enkidu shook his head and pushed on. Dance, orgy, or sexual stimulant, this was the interpretation the common folk put on the ideals of the priests and priestesses. Tamar might talk of the glory of the worship of Ishtar—but this was what it really came down to. A drunken man spreading a naked girl on the filthy streets of the city.

The Euphrates—and parading torches were reflected from the low, smelly waters. Coracles clustered at the edge, round basket-boats fashioned of plaited rushes, flat-bottomed and shallow, but caulked watertight with earth and bitumen. It took a clever sailor to propel these keel-less craft without spinning helplessly or getting swamped by occasional waves.

The boy led him on to the famous bridge of Babylon, one of the marvels of the modern world, that crossed the entire width of the river. Five great piers of tapered stone supported the monstrous wooden span. The bridge stood high above the water—much higher than Enkidu had imagined—and the lower planks bore water marks considerably above the present level.

At the bridge’s near end yet another throng of people clustered round a collection of divinators, astrologers and tellers of dreams. Jepthah spat contemptuously. “Charlatans! Don’t consult them. Real astrologers do their computations in temple offices, not in the streets! Always the frauds trade on the earned reputations of their bet—”

“Hurry!” Enkidu shoved the boy along, though he was already dizzy with fatigue. He had needed far more rest than he had found. “How much farther?”

“Other side of the bridge.”

From the center of the bridge the dark waters were visible far to the north and south, with the myriad wharfs of the waterside market projecting into the river—or rather, the mudbank that was its fringe. Anchored to the ends of the wharfs were the large kelek rafts, of strong reed and wood, inflated goatskins attached in clusters to their under surfaces. Such rafts, Enkidu knew, could carry considerable weight—but only downstream. Many of these would be poled on down to Kish, Nippur, Uruk or Ur. Persian siege permitting. The others would be dismantled, the valuable wooden portions sold locally, the skins deflated and packed on the backs of asses and camels for the return caravan north.

“How far is this residence of Gabatha’s?” Enkidu demanded as Jepthah led him south beside the river. They were now in the new city, the smaller segment of Babylon west of the river, protected by a single moat and wall—but still impregnable.

“Very near,” the boy assured him. This part of the city was almost deserted. The sound of the revelers drifted hollowly across the river.

They came at last upon a large estate, its main building extended by walls and closed passages to protect a large central courtyard. Enkidu could see palms rising from its center. The walls marched down to the water’s edge; no doubt the merchant maintained his own dock for the shipment of precious wares.

Somewhere in there was Amys—now one of Gabatha’s properties.

They were now at the main door: a solid plank of handsome imported wood. “Good luck,” Jepthah said, and vanished.

NK-2 extended his penumbra, hoping to check the girl Amyitis, who might be host to the Station A-10 representative. But he encountered TM-R’s ambience immediately, and could not reach far. The enemy was already coming after him! If this mission of his host’s took too long, he would be trapped again—and no jealousy-ruse would work a second time!

Enkidu’s determined banging summoned a timid slave girl. He fixed her with a wild stare and intimidated her into letting him in. He was shown down a long hall, through elaborate rooms and exotic courts, and into the presence of the merchant Gabatha as he sat at supper.

Gabatha was obesely huge. He wore a short red linen tunic and over it an elaborate open robe, richly embroidered. Around his bulging middle was tied a colorful twisted scarf. The fringes of both tunic and robe were embroidered with metallic thread.

His hair was long and dressed in the shape of a fez, tied back by a knotted cloth. His beard was peculiarly cut; Enkidu realized that it was shaped to take an additional false beard when the merchant went forth on formal occasions. But the face was dominated by what it lacked: the left eye.

This was certainly the man. Enkidu wished there had been more time for him to think out his strategy. Here he stood: alone, weak, without weapon or money. What should he do?

Gabatha was no man to let another carry the conversation. He pushed away the remains of the stuffed duck on his platter and belched loudly. He picked a candied locust off a skewer and popped it into his mouth. Slaves cleared the table and retreated. “Well?”

“I—I have come from the temple of Ishtar on business—”

Gabatha yawned. “I have no dealings with the bitch of Ishtar or her minions.”

“If you mean the priestess Tamar,” Enkidu said angrily, “she is my wife.”

Gabatha scratched his nose, but his eye did not waver. “Ten thousand men have wived her,” he said agreeably. “I myself have—”

“She wouldn’t touch an animal like you!”

“—often seen the clients lining up before her offices,” Gabatha continued imperturbably. “But she and I do not get along. Now: your business?”

“I want to buy a slave from you.” He knew even as he said it that this was not going to work. If only he had been able to enlist Tamar’s help, instead of infuriating her! But there was so little time—if he were not already too late.

Gabatha’s right eyebrow lifted. “For this insignificant matter you disturb me at table? Come to me during business watches, young man, and you can look over my stock.”

“This one is special,” Enkidu blurted out, and realized that this too was a blunder. The events of the day had dulled his wits, on top of everything else. Was it only this morning he had exchanged his last tablet with Amys? He was living in some dream world, where things happened with impossible swiftness, before he had time to think anything out.

“A special slave?”

There was no way of recovering her without identifying her. “Amyitis.”

Gabatha’s eye did not narrow, but Enkidu recognized the same too-gentle reaction he had seen in Tamar. “Amyitis,” Gabatha mused. He tugged at a corner of his beard. “Daughter of Sargan?”

“The same.” Woe, woe!

“Sold to me at public auction just this afternoon by order of the nameless temple. Now just what would your interest be in such a girl? Your special interest—when you did not see fit to bid for her?”

Enkidu, hopelessly unskilled at this sort of thing, thought it prudent to remain silent.

“You are husband to Ishtar—you claim. She did have a tablet posted—but her victim, it seems, was hidden away in the nameless temple.” He studied Enkidu with new interest. “Your name?”

“Enkidu.”

“Of Calah?”

Startled, Enkidu nodded. The merchant had a merchant’s mind for names and places.

“So you are the one that that priest of Marduk…” Gabatha broke off, snorting with laughter. Some moments passed before he suppressed his private mirth enough to resume speech. “Yes, I begin to see a connection.”

Did he guess at Enkidu’s real relationship with Amys?

“What do you want with this chattel?”

…Still Gabatha could have no proof. The marriage tablet was hidden away safely in a hole in a dark wall. No—to this man revenge was more important than silver. Enkidu must school himself accordingly.

“I have a score to settle with Sargan’s house.”

The merchant’s face became as blank as newly-erased clay. “Really?”

“I was Sargan’s prisoner in the nameless temple.”

Gabatha’s eye became a slit. “So?”

He had to make this speech convincing. “It should be quite plain, sir. Sargan had me imprisoned and tortured—even though he knew I had committed no offense whatever against him or his house. He owes me for the damage he has done me. I have no clay tablet to avouch this debt. Therefore I must collect my payment from his house in whatever way presents itself. You are an intelligent man; surely you have some notion why I want his daughter.”

“You are ready to pay out silver to me—and call that repayment against Sargan?”

“The debt is not of silver.”

“You intend to hire her out?”

Enkidu managed to answer without a quaver. “No. I will send her body to Sargan.”

Gabatha leaned back comfortably. “I see. Your idea has its merit. But you need not purchase her from me to achieve your end, since my intent is the same.”

“It isn’t the same. Vengeance is a personal thing. I must torture Sargan’s daughter myself.”

“She isn’t really his daughter,” Gabatha said. “The old fool was obviously enamored of her. He even went so far as to teach her scribe-lore—obviously a waste of effort on a female.” He faced away as though dismissing the intruder. “My facilities are undoubtedly superior to yours.”

“How so?” Enkidu demanded challengingly.

“I have special quarters for rendering willful slaves docile, and a water-chamber if all else fails. I had that constructed the moment this eye of mine was healed enough for me to attend to such matters. Do you know that I came close to losing the sight of the other eye also? Still, I am a reasonable man.”

“You’ll sell her to me, then?”

Gabatha appeared to consider the matter. He seized the dangling end of the scarf at his waist, rolled it between thumb and fingers to wipe off the grease. Enkidu had once seen a playmate throttle a bird with that same motion. His ringed hand reached; the black fingernails closed like a hawk’s talons on a medlar. “Patience, young man.” He bit delicately into the fruit. Satisfied of its ripeness, he took a large bite, savoring it thoughtfully. “I have waited for this day much longer than you have. Even so, I might sell this hellcat to you instead of finishing her off myself.”

Enkidu had to say something, lest his face betray him. “I appreciate your unselfishness in this matter.”

Gabatha looked at him closely. “Your score is with Sargan, and only secondarily with his daughter. Mine is directly with her. You could waylay Sargan as he leaves the temple, or hire Kebar thugs to do it. Why should you come instead for his fair daughter? You think to spare her, don’t you?”

Enkidu was taken aback by the merchant’s abrupt and accurate suspicion. “I have never set eyes on the wench. If she is attractive, so much the better; she will not remain so for long.”

“Ha! You expect me to believe you have the stomach to do the job, when you can’t even lie effectively? You fail by a good margin to look the part.”

“You judge by appearances?” Enkidu made his voice angry. “Then see this!” He stepped to the table, pulled open his tunic.

Gabatha eased forward to examine the welts on Enkidu’s belly. “Expert work,” he remarked.

“These are the marks I bear from Sargan’s torture-master. How do you suppose I entertained myself while I smelted the sizzle of my own flesh?”

“How?” Gabatha asked with some interest.

“I could stand the pain only be devising in my mind some worse and longer agony I would inflict in return, on Sargan and all his household. First those he holds dear—then, when he knows what is coming, Sargan himself. Amyitis would be far more fortunate at your hands than at mine.”

Gabatha seemed impressed—almost. “Very well, then. I’m not one to deny another man his just entertainments. Let us compromise. We’ll attend to her together. That way you’ll save the price of her, and I’ll have the benefit of your superior devisements.”

Enkidu was trapped. If he refused, he stood exposed; if he accepted, he would have to participate. Either way, Amyitis would die horribly. Gabatha had maneuvered him very neatly.

“I’ll consider it,” he said finally.

The merchant stood ponderously. “Those irons should be ready by now. Right this way.”

Enkidu could do nothing but follow, filled with gloomy forebodings.

NK-2 tried to extend again, but the enemy presence was even stronger. This was increasingly hopeless. The host would not be diverted from his futile quest, and NK-2 could not even verify whether the girl supported an entity. At this point it made very little difference: TM-R was drawing near, and would not let him escape a second time.

At the end of the hall an armed eunuch guarded a blank door.

Amys’ new cell.

At Gabatha’s orders the guard quickly unbarred the cell entrance. What, Enkidu wondered sourly, would civilization ever do without eunuchs?

A brazier glowed within, its light smoke suffusing the room before winding its way up through a ceiling vent. Beyond that hole Enkidu saw the faintest twinkle of a few early stars. He wondered briefly whether the star of Ishtar was among them. No, the angle was wrong; but he did seem to hear a faint clamor of female voices. Probably Gabatha’s harlot slaves carousing elsewhere in the building.

Glowing iron shafts were embedded in the fire of the brazier, in easy view of any prisoner. Firelight danced upon the walls. Across the back wall of the chamber were spikes and crude metal chains. Gabatha was rich indeed; there would be no running about or prying of loose bricks in this cell!

A single prisoner was there. The one Enkidu had been afraid to look for. She was dressed in a simple gray tunic. She knelt on the paving blocks, her hands suspended at the height of her shoulders by manacles fastened on her wrists and connected to the wall by the short chains. Her head was bent forward; the dark hair fell over her face and bosom. Enkidu was able to detect the gentle motion of her breathing, but she neither reacted nor responded in any way to their entrance.

Was this his wife, then? His lovely Amyitis, she of alert mind and sensitive spirit, passed from one prison cell to a worse one in so brief a time? Who now hung her head and let her long tresses touch the floor rather than look upon the instruments that her legal owner now planned to use on her?

How could Aten—her god!—how could he brook her delivery into this?

And if her own god had passively surrendered her into this evil place, then how could any lone mortal man hope to extricate her—or himself?

Steady. It would be an irretrievable blunder to betray his feelings now. He had to win the merchant’s confidence.

Enkidu took hold of one end of a hot iron and pulled it out. The thing had a wooden sheath on the handle—another expensive innovation. Naturally the torturer wouldn’t want to be singed by his own poker!

A youthful slave dashed in from the hall. “Master!”

Gabatha fixed his servant with a one-eyed glare that made him cringe. “Idiot! Haven’t I given all of you standing orders never to disturb me when I’m educating a troublemaker?”

The boy cowered. “Sir, the priestess is at the door. She says her—her husband Tammuz—she says he’s here.”

“Ishtar?” When the servant nodded, Gabatha said: “Bar the door against her.”

So Tamar had followed him! She must have started out shortly after Enkidu himself had. She was going to help after all!

The slave backed away but did not leave. “Master—we cannot!”

Gabatha hefted another iron and brandished its glowing end at the boy. “Cannot? Do you value the nose on your face?”

The slave retreated further. “The bar—she got it loose before we could—already she is—”

“May Ishtar be fornicated by a leprous camel! Well, brace the furniture against the inner door for now, ostrich-head. Don’t let that lioness past!”

The youth disappeared. Gabatha wheeled on Enkidu. “So that was your mischief? Worm your way into my house to spy out my valuables while your slut-queen follows! Well, my silver is locked away where neither of you will get your greedy fingers on it!”

“I don’t think she’s after silver,” Enkidu said. He had just realized with a chill that Tamar might have come to torture Amyitis herself. Her jealous fury—“As for this spitfire,” Gabatha said, looking at the prisoner, “I will not be made a fool of in my own house! You will take that rod and strike out her eyes—both of them!”

Enkidu stared at him with the cold courage of desperation. He replaced the rod in the brazier. “Don’t order me about! What my wife does is her concern.”

“Get on with it—if you don’t want your own eyes forfeit!”

Was the merchant angry—or nervous? He and Tamar hated each other—and she was now invading his house. Maybe Enkidu could still turn this situation to his advantage, and save Amys!

Enkidu grunted, put his hand on another rod, turned it in the brazier. Its end was white. “Her face is down,” he complained, looking up. “Her hands are too close. How am I supposed to get at her eyes?”

“We’ll take care of that.” Gabatha snapped his fingers and the eunuch stepped in silently. Enkidu wondered if the man’s tongue had been cut out, to preserve the secrets of this chamber. “Remove those chains and hold her up!”

Remove her chains. Some god was smiling on them!

“Master!” another messenger called, stumping in from the hall. This was an elderly man. Apparently these slaves took turns with bad news, so that Gabatha’s wrath would not be concentrated on any one person. “The priestess is disrobing. We cannot stop her!”

“Well, tie her in my bed after she finishes and I’ll stop her!” Gabatha roared, still brandishing the rod. “With this hot iron…”

He gestured obscenely with it.

“Master! She has the Ishtaritu with her—many of them. They are all screaming and disrobing—”

Gabatha clapped his free hand to his forehead. “Bless me for a winged bull, must I do everything myself! Tell the household guard to set up a skirmish line in the first courtyard and skewer the first slut who shows her face—or anything else. What does that woman think my house is?” he muttered as the slave took off.

“Hades,” Enkidu answered.

The eunuch had freed Amys and stood her upright. Enkidu’s breath stopped. She was slim and fair and firm under the tunic. Almost unconsciously Enkidu reached out to touch the long black hair that still flowed across her face.

“Don’t bother with the hair,” Gabatha advised. “That will burn away. Just go for the eyes. Now!”

Enkidu hefted the rod.

Noting Enkidu’s hesitation with impatience, Gabatha put his own hand on the iron. Enkidu jerked it away.

“The rod will cool!” said Gabatha with exasperation.

So Enkidu replaced it in the coals. “How can I be sure this is Sargan’s daughter?” he demanded. “I don’t want to blind an imposter!”

Gabatha was red with anger and impatience. “Do you suppose I’d buy the wrong girl? This is the one.”

The girl spoke for the first time, from behind the black hair. Her voice was surprisingly pleasant, considering the surroundings. “I am the butterfly.”

Enkidu measured the distance between Gabatha and the eunuch. He would have to deal with both of them.

“Master!” a third messenger called. “Ishtar stands naked, and the guards won’t shoot her. They just stare—”

Gabatha mouthed an obscenity that put his prior efforts to shame. “Summon those guards here,” he got out finally. “They’ll throw their spears when I give the order, or I’ll geld them with my own fingernails!”

The lad departed.

Enkidu had quietly taken another rod in hand, good and hot. Now he leaped forward, swinging the weapon at the eunuch’s neck. Amys was in front, but the eunuch was larger and taller, so that there was room for an angled blow. Flesh sizzled.

The man screamed—no mute, after all!—and seized the rod.

Amys, freed now, instantly leaped for Gabatha. She butted him in the soft stomach so that he skidded back, off-balance. His gross backside barged into the brazier, upsetting it. Bright embers scattered across the paved floor as the merchant landed solidly in their midst. He bellowed.

Enkidu felt a touch. Amys had grasped his hand.

But the eunuch was moving. Enkidu shoved Amys away with a force that sent her staggering—just in time for the thrown rod to miss her. The iron grazed Enkidu’s shoulder, burning him, and landed beyond.

“Out!” he shouted at her.

With that contact NK-2 verified that the girl was host to no entity—and never had been. All his trepidation had been for nothing!

But where, then, was the galactic representative?

But more of Gabatha’s household guards were there, and in a moment they had both Enkidu and Amyitis captive.

Gabatha was in the process of picking himself up. His face was livid—and so was his posterior, where it showed through the burn-holes.

“Hold her there!” he cried, his flabby lips trembling. He half-stumbled, half-hobbled through the door and toward a wall down the hall—a wall covered by a great tapestry.

“What about this one, Master?” the eunuch asked, indicating Enkidu as he rubbed his scorched neck.

Gabatha hardly paused. “Let him come and watch this,” he said without turning.

Two guards dragged Amys along. Her head was down again and he still could not see her face.

“I want this slut dead! Dead! DEAD!” Gabatha cried, his voice rising hysterically. “Since I first set my eye on her she has brought me nothing but ill chance. Bring her to the water room!”

Gabatha himself jerked up a corner of the tapestry. Behind the woven scene was a small door.

The water room.

Enkidu could guess what it was for. He cried out in protest, but the eunuch was not to be caught off guard again. He stopped Enkidu at the first step.

One guard opened the little door. Two others shoved the girl through it head first. A gasp escaped her—but the sound of it was cut off by the slamming door.

“Hoist the sluice gate!” Gabatha cried, his voice shrill with urgency and excitement.

A slave sprang to an alcove beside the door. There was a circular crank there, similar to those used on drawbridges. “Don’t!” Enkidu cried at the slave. “Don’t turn it!” But he was impotent to stop Gabatha’s revenge.

The shrill screeches of women reverberated down the hall. Ishtar was coming to the rescue! Or whatever she had in mind. But she had reached only another room in this extensive house, and there was still considerable scuffling.

“Open the sluice!” Gabatha cried again.

The eunuch held Enkidu while the slave at the wheel gave it a full turn. He was forced to watch, though there was nothing to watch, horrified, and helpless.

There was no audible roar of water from the river. Only a long, final silence. Enkidu realized dimly that the walls and doors were too thick for those in this hall to hear the lethal rush of liquid down the sluice and into the chamber.

Gabatha broke the silence after some moments, with a satisfied sigh. “Over so soon. Well, now it’s done. Now she’s drowned, may my luck change!”

Enkidu, stunned, fought the full import. As in a dream that did not concern him he saw Tamar step naked into the hall, followed by her nude horde. Even the eunuch gasped at these wild natural beauties.

The priestess spotted Enkidu. She spoke to him as though they two were alone in the hall.

“Tammuz!”

NK-2 was in no condition to rejoin the battle with TM-R. The enemy would vanquish him in minutes if physical contact were maintained between the hosts. He had to get away!

Fortunately his host wanted no further part of TM-R’s host. Guidance was easy for the moment.

Out! Out! Out! he urged.