Pretender

CHAPTER 8.

The day passed. Dishon came with the meals, exhorted the prisoner gruffly to recant, and departed.

Why were they ignoring him? They had wholly failed if their hope was to break him down by such sequestration, for he was eagerly awaiting the next message from Amyitis. He readied more tablets so that he could answer her promptly. The hidden inner wall was already denuded as far as his arm could conveniently reach, and great amounts of sand swelled the floor. Much more of this and he would have a cavity large enough to hide in!

At last her reply came through. Enkidu’s pulse fluttered as he held the tablet up to the wan light.

CONGRATULATIONS ON A MASTERLY PERFORMANCE! YOU MAKE ME FEEL QUITE GUILTY ABOUT DENYING ATEN. AS LONG AS YOUR GOD HAS FRIENDS LIKE YOU HE HAS NO NEED FOR ENEMIES LIKE ME.

What did it mean? Surely this was sarcasm—but what was her target? Could she actually believe that his worship was somehow hurting Aten? Was she implying that if Aten had no need of her enmity, she might become his friend? Confusing!

Why should anyone hate a beneficent god? He shook his head dubiously and read on: I ADMIRE THE WAY YOUR MIND CENTERS ON THE ESSENCE. WHAT IS IMPORTANT ABOUT YOU IS YOUR BELIEF IN THE (MERCIFUL) ATEN. WHAT IS IMPORTANT ABOUT ME IS MY APPEARANCE. VERY WELL—I WILL GIVE YOU ALL THE VITAL FACTS YOU LUST FOR. I WORSHIP ISHTAR: I AM THEREFORE BEAUTIFUL. I BECAME A CONVERT TO THE LIONESS SINCE MY RUSTICATION HERE: I AM THEREFORE STILL A MAIDEN. I WAS NOT IMPRESSED BEFORE BUT I BEGIN TO APPRECIATE YOUR SUPERLATIVE POWERS OF INVENTION.

And her improvised butterfly signature.

What was her purpose? He had tried to respond to her provocation politely, with this result.

He was sure now that Amyitis was no spy. But how could he convince her of his own good faith? He read the tablet again, and grew angry. Her assumption of his basic interests was insulting. Maleness she equated with lust.

He could not deny being attracted by the better looking women. Most nubile unmarried females seemed to have little regard for anything that did not contribute to their erotic appeal. Yet as a slave he had seldom been exposed to the provocative side of any woman he might consider for marriage. As a free man—As a free man he had come to Babylon in search of his god—and found himself a wife. Now he had the liability of marriage without its reward. And Amys mocked him as a lecher!

Well, obviously she wanted to correspond, or she would never have replied to his messages. She was likely some old harridan whose obsession was the delight she could never bestow upon man.

He had sent his tablets through singly as they hardened sufficiently. He was writing again before he sent the last. This time he described in some detail the adventures leading up to his imprisonment. A prostitute had robbed him of money, clothing and tablet: so much for analogy. He skimmed over the episode of the Kebar Canal to get to the court session and his garden visit with Tamar. A lovely woman—and his wife.

THEREFORE, he finished smugly, PLEASE MAKE YOUR SOLICITATIONS ELSEWHERE. I HAVE HAD ENOUGH TROUBLE WITH YOUR KIND.

This note had to wait until late at night for shipment, as conditions were poor for hardening. In a fever to send it through before he reconsidered, he had another bright idea: make a protective cover for it, similar to a tablet envelope. Then the cover would absorb much of the abrasion, and the messages could be sent sooner after imprinting.

When the time came, he rammed it through noisily, then slept.

NK-2 still was not reassured. His host, bemused by the implied sex-appeal of the correspondent, was eager to rationalize her sincerity—but the real question remained unanswered. Was she host to the enemy? There was unlikely to be more than one enemy entity on this planet, just as there was only one galactic entity, because this region of space was not important enough. But the enemy could have trained several sub-hosts for alternate use. NK-2 would do the same, at such time as he found suitable material.

Soon he would have to extend his penumbra and check directly, for surely time was running out. Though even that would not be certain, if the enemy elected to hide entirely within the host, as NK-2 himself was doing now. So his wait continued…

It was mid-morning when he woke, much refreshed. The breakfast bread was in the gate—but first he looked to see whether a message had arrived. It had!

YOUR LETTER UPSET ME. I THREW IT TO THE FLOOR WHERE IT SHATTERED. THESE OVEN-BAKED BRICKS ARE VERY BRITTLE AND SOME OF THE FRAGMENTS ARE SHARP. WITHIN A DAY I SHALL FASHION A PIECE THAT IS BOTH SHARP AND STURDY ENOUGH. THIS HAS BEEN AN ENTERTAINING CORRESPONDENCE. THEY WILL LET YOU GO IF YOU RECANT. GIVE MY REGARDS TO TAMAR. I SHALL NOT ACCEPT ANY FURTHER MESSAGES FROM YOU. TELL THEM THAT I SWORE FALSELY WHEN I EMBRACED ISHTAR. ATEN IS MY GOD—THAT ATEN YOU DESCRIBE SO APTLY. I SHALL NEVER BE PARTED FROM HIM NOW THAT HE HAS ANSWERED MY PRAYER AND GIVEN ME THE MEANS TO ESCAPE FOREVER THE CLUTCHES OF THE NAMELESS TEMPLE.

And the butterfly.

A brick blade could not carve a way outside; Enkidu had noticed the great stones lining the outer wall of the temple the day he first entered. She could not hope for any physical escape from the premises. The knife could be for only one thing: self-destruction.

Enkidu laid hold of a tablet, made ready to write—and remembered her refusal to accept any further message. In any event the normal delay of transmission was prohibitive. She would be dead before he could talk her out of it.

Was she feigning? He doubted a brick would shatter in this muck, and certainly not sharply. She wanted to shock him, to hurt him, and when one tactic failed she tried another. After a time she would be more calm…

But why the statement about Aten? She could not expect him to believe that her conversion to his god was the cause of her demise. Aten was merciful; if she had strayed, he would surely forgive her.

There was a stamp of sincerity in this letter that the other ones had lacked. She had decided to die; there was no further point in sarcasm.

What could he do? Tell Dishon? The eunuch would certainly have to look in on the matter, and perhaps Amyitis could still be saved.

Saved for what? Torture?

If her message were honest, she now worshiped Aten. The priests of this nameless temple hated Aten. This statement, in Sargan’s hands, could put her under the ultimate persuasion of Dishon’s instruments. No—if she meant to kill herself, she should be allowed to do so without interference.

Yet how could he stand by and let it happen!

“Aten—” he prayed. But there was no answer.

So that was it! Put pressure on his host, hoping NK-2 would have to investigate directly! And elegant stratagem—and one that would normally have worked, had he not happened to spot the enemy in that courtroom.

Dishon came, left the mid-day staples, departed. Enkidu shivered in his cell, stood, fell back, stood again—and did nothing. He paced before the door, struck his fists together, and sank back, not hungry. Was he doing the right thing? Or had he become answerable to Aten for the death of a woman he had never seen, whose voice he had never really heard? Had he skewered an innocent butterfly?

If she died, and Aten permitted this—what kind of god could he be? Could a merciful god give a worshiper over to death or torture? Did Enkidu worship a phantom?

Yet he had learned through experience that Aten did not work in obvious ways. Developments always appeared natural, as though they would have happened anyway. Why was the god so devious? Why didn’t Aten honor prayer dramatically, instantly, thus impressing people and making converts? Surely that would be easier. As it was, Aten had to influence a complete skein of human activity, directing the lives of many people—most of whom actually worshiped other gods. Was this reasonable?

He smiled unhappily. Look not to the gods for reason!

Of course Aten was not the most powerful of deities. Possibly he was able to accomplish his purposes only by selecting the appropriate natural means. It might have been easier for Aten to jog the speech of the child Enkidu and thus put him into the temple of Marduk for education, than to create masses of gold for the family or to impress years of tablet practice into a young mind in an instant.

But a man could scarcely evaluate the potentials of a god, or comprehend a god’s motivation. He could only accept the tokens he saw, and hope that he correctly grasped their import. He had to have faith, or his belief was false.

“Aten, I have faith. I know that what you do is right, even if it does seem strange to me at times. But please,” he added, “let it be right that she not die.”

She wouldn’t die, NK-2 knew, for then the artifice would be over. The enemy would hardly give up so soon.

The afternoon dragged mercilessly by. Dishon came, spied the unused bread and water, and opened the door to ascertain that the prisoner lived. “Loss of appetite—the next stage,” he boomed approvingly. “Soon you’ll recant.”

Night. Still no sign from Aten or Amyitis.

Sleep—restless, intermittent, beset by dreams that woke him shuddering. The stink of his residence, the confinement of the walls, the maddening activity of the rats.

Torture, too—horrifying visions of men on tall shafts, kicking, kicking while their lives dripped redly down to fertilize the sod. Great kettles of Ishtar Gate, brimming with bubbling oil, cauldrons of bone-dissolving agony. Water dripping, dripping like thin blood from a water clock. Sharp knives touching private parts—touches that could never be undone. The eunuch heating irons: “Recant!”

In the night he woke, scratching at the wall, tearing out loose bricks, grasping for a tablet that was not there, crying, crying against an evil he could not comprehend. The body of a young woman, hardly cold yet, face against the jellied muck, rats nibbling on toes, fingers, lips…

Yet suppose she were genuine, host to no one, untouched by the enemy. An excellent alternate host going to waste, perhaps forever. So easy to verify… no!

Morning, unrefreshed and unwanted. Enkidu observed the bricks he had scattered, miniatures of the stones around Nineveh. He rose mechanically to replace them.

A tablet was there.

Almost unbelievingly he drew it out, gazed at the wedging there.

FORGIVE ME.

She lived.

He had to answer immediately, and the tablet was too slow. Forgive her—when he had been the impotent one? He yanked off the bracelet of Ishtar and tapped against the wall. Pairs, triplets—anything to show that he had read the message, that he understood (though he did not understand) that he accepted the fact of her continued life and was glad.

Or had she been asking forgiveness for her suicide?

But even as his breath abated in horror, tapping came back, dissipating his suspicion.

Communication had been resumed.

NK-2 had to know—yet if the enemy lurked, Amyitis was the most likely host of the moment. If the enemy were there, his Amalek-host would be vacant except for the relatively helpless umbra. If NK-2 extended suddenly and touched a host while the enemy was elsewhere, he might set a counter trap.

The best way would be to avoid manifesting his penumbra entirely by arranging a physical-contact transfer. That way the enemy would not know even if he happened to be extended at the time.

Unless the enemy umbra was there. In that case there would be an abrupt struggle for existence: penumbra against umbra. Victory would depend on circumstance—and surely the enemy had arranged things to favor him, here.

Yet the risk had to be taken. NK-2 would try to stun his host momentarily, so that he stumbled and brushed against another person, seemingly by accident. Then—

Dishon came for him that morning. Once again Enkidu traveled the long dark hall, past the cell where Amys waited silently—alive!—and up the steps that led to the far room of the water-clock. He was tired and unsteady, so that he stumbled and almost fell on the stair. The idiot lamp-bearer continued without noticing, and Dishon stepped back, not even proffering a gloved hand to steady the prisoner. Enkidu had to recover his equilibrium by himself. But what did such little accidents matter? Amys lived!

They entered the room. Amalek and he of the white robe sat as before, and the clock dripped steadily, its drop-shadows plummeting as the lamplight picked them out. Stars winked from the wall in back as he came forward to stand in the red circle.

This time Sargan conducted the questioning. The voice inside the cowl was soft, almost a whisper; but in that room it carried easily and seemed to come at Enkidu from all sides. There was the menace of a hissing snake in it. Once more Enkidu marveled that such a person should maintain so firm an enmity toward an innocent god.

“Do you still pretend to worship the false god?”

“I worship Aten.”

Amalek rose, but the white robe waved him back. “Insolence will not avail you, pretender. It is our duty and our intent to persuade you of the error of your belief. If you renounce Aten sincerely we will free you and allow you to return to your home in Calah. But the greatest gift we can give you is freedom from false worship. When your spirit is unburdened, the rest follows naturally.”

“Aten has sustained me for many years,” Enkidu said. “I shall not desert him now.”

“Strange,” Sargan’s muffled voice mused. “His heresy is very strong.” He returned his attention to Enkidu. “Do you realize that you leave us no choice but to put you to the torture if you refuse to recant voluntarily?”

“Why?” Enkidu asked, loudly, because this was the thing he feared. “Aten is a merciful god. He would embrace you also, if you only let him. Why do you hate him so?”

“We do what we must,” Sargan said, and his tone was sad but the menace remained. “It is not always easy. We cannot allow a pretender to go uncorrected.”

“I am no pretender! Aten is my god. I seek only to worship at his temple, wherever it may be.”

“Soon we shall show you the instruments. We warn you now, in the hope that you will recant before it becomes necessary to employ such devices. Torturemaster!”

Dishon stepped forward, standing rigid.

“You recognize him, of course,” Amalek said. “Dishon is not an intelligent man, or a vindictive one. But his experience in his craft is substantial. In the interrogation chamber, with the instruments in his hands, he shows the mark of genius. Never have I seen defter turns of the knife, a more precise point at which pain draws the shades of consciousness. Seldom does a bone or a tendon snap before he is ready for it to. His touch is marvelous. I once attended while he operated for a quarter of a day—and the subject never stopped screaming for a moment.”

Several moments passed before Enkidu could summon the composure to speak. When he did, he tried to make his voice crackle with contempt, but was quite unable. “Aten is my god!”

Sargan sighed. “We shall give you further time to consider. We are not cruel or premature. Consider the other gods. Surely at least one of these is worthy of your fidelity—as Aten is not.”

At his gesture, Dishon came up to remove the pretender. Enkidu turned—and felt suddenly faint. He fell against the table, almost upsetting the water-clock, and slid along it toward Sargan. His outflung hand brushed momentarily against Sargan’s own.