Twilight in Babylon (36 page)

“Sss—”

The noise jolted her awake; she couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Surely not the death pit?

“Sss—”

“Sss—” she hissed back. And hoped she was hissing to the right person.

“Chloe—” It was Nimrod, whose pronunciation of her name always sounded exotic, though he’d told her in Sumerian it meant little clods of dirt. “Don’t move.”

“Yesss—”

“There is a problem. It will be later.”

Later? How much more later?
“Yesss—”

“Good girl,” he said. “I leave food here. Be careful, quiet, and return to the pit when you have gotten it. It’s the safest place to hide you. I’ll come for you there.”

The sound of a soft impact.

The tunnel was long, maybe a block and half. Food was at the end, though.
I wonder if this is how rats reason,
she thought, slinking her way through the dust, the spiderwebs and the dirt. She seized the bag, chanced a glance up, saw starlit sky, and returned down the tunnel. Back to death, back to decay.

At least now she had lunch.

Fried quail, barley bread, and pea paste, followed with a jar of date wine. From Ningal’s treasured hoard, no doubt.

She put the jar down and sat, thinking. She wrapped the uneaten food and turned so that she was on her knees. She tried folding her hands, then clasping them, and settled for lacing her fingers in her lap.

“I owe You an apology,” she whispered in her first prayer that wasn’t accusatory. “I’ve bitched and moaned constantly about my body, this place, why and where, and why again. You gave me friends here, people who looked after me, who keep on looking after me.

“Ningal, who decided to protect me and bankroll me. Nimrod, who didn’t think I was crazy when I realized that me and the marsh girl were in the same body. That we’re the same person. And Cheftu, God You brought Cheftu to me. As the
en,
he’s the only one who could have decided to save my life. I guess if I say it’s like You already knew, it’s a little redundant.”

She reached up and tucked some hair behind her ear. “And thanks for the body. I really like the way I look now, and I’m more comfortable in my skin than I ever have been. I always thought I was too pale. Can’t accuse me of that now.” She chuckled. “I am one hot babe. Guess I shouldn’t speak that way to You, but what’s the point of pretense? I was so unhappy in Jerusalem, and I didn’t realize it until I got here.

“I don’t know how I got here, I need to ask Cheftu, but thank You. If there is some other place or time we’re supposed to be in, You’re going to have to make it really obvious, because I don’t want to leave. And, oh God, You picked an awesome body for Cheftu. I know he’s a little wigged-out about everything, but… I guess You know.”

She glanced up at the bricklaid vault roof. “You’d think I’d learn by now, but I don’t. This isn’t a challenge or anything, but, God, I’m not going to doubt again. You’ve saved my bacon every time. And it’s always better than I dreamed anything could be, when I just let You… do what You do best.”

She played with the beads of her belt. “I guess that’s it, I just wanted to apologize, formally. It’s hard to believe You do care, with the whole world to look after. All time and space. You know me though, You know me well.” Chloe wiped the tear that had gathered at the edge of her eye. “Thanks, God. I really mean it. I’m sorry for being such a brat so much of the time. I’m going to be better. I don’t promise, because You
do
know me, but I’m going to be better.”

Her legs were falling asleep, so she said amen, twisted around again to be comfortable, thought for a minute, then opened her lunch. Now she could enjoy eating.

*      *     *

“Drink,” the
lugal,
Shem, said.

Guli looked at his cup, then put it to his lips. In one swallow it was gone, the bitter taste masked by dates and honey, cardamom and cinnamon. A lutenist played, no one spoke.

His lips went numb, then his fingers. His chest rose and fell faster as the sensation of no sensation crept from his feet to his groin, up his arms and neck. There was no name on his lips, no love he mourned. He pitied those who had joy they were turning their backs on here. There was no joy in Kur.

Noises filtered through the daze growing in his mind. His neck was stiff now—not painful, just final. Lamps glowed in all parts of the room, and Guli could see the bodies lying close together, filling the chamber. Coffins stacked against the wall, riches beyond his imagination heaped in the center.

He blinked; the feeling was a little like falling asleep after drinking too much beer. Disconnected awareness. It seemed that mist rose from the dirt, shapes that were long and translucent.

A tugging at his head—not the body—but at his awareness. He let go and was squished through a narrow opening, then popped out and soared—weightless. Free.

All around him, perceptions poured in.

He couldn’t taste, or smell, or see, but he knew everything. Every man in the pit; every concern of those above. All was laid before him, explained and known and understandable. Joy bubbled inside him. If only the others realized! Could he tell them? Just a moment with Ningal.

No,
resounded through him.
It’s not for you to do.

Below him, he saw the death chamber. Wax and dirt shapes, freed of their users, melting back into the comfort of the soil. The gold would last, but its meaning was less than the dirt. The body of Guli was stiff, but his eyes were blankly peaceful.

If only Guli had known,
Guli thought.

Other mists swirled around him, their joy contagious. With laughter and excitement they passed through the arched brick roof and up into the night. Dirt and wax stood on feet in the courtyard, hundreds and thousands of them, lined up, burdened, worried, shallow, and wonderful.

Tears poured from Guli. He hadn’t wept when he was dirt and wax, but when he saw them he couldn’t stop. How incredible, how intricate, how ignorant they were. Their frets and fears were written on them like envelopes. That is what they are, he thought. Envelopes, inscribed with the contents, protective of the true document and once broken, impossible to reuse.

Dirt and wax, wrapped around joy and breath.

He could see from horizon to horizon, around the globe of the world. The world was round as a fruit, filled with a million souls. They lived in places and ways Guli had never even imagined. It was a storehouse of envelopes, unaware that they were, and unaware that they were exactly like each other, except for each one’s dream.

He rose above the Plain of Shinar. It stretched out, the twin rivers twisting and winding through the land. Already he could see the channels the heedless waters had abandoned and he realized the Euphrates wouldn’t run forever beneath the western wall of the commonwealth of Ur. Fish jumped in the south sea, and Dilmun’s orchards shone beneath the clear, full moon.

Ziusudra, who would never be free of his envelope, and who thought that was a blessing, looked up. Age had been arrested in him, but it had happened too late, and he was bent with years and crippled by disillusion.

Kalam, on board a ship a day’s sail from the port of Ur, looked back fearfully. His fingers were white around the wooden prow, and his eyes were wide, peering through the night, anticipating the
lugal’s
soldiers or the priests of the temple approaching and demanding that he take his place in the pit.

Thank you,
Guli said to him.
You blessed me, and you didn’t know it, didn’t intend it. But that doesn’t make the action any less a blessing.

Kalam shivered and pulled his cloak around him. He eyed the air, and Guli whisked away on the breeze.

Leave the envelopes to their own.

His joy floated him like foam on the sea, to land on the distant shores of a new, higher world. But he knew the face he held dearest, he would not see. Ulu, fearful and wounded, but free to start her life again, was headed north. She was alive.

But someday, she too would know this joy.

*      *     *

It took eight priests four double hours to arrange the bodies, give each an individual funeral for his name, cover him with dirt, carry in the remaining bribes, pour the libation offering, set the table for the funeral feast, and climb out of the pit.

Cheftu ached, he reeked of death and dirt, his stomach was cramped from hunger and his desire for Chloe. To touch her was a craving that he feared would drive him insane. He didn’t see Nimrod anywhere in the courtyard; consequently, he didn’t know where Chloe was.

“En,”
a priest said. “You need to, uh, bathe and change before the final set of offerings. The people will return with their farewell wishes, then we’ll fill in the rest of the shaft.”

“Of course,” Cheftu said.

“A bath is drawn for you.”

“Who?”

“Shama serves you now. As you requested.”

Cheftu muttered thanks and headed toward the labyrinth of offices and quarters. When he didn’t think about where he was going, he didn’t get lost. His door opened at his touch, and he stepped inside.

A woman’s leg moved in the other room, as she filled his bath.

“I specifically requested Shama,” he said, irritation edging his voice. “No women.”

“Okay,” she said, stepping into view. “But I thought I’d try to change your mind.”

He seized her, and she held him as they both shook. “Chloe, my beloved. Oh my Chloe,” he murmured against her black hair.

“Never let me go,” she whispered. “Don’t ever take your arms from around me again.”

“I can’t.” he said. “I won’t. My beloved wife, oh Chloe.”

*      *     *

The house was his. As soon as the coppersmiths got new copper, he could order a bathtub. He had money now, position as Asa’s eyes, power over the old stargazer to do whatever he wanted. Ezzi was set for life.

He’d fired Ulu’s servants and sold her slaves. It was quiet, and dark. Her perfume lingered in the air; he had the strange sensation she might walk in and disturb his blessed peace. She couldn’t. She was dead, buried beneath a shaft of dirt as deep as the stages of the temple were high.

The stars looked far away, removed from man’s touch. The showers they had sent seemed to have passed. The gods had been sufficiently bribed. Ezzi sat at the table, hungry. Then he realized he had to get his own food.

He lit a torch and walked back into the kitchens. Everything was bare—no bread in the basket, no stew on the fire. The stores of peas and onions were empty, the narrow flaxen twists of spices open and stacked.

“That is just as well,” he said to the lonely darkness. “I can just go to the tavern. Get a warm dinner, and refreshing beer. Chat with the clients from my street as civilized men do.” He walked back to the courtyard and let himself out.

There were no shouts tonight, no laughter, no mirth. It was as dark and silent as waiting in front of the temple had been. No matter, humans would be clustered at the tavern. Ezzi’s steps were quick and loud against the packed-dirt road, and he turned the corner.

No torches burned without. No lamps glowed from within. He tried the door, but it was bolted. The tavern wasn’t open. “She always was a lazy old ale-wife,” he muttered. Her competition, whose brew was superior anyway, was just across the canal. He’d go there and be better off for it. “Maybe I will just go there from now on,” he said to himself. “A whole new start.”

Ulu hadn’t worked there. That would be good—they would recognize him as Ezzi stargazer, instead of the whore Ulu’s useless whelp. He wouldn’t have to listen to them talk to him about her, how much fun she was, how much they missed her. He’d be an independent man, an impressive one. He halted in the street and pondered if he should return home and put on his fresher Old Boy cloak.

It was late; he was too hungry.

Doors were shut tonight; birds cooed in the trees, and occasionally a wild dog howled. He heard no people. Ezzi was alone.

He walked across the bridge, toward the other tavern.

The torches by the door were lit, the warm welcome glow bid him come in and eat. The ale-wife looked up. “What is your pleasure?” she asked. Her teeth were split and black, her hair as thin as cobwebs spread over her head. Huge hoop earrings dangled from stretched earlobes, and her eyes were swollen nearly shut.

“Beer,” he said.

“That’s a surprise, boy. What kind of beer?”

“What do you have?”

“Sweet barley beer, tart barley beer, spiced barley beer, dark barley beer,” she ticked off on her fingers. “Fresh green beer, corked beer, New Year beer, harvest beer—”

“Do you have a breakfast beer?” he asked.

“Sure do.”

“I’ll take that.”

“I don’t serve breakfast until after dawn.”

“The day starts at twilight,” he told her.

“It does, Old Boy, but you don’t fast until you go to sleep, and you don’t go to sleep until the night, so you aren’t breaking your fast until the dawn. So I don’t serve breakfast beer until after dawn.”

Ezzi glanced around. A whore ministered to a man in the far corner. Some sailors played dice at a table, foreigners from the look of them. The other seats were empty, the floor was sticky, and the tables weren’t balanced. “Sweet beer,” he said.

“Honey sweet? Date sweet? Date honey sweet? Malt sweet? Fresh mash sweet?”

“Uh, date sweet,” he said, then remembered he really preferred honey sweet. But she was gone already.

She brought back the jar and started to crack the seal. “How are you paying?”

Ezzi froze. He’d always had beer, food, anything he wanted at the tavern.

Because his mother worked there.

He made a production of reaching for his seals and purse, then slapped the bar. “By the gods! I can’t believe it. I spent all day with the great stargazer Asa—I’m his colleague—I came home and changed for the ceremony outside the temple… and I must have left my purse on my other belt. I’m so sorry,” he said reaching for the jar. “I’ll pay you on the morrow.”

She pulled the jar out of reach. “Not so fast, Old Boy. You pay now, or you don’t drink.”

“I don’t have my purse, I told you. I’ll send my slave with double fees tomorrow. I’m good for it. I live on Crooked Way.” He spoke the truth.