Word Fulfilled, The (35 page)

Forty-one

Nineveh, the Privileged Quarter

Seventeenth Day of Du’ûzu, the Third Hour

annah veered onto a narrow side street. When they crossed into the residential quarter from the temple square, she led with renewed confidence. The road took them past a loop of the Tabiltu River, where she turned along a footpath that skirted the water’s edge. The ambient torchlight from the temple plaza dimmed and left only a silvery half-moon to light their way. This path was familiar to her, though, and the subdued light presented no problem. Many an afternoon over the past few years found her along this embankment, where she fretted over the gap in her marriage and the uncertain future of her daughter. Now she fretted over the uncertain future of—her new love?

She shook her head. How could feelings like these blossom so quickly between two people? Perhaps their maturity granted a perspective that cut through the foggy infatuation into which youth so often stumbled. Or maybe their advanced age simply reminded them that they had less time to dither.

She smiled to herself. Who cared? The point was, two mature adults had discovered love and were ready for what it had to offer. Her mind floated on air, hopeful for the first time in years.

I feel so light. So peaceful, but excited.

She was certain from their embrace that Jonah felt the same way.

I’m a mess.

Jonah stumbled along and kept a lame grasp on Hannah’s hand while his brain pinged in all directions. He was convinced no man in history was less equipped for the emotional state he found himself in. Restless energy he didn’t know he possessed surged through his body, but his mind had no idea what to do with it. Was this love? He supposed it to be, but he wasn’t sure. He always thought love to be a serious endeavor, something two people set their minds on and worked hard to nurture. So then, what was this silly grin on his face?

His mind reeled from his first embrace with a woman not his relative, the first approach of romance that didn’t collapse his senses. He still didn’t understand it, but to understand became less important the longer her hand remained in his. All he could think of was that kiss. Then that hug. His cheeks burned at the memory, but in desire rather than embarrassment.

A curious sound wiggled between his lips. He frowned. Was that a giggle? Of course not. He didn’t giggle. Never had. Must’ve been a chuckle.
Why am I chuckling?

Her voice penetrated his thoughts. “Did you say something?”

“Hmm?”

Hannah slowed and turned her head. “I thought I heard you say something.”

“Did I?”

She stopped. “Jonah, what’s wrong?”

“Wrong?”

She leaned forward and squinted at his face through the pale moonlight. “Why are you smiling?”

Come closer; I’ll show you.
Was that another chuckle?

“You’re . . . you’re giggling!” She stared at him.

“Chuckling. There’s a difference.”

“Jonah—”

His lips covered hers. He couldn’t help it.

Oh, was there ever anything so glorious?
Why did I wait so long?

Hannah stiffened, and a muffled cry puffed her cheeks. He gripped her shoulders, not too tight. She pulled back, not too hard. Slowly, he felt her relax. She settled into his arms, and her breath matched his. The world slowed as his lips grudgingly released hers.

A twinge of panic pricked his forehead.
Now what?

Her voice was small. “Jonah?”

A rush of heat enveloped his brain as it occurred to him what he’d done. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” A forced swallow interrupted his words.

Her face shone softly in the moonlight. He had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. It took a moment for him to realize she was smiling, too. “Hannah?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

The words startled him. These were words he had reserved his entire life only for family. Odd, though, that now they tripped so easily from his lips—and how good they felt. He prayed they felt good to her, too. He dropped his gaze when a sudden fear of her response gripped him.

Her voice came barely above a whisper. “I love you, too.”

His head jerked up. “You do?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why? Why do you love me?”

“Jonah, what do you mean—”

“No, really. Why would you love someone like me?”

“Jonah, we don’t have time for this.”

“We’ll make time. You don’t understand. This has never happened to me. I have to know—”

Hannah’s touch on his cheek cut off his words, his breath, and, for a moment, his heartbeat.

“Later. We must get to the house. It’s not safe in the open.”

He sucked in a deep breath. “Yes. All right. But we have to talk.”

She nodded. “Later.”

Her hand grasped his, and she turned back along the path.

Lll

Hannah stopped at the convergence of a side road and the main street that cut through the center of the district. She guided Jonah into the shadows. “Wait here.”

After a few moments—an eternity to Jonah—Hannah returned and took him again by the hand. They rounded the corner and hurried down the street. She stopped at the third house on the left, lifted the door latch, and they slipped inside.

Jonah was breathless. His head still swam with anxiety, physical exertion, and love. Hannah released his hand, and he struggled in the darkness to calm his breath. He heard the shuffle of her sandals, then the sound of something scrape along the floor. He jolted when he felt her hand again slip into his.

“Stay close to me. I don’t want to light any lamps. It’s late, and the light may attract attention. I’ll take you to Ianna’s niche. You can sleep there tonight.”

Jonah nodded, still submerged in his thoughts.

“Do you hear me?”

He nodded again.

Her voice finally cut through his daze. “Jonah, it’s dark. I can’t see you. Say something.”

In spite of the late hour and the strain of the evening’s events—or perhaps because of them—Hannah’s succinct revelation of the obvious snorted a laugh through Jonah’s nose. The snort released an involuntary flood of laughter. He plastered his hand against his mouth. The hysteria lasted only a moment, but it left him with watered eyes.

“You’re tired, aren’t you?” She giggled.

He nodded again, then squelched another snort.

“I love you,” she murmured.

Forty-two

Nineveh, the Temple of Ishtar

Seventeenth Day of Du’ûzu, the Eighth Hour

ou can’t go in there!” Thura’s shrill voice penetrated the door of the High Priestess’s chambers.

“Move!” A smack punctuated the command, followed by a shriek.

The door flew open, and Shalla glowered on the threshold. Thura sat on the floor behind her with a hand pressed to her reddened cheek. The senior
naditu
strode through and slammed the door behind her.

“Do please come in, Shalla.” Ianna raised an eyebrow.

“Thank you, my High Priestess.” The sarcasm dripped from the priestess’s lips like rancid olive oil. The senior
naditu
stalked to the foot of the dais and stopped two paces in front of Ianna. She leaned her long torso forward in an obvious attempt to intimidate her diminutive rival.

Ianna tapped the palm of her hand with the scepter, her face impassive. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this . . . unannounced . . .
 
audience,
naditu?”
 
Ianna stressed the last word and stifled a smile at the bulge it brought to the veins on Shalla’s neck.

“You have violated the sacred rites of the Mother Goddess for the last time.” Shalla’s chest heaved.

“Oh, my.” Ianna pursed her lips. “Violated is such a harsh word. Well, Shalla, since we appear to have abandoned any sense of protocol—and decorum—please, feel free to speak your mind.”

Shalla’s body shook. She sputtered, “Since you became
High Priestess,
you have dishonored the holy office like none other before you.”

“Dishonored.” Ianna nodded. “I see. Please go on.”

“You have foregone attendance at rituals, disregarded all advisement—”

“Only yours, Shalla,” Ianna corrected.

“—and failed to enforce temple etiquette. Discipline is nonexistent among the lesser priestesses.”

“Lesser meaning anyone but yourself.”

Shalla appeared on the verge of a seizure. Ianna wondered how red a person’s face could actually become.

“And last night was the final humiliation. You deliberately and publicly desecrated the sacred
ishtaritu
ritual and permitted—no, aided—the escape of those who committed the travesty with you.”

“Oh, dear. I am a mess, aren’t I?” Ianna clicked her tongue and shook her head.

Shalla exploded, “This cannot go on!”

Ianna glanced back up. “Whatever shall we do?”

Shalla gritted her teeth. “I don’t know how you positioned yourself to become High Priestess. I don’t know what you did or said to Issar-surrat that coerced her to petition the king on your behalf, but I intend to find out.”

Ianna suddenly grew tired of the game, the intrigue, the charade of empty religiosity. The walls of the room closed in and squeezed the air until she thought she might suffocate. Her robes and cap pressed down until she feared she would collapse under their weight. She suddenly extended the scepter toward Shalla. “Here, hold this for a moment, would you?”

The senior
naditu
froze. She eyed the symbol of ultimate power, torn between her consuming desire to possess it and the knowledge that no one but the High Priestess was permitted to hold the relic. Her voice wavered. “You know I cannot do that.”

“No, really. Here.”

Ianna grasped Shalla’s hand and thrust the sacred staff into it. She pivoted and strode a few paces to the side. When she turned back toward the
naditu
, she would have laughed, had the sight not been so pathetic.

Shalla stood as rigid as Ishtar’s statue poised a short distance away. She stared at the rod as though it might consume her hand, or that the Mother Goddess might strike her dead on the spot.

Ianna surveyed the paralyzed
naditu
. A sheen of perspiration glistened on her forehead, and her hand quivered. An odd feeling of pity arose within Ianna, and she shook her head. So much delusion, so much self-induced terror at a deity chipped from stone. In Shalla, she witnessed how delusion could lend power to the inert and ascribe fearsomeness to impotence. The creators became the creation’s slaves, so fervently did they crave the innate need to recognize and serve a power beyond themselves. They were lost. Shalla was lost. A captive of her own misplaced devotion.

Shalla had nothing to fear from the goddess’s divine wrath. Mother Ishtar would do nothing.

Ianna’s voice was hushed, its former sarcasm blunted to irony. “Oh, dear, I appear to have broken another rule.”

Shalla’s wide eyes swung toward Ianna’s.

The High Priestess stepped back to the senior
naditu
and gently lifted the staff from her stiff fingers. She gazed into the priestess’s ashen face and whispered, “Go now, Shalla. It won’t be long.”