Where the Zuabut were known throughout the land between the rivers for their nimble fingers, the men of Gibil were known for their nimble minds. They buzzed round the caravan as flies buzzed round a butcher shop, calling out greetings to Sharur and to the donkey handlers and guards they knew, and, most of all, calling out questions: “Did you make a profit?” “How big a profit did you make?” “How much copper did you bring back?” “Any of that finegrained red wood that smells good?” “Carved jewels, master merchant’s son?” “Are the Alashkurrut really ten feet tall?” “Did frozen water fall out of the sky on you?” It went on and on and on.
As Sharur had asked of them, the caravan crew said as little as they could. Giblut were also known throughout the land between the rivers for talking to excess, but neither Sharur nor the donkey handlers nor the guards lived up to that part of their reputation. That the men were to receive the last installment of their pay at Sharur’s home helped persuade them to hold their tongues.
Some of the Giblut assumed that quiet meant the caravan had not done so well as they would have expected. They were right, but Sharur gave no sign of it. Some assumed the quiet meant the caravan had done far better than expected. They were wrong, but Sharur gave no sign of that, either. Arguments broke out between pessimists and optimists, distracting both groups from the caravan.
Not everyone in Gibil used shouted questions to try to learn how much wealth the caravan had brought to the city. One of the fanciest Gibli courtesans simply pulled off her semitransparent shift and stood magnificently naked in the street, saying without words, If you can afford me, here 1 am. With his men, Sharur stared longingly and walked on.
Word of their return ran through the city ahead of them. By the time they reached the Street of Smiths, the workers in bronze had come forth from their smithies, sweat streaking through smoke stains on their torsos. Their questions were the same as those of the other Giblut, but more urgent, as the answers were more immediately important to them.
By then, Sharur had been answering questions by not answering them for so long, he had no trouble making the smiths believe he’d told them much more, and been much more encouraging, thair he actually had. But then Ningal came out of Dimgalabzu’s establishment and called to him, “Did you bring back my bride-price, Sharur?”
“I. .. will have to reckon up the accounts to make sure I have enough,” he answered. He fought for a smile, and managed to achieve one. “I hope so.”
The smile must have been better than he thought, for Ningal returned it. “I hope so, too,” she said, and went back indoors.
“You will be a lucky man, master merchant’s son,” Harharu said, “if that is your intended bride.”
“Yes,” Sharur said, hoping his voice didn’t sound too hollow. He was, in a way, glad the donkeymaster, not Mushezib, had come up to him. The guard captain would have phrased essentially the same comment in so pungent a way, Sharur might have felt he had to hit him. Had the caravan succeeded, he would have taken any and all chaffing in good part. Without Ningal’s bride-price here, he was ready to lash out at anyone and anything. Only realizing as much let him keep his temper from being even worse than it actually was.
At last, the donkeys plodded up to his own home. Standing in front of it in the narrow, muddy street were his father and his brother Tupsharru. Ereshguna folded him into an embrace, saying, “Welcome home, my eldest son. It is good to see your face once more.”
“Thank you, Father.” How would Ereshguna think it to see his face when he found out Sharur had returned to Gibil without a profit? Sharur knew he would learn that soon— too soon. For his family’s sake as well as his own, he wanted to keep the rest of Gibil from learning that too soon. He said, “Father, I should particularly like to commend the donkey handlers and caravan guards, who'served better than we dared hope. Along with their last payments, which are due now, I suggest you give them bonuses in silver, to reward them for their loyalty.”
“What?” Tupsharru said. “We’ve never done anything like—Ow!” Without being too obtrusive about it, Sharur had contrived to step on his brother’s toes.
Ereshguna, fortunately, was quicker on the uptake than his younger son. If Sharur proposed an unprecedented bonus, he assumed Sharur had some good reason for proposing it. “Just as you say, so shall it be,” he said. “I had the final payments prepared and waiting inside, but I can add to them. I shall add to them.” He went back in to do just that.
Sharur addressed the caravan crew: “For your diligence, for your perseverance, for your courage, and for your discretion, you shall be rewarded over and above your final payments.”
A few muffled cheers arose. In a low voice, Mushezib told one of the guards, “That means keeping your mouth shut, you understand?”
Tupsharru noticed the most important word, too. “Why are we paying them above the usual to be discreet?” he asked, also quietly.
“Because we have reason above the usual to want them to be discreet,” Sharur replied, which was true and uninformative at the same time.
Ereshguna and a couple of the house slaves came out then. The slaves led the donkeys off the street and into the courtyard at the heart of the house. Ereshguna carried on a tray leather sacks full of scrap silver: smaller ones for the ordinary guards and donkey handlers, larger ones for Mushezib and Harharu, who had led them. On the tray also gleamed silver rings. “Every man take one over and above your final payment,” he said, “save the guard captain and donkeymaster, who are to take two.” He still asked no questions of his son. Later would be time enough for that.
And then, as the men of the caravan crew were taking their pay and their bonuses and offering up words of praise for the house of Ereshguna and for its generosity, the ghost of Sharur’s grandfather shouted in his ear: “Boy, when you led that caravan to the mountains, did you stand out in the sun too long without your hat? You’ve brought back all the stuff you set out with. No, you’ve brought back some of the stuff you set out with”—his grandfather’s ghost sniffed—“but nothing you set out to get.”
The ghost had not bothered to speak to him alone. By the way Tupsharru’s head came up in startlement, he could tell his brother had also heard the angry words. Sighing, Sharur murmured, “I will tell this tale presently, when I can tell it in more privacy.”
Some of the donkey handlers and guards were murmuring, too, as ghosts that had not left Gibil greeted those who remembered them on their return. Agum was shaking his head and talking vehemently under his breath. Sharur wondered if he was trying to explain why the ghost of his uncle had not returned with him.
He got only a moment to wonder, for his grandfather’s ghost shouted again: “Kimash the lugal will be angry at you for coming back with nothing you set out to get. He’s not so much of a much, Kimash, but for what he is, he’ll be angry at you. And Engibil—Engibil will be angry at you, too, for coming back with nothing you set out to get.”
Sharur sighed again. “Yes, I know that,” he muttered. It hadn’t crossed Tupsharru’s mind; he stared toward Sharur. Ereshguna also looked in Sharur’s direction. Whatever he thought, he kept to himself.
Only after the men of the caravan crew departed, many of them praising the generosity of the house of Ereshguna, did the head of the house turn to his elder son and say, “Come into the house. Come into the shade. Come: we will drink beer together. And you will tell the tale of your journey to the Alashkurru Mountains.”
“Father, you will not rejoice to hear it,” Sharur said.
“I rejoice that you are here. I rejoice that, being here, you may tell it,” Ereshguna said. “Set against that, nothing else has the weight even of a single barleycorn. Whatever it may be, we have the chance to set it right.” '
“It will take a good deal of setting right,”, the ghost of Sharur’s grandfather said. “For what he brought back, he might as well have stayed home. In my day, caravans that went out to trade went out to trade, if you know what I mean.”
Ereshgu
na ignored the ghost’s complaints. He led both his sons into the house and called for beer. A slave fetched a jar of it, and three cups. After spilling out libations, after offering thanks to the deities of barley and brewing, Ereshguna and his sons drank. Only after the first cups were empty did Ereshguna turn to Sharur and ask, “We have less of profit, then, than we had hoped?”
“We have no profit,” Sharur said. “Father, I shall not dip this news in honey, though to speak of it is to put a bitter herb in my mouth. The gods of the Alashkurrut refused to let them trade with us, save only in small things such as swapping bread and beer for trinkets. But of refined copper I have none. Of copper ore I have none. Of fine timber I have none. Of jewels I have none. Of clever carvings I have none. Of the herbs and spices and drugs of the Alashkurru Mountains I have none. I have only what I took with me from Gibil, less what I traded for food and used for bribes that failed in the course of my journey.”
Ereshguna stared at his son. “You had better tell me this whole tale,” he said.
And Sharur did, starting with Enzuabu’s menacing stare and going on through the meeting with the Imhursagut, the encounter with the demon Illuyankas, the Alashkurri gods’ preventing Huzziyas the wanax from trading with him, his failure at Zalpuwas, his inability to get even Abzuwas the smith to deal with him, Eniyarmuk’s rejection of his crossing-offering, and the Zuabi thief’s attempt to rob the caravan at the command of his city god.
Ereshguna said not a word while Sharur detailed his misfortune. Once his son had finished, the trader let out a long sigh. He set a hand on Sharur’s thigh. “You did, I think, everything you could have done.”
“I did not do enough,” Sharur said. “It eats at me like a canker.”
“You did more than I would ever have thought to do,” Tupsharru said.
“Against the gods, a man fights openly in vain,” Ereshguna said. He took out his amulet to Engibil and covered its eyes. As Sharur and Tupsharru did the same, their father went on, “Only in secret and by stealth can a man hope to gain even a part of his way in the gods’ despite. Now, it seems, the gods beyond Gibil have awakened to the knowledge of how much we have gained over the years, how much we have gained over the generations. They wish to force us back into full subjection once more.”
“The caravan from Imhursag traded among the Alashkurrut,” Sharur said gloomily. “It came away with copper. It came away with copper ore. It came away with the other good things of the mountains. If the Imhursagut can trade and we cannot, Imhursag and Enimhursag shall be exalted among the cities and gods of Kudurru, and Gibil shall slide into slavery.”
“You speak of Gibil,” Tupsharru said. “You do not speak of Engibil.”
And Sharur realized he had not spoken of Engibil. His city counted for more in his heart than his city god. Everything of which the gods of other cities, the gods of other lands, had accused him was true. He did not feel shamed. He did not feel sorry. To the extent he could, he was glad to be his own man.
Ereshguna said, “The word you bring back to Gibil, my son, does not affect the house of Ereshguna alone. It affects the other merchants and the smiths. It affects the city as a whole. And it affects Kimash the lugal.”
“I know, Father.” Sharur hung his head. “I did not bring back rich offerings for Kimash to lay on the altar of Engibil. I was prevented.”
“Tomorrow,” Ereshguna said, “tomorrow we shall go to the palace of Kimash the lugal and make known to him what passed on your journey.” Ever so reluctantly, Sharur nodded. What choice had he?
At supper that evening, Betsilim and Nanadirat listened to Sharur tell his story all over again. His mother and sister exclaimed indignantly over the injustice he had suffered at the hands of the Alashkurri gods, and even more at the injustice he had suffered from gods dwelling closer to home.
“Eniyarmuk had no business rejecting your sacrifice for the crossing, none whatsoever,” Betsilim declared.
“I didn’t think so, either,” Sharur answered. He turned to the kitchen slave. “Bring me more roast mutton, and garlic cloves to rub on it.” She bowed and hurried away. The family had laid on a feast to celebrate his return, although, as far as he could see, only the fact that he had returned at all was worth celebrating.
His mother was not finished. “Had I been standing on the bank of the Yarmuk, I should have given the river goddess a piece of my mind,” she said.
Sharur believed her. “No wonder the foreign gods fear us Giblut,” he said, which made his father laugh.
Betsilim gave Ereshguna a sharp look, then resumed: “And Enzuabu! Enzuabu has no quarrel with Engibil. The Zuabut have no quarrel with the folk of Gibil. The Zuabut are thieves, surely, but how wicked for the god to set a thief on my son’s caravan.”
“Would it have been all right for the god to set a thief on the caravan of someone else’s son?” Ereshguna asked. His wife ignored him.
Nanadirat said, “Worst of all, though, is that the Imhursagut and Enimhursag got the chance to gloat because the Alashkurri gods were so foolish.” She clapped her hands together. “Slave, more date wine for me.”
“I obey,” the Imhursaggi war captive said softly. She held the strainer above the cup of Sharur’s sister and poured the wine through it.
Sharur also held out his cup to be refilled. The kitchen slave rinsed the strainer, then gave him what he wanted. He nodded to her. She did her best to pretend she did not see him.
After the feast was over, Sharur’s parents and brother and sister went up onto the roof to sleep. “I will join you in a while,” Sharur said. He walked back toward the kitchen. By the light of a couple of dim, flickering torches, the slave from Imhursag was scrubbing bowls and plates and cups clean with a rag and a jar of water. Sharur set his hands on her shoulders. “Let us go back to the blanket on which you sleep.”
With a small sigh, she set down the rag and dried her hands on her tunic. “I obey,” she said, as she had when Nanadirat asked her for more wine. But, as she and Sharur walked down the narrow hall to her hot, tiny, cramped cubicle, she said, “You have not required this of me for a long time.” .
“And now I do require it,” Sharur said. The kitchen slave sighed again and walked on.
Inside the cubicle, it was black as pitch, blacker than midnight. Linen rustled as the slave pulled her tunic off over her head. Sharur shed his kilt. He reached out. His hand closed on the firm round softness of the woman’s breast. He squeezed.
“Do you know why I do this?” he asked as they lay down together. In the darkness, he found her hand and guided it to his erection.
“Because you own me,” the slave answered. “Because you have been long away and you have no wife and you want a woman.”
He shook his head. “You know I came home without profit,” he said, and felt her nod. “In the mountains, far away, I met a caravan of Imhursagut. They mocked me. They said I was going home with iny tail between my legs. I told them that, when I got home, I would thrust my tail between the legs of my Imhursaggi slave woman. And so”—he entered her—“I do.”
“Oh,” she said, and nodded again in the darkness. “You do this in fulfillment of a vow.”
“Yes,” he answered, drawing back and thrusting, drawing back and thrusting, forcing his way deeper each time even though she was dry.
“A vow should be fulfilled,” she said seriously. “It is a duty to your god.” She still thought like an Imhursaggi.
And then something strange happened. The other handful of times he had taken her, she’d simply lain there and let him do as he liked until he spent himself and left. Now, suddenly, unexpectedly, her legs rose from the blanket and clenched his flanks. Her arms wrapped around his back. Her mouth sought his. The way into her, which had been difficult, grew gloriously smooth, gloriously moist.
She made several small noises deep in her throat, and then, at the moment when pleasure almost blinded him, a mewling cry like a wild cat’s. He slid out of her and sat back on his knees. “You never
did anything like that before,” he said, his voice almost accusing.
“Other times you have had me, it was only for your own pleasure,” she said. “This time, you made good your word to your god—and to mine.” Softly, under her breath, she murmured, “Oh, Enimhursag, how I long for thee.”
Sharur was a young man. One round took the edge off his lust, but did not fully sate it. When he heard the slave woman shift and start to rise, he set his hand on her chest, in the valley between her breasts. “No. Not yet. I will have you again.” .
She lay back; a slave’s duty was to obey. He mounted her once more. Save that she breathed, she might have been dead beneath him. So it had been every time until this evening. So it was again. Eventually, his seed spurted from him.
As he groped for his kilt, he said, “I was no different the second time from the first. Yet you took pleasure—I know you took pleasure—the first, and none at all the second. How is this? Why is this?”
“I told you,” she answered. “I took pleasure in helping fulfill your vow: I am one who respects the gods, and I rejoice, when you Giblut do likewise. The second time, it was only you. The gods were far away.”
He pulled on the kilt, rose, and left the dark cubicle without another word. When he went up onto the roof, he found his parents were already sleeping. He lay down beside Tup- sharru. “The Imhursaggi slave woman?” his brother asked.
“Twice,”’ Sharur said.
“Twice?” Tupsharru coughed. “My dear brother, you have been without a woman a long time. Once, of course; once is always sweet. But twice? Did having her fall asleep while you were at work make you want to go in again so you could see if she would stay awake all the way through the second time?”
“Surprises everywhere, my dear brother,” Sharur answered through a yawn. “Yes, surprises everywhere.”
When morning came, Sharur wanted to go to the house and smith of Dimgalabzu to discuss revising the arrangements for paying bride-price for Ningal. Ereshguna would not hear of it. “Everything in its own place, Sharur,” he said. “First we call on Kimash the lugal. He needs to know of the misfortune that befell you in the mountains of Alashkurru so he can decide what to do next.”
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