“He will hear me first, Father,” Sharur said. “When has a Gibli ever fled to Imhursag? That alone will make the god of Imhursag curious enough to hear me. When has a Gibli ever begged Imhursag to strike against his own city? That will make the god of Imhursag glad enough to do it without looking too closely at why a Gibli might say such an outlandish thing.”
Slowly, Habbazu said, “Master merchant’s son, though the risk is real, as your father has said, I think your words may hold much wisdom.”
Ereshguna was not yet ready to give up: “Son, would you start a war between Gibil and Imhursag without leave from Kimash the lugal?”
“I would,” Sharur replied without hesitation. “Kimash the lugal has alerted Engibil and his priests against us.”
“You would go to Imhursag, knowing you are now free to wed Ningal?” his father enquired. “You would throw away the chance to do what you have longed to do above all else?”
That was a stronger question than any Ereshguna had yet asked. Now Sharur did hesitate. At last, though, he said, “I would. Engibil tried to disrupt my wedding Ningal over this cup; what other reason could the god have had? Then, again on account of it, he reversed his course. We must have it. I shall return. I shall wed Ningal.”
“I see I cannot dissuade you,” Ereshguna said with a sigh. “You are a man. You have a man’s will. Go on to Imhursag, then, if that is what you reckon you must do. I shall stay behind, and pray all follows as you hope.”
Pray to whom? Sharur wondered. No one in Gibil but Imhursaggi slaves would pray to Enimhursag. Engibil would hope he failed. The great gods of the Alashkurrut would hope he failed. Very likely, the great gods of Kudurru, the gods of sun and moon, sky and storm and underworld, would also hope he failed. That left... no one. Sharur felt very much alone.
“Good fortune go with you,” Habbazu said. Sharur wondered if he meant it. The thief would have done better for himself, would have obeyed the orders of his god, had he never encountered Sharur. Whether they were sincere or not, though, Sharur gladly accepted his wishes for good fortune. He would need as much as he could find.
8
A peasant grubbing at the ground with a stoneheaded mattock looked up from his unending labor as Sharur strode’north along the path. “Watch where you’re going,” the peasant warned. “Imhursaggi land starts just beyond that next big canal there.” He pointed. “The Imhursagut aren’t fond of men from Gibil, either, not even a little they’re not.”
“I know that,” Sharur answered, and kept walking.
The peasant took an especially savage swipe at the dirt. “City man,” he muttered, barely loud enough for Sharur to hear. “Has to be a city man. Men from the city never listen to anybody.”
He would probably be happier if Engibil told him what to do, Sharur thought. He doesn't seem to be very good at thinking for himself Everything that had happened in Gibil the past few generations—metalworking, writing, the rise of rulers who were merely mortal—was of no account to this man, and to thousands like him. Nothing that happened outside his own little village mattered to him, or to his neighbors.
Sharur came to the canal. The peasants working in the fields on the other side were Imhursagut. By looks, they were indistinguishable from the Giblut, save that rather more of them went altogether naked, being too poor to wear even a kilt of linen or wool.
Stripping off his own kilt, his sandals, and his hat, Sharur waded out into the canal. The muddy water was warm as blood. He did not know if he would have to swim in the middle of the canal; he had never come this way before. The water came up to his shoulders, but no higher. He had no trouble keeping his clothes dry.
He stepped up onto the northern, Imhursaggi, bank of the canal and stood there, naked and dripping. The breeze cooled him as it dried the water on his body. Only after he was dry did he don his hat and his sandals and his kilt again. By the time he had it round his middle, he was surrounded by Imhursagut.
Some had mattocks, some had digging sticks, some had nothing but their bare hands. All of them looked ready to beat Sharur to death. Their expressions were frighteningly alike, as if someone had used a cylinder seal to stamp out a long row of identical faces.
“You are a Gibli,” one of them said. “You are an intruder. You are an invader. Why do you come to trouble the land of Imhursag? Why do you come to disturb the peace of Enimhursag? Answer at once, lest we tear you to pieces. Answer this instant, lest we smash you down.’.’
“I do not come to trouble the land of Imhursag,” Sharur answered: his first lie with his first words. “I do not come to disturb the peace of Enimhursag. I come to escape the city of Gibil, which has fallen into chaos. I come to escape the god of Gibil, who has gone mad.”
That made the Imhursaggi peasants stare and mutter among themselves. Enimhursag did not look out of all their eyes all the time; at the moment, they were merely men, trying to make sense of the world as men will.
But the fellow who had threatened Sharur with tearing and smashing now took on the look he had seen in the trader from the Imhursaggi caravan, the look that said Enimhursag was present in his mind. He spoke slowly, as if listening to the god before uttering his words: “What nonsense do you speak? When I look into the land of Gibil, I see everything as it has always been. When I look into the land the Giblut stole from me, I see them doing as they have always done.”
“In the farms around the city, everything is as it has always been,” Sharur agreed, and he knew he was speaking the truth there. “In the land you can see, the Giblut do as they have always done. In Gibil, Engibil has gone mad, as I say.”
“Giblut are liars. They suck in lies with their mothers’ milk,’’ Enimhursag answered through the peasant. “What lie do you give me now?”
“I give you no lie, god of Imhursag,” Sharur replied, lying. “Hear me. Hear me speak truth. Judge for yourself: Engibil had in his hands, in his heart, an oath of mine. He would not let it go. He refused to let it go.”
Out of the peasant’s mouth, Enimhursag laughed a great laugh. “Why should he let it go? He is a god—not much of a god, being Engibil, but a god. You are a man—not much of a man, being a Gibli, but a man. He owes you nothing. You owe him everything.”
Sharur bowed. “Let it be as you say, god of Imhursag. But hear me. Hear me speak truth. After the god of Gibil did as I said, hear what he did. After the god of Gibil did as I said, he summoned me to his temple and gave me back the oath he held in his hand, in his heart. He let it go. Is the god mad, or is he not?”
“Giblut are liars,” Enimhursag repeated. “I do not believe what you say. I cannot believe what you say. No god would give back that which he had refused to give back.”
Sharur took a deep breath. “Look into my mind, god of Imhursag,” he said, knowing the risk he ran. He had not expected Enimhursag to be quite so dubious. “Look into my mind, god of the Imhursagut. See if Engibil held my oath and would not let it go. See if Engibil held my oath and then did let it go. Look for those two things. See if I speak truth.”
Out through the eyes of the peasant poured Enimhursag’s power. Sharur did not resist it. Sharur could not resist it. If Enimhursag chose to use that power to paw through everything in his mind, everything would be lost. But he had suggested to the god what he should look for. He put those things at the front of his mind, so Enimhursag might easily find them.
Find them Enimhursag did. “It is so!” the god cried through the peasant’s lips. The other peasants exclaimed in astonishment at hearing their god agree with a man of Gibil. Sharur stood very still, trying not to think of Enimhursag pawing through the rest of his mind.
Trying not to think about something, Sharur discovered, was like trying not to breathe. He could, with great effort, do it for a short stretch of time, but after that the urge grew more and more demanding until. . .
Enimhursag withdrew. Sharur felt the god leaving his mind, as he had felt his body leaving the water of the canal. “It is so!” Enimhursag repeated. �
�You have told me the truth. Truly Engibil must be a god run mad upon the earth.”
“So we of Gibil believe,” Sharur said, not inviting Enimhursag to search his mind this time. “So we of Gibil fear.”
“Men should fear the gods,” Enimhursag said. “You of Gibil should fear Engibil. You of Gibil fear Engibil too little. But men should fear gods because gods are gods, not because gods are mad.”
“Even so,” Sharur said.
When the peasant through whom Enimhursag spoke nodded, Sharur did all he could do not to fall to his knees before the tough, unwashed Imhursaggi. The god spoke again: “And what would you have me do about the madness of Engibil?”
“Rescue us!” Sharur cried with all the passion he could muster, all the passion his training as a merchant enabled him to counterfeit so well. “Muster your valiant warriors. Come down and drive from his city the god who is now a terror to it. The Giblut will welcome you as lord. The Giblut will welcome you as liberator, freeing them from a master on whom they may no longer rely.”
If Enimhursag was searching his mind at this moment, he was ruined, and he knew it. But he had read the god of Imhursag rightly. The eyes of the peasant through whom the god chose to speak glowed like the sun. “Vengeance shall be mine!” he cried in a great voice. “Vengeance on Gibil shall be mine. Vengeance on the Giblut shall be mine. Vengeance on Engibil shall be mine. The land Gibil, the Giblut, and Engibil have stolen from me shall be mine. And all the rest of the land of Gibil shall be mine as well.”
The rest of the Imhursaggi peasants surrounding Sharur cast themselves down on the ground before the one who for the time being embodied their god. They shouted out their delight in the course Enimhursag had chosen for them and their city. How could they do otherwise, in a land where the god could look into their hearts and look out through their eye$ whenever he chose, and where he frequently chose to do just that?
One of them asked, “Great god, source of our life, what are we to do with this Gibli who brought you this news you relish? Had the news not been to your liking, we should have slain him, but what are we to do with him now? What will you do with him now?”
Enimhursag might almost have been asking himself the question, as a man might ask himself a question while thinking aloud. Through the lips of the peasant he had chosen, he replied, “Take him to your village. Give him bread. Give him onions. Give him beer. Give him wine. Give him, for his pleasure, the loveliest of your maidens. I would reward him greatly. I shall reward him greatly, and more greatly yet after Gibil is in my hands.”
Sharur glanced from the peasant in whom the god dwelt to his comrades. That Enimhursag had ordered them to give him food and drink—well and good. That their god had ordered them to give him not merely a woman but a maiden ... How would they take to that?
“We shall obey in all things, as we always do,” one of them murmured, and the rest nodded. They neither looked nor sounded angry or grudging. If the god ordered it, they accepted it. Sharur was glad Enimhursag was not looking into his mind at that moment.
“It is good,” Enimhursag said, accepting the obedience as no less than his due. “Yes, I shall reward this Gibli more greatly yet after his city is in my hands. I shall not rule there as I rule here, not at first. I shall not reach into all men’s minds. I shall not reach into all men’s hearts.’’ .
“What then, great god?” Sharur was curious to learn what Enimhursag planned to do if everything went as he hoped.
“I shall need time to tame the wild men of Gibil,” the god replied. His plans filled his thoughts, and he was not shy about setting them forth. While he spoke of himself and what he wanted, he would not be troubling himself with Sharur and what Sharur wanted. He went on, “The wild men of Gibil have lived too long under the wild god, En- gibil. The foolish god let them run every which way, as goats will if the goatherd sleeps. They cannot at once be made to obey and hearken as they should.”
Sharur nodded. From the god’s point of view, all that made good sense. Were Sharur a god planning to subdue a restless, restive city of men, he would have looked at the difficulties facing him the same way.
Engibil continued, “This being so, I shall set a man over them. I shall instruct the man, and the man will instruct the people. He will be my ensi. Perhaps his son will be my ensi. His grandson will be my slave, as all men in Gibil, tamed from their wildness, will then be my slaves.”
Now Sharur had to make himself nod. If Enimhursag did conquer Gibil, such a scheme might well eventually subject the Giblut to him. Realizing that made Sharur remember anew what a dangerous game he was playing.
The peasant through whose lips the god spoke thrust out a forefinger. “And you, man of Gibil, you shall be my first ensi in Gibil. I shall instruct you. You will instruct the people. The riches of Gibil shall be yours for the taking. The women of Gibil shall be yours for the taking. Did I not say I should reward you greatly?”
“Great god, you did,” Sharur replied, more than a little dizzily. Kimash the lugal had offered him a daughter, which would have tied him to the ruling house of Gibil. Now Enimhursag promised to make him the head of the ruling house of Gibil—the chief slave in a great house of slaves. Enim- hursag did not bother to pretend otherwise. The god did not see the need to pretend otherwise.
“You have earned this reward,” Enimhursag said. He— in the body of the peasant he inhabited—turned to the other peasants. “He has earned this reward. Take him to your village and make him glad.”
In the lands Enimhursag ruled, men obeyed their god. So Sharur had always heard. So Sharur had seen when he went into Imhursag in the guise of a Zuabi merchant. So Sharur saw now, when the peasants, following the orders Enimhursag had given them, took him to their village and methodically made him glad.
These were men who, when he had waded across the canal from the land of Gibil into their land, had been ready to tear him to pieces. But, because their god accepted him, they now accepted him as well—completely, without hesitation, without reservation. As they walked back toward their village, they chattered and bantered with him as if he were one of their own. Because Enimhursag accepted him, he was one of their own.
The village might have been a peasant village outside of Gibil: a cluster of houses, a few of the finer ones built of mud brick, the rest of bundles of reeds and sticks. Ducks and pigs and chickens and naked children roamed the streets, all of them making a terrific racket.
Women came out of the houses to stare, when some of their men returned from the fields at an unexpected time. Whispers ran through them, alarmed whispers: “A stranger. They have a stranger with them.” Some of the women disappeared as quickly as they had come out. Others stared and stared. Sharur wondered how long it had been since the last stranger came into their village. He wondered if another stranger had ever come into their village.
Loudly, the peasant through whom Enimhursag had spoken said, “This is a stranger whom Enimhursag delights to honor. This is a stranger whom the great god intends to , reward greatly. This is a stranger whom the god commanded us to take to our village and make glad. We are to give him bread. We are to give him onions. We are to give him beer. We are to give him wine. We are to give him, for his pleasure, the loveliest of our maidens.” He clapped his hands. “Now, let these things be done.”
And those things were done, exactly as Enimhursag had said they should be. The women of the village brought . Sharur bread. They brought him onions. The bread was freshly baked, and good. The onions filled his mouth with their strong flavor. When he asked for salt fish to go with the bread and onions, the women muttered among themselves. One of them said. “The god did not speak of salt fish. We shall make you glad as the god bade us make you glad.”
“Salt fish would make me glad,” Sharur said.
“We shall make you glad as the god bade us make you glad,” the woman repeated. Sharur got no salt fish.
They brought him beer. They brought him wine. The beer was tasty. The wine, as he would have e
xpected in a peasant village, left a good deal to be desired. He drank a polite cup of it, then went back to the beer. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the villagers worriedly muttering again.
“You have brought me beer, as the god bade you,” he said, hiding his amusement. “I have drunk of your beer. You have brought me wine, as the god bade you. I have drunk of your wine. You have made me glad, as the god bade you. I am made glad. The god will be pleased with you.” The villagers relaxed.
Sharur did not ask them to bring him the loveliest of their maidens. Had they forgotten that part of Enimhursag’s instructions, he would not have minded. He still worried that the villagers would resent such an order, even from their god. He also worried that the maiden would resent it.
But, after he had eaten and drunk, the peasant through whom Enimhursag had spoken came up to him, leading a pretty young woman by the hand. “This is my daughter, Munnabtu,” he said, “the loveliest of our maidens. As the god ordained, I bring her to you for your pleasure.”
Her eyes were modestly cast down to the ground. Sharur could not see the expression on her face. He said, “If your daughter, Munnabtu, does not wish this, it need not be.”
She looked up then, her eyes wide with astonishment. “The god has ordained it,” she exclaimed. “What the god has ordained here shall be. What the god has ordained here must be.”
When Sharur heard that, he knew he had not understood how completely Enimhursag ruled the people of Imhursag and its surrounding villages. He also knew he would cause more trouble by refusing Munnabtu than by taking her. And, if she was not quite so lovely as some of the loveliest women in Gibil, neither would taking her work a hardship on him. Far from it.
“What Enimhursag has ordained here shall be,” he agreed. Munnabtu smiled at him. So did her father. He made himself smile back. Making himself smile back proved not too hard.
The villagers cleared out one of their huts for Munnabtu and him. Several women brought in blankets and rush mats. They giggled as they went out the door and closed it behind them. That helped ease Sharur’s mind; women in Gibil would have done the same thing.
Turtledove, Harry - Novel 12 Page 26