Twilight in Babylon

by Frank, Suzanne

  As well he should, Cheftu told himself. You are a married man. Maybe she had green eyes, he reasoned. But she was Khamite, dark-skinned. She wouldn’t have green eyes.

  He returned his attention to his duties and eyed the bundles left at the end of every row for burning. The fields were almost cleared. The clients, freedmen, slaves, and gentlemen of the commonwealth sweated under the sun, but it was too late. There would be an investigation into the watchers, how the rust had progressed so quickly and never been spotted. Still, there was nothing to be done now.

  Was the water bad? No one knew how samana passed from plant to plant. They left that knowledge in the hands of Ur’s sadistic gods. Cheftu offered blessings and encouragement automatically to the citizens while his gaze took in the bigger picture. From the height of his sledge, he could see endless empty rows. Fifty percent was the danger mark, and on this side of the city, they had surpassed it.

  He gestured to a scribe. “Go to the south gate. See how their fields fare. Bring me word immediately.” He gestured to a second scribe. “Tell the ensi Ur will be on famine rations and to summon the record keepers of the granary. Go.”

  A third scribe. “Find the lugal, tell him to convene the council.” A final message: “Have Asa the stargazer, his attendants, and Rudi the stargazer in my audience chamber in two double hours.”

  The sledge moved forward and Cheftu grasped hands, smiled into weary, stricken faces, and kissed children while the sun blazed down and the rust spread throughout the fields of barley.

  That day, the power had shifted.

  * * *

  Shama finished encircling Puabi’s eyes with gold paint, and she sighed, as content as a cat when its desire to be petted is met. He draped the cloak of her gown and secured it with a shell-headed pin, then opened the jewel chests. He bowed and waved to the splendid disarray there.

  “I don’t know what to pick, Shama,” she said. “They expect to see Inana incarnate. Why a goddess would set foot in this place is something I don’t understand. If I were a goddess, I think I would stay on Dilmun. They don’t have to worry about samana there. Those shouts woke me this dawn. And you know I don’t sleep well since the en has taken to supplicating all night. Every night. He hasn’t even sneaked in a little rendezvous with a slave. He’s been celibate.” She sighed again. “Thank the gods that isn’t required of me.”

  His mistress didn’t seem worried. Whether that was truth, or she was portraying an unflappable front for the people to take courage from, Shama didn’t know. He had to believe the best. And dress her like the personification of the goddess that she was.

  So he settled on all gold and mother-of-pearl. The wreath of shells and gold beads for her head, then a filigree choker, freshwater pearl necklaces, one on top another, gold hoop earrings, bangles and armbands with inlaid shells and gold drops, and another woven wreath for her head. He belted her gown with a strip of leather the width of his hand, adorned with gold, and white paste beads. The ends fell to her hem, and her every movement was accentuated by the chime of tiny golden bells. Her sandals were bleached leather, and he’d gilded the nails on her toes.

  A worthy consort for the bronzed en, and dazzling for the council members who had never beheld true beauty. Puabi finished cleaning her teeth with a gold toothpick and dropped it into Shama’s outstretched hands. He opened the doors, and her attendants, slaves, scribes, and acolytes, all in white-wool skirts with gold chokers, waving fans of iridescent turquoise feathers, bowed. The acolytes began singing, and Shama laid the toothpick on the table and took his place in the procession.

  En Kidu met them on the landing, his wool as white, the amount of gold as dazzling. One perfect pearl the size of a robin’s egg dangled from his ear. Smaller pearls, pierced, were woven into his beard, and his filigreed diadem almost blended in with his hair. Like Puabi, he wore gold around his eyes and on his lips, and gold dust on every exposed square of flesh. The attendants to the two blended, and the powermongers of the temple moved to meet the decision-makers of the commonwealth.

  * * *

  Cheftu woke in a sheen of sweat, his hands clenched in the bedclothes. He’d dreamed—oh how vividly—of Chloe. Chloe’s mind, her laugh, her smile, the wicked ways she had with her tongue. Alas, to his shame, he dreamed of her in the field girl’s body, those legs around his waist, those elegant hands clasping him, guiding him—

  He threw water on his head, his chest, and lower. It was lukewarm at best.

  Cheftu barked for an acolyte, the boy who had retrieved the meteor the other night. “What do I do for exercise?” he asked him.

  “Uh, sir, you wrestle sometimes.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Hunt. Run—”

  “Do I swim?”

  “Yessir. In the lake outside of town, beside the fields.”

  “I don’t remember how to get there.”

  “I will guide you, sir,” the boy said.

  Cheftu finished tying his kilt. “Good, let’s go.”

  * * *

  Chloe met her sheep in the morning. After a week of fighting samana, today was a god’s birthday—she didn’t remember which one—businesses and schools were closed, and the streets were packed. The en was going to be riding around today, flaunting his perfect golden body; she must resist the temptation to join the drooling masses.

  She needed to get out of the city. “I bet you guys would like to eat out today,” she said. “I just hope I remember how to take care of y’all now that I’m really me again.”

  The shepherd waved at her—she didn’t even need to show her receipt anymore.

  Mimi snipped after Kami as soon as they were all grouped again. “How about we walk through the palm groves?” Chloe asked them. “We’ll all stay cool, and those new tender shoots should be perfect for lunch.”

  They baaed, which she took as assent. Instead of heading out toward the fields now bare of barley, she cut around the wall of the city to the palm groves. They spread out, it seemed, forever.

  Palms with not just dates, but a dozen different varieties of palm she wasn’t familiar with. Slaves, those who had sold themselves to the commonwealth or to a landowner from indebtedness, scampered through the mud. The sheep poked at the tender grass, and the goat ran after the birds and ground creatures.

  It was cool in the shade. Chloe sat down and felt the sweetness of the morning steal up on her. The sheep found a pleasing patch of grass, and the goat, too. Chloe sat on the grass and watched them play. For a moment, she was at peace.

  Then she looked up.

  A man stood a short distance away, watching her from the shadows of a palm. As though he wanted her to see him, he stepped into the sunlight. He was tall, bronzed. Heat rushed through her body. The en. The definition of his thighs and stomach and arms glistened with sweat. His long, blond braids fell over his shoulders and down his back.

  What was a high priest of fertility doing standing in the grove with sheep and goats?

  He walked over to her, in nothing but a small loincloth. Then she realized it wasn’t sweat on his body, but water. He’d been swimming. She should have come out earlier.

  She felt ashamed, instantly.

  He stopped a pace away, and she looked up at him. His height, his nearness, the scent of his hot wet skin made her dizzy.

  “I am en Kidu,” he said, in a voice that made her shiver. Too late, she realized she was supposed to be on her face, kneeling at his feet. She bowed her head.

  “On your knees, female,” a boy, the en’s attendant, said. Chloe knelt with closed eyes, to shut out the view of the en’s perfect legs, burnished skin, strong, modeled calves—she squeezed her eyes shut, tried to block out the image.

  “Let me see your face, beautiful one,” Kidu said. “Is such a one missing the festival today?”

  She nodded.

  “Raise your head, ma’am,” a young boy said. “It is the en Kidu’s request.”

  “The en should be concerned for the fields and the skie
s, he should be pleasing the ensi, not seeking his pleasures in the fields,” Chloe stuttered out. In this day and age, could he just rape her?

  Be honest, she said to herself. With one kiss, it would be completely consensual. He reminded her of Cheftu, when she first met him and he was a cold, golden Egyptian lord with a chip on his shoulder the size of Baltimore. The way he walked, the lift of his head, his intonation.

  Could it be? Did she dare…?

  “I believe the luckiest inhabitants of Ur must be these sheep,” the en said. “They get to frolic with you out in these cool groves.”

  The man had some lines, that was certain. Chloe stared at Kidu’s legs; they were cast in gold, perfectly proportioned and muscled. She looked up, her gaze slid over his flat, muscled stomach, his broad chest, past the gold-beaded ends of his braids to his face.

  Amber eyes.

  “Does Kidu wish to frolic?” she asked him. Dared him. And hoped she wasn’t propositioning the wrong man.

  He frowned slightly, and she knew—hoped—he was trying to see past her mismatched eyes, her darker skin, her -almost-African hair.

  “Not unless you are named… Chloe,” he said.

  The boy watched them both intently.

  Cheftu. Cheftu? reached down for her hand and drew her up. Standing, she was shorter than he was. That had never happened before. Was she sure this was Cheftu?

  “Chérie,” he whispered, and squeezed her hand.

  “Ohmigod.”

  He kissed her.

  Chloe was dizzy—Cheftu was here. He was the golden high priest. Had he been here this whole time, had…?

  He pressed his mouth to her ear; the vibrations of his words made goose bumps break out on her shoulders. “Spies are everywhere. Even in my bedchamber.”

  Conversation wasn’t Chloe’s first priority when they got to his bedchamber.

  “I’ve been forbidden by the ensi to take the same girl as a lover more than once.”

  How many lovers had he taken?

  “We must be very careful, chérie. We are both in danger here. Puabi will not hesitate to condemn me—I haven’t pleased her at all since I got here. And she will recognize your name because I have used it several times. She’s suspicious already.”

  What was he telling her?

  “Tonight, I will sneak away and find you.” He finished his embrace. “Enjoy the feast,” he said, stepping back to being the en again.

  Chloe knelt, more because her knees gave way than anything else. The boy and the en—Cheftu was blond now?—mounted a small cart and took a straight path out of the groves. She watched them drive away. This was it? The great reunion? She blinked away tears.

  Chloe sat down in the shade of some palms and stared at the blue/brown horizon line.

  The good news was that Cheftu was here and they had found each other.

  The bad news was that it didn’t seem to matter: He was the high priest of fertility.

  “Shit!” Chloe screamed. What had happened to her life? The extreme silence of the grove penetrated her mind. “My sheep!” she cried, as she spun around. Every last one of them had disappeared. “Fine!” she shouted. “I was a lousy shepherdess anyway!”

  She leaned against a palm and let the tears stream down her cheeks. Was she crying from relief? Joy? Gratitude? More like frustration. Slowly, her eyes shut.

  * * *

  “See how the gods provided for our amusement,” a voice said. “A tasty little Khamite morsel.”

  Chloe jolted awake. A group of males looked down on her. It was midafternoon; the sun was behind them, so she was blinded.

  “Steady there,” one of them said, placing his foot on her leg as she attempted to stand up, applying just enough pressure to hold her there. “Don’t rush anywhere on our count.” That voice. It was the burly guy from school.

  “Please,” another said. “Go back to sleep, we won’t disturb you.”

  The beer and opium fumes were almost suffocating.

  I. Am. In. Deep. Shit.

  Chloe jerked her leg away and slid up the palm. They stepped closer to her. But she was tall and, except for the ringleader and his crony, they were all young boys. Not quite into facial hair. Except the leader, whose words were spiked with sexual innuendo. He was trouble.

  “She’s taller than most Khamites,” one said.

  “Silence yourself. You’ve never seen a Khamite woman.”

  They were her classmates, emboldened by false courage. Curious and suspicious and feeling strong because they were in a gang.

  “Khamite women don’t usually work in the marshes,” one of them said, and took a step closer to her.

  “Nor are they usually in school,” another said, “instead of where they should be, cooking and cleaning.”

  Misogyny or racism or a little of both? Was this payback for insisting on a test that gave half female-human answers? She’d been the only one in the school to pass. Her “brothers” had not been pleased.

  “Did you boys want something?” she asked. “Are your fathers and Elder Brothers aware you are crawling through the palm groves like vermin?”

  A few laughed, a few got angry.

  One against seven, she thought. Not the greatest odds.

  “Maybe we just want to ingrain some respect for education in ignorant marsh girls,” the burly one said. “And I know just how to do it.”

  She fixed her gaze on him. “If you lay a finger on me, I’ll break it.” He hesitated; the others listened. “I’ll pull the digit out of its socket. Then I’ll turn it until the two bones no longer fit, and one has to make room for the other. It will be very painful. Then you’ll hear a snap, a crack, like breaking a piece of wood.”

  The other five backed away, making excuses, urging the two biggest to join them.

  “Or,” she said, “I could poke out your eyes.” Chloe made a Y with her fingers and jabbed at the air.

  “She’s just trying to scare you!” the burly one said to the boys. “She can’t do anything. Look—”

  The slap was unexpected. That wasn’t fighting—that was abuse, power, a precursor to rape. A bitch-slap. Chloe fought to keep her feet. Her cheek was on fire. Her head spun.

  “See?” he said.

  Chloe kicked him in the chest. The second kick was in his stomach. He grabbed her leg in the middle of the third kick and jerked her down.

  Pain.

  Sharp.

  Instant.

  Chloe couldn’t move. Her breath rasped in her ears. She felt warmth ooze into her hair. The boys gathered around her, their voices like the buzzing of bees. I landed on something, she thought. It was her last thought as the grove faded away to silent blackness.

  * * *

  Nirg said nothing when Nimrod asked how her day was. He kissed her, then asked what was for dinner.

  “Did you bring fish?” she asked.

  Nimrod smelled like fish, but he hadn’t brought any. He shook his head.

  “Did the lugal have any leftover food balls? Chloe’s?”

  Nimrod shook his head. The samana had kept Chloe from cooking. Instead, she’d helped in the fields.

  “She won’t tell me what—”

  There was a knock at the door, then the brat Roo poked his head in. “Follow,” he said to Nimrod, then slammed the door. They heard his footsteps race along the portico, then down the steps and out into the courtyard.

  Nirg sighed and continued to fold Nimrod’s clothes. “That boy has been a nuisance to me all afternoon,” she said. “Asking when you were coming home.”

  “Roo never speaks to me,” Nimrod said. “It’s some new game of his.”

  She fixed her humorless, almost-transparent, blue eyes on him. “I think not.”

  “Why?”

  “When he came home today, he sneaked in beneath the courtyard door. I saw him because I was sifting the trash. He was covered in mud.”

  “Probably went out to the groves today, skipped the feast in favor of pretending to be a brickmaker.” All
the city boys who had no sense did those things. Growing up in the city deadened a human’s capacity to hear animals and smell danger. Those ignorant boys who weren’t allowed to know danger, or kill for food, sought to fill that space in themselves. They pretended things. Made up things. “Most likely, he drank too much beer.”

  “Roo is an underling, a brat and a pest,” she said. “But his muddy face was streaked. The boy had been crying.”

  “Perhaps he trespassed, or—”

  Nirg turned back to her work and shrugged her shoulders. “As you like.”

  The very way she said the words implied that the way he “liked” was completely, inherently wrong. She was becoming as impossible to comprehend as any city-born and -bred woman.

  Another knock. “Nimrod. Come on!”

  Again the brat slammed the door and raced away.

  Nimrod rose; he might as well ferret out Roo. Nirg gave him a dismissive glance. He would be sleeping with Lea tonight. Probably just as well—she’d been spending too many nights waiting for the en Kidu to make time for her.

  It was almost dark by the time Nimrod caught up with his young idiot half brother. Whether it was from tears or sweat, the boy’s face was muddy and streaked. “You better wash before dinner,” Nimrod said. “And you best tell me what this is all about.” He’d refrain from saying Roo was making Nirg angry; it would just make Roo even more of a handful.

  “The Khamite, the friend of yours, she goes to my Tablet House.”

  “Yes,” Nimrod said.

  “Some boys, they… they saw her today.”

  When an animal is frightened, don’t make any sudden moves. Nimrod remained still and kept his voice even. “Where did they see her?”

  Roo shook his head. “The groves—” He looked up at Nimrod. “She made the boys violent.”

  “What boys? How do you know this?”

  “Some boys,” he said. “I followed them when they left the feast.”

  “Where did they go?”