by J. J. Wilder
“What do you want from me?” Japheth stared hard at the priest, refusing to betray pain or disgust.
The priest didn’t answer, but instead left the little room and spoke to the Nephilim guards outside. One of them stamped his spear-butt against the floor in a salute and left at a run. Minutes passed slowly, and Japheth felt pain radiating throughout his whole body. He ear throbbed, and he began to feel the strain of being chained as he was, arms stretched so far apart that he had to hold himself up off the chair to ease the pain in his shoulders.
At length, the guard returned, dragging with him a young human girl, a temple prostitute, by the look of her.
She was sobbing and begging, “Please, please—tell me what you want! I’ll give it you, I promise. You can have me for free! Please, let me go!”
The guard didn’t respond, only laughed cruelly, and thrust the girl into the room with Japheth. The girl shrank into a corner, sobbing hysterically. She obviously knew the priest, and feared him; Japheth was beginning to understand why.
She was young, barely more than a child, clad in only a sheer linen shift, which revealed more than it clothed. Her black hair was intricately braided and her eyes were heavily painted with kohl.
The priest left the room, only to return immediately, a mortar and pestle in his hands. He ground up whatever herbs or seeds the bowl contained, grinding in smooth, practiced movements until he was satisfied with the consistency. He then reached into a pocket in his robe and produced a small clay jar stoppered with a cork. He worked the cork loose and dribbled a small measure of the clear liquid into the bowl, and mixed the contents with the pestle again. Finished, he approached Japheth.
Grasping his jaws in a pincer grip, he forced his mouth open. The old priest’s hands were strong enough that Japheth knew if he resisted, the priest would merely break his jaws apart. Giving in with a mental curse, Japheth allowed the priest to place the contents of the bowl upon his tongue. Leaves, mixed with some oil . . . the taste was bitter and potent. He swallowed, feeling no immediate effects.
The priest seemed content to wait in silence, as if he knew exactly what the herbs would do, and how long it would take before the effects could be felt.
And indeed, within a quarter of an hour, by Japheth’s mental estimation, he began to feel a stirring between his legs, a rush of blood to his manhood, feeling the organ hardening, a feeling he could not stop, no matter how hard he tried.
The effect of the herbs visibly apparent, the priest nodded, pleased with himself.
He turned to the girl who was huddled in a corner of the room, shivering and shuddering.
“You know who I am, girl?” the priest asked.
“Y-yes, you are Mesh-te, High Priest of Ereshkigal.”
“And why are you afraid, girl?”
“They—they say that you . . .” She stopped, afraid to say anything else.
Mesh-te tested the edge of his dagger and gestured for her to continue. “Yes? They say what? You will be punished for disobedience if you do not speak.”
The words came out in a rush: “They say you take delight in evil things. They say you watch people lie together and kill them afterward. They say you drink human blood and eat human flesh. Oh, Inanna, save me! They say such awful things, your grace. But I do not believe them! A priest would not be so evil, surely.”
“Oh girl, if only you knew.” Mesh-te laughed, knelt down beside her, dagger at her chin. “Yes, girl, much of what the rabble says about me is true, and more besides. So . . . you will do as I tell you, won’t you?”
“Oh, yes, your grace! Please, tell me what you wish me to do!” She was shaking, poor thing. Blood was trickling down her throat from where the knife-tip pressed against her flesh.
Mesh-te gestured at Japheth. “He is a worshipper of The One God. He needs to be shown how to worship our gods, the real gods. You understand? I wish you to perform your duties as an acolyte of Inanna.”
The girl paled, whimpered. “But, your grace, I am not an acolyte, only a humble temple prostitute.”
“All the better! He wishes to worship Inanna, and you, whore, will help him.” The girl didn’t move, and Mesh-te leaned in close, hissing in his serpent’s rasp. “The longer you wait, the more harshly I will treat you.”
Japheth understood what Mesh-te was demanding, and it sickened him. “There’s no need for this,” he said. “Let the girl go. Torture me if you wish.”
“I told you it wouldn’t be that easy. If you cause trouble, I will punish the girl.” He stood up, lashed out with a fist and struck the girl on the face, knocking her to the ground, glancing at Japheth as the girl dabbed at the blood trickling from her nose. “That was for questioning me. Do you have any more to say?”
Japheth shook his head, and the girl stifled a sob as the priest hauled her to her feet and shoved her toward Japheth. With a swift slice of his dagger, the priest cut open Japheth’s tunic from neck to hem, the razor sharp edge parting the thick leather of his belt easily. The garment fell open, revealing Japheth’s arousal, which he was still fighting against, futilely.
The prostitute glanced at the priest, who merely grinned, and then she looked back at Japheth.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“It’s because of me that you’re here, girl,” Japheth murmured. “Do what you must.”
She climbed astride him, seating him inside her, and began moving her hips, grinding against him, but Japheth felt no desire for a mere slip of a girl as this—even under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have desired her. His desires were irrelevant however; the herbs the priest had forced him to swallow had seen to that.
The girl moved on him, and Japheth fought against the physical response of his body to her touch. But then . . . if she couldn’t do as the priest wished, Mesh-te might hurt her further, and it would Japheth’s fault. The priest, watching, was licking his lips and fondling himself, as if watching gave him as much pleasure as performing the act himself.
Japheth closed his eyes and stopped fighting his physical response to her touch, wanting to pray for forgiveness, but unwilling to believe in any god who could allow such evil in the world. She knew her trade all too well, this girl, and Japheth struggled against the riot of mixed emotions, pleasure and pain, hatred and disgust. He opened his eyes and met her gaze and saw the apology there. He needed to feel something besides her movement upon him, so he pulled against the chains with all his strength, straining until the manacles cut into the flesh of his wrist, providing a stinging counterpoint of pain to balance against what the girl was doing—
Suddenly a hot wet rush burst over Japheth’s face and chest, filling his mouth with an sickly-sweet tang, a sharp taste he knew all too well, and the girl whose name he never knew gasped in surprise and gurgled and thrashed above him. Japheth opened his eyes and saw the prostitute on top of him, her robes fallen open, head tipped back, dark hair cascading around pale shoulders . . . a scarlet gash across her throat. Blood ran down her flesh, coating her breasts crimson. He reached for her, wanting to ease her passage somehow, but the chains prevented him and he could only cry out in rage, spitting out her blood.
Mesh-te the demon-priest was licking the blood from the blade of his dagger, grinning, pleased, aroused.
Japheth, turned his head away, closed his eyes, horror searing through him.
Elohim, why do you allow this? Japheth found himself praying to his father’s god for the first time in so long, turning to The One God for some kind of comfort in his agony. Elohim, if you are real, if you are The One God—
Japheth was going to ask Elohim to end his suffering, but he found himself thinking of Aresia instead, and changed his prayer: Elohim, spare her. Spare Aresia. Protect her, if you are The One True God. Let me suffer instead of her.
Eventually the priest staggered from the room, the girl’s body now empty of blood.
The next hours blended together until Japheth couldn’t have said if he’d been chained to the chair for hours or
days, or if he had ever been free, if he had ever seen the sunlight, or tasted wine upon his lips, or felt the wind on his face.
4
Bone Of My Bones
“Then the man said, ‘This at last is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of man.’” Genesis 2:23 ESV
Once again my days and nights were filled with the sound of screams. The court of King Sin-Iddim was worse than Father’s, by far. Some of the screams were howls of agony drawn from tortured captives, others were moans of pleasure from the pairs or groups of people mating on the floors and couches scattered throughout the throne room.
I sat on my throne next to my new husband and stared at the sliver of blue sky visible through the far doorway. A slave cowered at my feet, a human boy not yet old enough to grow a beard, naked, crusted with dirt and scabs and dried blood, hair matted and tangled, chains on his feet and hands. He knelt on all fours, face pressed against the floor, waiting. I had learned he would not rise from that position unless commanded by the King. Even if struck or kicked by a guard or priest or courtier, the boy would remain motionless and silent. I wished I could kneel beside him, scrub away the dirt and blood, send him to play in the streets with the other boys his age. I knew, however, even if I did, he would have no concept of play, no notion of fun. The one time his eyes met mine I had seen no life there, no identity in his gaze, and only a lifeless apprehension of pain.
The only kindness I could perform for him would be to plunge a dagger into his heart—he would welcome that. Oh, Inanna, what was the world coming to, that an innocent boy’s life should be so awful? The boy served only one function . . . he was not a cupbearer, not a spear-bearer, not a servant of any kind—his only role in life was to be sodomized by the king.
There was no concept of privacy in the court of Sin-Iddim. Whenever the mood took him, the king would rise from his throne, grab the boy by the hair, bend him over and violate him, right on the throne, in front of anyone who happened to be watching. He hadn’t done that particular evil to me yet, thank the gods, but it was coming, and soon. I had expected Sin-Iddim to take me to his bedchamber the moment we arrived at the palace, but he hadn’t. His first act was to rape the boy, watching me as he did so with a vile glint in his eyes. He was playing with me, I knew. He wanted me to wait, wanted me to dread what was coming.
And I did—I dreaded it with all of my soul.
Sin-Iddim was an old man, nearly twice my father’s age. His black hair and beard were shot with silver, his skin tanned nearly black, wrinkled and weathered and taut against his bones like stretched leather. He would have been a powerful and attractive man in his youth, for even in his old age he was strong and energetic and restless. His eyes were the color of burnished copper lit by the sun, always in motion, roving, roving, and penetrating in their intensity, hungry for gore and violence and rapine.
He had arrived within a week of my father’s messenger, striding into the palace as if he owned it. He’d dropped a sack of gold and jewels at my father’s feet, grabbed me by the arm, his eyes glinting with eagerness and malice, silently promising me nights of endless hell. My father had called for a scribe to carve the terms of the treaty into a tablet, and they both had signed it with their name-rune. Then my father watched me leave with an impassive expression on his face.
Yet . . . was that a glint of regret I saw in his eyes as I left his palace? It didn’t seem possible, and I doubted I had seen it.
The trip had been long and dusty, and Sin-Iddim’s hands had groped me for much of it, which I endured in silence. He hadn’t spoken a word. I was thankful for Irkalla’s presence beside me, the one comfort from home I had been allowed to bring with me. She held my hand, squeezing it at times to express her sympathy.
I tried not to think of Japheth. Tried not to wonder where he was, or if he thought of me.
As it did every night, dusk fell upon the court of the King of Larsa. I loathed the coming of night. On the nineteenth day of my marriage to Sin-Iddim, after the last of the courtiers had gone and the slaves were chained to the pillars and the warriors returned to barracks, my husband the King demanded my presence. There was no preamble, no pretense of affection or even kindness. He merely pushed me into his bedchamber, threw me against the tall, hand-carved bed-frame and told me to strip.
Inanna, help me. My hands trembled, and my legs shook; I hesitantly began tugging at the ties of my gown. Not quickly enough, it seemed, for Sin-Iddim cursed, drew his knife, and cut away the straps, gouging my shoulder in the process. The dress fell to the floor, and I was left standing naked before him. I tried to cover myself with my hands, but he knocked my hands away.
“No need for modesty, girl,” he grunted. “You belong to me now.”
Against my will, tears welled in my eyes.
I was helpless against him. He shoved me to the bed, hands squeezing my breasts with bruising fingers, forcing apart my knees . . .
I bled, and whimpered—and received a vicious blow to the mouth to silence me. Irkalla wept in the corner, her face turned away, shoulders shaking.
Thus began my marriage to Sin-Iddim, King of Larsa, and so it continued, every night in the weeks that followed.
One afternoon a messenger, a curly-haired Nephilim boy breathless from running, arrived from my father. “My lord King . . . news from Ur.”
“What is it, boy? Spit it out.”
The messenger quaffed from a skin of water brought by a servant, and then continued between gasps. “Uruk has attacked Ur, my lord . . . they arrived at dawn yesterday with twenty thousand foot soldiers and . . . and ten thousand chariots. King Emmen-Utu requests that you bring your forces and meet him at the walls of Uruk. He—he says that together you can take the city while the army is gone.”
The king’s eyes lit up with greed: Uruk was the second largest city after Ur, and filled with wealth. “If Uruk falls to us,” Sin-Iddim said, “and if Ur falls to Argandea of Uruk, then we will be unstoppable. Argandea will be weak from battle, and we will have both cities.”
“Yes, my lord.” the messenger said. “That is his plan.”
“Shut up, boy. I wasn’t talking to you.” The king turned to a middle-aged warrior standing next to him, a general by the looks of him. “Lugash—call up the troops. Prepare for war.” The general nodded and left the chamber.
The king ran his fingers through his beard, lost in thought, and I prayed to Inanna to keep my husband gone for many months, and I begged Ninurta to strike down my husband, that I might be a widow. By dusk the next day the army was tromping out of the city, the king at their head. I was so glad to see him go that I offered a sacrifice to Inanna; I made a bargain with her as smoke from the burnt offering coiled up to heaven: if she took my husband, I would bring a burnt offering to her temple every week for a month.
Irkalla stood with me on the roof of the palace, watching the stream of soldiers depart, spears glinting in the sun, dust from the road rising like a cloud. “Are you well, mistress?” Her voice was heavy with worry.
“Well enough, I suppose. Better now that he’s gone.”
“I hope he dies in battle,” Irkalla said. “I hope he takes a spear to the gut and dies slowly and in pain.”
“Hush, Irkalla! His servants are everywhere. If they report your words to him, even I can’t save you.”
“I would rather die than remain here in his service another moment.” She leaned in close and lowered her voice to a fierce whisper. “Let us leave, my lady. Let us flee! With all the chaos around us, now is the time. If we leave in the night, we can be far away before anyone notices we are gone. I have a brother in Eridu, he will take us in.”
I shook my head. “No, Irkalla. The king would find us, and then he would raze Eridu to the ground. He would torture your brother to death, and rape his corpse. No. You go, but I cannot. I cannot be the cause of anyone else’s pain.”
“Blood of the gods,” Irkalla cursed, “you are so stubborn. You saved that
human, Japheth, by marrying this demon. Now, save yourself. You can pretend to be a servant. Cut off your hair. Rub dirt on your face. Roll in manure and bathe in mud— no one would know you as a queen or princess, then. I can disguise you, I can hide you, teach you to act like a common girl, like a slave. Please, Aresia! Run away now, while he is gone. You won’t get another chance.”
“No, Irkalla. I will not. I would flee to the underworld itself, if it meant escaping that vile creature, but he would find us anywhere we went—I know it. He would kill anyone who helped us, and he would kill you and your family, your mother and father and your sisters and their husbands and their children. He is a monster, and he would stop at nothing.”
She fell silent then, knowing I would not be moved. I wanted desperately to flee, as she suggested, but I could not stomach the thought of anyone dying for me; I would stay in Larsa and accept my fate. Perhaps I could make him kill me one day and end my suffering that way.
A month after my husband left, I began to feel sick in the mornings and my courses stopped; for all his age, the king was still virile. Irkalla noticed as well, and called a healer, an ancient Nephilim woman, stooped and gray and wrinkled, one eye blind, teeth rotted, fingernails long and curling over, her body sagging. She shuffled into my chamber, leaning on a short staff, a bag of herbs in one hand.
“With child, you are.” She hadn’t even examined me before making the pronouncement. “King’s child. Come, girl, let me look at you.” She poked and prodded, hemmed and nodded and muttered to herself.