by J. J. Wilder
This explanation amused Kichu, for he shook with silent laughter. “You have lost your mind, talking to me like that. You’re all right for a human, but don’t think I won’t split your ugly skull like a pomegranate if you keep up that talk.” Kichu’s features smoothed out, as he turned serious once more. “So what are you going to do now? There’s plenty of women in there.” He jerked a thumb at Uruk, smoke and screams emanating from the walled city.
“I don’t want those women. I want Aresia.”
Kichu shook his head, his eyes narrowing in anger. “She’s not for you, Japheth,” he snapped. “She is a princess, and a Nephilim. You are a commoner, and a human—it’s impossible.”
“I know what you say is true, Kichu.” Japheth hobbled on his twisted foot, testing it. “I have no plan, I cannot forget her. I can’t . . .” Japheth trailed off and slumped back to the ground, too exhausted to remain on his feet.
“I don’t have any answers for you, Japheth. If it were me, I would stay as far away from Larsa as I could. There is nothing for you here. Go back to Bad-Tibira, or go back to your family.”
Japheth nodded, knowing Kichu was right. This battle had shown him that, for all his bravado, he wasn’t quite ready yet to throw his life away. He would begin again, somewhere, somehow.
Kichu hauled Japheth to his feet. “I’ll buy you a few rounds, take you dicing. Time will do the rest.”
Japheth could only nod again. Wine, gambling, whores, none of that mattered. Aresia might as well be a star twinkling in the sky for all that he could reach her.
6
Sorrow
“‘I am sorry I ever made them.’” Genesis 6:7 (NLT)
My prayers that my husband will be killed in battle go unanswered. He returns to Larsa filled with the pride of someone who always gets what he wants.
He comes to my rooms nearly every night, and he behaves as if he were still on the battlefield. My thighs and womanhood are sore from him, but he will not relent. He is punishing me for murdering his child, and I take his punishment because, deep down, I know I deserve it. Even the child of a monster like Sin-Iddim deserves to live, but I could not stomach the thought of bearing his child. I simply could not do it.
Poor Mirra. She did as I asked, and she died for it, as she knew she would. I saw the knowledge of death in her eyes when she left. I don’t know how Sin-Iddim knew Mirra gave me the herbs. For all I know, he has her killed simply out of sheer petulance, for letting me miscarry. I do not know, and I cannot care. She is dead, and no prayers of mine can bring her back.
I still think of Japheth. His face erupts in my dreams. His tender lips brush mine as I sleep, and then I wake to an empty room and an aching heart. Irkalla has given up trying to rouse me, or cheer me. Days turn into weeks, and then weeks into months, and I allow myself to grow lethargic. I do not allow the servants to dress me or paint my eyes with kohl. I eat little and drink wine until the room spins from morning till night.
Sin-Iddim is furious. He married me for my beauty, and I have stolen it from him. He comes to me, rages at me, hits me, kicks me, curses me. Madness gleams in his eyes, and I find satisfaction knowing I put it there.
Or make it worse, at least. I believe he has always been mad, and I have simply thrown oil onto the fire.
This cannot continue. I will die soon, and I will welcome the darkness.
I do not know how much time has passed.
Sin-Iddim still comes, but not every night, not even once a week now. Perhaps he satisfies himself with that poor boy. I do not know that either, and I do not care.
If I do not waste away and die of starvation, perhaps I can make the demon-king kill me.
I think perhaps that would be best—better to die quickly, end the suffering of my broken and empty heart.
Thoughts of Japheth swirl through my clouded, drunken, hunger-hazed head. I can feel him, out there somewhere. I thought he might be close once, long ago. I thought I felt him nearby, but then it passed and I could only tip the wineskin and drown the agony of his imagined nearness.
Now he is far away, and Irkalla sits in a chair near my bed, eyes red-rimmed from weeping for me, even though I plead with her not to mourn for me.
I think I will send her away, and prod Sin-Iddim into beating me. The pain will wake me from my stupor, and he will kill me, and I will be free.
I did not imagine anything could hurt this badly; this is worse than the miscarriage. Fool that I am, I underestimated the demon-king’s taste for savagery.
He did not merely beat me—he tortured me.
I no longer call on Inanna, for she is silent, as she has always been, as she ever will be. She is a dead god; she is no god at all; she is naught but empty air.
Elohim, help me. I called on The One God, finally. Not as I did when Father threatened Japheth, but for myself. Not to spare me, but to answer me. To speak to me.
If you are Lord of Heaven, as your followers claim, you will answer me. I am dying, Elohim. I am alone, and I am dying. Speak to me, Elohim. Speak to me.
Blood runs from my nose, from my ears, from the cleft between my thighs, from a thousand cuts upon every inch of my body. He burns the soles of my feet with red-hot sword tips; I can smell my flesh burning, a sick smell nightmarishly like roasting meat.
He rapes me as I bleed, his pig-thing smeared with my effluvia. He laughs as I weep.
When I pass into unconsciousness from the pain, he waits until I regain my senses, and then he turns me onto my stomach and sodomizes me. He forces himself into my mouth, sour with excrement, and his seed burns my throat and chokes me.
I bite him, and that is when his fists descend like hammers on a blacksmith’s forge. When he breaks his knuckles on my face and ribs, he uses his feet.
I wake again, and I curse the knowledge that I am still alive. My heart continues to beat still, albeit weakly.
I am on the floor of my chamber, lying in a foul puddle from the over-turned chamber pot, bleeding, soiling myself, vomiting blood and weeping. I have lost hope, and I believe I will not die, but only continue on like this, drowning in this sea of unbearable agony but never grant the peace of death.
All through this, Irkalla is made to sit by and watch, prevented from intervening, prevented from leaving. Only after the king leaves is she allowed to go to my side and offer me what little comfort she can.
And that is when I hear a voice so strong, so calm, so loving that I can only imagine it is the voice of Elohim.
It is not a voice like a person’s, human or Nephilim. It is . . . I do not know what it is.
Mortal language is not equipped to express the sound. It is like thunder booming in my bones, like the rumble of mountains shifting in their seats. It is like all the music of the world heard at once, heard in my bones and in my blood—it is the song of angels whispering in my ears, speaking peace unto my soul. The Voice is the sweet smell of orchids in my nostrils, of jasmine in the evening, a candle blown out, coils of smoke smelling acrid and sweet in the new darkness.
The Voice of The One God is familiar and dulcet, as many-faceted as a diamond.
His Voice shines in my soul like a torch in the dank heavy black of a dungeon. His Voice dawns brilliant in the prison-chamber of my wrecked soul.
All the poetry I possess is not enough beauty to encapsulate the heaven of His Voice.
“DAUGHTER, BE STILL.”
How can I be still, when all I am is death and pain and heartbreak? Where were you when that mad man was doing this to me? Where were you when Japheth was ripped away from me? Why did you allow this, if you are God? Does my pain glorify you, my Lord?
“YOUR LOVE GLORIFIES ME. YOUR FORGIVENESS GLORIFIES ME. YOUR LIFE GLORIFIES ME.”
If I was not weeping before, I am now. I am sobbing, hysterical and uncontrollable. His voice tolls in my heart, reverberates in my soul. Love echoes in his words. Peace radiates from his presence. The pain does not lessen, but I know He is with me.
It is enough.
; I wake as rough hands lift me up into strong arms. I moan in pain. A harsh male voice shushes me, but not unkindly.
I hear Irkalla’s voice in my ear: “You must be silent, my queen. Please, be quiet, so we may escape.”
“I am . . . no queen,” I mumble.
Sin-Iddim is a demon, not a king; I am not his wife, and I am not a queen. But I have not the strength for so many words. Irkalla understands and does not answer.
Her words filter through my pain . . .
Escape? There is no escape from the mad demon-king. He will find me. He would hunt me down and finish what he started.
I sputter, trying to say this to Irkalla, but her hand is pressed firmly against my split lips, stifling the sound of my words.
I pass in and out of consciousness, but I am aware of being carried down steps, through echoing hallways and out into the night. My eyes are swollen nearly shut, but I can still make out the moon, round and pregnant with silver light, illuminating countless stars in an endless arc across the sky. I smell night air, feel the cool breeze on my feverish forehead.
I am carried on a crude litter through the city, each step sending throbbing pain lancing through me. I moan, unable to stop the sound from escaping. Irkalla begs me to keep quiet, and I bite my tongue to still it.
Eventually, we approach the city gate. The man carrying me stops and curses, and Irkalla echoes his epithet.
“He is not supposed to be here,” Irkalla mutters.
“Well, he is,” says one of the men carrying me. “What do we do now?”
“I don’t know, Uresh. Gods above, I don’t know.” Irkalla sounds near to weeping. “Marika promised me he’d be gone for an hour tonight, at this time.”
The gate captain notices our approach, and he challenges us. I feel his bulk hovering close, staring down at me like a devouring presence. Fear seeps through my pores and into my blood; he is going to take me back to the demon-king.
I sob through cracked lips.
“Where are you taking her, servant girl?” The gate captain’s voice sounds like rocks tumbling down a hill.
“Away. To be healed.” Irkalla’s voice is tense and small.
Silence, then: “This is the queen, is it not?” Irkalla doesn’ answer, and the gate captain answers his own question. “It is she. I am not stupid, girl. Did you think to deceive me?”
“No sir.”
“Then tell me what you plan to do with her, and tell me why I shouldn’t report you.”
Irkalla doesn’t answer, and I feel the danger increase. Then she speaks, finally, whispering. “I told you truly, sir. She is near death. I want to take her away to be healed. The king . . . he . . . he did this. She doesn’t deserve this—no one does.”
“That is not for you to decide. You should take her back before her absence is discovered. I am doing you a favor, just by telling you this much. I should march you back to the palace right now. It’s my head if I’m discovered complicit in the escape of the queen.”
He must have clamped a hand on her arm, for Irkalla whimpers in pain. “Please, please—don’t.”
“Why not? What’s in it for me?” His voice is thick and suggestive.
I want to protest, tell Irkalla no, don’t do that, not for me. But a calloused hand presses against my mouth, and I fall silent.
“Will you let us go?” Irkalla demands, her voice stronger. “Will you keep silent when the questions are asked?”
“Depends on how well you . . . convince me.” I hear the leer in his voice, and know his price as well as Irkalla does.
Irkalla is a lovely girl, tall and buxom, fair-skinned and delicate. Men of all ranks have begged me for her hand, but I have refused them all. She had a lover, once, but he died on the battlefield and she would take no other . . . years passed and she kept her chastity.
And now, for me, she surrenders it to a hulking brute with hard hands.
I hear it all and I weep for her. I hear him grunting in pleasure as he drives himself into her. I am forced to listen to her whimpering, trying to sound encouraging. He is hurting her, I can tell; I hear it in her voice, for the sound of pain during sex is unmistakable.
The slap of flesh against flesh echoes loudly in the silent street.
It seems to last for an eternity, and through it all Irkalla tries to be . . . convincing. I crane my neck weakly, and I see her legs around his waist, her face turns to the side, tears leaking into the dust beneath her.
Finally, he finishes, and he leaves her lying in the dirt, her skirt still shoved up past her belly.
“You were convincing enough,” he says. “You may go.”
“Will you keep silent?” Irkalla’s voice is calm, strong, and quiet.
“Yes, girl. You’ve bought my silence,” the gate captain growls. “Now go, before I change my mind and keep you for myself.”
The road is long, silent, and rough. At least out on the open road my cries of torment—physical, mental, and emotional—will not bring ruin down upon us.
I do not cry out to Elohim or Innana. I cry out to no one but the silent stars and watching moon, and to Irkalla limping next to me, sniffling, her tears running freely.
An onager and a wagon waits for us some distance from the walls of Larsa. I am settled into the wagon and covered with a blanket. Irkalla thanks the guards then climbs in next to me. Only one of them accompanies us, a gruff, taciturn, hard-bitten man, the one Irkalla had named Uresh.
Uresh clucks his tongue, his shoulders hunch as if the weight of what he has seen is too heavy even for him to bear.
7
Dust To Dust
‘“By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread, till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return.’” Genesis 3:19 ESV
Japheth remained in Uruk with the conquering armies for a few days, helping with the mop-up efforts and patrolling to restore order after the battle. And then, once some agreement had been reached between the kings regarding the fate of Uruk, the human mercenaries were paid and dismissed; thus Japheth found himself wandering back to Bad-Tibira in the company of a few other mercenaries, his coin purse heavy and his heart empty. He found a room to let, once again near the wall where rent was cheap and questions few. It was a risk returning to Bad-Tibira, he knew, but it as long as he laid low and didn’t attract the attention of the king, his presence in the city would likely remain unnoticed.
He wasn’t even sure why he’d returned, truth be told. It was home, or as near to one as he had; it was familiar, if nothing else.
He drank himself into a stupor at night, drinking until sleep claimed him. Sleep, however, didn’t stop him from dreaming of Aresia. He saw her face in his dreams, saw her broken, bloody body in nightmares, ravaged by Sin-Iddim.
Then, the dreams began recurring. He saw her with a handmaiden and a single human guard, traveling an empty road, stopping in dank, smoke-fogged inns.
He felt her presence. Every passing day brought her closer. The idea was lodged in his fevered, drunken mind until he was more than half-mad with it. She was coming, somehow.
Two weeks after the battle against Uruk, the sense of Aresia’s nearness was so strong as to drive him to restless pacing. He refused to sleep, pacing the road in front of Bad-Tibira’s gates. His eyes were locked on the road, the gate, pacing restlessly, tirelessly back and forth in front of the gate, until the guards thought him mad. And, in truth, he felt mad but couldn’t bring himself to care, so strong was the sense of Aresia’s presence.
Elohim, he prayed finally, if you bring her to me, I will turn away from the wine and the battlefield. I will serve you, Elohim, only bring her to me.
He heard no voice, but he felt a peace in his soul, a quiet reassurance. He emptied his last wineskin in the dust at his feet, filled his belly with bread and meat until the dizziness abated, and prayed the prayer again and again. Hours passed—night fell, and day came, and then the noon sun beat down on him, rivulets of sweat pouring do
wn his face and back, and still he waited, praying to Elohim, a single word chanted to the rhythm of his pacing feet: please . . . please . . . please.
Then the crunch of wagon wheels filled the air, and the braying of an onager brought Japheth to his feet. He watched with a thudding heart as the wagon drew nearer. Heat waves shuddered and wavered in the air, obscuring the occupants until they were within a bowshot. The driver was a middle-aged Nephilim man, bearded, grizzled, heavy-shouldered. He turned in the seat and spoke to one of the two smaller, hooded figures in the back of the wagon. One of them raised a head to peer at Japheth, nodded, and slumped back down.
He dared not hope, dared not think it was really happening. It was impossible.
The wagon drew up next to him, and the driver spoke: “Are you Japheth, son of Noah?” Japheth nodded his assent. “Thank the gods we found you. Help me bring her in. She’s weak.”
“She?” Japheth couldn’t allow his mind, his heart, to believe.
“Yes, she,” the driver snapped. “I dare not speak her name, not here. Just bring her in, you fool.”
Japheth circled to the back of the wagon and peered into the drawn hoods of the two robed figures seated there. One was a young woman, vacant brown eyes staring into space, sweat-damp mouse-brown hair sticking to her fair cheeks. Japheth knew her—she was Irkalla, the servant of Aresia. Her expression was haunted, traumatized, that of a woman who had known the rape of a conquering warrior; he’d seen the expression often enough to know it.
The other figure, leaning against the servant girl . . . Japheth held his breath as he stepped closer.
Aresia.
Japheth wept. Her lovely face was swollen, her nose broken and reset, her eyes black and blue and green and fading yellow. Her knees were drawn up beneath her, and she shivered, sweating. He saw the sole of a foot peeking out from beneath the folds of her robe; wide triangular brands were seared into the tender skin, overlapping and scattered in random patterns, the painful brands too numerous to count.