by Aderyn Wood
“It's important your father gains more reach.”
Sargan puffed his cheeks. “He already has nearly half of Zraemia for him. How far must his reach extend? Atole tells us in his Verses on Wisdom that greed and ambition will cause just as much destruction as any true threat.”
“Wise words, you must tell me more of this Atole. But your father does not suffer from greed, Sargan. He is driven by other far less selfish motives.”
Kalban returned with fresh tea and Sargan ordered a plate of grilled moon fish as promised. They talked of the desert tribe’s migration and news from other cities the Cassites had visited, including the news of the grand boats the Praetans were building. Kalban brought them the meal, and Zamug tucked into the fish with zeal, but Sargan merely nibbled the olives. His stomach remained unsettled from the excitement of seeing Zamug again. Enlil also picked at his food, he seemed to have lost some of his prior hunger.
Sargan was wishing he could steal some time alone with the desert seer when the young bard asked if he could take his leave to help set up the Cassite camp. The tribe had been allocated a section within the palace walls, in the gardens, the same place they set up camp every visit. The king valued the seer’s presence, and his people would not be forgotten, Phadite’s festival or no.
Enlil stood. “It’s good to see you again, Sargan, I hope to meet with you soon and we can share our poetry.”
Sargan gave an enthusiastic nod. Enlil was learning the craft of barding, the first of many steps to becoming a seer. It was a difficult calling, as it was the bard's responsibility to pass on stories of the past and create new stories from the present, so all knowledge would carry to the future. Sargan was keen to share poetry with Enlil, but not as much as he looked forward to exploring more of Zamug’s knowledge. Still, Sargan smiled and said, “Shall we meet tomorrow after noon?”
“Until then, goodbye.” Enlil turned and disappeared out the teahouse with the light step typical of his people.
Sargan glanced at Zamug then pointed to his satchel on the floor. “I've brought my tablets in case you're in the mood to continue from where we left off the last time.”
Zamug shook his head with a smile. “There is no doubt about you, Prince Sargan. I still have the sand of the desert on my skin and you are eager for more talk of Cassite history.”
“I’m sorry, Zamug.” Sargan’s face warmed and he bowed his head. “I am not a very good host.”
Zamug laughed. “On the contrary, you are a most generous host. Your eagerness to record our stories on your funny little tablets is enchanting. I’ll be sure to make plenty of time for it, I promise you. But now let us talk of the present.”
“Of course.” Sargan's shoulders slouched just a little. “What would you like to talk about?”
Zamug took another sip of tea and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “What has been troubling you?”
Sargan raised an eyebrow. “How do you know I’m troubled?”
“I’m a desert seer. An old desert seer. I see trouble in the smallest grains of sand. Trouble exists wherever there are men, Sargan. Now tell me, what troubles you?”
Sargan’s shoulders slouched further, but for some reason his worries spilled from his mouth like wheat from the granaries. “My father has seen it as important, for some mysterious reason, for me to practice at swordplay. Every quarter-moon I humiliate myself in front of all the other novice-soldiers. And to put the fig on top, father has designated uncle-general as my teacher. But the general hates me, and he doesn't actually teach me anything. He puts me in the combat ring with novices who are much better than I and lets them wallop me black and blue.”
“Swords?”
“Wooden swords, but they still hurt. I always end up begging for mercy, and that makes the others laugh even harder, while my uncle calls me insults like Simpering Sargan, or Prince Hog.” Sargan swallowed a dry lump in his throat. “I hate it.”
Zamug gazed at Sargan with his dark eyes. Sometimes when Sargan looked at the old seer, he got a strange sensation, a giddiness, as though he walked into the salty waters of the Sea of Death and floated.
Finally Zamug broke his gaze and popped an olive into his mouth.
Sargan squirmed on his stool. It felt good to tell someone about his troubles and Zamug was a ready listener. A sudden desire to share more problems bustled in his mind – his upcoming recitals. Sargan hated reciting poetry in front of Rabi, and his brother wouldn't make it any easier. What if he forgot the words?
“All kings have their sons undertake practice with the sword from Praeta to Zyrria,” Zamug said. “It is part of the life of a prince.”
“But most princes are destined to become commanders, or generals, or even kings themselves. I’m headed for the temple. When will I ever need to use the sword as a priest?”
Zamug shrugged. “All of Zraemia is obsessed with that prophecy on the little tablets you like so much. The one that talks of war.”
“Gedjon-Brak.”
“Perhaps your father intends for the priests to take up arms to help in the Great War to Come.”
Sargan laughed. “Priests? You’d do better giving arms to the palm trees.”
Zamug’s gaze locked on Sargan once again and that floating feeling returned. “Know this,” the old seer said. “Your father wants you to learn humility. More so than pride. One day, when I return from the desert I will find you sitting atop the high seat of the temple with three feathers upon your head. Even then the lessons you learn now, whether they be the poetry of your people, the stories of mine, or what it really feels like to be humiliated, all of them will be your greatest treasure. Your most useful resource.”
Sargan blinked. “I’m sure you’re right, Zamug. But surely I could learn such lessons some other way, without the sword.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” The old man wiped his mouth. “Now, how’s your mountain speech?”
Sargan groaned. “Not good.”
“Let us speak it now, friend.” He switched to the ancient and cumbersome dialect and Sargan only just managed to interpret the words.
“Mountain speech seems… irrelevant,” Sargan said in perfect Zraemian. “But I’m happy to brush up on my desert speech.”
Zamug squinted. “No. Mountain speech. Come, ask a question.”
Sargan grunted, but managed a line of mountain speech. When the old seer had made up his mind, there was no backing out of it
Heduanna
Heduanna sat astride the new boy. The slave-boy’s cock stood to attention exactly where she liked it. She hoisted her skirt out of the way as Ri fumbled with her shoulder straps.
She grabbed Ri’s wrists and looked him straight in the eye. “Not yet,” she said.
Closing her eyes, she moved her body in a slow rhythm, focusing on the feeling, the ecstasy, willing it to flourish. This was what she lived for. Her very purpose. The goddess already burned within. Heduanna’s hands clutched her skirt as her arousal soared.
The slave boy’s breaths came fast and hard.
“Not yet.” She needed her pleasure first, and then the satisfaction of him inside. That's how she liked it. But when she opened her eyes and felt Ri’s shuddering beneath, she knew it was too late.
“I'm sorry, Princess.” A look of euphoric sorrow filled his eyes. “It's just your beauty is too much. I cannot control myself with you.”
Heduanna rolled her eyes as she flung onto her back. She clutched Ri’s hand and pulled it between her legs. “You'll just have to pleasure me this way.”
A smile spread across the boy's face, and she closed her eyes, thrusting her palms against the cool stone wall of her bedroom as Ri did her bidding. In a handful of heartbeats her climax bloomed. She howled like a she-jackal, again and again with the pleasure of it.
Ri jumped up and began to dress, wrapping his linen skirt around his slender body, donning his sandals, and glancing into the mirror to adjust his makeup and pat down his short oiled hair that had sprung up at the back.
Heduanna rolled on her side and rested her head on her arm to watch him. Moments before, he’d arrived at her reception room to inform Heduanna her father required her presence a hand before mid-noon. Ri had looked breathtaking standing in the entrance, not daring to get too close lest she accost him. The noon sunlight had shone right through his linen skirt and the bulge of his masculinity proved too tempting. She’d pounced on him.
No man could resist her, even if it meant risking the wrath of her father-king. Such a risk, low as it was, only served to excite her passions, and she liked to see how far she could push her lovers. Ri had muttered “no” between kisses, but not for long.
She sat up on the bed and hoisted herself onto her feet, her legs still shaky from the orgasm. “Run and fetch Kisha for me.”
“But… Princess, your father, he asked me to summon the tribesman, the desert seer, at once. I’m already tardy.”
The princess raised an eyebrow. “It’s hardly my fault you are slow in undertaking my father's bidding. Now I suggest you do as I ask and get Kisha for me, or I shall be forced to inform my father-king how you have continued to accost me time and again.”
A look of fear crinkled Ri’s narrow handsome face. He spoke rapidly, “I apologise. Of course, Princess. I will fetch Kisha now.” He turned and ran out of her suite.
Heduanna gave a smile of satisfaction and returned to the clay tablet in her reception room. A new line of verse had come to her during lovemaking, another message from the goddess, and she wanted to add it before it was forgotten.
Heduanna considered what to wear. The enemy king would be arriving any moment and he’d want to meet her immediately.
“Well, Princess? The blue or the white?” Kisha stood by the mirror with two new linen dresses draped over her arms.
Heduanna rubbed the material between her fingertips. The linen was very fine – a gift from King Amar-Nasir, from his famed weavers in the city of Gordas, the City of Cloth. She could wear them as an insult to the enemy king, but that would send the wrong message to Amar-Nasir. Nasir was nice, and handsome, and one of her father’s most leal supporters. He was also an Amar, and they couldn’t afford to risk his loyalty. She had no wish to displease him.
She needed something very plain – and concealing – that would be best. She must stall King Amar-Eshu and convince her father to consider all options. Less than a handful of eligible kings had been introduced to her. She’d rather meet all of them and then make her decision as to whom she should convince her father to give her hand.
“Neither. I’ll wear the red robe, and the mask presented to me by the Cassites two sommer’s past.”
Kisha stared. “But it is too hot, Princess.”
“I’m aware of that,” Heduanna said, picking up the painted papyrus fan, another gift from Amar-Nasir. “Put those linens away and fetch the red robe.”
Kisha turned to do her bidding.
“And a cup of wine, too,” Heduanna called out.
Kisha returned with the robe and the wine. “Would you like the matching red sandals?”
Heduanna sipped the wine, it was cool and sweet. “I think not. The plain brown enclosed shoes will be more fitting.”
“Those shoes will make you sweat.” Kisha frowned. “And this robe is made of camel skin. It aches my arm just carrying it. Why not wear the new pleated skirt? It’s so light you’ll think yourself naked.”
“The robe is perfect. I do not want one square of flesh on display.”
Kisha raised her eyebrows. “Princess, are you not well?”
“All is well.”
Confusion rippled over Kisha’s brow. “Let me bring the makeup in. It’s cooler in your reception room than your bedroom.”
“I will not need makeup,” Heduanna called.
“I’ll bring the perfume then.”
“No perfume.”
Kisha returned and placed her hands on her hips. “You’re sure you’re well? Perhaps the goddess is addling with your head?”
Heduanna smiled. “I’m well enough, though I’ll need another phial of rue.”
Kisha pinched her lips. “Princess—”
“I don’t need an oration on the subject, Kisha.”
“It’s just, the old woman, she told me rue is dangerous to take so regularly.”
“The goddess gives me these drives, and she will protect me. Father turns his head at my entertainments, but he would not tolerate a pregnancy, and I’d be subjected to those awful priestesses. Now, attain a phial for tonight. I will take it before bed.”
Kisha sighed.
“Is there a problem?”
“No problem, it’s just, I’ve so much to do with the festival preparations, and the old witch…”
“Yes? What of her?”
“It’s nothing, princess. She speaks in riddles and rhymes is all, and the way she looks at me…”
“You’re not afraid of an old woman are you?”
Kisha shook her head. “I know, it’s silly. Nevermind. I’ll get the phial.”
“Very good.” Heduanna took another sip of wine and stood. “Let’s get this robe on.”
The afternoon sun burned, baking everything in its path. The temple bell chimed five times, echoing over the hum of the city and marking the hour, mid-noon. Heduanna was late, but she kept her steady pace as she descended each terrace. Kisha had been right, of course, and Heduanna already sweated under the heavy robe. Finally, on the lower terrace, the lush potted palms came into view and the coolness of her father’s reception room nestled in the inner depths of the palace provided instant relief from the heat.
The high priest was just exiting and walked past her on his way out. “Good day, Grand Blessed Lipit,” Heduanna said.
The priest drew himself up, his three feathers askew, and a hint of impatience on his puckered beak-like lips. “Princess?” The word whistled the way he said it, and his little eyes wandered over the robe and mask.
Heduanna tilted her head.
“We’ve been waiting for you. Your father expected you more than a hand ago. He sent a slave-boy to fetch you.”
Heduanna held the old man’s gaze through the mask. “Something must have delayed the boy.”
The priest cast a questioning glare, his lips quivering. “Unfortunately, I am unable to stay. The afternoon prayers require my presence. I do not neglect my responsibilities.”
“Nor do I.” Heduanna clamped her lips together as the high priest’s face darkened. “It is unfortunate you must leave us. Good afternoon, Grand Blessed Lipit.” She bobbed her head and moved swiftly avoiding any further interaction with the old bore.
Her father turned his head when she approached, looking up from a tablet he’d been studying and giving her attire a quizzical look.
“Daughter, have you seen Sargan?”
“Not since breakfast, Father.” Heduanna kissed her father’s ring, then sat by his side.
“He is more elusive than you. None of the slaves can find him. I need him to scribe for me.”
“Surely one of the palace scribes can take his place.”
Her father put down the tablet and picked up his string of knot beads. “They’re all busy organising accommodation for our guests, amongst other duties.” He clicked the beads, rubbing each between thumb and forefinger as he assessed his daughter more fully, his eyes running over her robe and mask. “I trust you are well?”
“Very well.”
Footsteps approached and Heduanna turned her attention to the entrance. Her eyes widened. The old desert seer stood before them along with Enlil, his novice.
She took a slow breath as her eyes ran the length of him. Her first lover. The boy had become a man. He was taller, and his muscles had filled out making him appear more soldier than bard. The desert sun had bleached the very tips of his cropped hair giving light to his clay-brown eyes. His skin was darker than ever, almost black. She licked her lips beneath the mask. Perhaps Enlil would now prove a better lover than the slave-boys an
d guards.
She wished now that she’d allowed Kisha to apply some makeup, but she removed her mask anyway, and shook her head to allow her hair to fall freely. The look in Enil's eyes as he watched her was all the evidence she needed. He already wanted her. She just needed to think of a way to get him into her suite, and her bed.
Her father stood and approached the seer, and the two men embraced. “Zamug, a pleasure to see you again, my dear friend.” Such words of friendship rarely escaped father’s lips. The old man was one of the few he trusted.
“It is always a pleasure to see you, Exalted. I hope you do not mind that I brought my novice with me.” He gestured to Enlil whose gaze remained fixed on Heduanna. “Enlil is our sole bard now. I would like him to experience more of political life. He will one day inherit my role as desert seer.”
“Of course. Enlil, you are most welcome. And you remember my daughter, the Princess Heduanna.”
Heduanna nodded. “Welcome, friends.”
Zamug smiled. The old man’s eyes were filled with kindness and patience. Heduanna imagined he would be a very good teacher for Enlil, for anyone. She almost wished her father had let her go with the old man, into the desert, all those years ago when he’d urged the king to allow it. “You have grown into a great beauty, Princess,” Zamug said, before his smile faded. “I understand you’ve grown closer to the Goddess as well.”
“You’ve heard?” her father asked.
“Enlil and I met with Sargan earlier, in the city. He hasn’t lost his generous spirit. He arranged a meal for us in a bazaar teahouse.”
The king flicked his knot beads. “I see. My son hasn’t lost his fondness for disobedience either.”
Zamug put a hand on his chest. “Have I spoken out of turn, Exalted?”
“Not at all. Sargan knows he is not permitted in the city without a guard. He continues to test my rule. I’ll send someone to fetch him.” He gestured to one of the slave-boys standing near the potted palms by the entrance. “Tanut, go look for him in the bazaar. Be sure to check the Cenat tables, particularly where the old men play. Perhaps you’ll have better luck than the others.”