"And this,” he said dryly, “will be the seal of your esteemed father, Azid-shum?"
The young man made a sign of respect. “You are correct, Nabu-zir."
"And this one?” he said, holding up a third fragment.
Shamshi said, without bothering to look more closely, “It belongs to my brother."
"And where is your seal?"
Shamshi sifted through some of the smaller fragments and pushed three of them into rough alignment. “There,” he said.
"You can tell?"
"Everything is as it should be. The tree of life, the fish god, the blessed Inanna."
"And yet the images do not seem quite as sharp to these tired eyes. Or am I mistaken."
"Perhaps the impressions crumbled a bit at the edges when the clay split. Or perhaps I was not quite as careful when I rolled my cylinder across the clay."
"Perhaps,” Nabu-zir allowed. He picked up the remaining intact shard. “And this one?"
"It belonged to the dead witness. An old friend of my father's."
"Convenient,” he said. “He is not here to dispute it.” He squinted at the jagged piece of clay. “This one seems the slightest bit blurred, too, in a couple of spots. What about the other witness?"
Shamshi shoved the few remaining fragments into alignment. Nabu-zir saw a conventional scene of a new year's celebration, with a procession of naked priests filing up the ramp of the ziggurat with their offerings, and the sacred coupling of the god and goddess reenacted by the high priest and the high priestess.
"A pious man,” Nabu-zir remarked. “Also an old friend of your father's?"
"A household retainer. Buzu by name. He was one of those charged with our management as boys, and I am sorry to say he often turned a blind eye to Ubar-sin's escapades."
"But not to yours?"
"No. He was ever quick to use the stick. And when the reading of the will made it clear that Ubar-sin is to be the master, he began to show me disrespect. He laughed when Ubar-sin threatened to put the slave mark on me and sell me, as a father is entitled to do. Perhaps it was a joke, but I am afraid to go home."
Nabu-zir stood up. “You will stay here for the time being,” he said decisively. “My servant Nindada will see to your needs. I will put my seal on the doorpost, that no one may enter while I am gone. I think I had better see this scribe, Puzar-il."
* * * *
He found Puzar-il's spot after making inquiries in the bazaar. A slave, a scruffy boy with pimples on his face, was scraping a residue of dried clay off the bricks and gathering a stool and sunshade and other possessions in a small pile.
"My master is not here,” the boy said in an insolent tone. “He has gone home."
"And where might your master's home be?” Nabu-zir said.
The boy scanned Nabu-zir's unassuming costume. “That is not for any tablet-writing dub-sar to know,” he said and turned away.
Nabu-zir said mildly, “Dub-sar I may be, boy. And you must surely be the donkey that eats its own bedding to speak that way to a freeman. It is a strange slave indeed who does not know where his master lives. Show me the tag that lists the name of your owner, that I may be sure you are not a runaway, to be reported to the patrol."
The boy's hand darted reflexively to the little clay tablet he wore around his neck. “My master lives in a house a few paces from the first eastern gate,” he said sullenly. “It may be recognized by a niche next to the door containing an image of Nabu, the god of scribes. If he knows you learned it from me, I will be beaten."
"I will not tell him,” Nabu-zir said.
"If he is not there,” the boy volunteered, “you may find him at the shop of Lugal-kan, the seal maker, in the next street."
Nabu-zir thanked him and set off for the city's eastern wall. It was a long walk in the sun; though the afternoon had advanced, the coolness of evening had yet to arrive.
He found the house with little trouble. The image of Nabu was where the boy said it would be, larger than most such effigies and painted in garish colors. There was no rope end with clay seal barring the door, so Puzar-il was at home.
He planted himself in front of the door, and without raising his voice, said, “Puzar-il, I wish to see you."
There was no response, though he could hear voices within, so he repeated himself.
After an interval, the door opened to the width of a man's hand, and a large brute with the shaven head of a slave said, “Go away."
Before the door could be closed, Nabu-zir said, letting his voice carry, “You are not very courteous to a fellow scribe, Puzar-il. I thought the two of us might have had a collegial discussion of the amazing testament of the late Azid-shum."
Silence hung in the air for a moment, then a voice from within said grudgingly, “Let him in."
The burly door slave stepped aside, and Nabu-zir entered. The first thing that struck him was the rich aroma of roasting pork and pungent spices wafting in from the rear courtyard. Two female slaves were bustling around a table laden with dishes of delicacies and painted drinking vessels with gold straws. A large footed harp adorned with a golden bull's head rested in a corner, presumably left there by the musician who would entertain during the banquet.
Nabu-zir's eyes leapt to the corpulent man sitting on a gilded chair in the center of it all. “I see you have become prosperous, Puzar-il,” he said.
"I was always prosperous, Nabu-zir,” Puzar-il said sourly. “Not like you."
"I see you know who I am."
"You are the pestilential fellow who writes letters to kings and otherwise stirs up trouble."
"As we were taught in scribe school, we are enjoined by the goddess Nanshe to protect the poor from the rich, to seek justice for the orphan and widow, to see that the man of one shekel does not fall prey to the man of one mina."
"Worthy sentiments for schoolboys,” Puzar-il sneered. “But one learns that there is a real world."
"Worthy sentiments that are esconced in law,” Nabu-zir said mildly. “That is why there are punishments for those who, as Nanshe says, substitute a small weight for a large weight, who substitute a small measure for a large measure, who take the possessions of another through trickery."
Puzar-il's jowls worked. He said tightly, “The testament of Azid-shum is not at all amazing. He left the greater portion of his legacy to his eldest son, as is common. The seals were in place, including the seal of the younger son, and a judge of the temple read the tablet."
"And yet the younger son says the tablet that he put his seal to gave him the greater portion."
Puzar-il heaved a great sigh. “You and I have heard such claims before. The young pup was unhappy with his share, and thought to better it."
"I have heard that it was the older pup who was unhappy with the will when it was inscribed, and showed his anger. He had to be coerced by his father to sign the tablet and its envelope, and he took it badly."
"Where are the witnesses who would testify to such a thing, other than the young pup who was disinherited? Where are the signed documents that would confirm it? You are playing a dangerous game, Nabu-zir. The prize is the death penalty."
"I make no accusations, Puzar-il. I am just asking questions."
"You have asked enough questions. Leave, or my man will throw you out. I will gladly pay the fine for any injuries."
"What, Puzar-il? You are not going to invite me to your banquet to help you celebrate your newfound wealth?"
Puzar-il's bloated face turned purple. The oversize slave took a step toward Nabu-zir. Nabu-zir looked at him coldly and said, “Stay where you are, fellow."
The man took a step back. Nabu-zir gathered his garment about him and, with a nod to Puzar-il, unhurriedly left.
* * * *
The shop of Lugal-kan, the seal carver, was in the next street, as the boy had said, next to a rather disreputable-looking tavern. It consisted of little more than a cluttered workbench under a seedy awning, not the tidy establishment that Nabu-zir would have
expected of a free artisan.
The man squatting at the bench looked up warily at his approach. He was a scrawny fellow with the one-eyed squint of someone who has done much close work over a long period of time.
There was something else about his face that interested Nabu-zir: a faded rough patch on his forehead where a slave mark might have been removed. If so, the man might have good reason to be wary of strangers. He would have been questioned by busybodies many times through the years. The law decreed the death penalty for illegally removing the slave mark, both for the runaway slave and the person who performed the operation, unless he could prove that he had been deceived into believing that the slave had been legally manumitted.
"Ah, Lugal-kan,” Nabu-zir said genially. “I was told I might find you here."
The fellow looked at him suspiciously. “And who might it be who told you that?” he said.
Nabu-zir lowered his voice, as though they had a secret in common. “Why, my fellow scribe, the estimable Puzar-il."
At the mention of Puzar-il's name, a peculiar expression that might have been fear flashed across the seal maker's face and disappeared so quickly that Nabu-zir could not be sure that he had seen it.
"What is it that you wish of me?” the man asked cautiously.
Nabu-zir lowered his voice again. “What else but a seal? Puzar-il had great praise for your skill and artistry."
That provoked a snappish outburst. “It is not Puzar-il's custom to praise anyone for anything. Rather it is his way to find fault and threaten."
Nabu-zir had decided that the seal maker was not a crony of Puzar-il, as he had thought, but rather someone over whom Puzar-il had some kind of hold. “And yet,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “he praised you as a man of discretion. He said that I need have no fears about trusting you."
Apparently that struck the right note. Lugal-kan leaned forward and said, “Perhaps we had better talk inside,” and Nabu-zir knew that he had been provisionally admitted to the circle of scoundrels.
He followed Lugal-kan into the mud-brick hovel behind the awning. Lugal-kan closed the door behind them and cast a furtive look around the place, as if to assure himself that some mischief-making demon had not flown in ahead of them.
Nabu-zir took stock of his surroundings. The single room was mean and shabby. A smell of stale beer hung in the air, and the only food he could see in the larder was an open sack of grain bearing the label of the ordinary citizen's ration, as well as a few onions and a couple of discs of unleavened bread. But the workbench was another story. The array of sculpting tools beggared the meager equipage outside, and there was an ample supply of marble and other fine stone. Evidently this was where Lugal-kan did his real work, out of public view.
He was careful not to specify anything specifically illegal and so risk scaring Lugal-kan off. “I need to reproduce a cylinder seal that I have lost,” he said in a confidential tone. “An old client entrusted me with it because he did not want to weary himself with the business of personally certifying some hundreds of petty declarations of produce from his agricultural holdings. And now he wishes his cylinder back, and I cannot put him off much longer."
Lugal-kan sized him up with his squinty eye. “This cylinder would go to its rightful owner? Not to be used by someone else?"
"I swear by all the gods, Lugal-kan, that nothing would be done with the cylinder that would attract the attention of the super-intendant of the inspection, the agrig, or his policeman. Though I must say that my client is very wealthy, and the temptation would be great, if one were foolish."
The seal maker still seemed hesitant, so Nabu-zir threw him another fish. “Of course, as we both know, if there is any profit to be made from this, Puzar-il will get the lion's share."
From the play of expressions on Lugal-kan's face, Nabu-zir could see all the little thoughts darting back and forth like minnows. After a pause, Lugal-kan said, “There is no seal carver better than I in all the land of the two rivers. I learned my art in Eridu, and was renowned there, until circumstances forced me to flee to Ur. But even a talent like mine cannot ensure that some small imperfection might not be noticed by a seal's owner. Particularly when I would not have the seal itself to copy, but only an impression made by it."
"My client is old, with weak eyes, and the seal was worn from years of use. Besides, he is a little foolish, and not inclined to notice things."
Greed struggled with caution in Lugal-kan's scarred face. He said, “The gods are my witness that I have not agreed to do anything to falsify a contract, but only to perform a service for a seal's rightful owner. The burden is on you."
"You will not be sorry, Lugal-kan. Your reward will be great."
The little man became brisk. “You will bring me one of the tablets with the imprint of the seal on it. Bring the one with the clearest impressions, and if there is any doubt, bring me two or three."
"You will have them tomorrow."
Lugal-kan was anxious to get rid of him now, but Nabu-zir wandered over to the workbench as if by curiosity and picked up one of the unfinished cylinders that were lying there.
"This promises to be a fine work of art,” he said, pretending admiration. “I can see why Puzar-il relies on you.” But while he spoke, his eyes searched the bench and its surroundings. There was a little spouted tin pot resting on a small brazier, and next to it, some chunks of wax and an untidy heap of flattened fragments to be remelted.
The little sculptor was at his side in an instant, his hand outstretched. “Give me that!"
Nabu-zir made as if to hand it over, but contrived to drop it before the other could snatch it from him. Lugal-kan immediately scrambled to pick it up, and while he was distracted, Nabu-zir managed to palm a few of the wax fragments and tuck them into a fold of his garment.
"Forgive me, Lugal-kan,” he said. “I did not mean to disturb your work. I will bring you the tablets tomorrow."
He took his time sauntering to the door, to feed the man's irritation and further distract him. When he was past a bend in the narrow street and could be sure he was out of sight, he paused to examine the wax segments he had palmed. They contained fractured images of the sort that might be found in the imprint of any cylinder seal, except that they were in bas relief, not incised.
None of them were of particular interest, except to confirm what he had already deduced. Except for one. Nabu-zir thanked the gods for his luck. He held the wax segment up to the waning sunlight to be sure. Though the images were incomplete, they plainly showed part of a frieze featuring the ascending sun god and his bride, attended by several other gods. There was Inanna with her bow, and though Enki, the fish god, was not visible, it was clear from a levitating stream of fish that he had been present in the part of the frieze that was broken off.
But the clincher was a tiny imperfection: a minute fleck at the tip of one of Inanna's wings that must have originally been an unwanted crumb of clay. It was welcome evidence. It insured that the accuser in what might turn out to be a capital case would not himself be put to death.
Nabu-zir set his lips in a tight line and tucked the wax fragment away safely, for now it contained his own life. He quickened his stride and headed for home.
* * * *
When he reached his waterfront house, the light was already growing dim, and some of the bazaar merchants were beginning to fold their awnings. He frowned when he saw his door. The rope end with the gob of clay bearing his seal was hanging loose. Trespass was a serious crime in Ur, and not lightly risked except by the stupid and the ruthless.
He pushed open the door, afraid of what he might find. Shamshi was gone, an overturned chair attesting to a struggle. Nindada was huddled in a corner, her garment in disarray. She lifted a bruised face to him, blood still trickling down her forehead from a cut in her scalp.
"They came and took him, lord,” she said. “He fought, but there were three of them."
He helped her to her feet and sat her down in a chair. She ma
de no complaint about her injuries, as another might have done in her place. Nindada had lived a hard life and was glad of it when he had rescued her from the temple's wool factory where she worked as an indentured weaver amidst a throng of other underfed women and children. In return she had given him her unswerving loyalty and, more to the point, an unexpected resourcefulness that eased his daily life.
"Who was it?” he asked.
She clutched at his arm. “One was his brother. I heard him use the word ahi. He was the leader."
"And the others?"
"One I took to be a free household servant. I heard him called Buzu. He had an arrogance above his station. After they bound the young man's hands, they taunted him, saying he would soon learn what it was to be a slave. The third was an ox of a man, the sort whose value is his strength.” For the first time her voice wavered. “I'm sorry, lord. I could do nothing to stop them."
He patted her arm. “You need not trouble yourself, Nindada. You have done well. Tend to your wounds. You have leave to use the salve from the alabaster jar, which was made with the most expensive ingredients and compounded with powerful incantations. Then rest."
He went to the chest where he kept the weapons he had collected over the years and selected a bronze dagger he had confiscated from a murderer, hiding it under the shoulder drape of his garment. On second thought, he added a stout cudgel, which he could carry openly. The wax segment he had stolen from Lugal-kan, he hid at the bottom of the chest.
He paused at the door to look back. Nindada was already straightening things up, righting the overturned chair. Nabu-zir shook his head and stepped out into the night.
* * * *
The assistant administrator, Lu-inanna, was annoyed at being disturbed after sunset, when he was looking forward to relaxing over a jar of beer or two with some of his temple cronies.
"Really, Nabu-zir,” he said, “aren't you being a little overzealous about some misunderstanding in an inheritance case? Can't it wait until morning?"
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