by Sam Barone
Two months after En-hedu gave her first massage, she found herself working almost full time, doing five or six people a day. Some of the customers who stopped in after a hard day’s labor decided they would rather have a massage than two cups of ale. More customers flocked to the Kestrel, to take advantage of her expertise. Many, of course, wanted extra servicing afterwards, but Irkalla and Anu took care of that part of the business. A few quick strokes from their strong hands soon satisfied the relaxed customer.
As word of her success spread through the city, some of the other taverns began offering the same service, but these were generally mere serving girls who specialized in a more personal massage. They lacked En-hedu’s special skills, and those in pain or suffering stiffness continued to patronize the Kestrel.
En-hedu came to enjoy the work. With practice, her arms and hands had grown stronger, and she no longer exhausted herself by a long day’s work. She’d also learned to examine each back, and vary her efforts. Those who really had knotted muscles received the full massage, but those who merely wanted to relax or loosen up their backs were easily satisfied with a different routine that required less effort.
Tammuz changed his mind about her work. He saw the gratitude in the eyes of those she helped. Besides, everyone praised his wife’s skill, which helped improve his own standing in the neighborhood. Best of all, and despite all the extra customers, the Kestrel operated so smoothly that it required less work on their part. By now they often forgot the real purpose of their being there.
One day, just before mid-morning, two men entered the Kestrel. One was dressed in a clean garment, fine sandals, and wore an intricately stitched belt around his waist. The other had the size and weight of a bodyguard, and carried a sword hanging from his belt.
“Is this the Kestrel tavern? Is there a woman name En-hedu working here?”
Tammuz had grown so accustomed to the first question that he no longer bothered to point out the painted bird next to the inn’s door, which in his trusting way, he’d thought even a fool of a city dweller should be able to recognize. “Yes, En-hedu is my wife.”
“My mistress has need of her services.”
“And you are…?”
The man seemed insulted that Tammuz didn’t recognize him. “I am Joratta, steward to the House of Puzur-Amurri. My mistress, Ninlil, is his second wife. She desires that the woman En-hedu attend to her right away.”
Tammuz glanced at En-hedu, who entered the common room from their private quarters, wiping her hands on her dress. He’d heard of Puzur-Amurri, one of the richest traders in Sumer, rumored even more wealthy than Gemama, but had never seen him or any of his wives, and knew even less about them.
“My wife’s services cost one copper coin.”
“That is for my mistress Ninlil to decide, after the massage.”
“Well, where is she?” Tammuz knew the answer to that question before he asked it. “Tell her to come in.”
The servant looked shocked at the suggestion that his mistress would enter a common alehouse. “The servant En-hedu is to come to Puzur-Amurri’s house, and right now.”
“That’s a long walk from here, all the way across Sumer. My wife has work enough to keep her busy right here. I’d have to charge you two coppers, and you would have to escort her back here.”
That much was true enough. Though he trusted En-hedu’s ability to take care of herself, he didn’t want her walking around unescorted in a strange part of Sumer, where she might not be as well known. Lone women could be easily assaulted, or even taken away. It had happened before.
“My mistress will decide that,” Joratta repeated.
“She can’t go right now,” Tammuz said. “There’s work to be done here. Maybe later in the morning.”
“My mistress is… needs her services at once. Right away.” Joratta glanced at the bodyguard.
The man stepped forward, moving past Joratta until he was right in Tammuz’s face. “She’s to come with us now, cripple. Or do you want your good arm broken?” He leaned closer and reached out to poke Tammuz in the chest.
Tammuz caught the man’s wrist in his right hand and jerked him forward. In the same motion, he shifted to the side and extended his leg. The bodyguard went crashing to the floor, and before he could react, Tammuz had his knee on his chest and his knife at his throat.
“Touch me again… call me a cripple again, and I’ll kill you.” He emphasized his meaning by jabbing the tip of the knife into the guard’s neck. A trickle of blood appeared and the man’s eyes widened in fear.
A sword rasped from a sheath, and Joratta, still in shock at the sudden movement, turned to see Rimaud limping toward him, the short blade carried menacingly in his hand.
“Wait! Stop!” Joratta raised his hands. He couldn’t conceal the fear in his voice. “Don’t do anything foolish. There’s no need for violence.”
Tammuz regained his feet in a smooth motion and slipped the knife back in his belt. “Next time keep your bodyguard out in the lane where he belongs.”
Joratta pulled the shaken bodyguard to his feet, and pushed him out the door.
“Husband, I can go now with Joratta.” En-hedu’s voice was properly subservient, a dutiful wife trying to mollify a gruff husband. “My other client can wait until I return.”
Tammuz frowned at her for a moment, as if making up his mind.
“Well, then go. Remember to come back with two copper coins.”
“I’ll get my oils,” En-hedu said, bowing to Joratta.
Tammuz followed her back into their quarters, and gave her a quick hug. “Good luck to you, and take care around Joratta and the guard. They’ll be angry enough.”
“You did well, husband. I’ll try and soothe Joratta’s feelings on the way, and the guard’s.”
She left the chamber and the inn. Tammuz followed her to the doorway and watched the three of them disappear up the lane. This was what Lady Trella had hoped for, planned for — a chance to move into the inner circle of Sumer’s elite. Now he just had to hope he hadn’t played his role too strongly.
25
En-hedu did soothe Joratta’s feelings on the walk back to his master’s house, and even the bodyguard stopped glaring at her. Servants and slaves of powerful families often became as arrogant as their masters, and expected everyone to obey their slightest command. Nevertheless, En-hedu felt worried that perhaps Tammuz had angered the servant so much that he would convince his mistress never to summon her again.
The house of Puzur-Amurri was an imposing two-story residence in the most fashionable of Sumer’s quarters, not far from King Shulgi’s Compound. It lacked a walled courtyard to separate it from the lane, but competent workmen had plastered the front of the house and painted it a light blue. The doorway, taller than a man and wide enough to allow two men to walk in abreast, announced its owner’s wealth and position. En-hedu saw that a servant stood watch outside the door, opening it for expected guests, and making sure no one in the lanes used the walls of the Puzur-Amurri home to relieve themselves.
Inside, En-hedu found herself in a large chamber that seemed to have no purpose. An opening that reached up through the second floor allowed light and fresh air to enter the room. Benches faced each other from the side walls, and two doorways led to the interior of the house. The chamber provided a place out of the heat for clients to wait until Master Puzur-Amurri deigned to meet them. A real extravagance, she decided. Those wishing to visit his wives would also remain here until summoned.
“Wait here,” Joratta ordered.
He disappeared through the door on the right. En-hedu had expected to be brought to the wife, Ninlil, right away, but apparently whatever urgency dispatched the servant had vanished. After awhile, En-hedu set her basket of oils on the bench and sat beside it.
The odd-shaped shadow caused by the sun moved slowly across the floor. Once a man came out of the second door, but he didn’t even bother to glance in her direction as he left the house.
A
t last Joratta returned. “Come with me. Be respectful to Mistress Ninlil, and do as she asks.”
He led the way through the other door, down an impressively wide passageway until he reached another chamber. A carved door stood open, but Joratta knocked anyway.
A listless voice bade him enter.
“Mistress, the woman En-hedu is here.”
En-hedu timidly followed him into the room. A bedroom larger than anything she had ever seen in Akkad — even in the house of Lady Trella — greeted her eyes. A narrow window looked out into a courtyard that faced the rear of the house. A table rested near the window, flanked by two carved chairs. Three chests lined the opposite wall, and En-hedu wondered how anyone could have so many possessions as to need that many. The remainder of the room was taken up by the largest bed En-hedu had ever seen. The merchant Puzur-Amurri must have plenty of wealth to lavish so much of it on a mere second wife.
Ninlil reclined on the bed, her head propped up by two cushions. A loose garment dyed light brown covered her breasts, but her shoulders were bare. She spared En-hedu a quick glance and wrinkled her mouth in distaste.
“She’s filthy. I won’t have her dirty hands on me. Are you sure she’s the one?”
“Yes, mistress. En-hedu of the Kestrel Inn.”
“Can you give a good massage, woman?”
En-hedu bowed low. “Yes, mistress.” She let a quaver slip into her voice. Ninlil expected to be feared and obeyed.
“Oomara says you helped her slave. She’d injured her back, and she claimed you cured it.”
“I am not a healer, mistress, only a giver of massages. Many times it can help ease the pain in a person’s back.”
Ninlil pondered her choices for a moment. “Clean her up, Joratta. Scrub the dirt off her if you have to.” She closed her eyes and let her head fall back on the cushion.
Joratta took En-hedu’s arm. “Come with me,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, as if he did not want to wake his mistress. En-hedu followed him through the door and into the passage, turning this time in the opposite direction, until they reached the rear of the house. He guided her to the well, which provided fresh water for the household, and En-hedu drew up a bucket. She washed her hands and face, drying both on her dress, while Joratta leaned against the wall, impatience showing in his nervous movements.
“I’m ready, Joratta.”
“You’d best do a good job, or she’ll take it out on me.”
“Yes, I understand.”
Back in the bedroom, they found Ninlil sitting up in bed. She dismissed Joratta. “Let me see your hands,” she commanded. “Clean enough, I suppose,” she muttered. “But take off that dress. I don’t want your filthy clothes touching any part of me or my bed.”
En-hedu wasn’t a slave to be commanded or paraded naked for her master’s benefit, but Joratta had closed the door behind him, so the two women had the chamber to themselves. En-hedu set her basket down on the floor and pulled her dress up and over her head. She held the garment in her hand, then dropped it on the floor. No doubt Ninlil would have protested if En-hedu’s dress had touched anything else in the room.
Ninlil removed her covering, and flopped back onto the bed on her stomach. The movement drew a gasp of pain from the woman as she tried to find a comfortable position. “Begin. Do something.”
En-hedu heard the pain in her voice. She ran her fingers down the woman’s back. The first thing she noticed was how soft Ninlil’s skin felt to her touch. Too soft. En-hedu probed with her fingertips and felt little resistance. The beautiful body was weak, with no firm muscles resisting En-hedu’s probing touch. Ninlil had probably never done any physical work in her life, likely never lifted anything heavier than a wine cup. Fawning servants no doubt provided everything at her command.
“Watch where you touch, woman. That hurts!”
It probably did, En-hedu saw. A lump under the skin showed where the girl’s pitiful muscles had contracted in a knot. The spine appeared crooked as well. She opened her mouth to tell Ninlil what she found, then closed it. Better to say nothing about such things.
“I’m going to knead the muscles on your back, mistress. It may feel painful at first, but it should give you relief.”
En-hedu poured a few drops of oil across the girl’s shoulders, and started working the muscles from the neck down. The base of Ninlil’s neck had another clump of strained muscles, and she massaged that slowly, taking her time and letting the heat from the oil and her hands warm the flesh. Gradually the knot loosened a bit, and En-hedu moved her hands lower.
Groans and grunts accompanied her every touch.
“How long has your back troubled you, mistress?” Talking might distract Ninlil from the pain.
“None of your… damn you, that hurts! Can’t you be more gentle?”
“I’m sorry, mistress. But I must work your muscles if you are to feel better.”
“I fell and hurt my back about two years ago. Since then, the pain has grown worse each day. Now when my husband visits my bed, he complains that I can’t pleasure him properly.”
“How often does he come to you?” En-hedu moved her hands lower.
“Every three days. He has two other wives. Neither is as beautiful as I am, but they have no pain to deal with. They can do things to him that I cannot.”
“How sad.” She added a few more drops of oil, and moved her hands lower. Now the really deep massage would begin, and En-hedu had no doubt that it was going to hurt.
“If I can’t please him, he may send me back to my father’s house, and demand the return of his dowry. The other wives would be glad to be rid of me.”
The story came out as En-hedu’s hands kept pushing and kneading the soft flesh. Puzur-Amurri, a vigorous and wealthy merchant nearing his fiftieth season, had been captivated by Ninlil’s beauty, pursued her with passion, and paid plenty of gold to her father for her maidenhead. But now Puzzi, as she called him, had grown annoyed at her problem, especially when she had been unable to keep his shaft firm, a task that apparently required quite some effort.
As Ninlil related her tale of bedroom failures, En-hedu’s fingers kept moving, working the flesh, probing the weak areas, moving all the way down to the lower back and the curve of her buttocks. As she worked, En-hedu tried to recall everything that Zenobia and Te-ara had taught her — the muscles must be massaged firmly and with pressure, to send the warmth of the oil and En-hedu’s hands deep into the body.
By now Ninlil had reached the peak of the massage. Her breath came heavily, and she moaned at every movement, followed by a sigh of pleasure when En-hedu’s hands moved away from the weak points.
“I think, Mistress Ninlil, that is all I can do for you today.” En-hedu stepped away from the bed. Leaning over like that tired her own back, and the muscles in her forearms ached from the strain. “Now you should rest.” She gathered up her dress and slipped it over her head.
Ninlil pushed herself up to a sitting position, her head swaying at the movement. “I feel weak.” She stretched out her arm for her garment. “Owww! It hurts! What have you done to me?”
“You must lay still for now. The pain will pass in a few moments.”
“Damn you! You’ve ruined me. I’ll have you whipped for this.” With a gasp of pain, she tried to sit up, then collapsed back onto the bed. “Joratta! Help me!”
En-hedu never got another word in. Ninlil kept shrieking, and Joratta, who must have been waiting just outside the chamber, rushed in and attempted to calm her. Her cries grew louder and soon other servants rushed into the room, all anxious to soothe their mistress.
Joratta turned to En-hedu. He mouthed the word ‘Go.’
En-hedu snatched up her basket and slipped out the door. She practically ran through the house and back into the street. As she turned off the lane, she glanced behind her, to make sure no one followed. It would be bad if they caught her and brought her back for a beating.
But no one showed any interest in her passage. Dejected,
she set a quick pace and started the long walk back to the Kestrel.
E n-hedu was still distraught when she related the story to Tammuz. He poured a cup of ale mixed with water, and she drank it gratefully.
“Well, you tried your best.”
“She should not have moved. I told her to lay still.”
“At least you got out of there before they realized you were gone.”
“If she had been pleased, others of her class would have sought me out. Now there will be no one.”
A servant skilled at massage, especially one dealing with the wives and concubines of the wealthy class, would have access to much information. Men talked too freely in front of their women, or boasted of what they knew to impress them. Either way, as Trella and Annok-sur had discovered, women knew much more than their husbands and lovers ever dreamed.
“Stay close to the inn for a few days,” Tammuz cautioned. “She may send Joratta to search you out and have you beaten.”
“If she does, you mustn’t do anything. A beating is nothing. I can endure far worse. But you might risk everything we have if you try to stop her.”
“We’ll see.” He patted her shoulder. “We’ll see.”
The rest of the day brought no news of Joratta or Ninlil’s other servants, no threats or complaints. En-hedu returned to her regular routine, and saw her usual clients. As a result of her skilled hands that day, the Kestrel made a profit of two copper coins, two chickens and a handcart load of clean white sand direct from the beach to spread across the floor.
The evening passed quietly as well, and Tammuz pushed Joratta and his whip to the back of his mind. Tammuz and En-hedu had a business to run, and its demands soon took their thoughts away from Ninlil. Another day and night went by without any sight of Joratta. But mid-morning of the next day brought Ninlil’s servant and his bodyguard back to the Kestrel’s door.