Bitter irony that he had already lost her, and yet still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the concept, much less accept it as final. Nidaba lived. So long as she did, he would never accept it as final.
He drank too much of the barley brew and paid little heed to the events of the next several days. And yet, as the only son of the king, it was required that he be there, overseeing it all. A great pit was dug, some thirty feet deep, outside the city. A two-room stone crypt was erected in the bottom, but only one of the rooms was given a ceiling. That was the room where his father’s body was interred. Eannatum had to choose his father’s finest robes, his favorite sword and shield. Only a few of the king’s belongings could be placed with him in the small burial chamber. It was a dire task, and one Natum could perform only when he’d nearly numbed himself with brew.
A priest took his father’s most precious possessions and placed them into the burial chamber beside the king. The wall dividing that room from the other was then sealed off with baked bricks as Natum stood nearby, battling his grief and a newfound sense of his own mortality.
And not only his own, but the mortality of those around him. His father had told him that death was an accepted part of life, more a change in form than an ending. But his father was a stiff corpse now, and many of the warm bodies surrounding him soon would be. He wanted to rage against the foolishness of it all. The uselessness of it. And yet it was the way of things. It had been for many generations and would be for many more.
The second room, the one beside the burial vault, was larger, and a stone ramp had been built from the sandy surface of the ground down into it. Its only ceiling was the sky, and its only contents a large pottery urn filled with poison-laced wine and fifty unadorned golden chalices that stood in a gleaming sunlit circle on the dirt floor. As soon as the burial vault’s wall was sealed, the closest advisers of the king, his friends and courtiers, and several of his most devoted young priests and priestesses marched down that tiny ramp. They strummed stringed instruments, lyres and harps, they beat drums and shook rattles in rhythm with their singing. They wore their finest garments, and one by one, smiling, they walked into the pit, picked up a chalice, and dipped wine from the urn. When they all stood with glasses filled, the singing and music grew louder, faster, the drums and rattles beat an urgent tattoo, and then all at once it stopped. Silence. And every last one of them drained the golden goblets.
Then, still smiling, they lay themselves down in perfect symmetry, all save one or two who picked up their harp and lyre and began again to play music of unearthly beauty.
A shadow crossed the wall. Eannatum swore he saw Her—the Dark Goddess, dancing Her dance of death, sweeping Her cloak of night around Her willing children. Their chalices beside them, the poison still wet on their lips, they lay there with their eyes closed, and one by one they died. The harpist fell sideways, her fingers plucking one last lingering note. The lyre fell from limp hands to the ground. And it was done.
Lathor should have been among them, Natum thought grimly. But like a coward, he’d fled. Natum doubted that any of the innocents in the pit had deserved death as much as Lathor did. Though, perhaps, Inanna’s dark sister had a less honorable method in mind for that one’s demise.
As Natum turned to walk away and the sun began to sink low on the horizon, eunuchs came forward and began to cover the bodies with a layer of earth. Tomorrow another room would be built atop the corpses and packed full of the king’s most prized possessions. His weapons, his armor, his favorite robes, and jewels. Then that, too, would be sealed and buried, and a single marker placed atop it all.
More than fifty people followed Natum’s father to the netherworld.
It was supposed to be a great honor to his father that so many wished to serve him even beyond this lifetime. But it left Eannatum with a dull feeling of sadness, and a sense of waste. Such a great, great waste.
When he died, he hoped he would have time to plan as his father had. He hoped he would sense the Dark Goddess coming for him. Because if he did, he would strip himself of his royal robes and any clue as to his identity. He would wander into the desert, alone, and lie down in a private place where no one would find him for many days. His flesh he would give, as a welcome feast for the jackals and for the crows. And by the time a mortal man set eyes upon his corpse, he hoped there would be nothing left but bones, bleached white by the sun.
He would journey alone to Ereshkigal’s Underworld realm.
Better than this madness, he thought. Far better.
* * * *
WAKEFULLNESS CREPT CLOSER, inexorably closer to Nidaba, but she fought it. It was not easy. She became more and more aware of her body. The way it ached, its stiffness. Her hunger. The pounding in her head and the dryness in her throat. The bed beneath her. The warmth surrounding her. The voice constantly speaking in her ear.
Eannatum’s voice.
But it couldn’t be that, for he was long dead.
Fighting still harder, knowing she could not do so for much longer, she clung to her dreams... her memories.
She’d been serving as High Priestess in the temple of Mari, far away in the lush and verdant northlands. But she had been summoned by the king, and his own soldiers—acting, they said, under orders of his spiritual counsel—had arrived to escort her back to Lagash.
She had never intended to set eyes on Eannatum again. They had made their painful choices long ago. The security of an entire kingdom obviously had to come before the foolish yearnings of a young prince and a young priestess in love. He had agreed to wed the spoiled and beautiful princess of Ur. And as soon as word of that impending union spread, the nighttime raids of the Ummamites came less and less frequently. When the joined armies of Lagash and Ur began patrolling the borders, those raids ceased entirely. Peace reigned in Sumer. But it was a fragile peace. The entire world, it seemed, held its breath—waiting to see if the prince would honor his word to his kingdom.
She had no idea now why she was being summoned back to Sumer. Peace had hung precariously for two years, and during that time, she had been elevated to the rank of High Priestess. But the Ummamites were growing restless. Soon they would test Sumer’s unity and the king’s resolve. Times were volatile. Danger and tension were everywhere.
Nidaba’s journey southward was long, and never once was she told why she had been summoned. Upon her arrival in Lagash, she peered at her beloved city from the windows of the ornate sand sled in which she rode. But there was barely time to notice all the changes. She was taken quickly to the ziggurat tower, led up the outer stairs by the king’s own guards, and placed in a small chamber.
For a time she paced, furious, unable to so much as look outside in this enclosed, windowless room. But finally a tap sounded at the door, and then it opened, and she saw her onetime friend Lia standing there, wearing the golden headband of a High Priestess herself.
“Lia...” Tears sprang into Nidaba’s eyes at the sight of her beloved teacher, and she hurried forward, embraced the woman warmly, and kissed her face. She bore no ill will toward Lia. She knew the woman had done only what she had to. She’d done the same herself, so how could she blame her? “Lia, what is happening? Why have I been brought here?”
Lia stood back, brushed a lock of hair from Nidaba’s forehead, and smiled weakly. “To serve your king, of course. Eannatum is in need of—”
“Eannatum?” Nidaba asked quickly.
“Oh, yes. Had you not heard? His father has passed, Nidaba. Eannatum is king of Lagash now, and before this New Year’s Day ends, he will be crowned Ruler of all Sumer.”
Nidaba lowered her gaze. “So... he has married her, then? Puabi?”
“No, child. He will wed her only after he takes the throne. But he cannot take the throne at all without the sacred rite.”
Very, very slowly, Nidaba raised her head. “With you as his lukur? The vessel of the Goddess? You, Lia?”
“No, child. You will be your king’s lukur, not I.”
&
nbsp; Eyes widening, Nidaba pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Never!”
“Nonsense. I have gone to great trouble to arrange this. I am convinced it is as the Queen of Heaven wishes it. You and the other High Priestesses I have summoned here will be properly prepared, and will dance before the king. The Dance of the Seven Veils, in remembrance of Inanna’s descent to the Underworld. King Eannatum alone will choose the one to serve as his lukur. And he will choose you, Nidaba.”
Nidaba shook her head, backing away from her once trusted friend. “I will leave here,” she whispered. “I will leave Sumer.”
“You will do your duty as a High Priestess of the Queen of Heaven.” Lia clapped her hands twice, and a dozen young men, eunuchs all, surged into the room. They came to Nidaba, even as she turned first one way, then another in sudden panic. But before she had a chance to flee, as every part of her was screaming to do, they were gripping her, holding her still, urging her with their soft voices to be quiet, to be calm, even as they began stripping away her robes and her gown.
“You will be gentle with her,” Lia ordered, her voice deeper, firmer than Nidaba could remember it ever having been before. “But you will see to it that she complies. She is to be prepared in the manner I have told you. And time is of the essence. See to it.”
“Wait!” Nidaba cried.
Lia was turning to go, but she paused at the doorway, stepping aside to let four more eunuchs enter, carrying a huge tub that brimmed with steaming, scented water.
“I have warned them, Nidaba, that you have a way of... making the earth appear to tremble when you are angered. They are not going to flee in terror if you do so. But they will likely carry tales of such an event beyond these walls. Simply let them carry out their orders. This is to your benefit.” Her face and her voice softened. “And my way of righting an old wrong.”
“I know you were forced to do what you did, Lia. Just as I was.”
Lia nodded. “They’d have done far worse to you, I fear, had I not obeyed.”
“I know. And I knew they would harm you if I fought them as well.”
With a deep sigh, Lia said, “There was a time when a priestess wielded more power than any man, even the king himself. But that time is long past, Nidaba. Men think of battles and wealth ahead of procreation and peace these days. And the might of woman wanes.”
“Like the moon, Lia, it will wax again.”
“Someday, perhaps. For now, we do what we must.” She nodded at the men. “Go on, do your duties.”
Nidaba shook her head. “I do not want this, Lia.”
But it didn’t matter. Within a few moments she stood naked, her arms and legs gripped by soft hands. She was lifted off her feet, and lowered into the tub of water. Some of the men held her gently, while others ran soft brushes over her body, up and down her legs, and between them. Over her back, and her arms and her breasts. She didn’t fight the attendants. It wasn’t their fault, after all, and it was her duty as a priestess to comply with the request of her king. But it was Natum. It wouldn’t be an act of duty—not with him.
A hand cupped her chin, lifted her face, and Nidaba blinked back her impatience to see Lia staring down at her. “I am doing this for you, Nidaba,” she whispered. “Don’t you see? It is the only way you will ever be able to know him.”
“I do not want to know him,” Nidaba said softly.
“Oh, but you do,” Lia said. “You want it with everything in you. You know you do. You always have.”
“We said good-bye,” she whispered. “I can’t bear to go through it all over again.”
Shaking her head slowly, Lia said no more. She only backed out of the room and left Nidaba to the ministrations of the eunuchs.
They finished washing her, and she was lifted from the tub and stood on her feet, dripping. Then yet another eunuch came in, bringing a tray filled with elaborate containers of sacred oils and perfumes and pots of body paint. She tugged at the hands that still gripped her arms.
“Please, Holy Lady,” the newcomer asked softly in a voice that had never deepened with maturity. “This is no fault of ours. We do only as we have been ordered to do. If we fail, it will be our heads.”
Nidaba stopped struggling and eyed the young man. He was slender as a shushima reed, his hair long and pale, for a Sumerian. A golden-brown color that marked him as a foreigner. His eyes, too, were tawny gold, and gentle.
“All right,” she finally told him. “Do what you must.”
“Thank you, Nin-Nidaba.” She saw genuine relief in his eyes, and he quickly backed away, setting the tray upon the floor, and turned to fetch a robe of purest white from a peg in the wall. “Release her,” he told the others, and when they did, backing away warily, he came to her and draped the robe around her. Then he gestured toward a stack of silken pillows, nodded for her to sit upon them, and she did.
“What is your name?” she asked him.
“I am called Aaron.”
Lifting her hand, she said, “Thank you for your kindness to me, Aaron.” And as she spoke she lowered her hand to his shoulder.
A jolt of awareness sizzled through her hand and up into her arm. It was much like the way she felt when she touched Eannatum. She had thought it to be a reaction that could occur only with him.
Aaron’s eyes widened. “By the wings of the Gods,” he whispered, so softly that she was certain only she could hear him, and his gaze fell to her legs. He clasped the robe where it came together, tugging it to the side and baring her left flank.
She yanked it back again. “What is it you seek, eunuch?” And if her voice suggested she ran short of patience, then it was good he know it now, in time to save himself from her wrath.
“I... was told you bore a mark of some... uniqueness... upon your left hip,” he stammered.
She shook her head slowly. “You were told incorrectly,” she said, and she saw him sigh—whether in relief or disappointment, she could not guess. “The mark I bear is on the right.” Nidaba quickly flipped the robe the other way, giving him the merest glimpse of the berry-colored crescent moon.
He was still for a long moment. Then suddenly, he turned to the others in the room. The rest of you may go,” he said with a tone of command. “Nin-Nidaba wishes that I alone attend her.”
There was muttering, a shaking of heads, until Nidaba herself spoke. “I am a High Priestess, and a powerful one,” she told them. “Do not make me demonstrate the proper method of calling down a curse!”
Within seconds, they scurried toward the door, and an instant later she and the golden-haired young man were alone. Facing her, he said, “I, too, bear the mark of the crescent upon my right hip.”
Nidaba stared at him in shock. “But... what does it mean?”
“You do not know?”
She shook her head slowly. Closing his eyes, he sighed. “A great deal, Nidaba. A great deal. But above all, it means that you are a sister of mine. Not of the flesh, but of the soul. If you wish to escape this place... I will help you.”
Facing Aaron, she saw courage and determination—amazing in one so young—he couldn’t have seen more than 17 years. Despite her desire to escape, she felt a certain protectiveness toward him. She liked him. “They would kill you,” she said.
“Not an easy task, I assure you.”
“You are brave... but foolish. No. Perhaps it is good that I see Eannatum one more time. I have... I have words for him.”
“He hurt you once, did he not?” Aaron asked.
“He hurt me. Yes. But through no fault of his own. We... we hurt each other.”
“He was a fool to choose Puabi when he could have had you.”
She felt her face heat, and cast it downward. “Perhaps tonight he will know just once, how it could have been, had the fates smiled on the two of us.” Then, lifting her chin, she glanced at the tray of pots and vessels still sitting on the floor. “Make me beautiful, Aaron. That is the task with which you’ve been charged, is it not?”
Aaron smiled g
ently. The Gods completed that task long before I came to be in this temple, Lady.” But he did fetch the tray, and bringing it back, he sat down and placed it on the floor in between them. “But I will do my best to gild an already perfect lily.”
“Then do so.”
Aaron brushed her hair and pinned it up in intricate loops and twists. He anointed her with holy oils that smelled of exotic fruits and herbs. He lined her eyes in kohl that extended outward from the outer corners, painted the eyelids and then added a series of dots just above her brows that followed their curve. He darkened her lashes and painted her lips, and drew sacred symbols upon her breasts and her belly. Then he reached for the final pot, and she knew what it held before he said, “The honeyed wine.”
Swallowing hard, she nodded. “Apply it.”
Aaron knelt before her, taking the soft brush from the jar. A thick, glistening mixture of wine and honey dripped from the end of the brush. Carefully, Aaron painted her breasts with it, coating them lightly, more heavily at the tips. Then he sat back on his heels. “If you wish to do the rest yourself...”
“It is the custom that this be applied by a eunuch,” she whispered, her voice nearly gone now. She forced her legs to part. Aaron closed his eyes respectfully as he dipped the brush again and brought it out, dripping, to stroke a path in her most private places. Three times he dipped the brush and painted her with it. And finally he said, “It is done.”
Nidaba opened her eyes, felt her face burning, and was glad to see that Aaron had turned away from her. Good of him to think of doing so. He fussed with the jars on the tray, capping and righting them. And then he went to the corner, where a wooden chest sat alone, and he drew it closer, opened its lid, and said, “The costume of the sacred dance of Inanna.”
She nodded, knowing the contents. She had studied the tale of Inanna’s descent. She had learned the dance. As a priestess it was a part of her duties to know these things. He pawed through the box’s contents as the honeyed wine that coated her slowly dried. Finally, Aaron held out a hand. “Come.”
Eternal Love: The Immortal Witch Series Page 80
