Kalam walked beside her as she stared. “You might as well get everything,” he said. “You aren’t going to have much time for shopping in the next weeks, and you’ll want to make good impressions. Of course, once you become more aware of the styles, and so forth, you’ll want to order more. But you need a start. This is a good one.”
She’d never had more than one skirt for the summer and one for the winter. A cloak to sleep in and those few bangles she’d gotten just before the flood. So how did she recognize that the fabric was fine, some of the softest she’d ever touched; the gold was pure; the oils and perfumes expensive blends. It was too much to make a choice. “Then I’ll take everything,” she said.
The artisans blessed her loudly, praised her personal gods, and offered sacrifices to her personal demons as they scrambled to adorn her.
“The prices Justice Ningal agreed to,” Kalam said to them. “Leave your merchandise here, you’ll be paid at the door.” They thanked Chloe as they left, and Kalam excused himself, too, leaving her with wealth she’d never imagined. Her hands fluttered over the beautiful objects, and she felt like crying.
Why weep now?
“You should dress for dinner,” Kalam said, reappearing in the doorway. “Shall I send someone?”
She shook her head, her back to him. “No, thank you.”
Chapter Three
Ezzi, what are you staring at?”
“The stars, Mother. I’m a stargazer. It’s what I do.”
She sighed as she moved his empty dishes away. “I can’t believe I sent you to the Tablet House, scrimped and saved to get you the finest education, and all you do is stare at the stars.”
“They are our fortunes, Mother.”
She snorted and shuffled away.
He didn’t mean to be disdainful, but she was so base. The edge of her skirt dragged in the dirt. The ass slept in the same room as she did. They didn’t even own a copper bathing tub. An oversight he meant to rectify just as soon as he got some funds, or at least an advance from a creditor.
First, he needed employment.
If he could have predicted the moon turning to blood, the unexpected flooding, and how devastating the waters would be, then he could have demanded his price and have as many copper tubs as he wanted. But, truth told, he wasn’t that good. What he lacked in ability, he compensated for in diligence.
Returning to the Tablet House as a Tablet Father was out of the question. He’d been a lousy student, more concerned with the proper cloak to wear and whom to make a friend of than anything to do with the subjects. No, teaching was not an option.
Out of habit, he recited the stars with names. The year would begin soon, with the Hired Man, then the Bull of Heaven, the Twins, the Crab, the Lion, the Barley Stalk, the Scales, the Scorpion, Dablisag, the Goatfish, the Giant, and the Tails. The stars rose and set in flocks, any fool could see. Each season had its flock, which ruled the night for that whole lunar month.
However, the sky looked different. The New Year was close upon them, so the stars would be changing soon to predict what the year would bring, but the presentation above was even more unusual.
“Ezzi, are you going down to the tavern tonight?” she asked.
He shook his head, not looking at his mother.
“Because if you aren’t, then I thought I might.”
“Enjoy yourself,” he said, staring at the sky.
“Most sons would care if their mothers walked the streets alone at night,” she muttered as she tied on a cloak. “Most sons would volunteer to walk their mothers to the tavern and wait patiently until they met and mingled, then walk them home.”
“Most sons don’t have whores for mothers.” He didn’t look away from the paths of the stars. The gods hid messages in the heavens; was that a new star he saw?
“I’m not a whore,” she said. “Don’t class me with those who work at the temple.”
“Truth,” Ezzi said, finally looking at the woman who had birthed him. “They do it for the goddess. You do it for—”
“Silence yourself, boy,” she said. “You have your fancy Tablet House education because of me, because I please men for currency.”
“Or you just please the right men,” he said. He’d never forget the chiding at the Tablet House the other boys had given him about his marks being so good because the Elder Brother who reviewed their work was a frequent guest at Ezzi’s house on the Crooked Way.
His mother had taken the most prestigious address in Ur and transformed it into a residence of asses and grime.
She adjusted her wig and tightened the sash around her waist, making it look smaller and her breasts look larger. He knew she dabbed a little soot in her cleavage, because by the light of the fires in the tavern, it made the shadows between her breasts even more alluring. The same shadows slimmed years off her jaw. Her secret was never to let any of her customers see her in daylight.
They had to wonder where the soot on their hands or clothes came from, though. Ezzi had always thought about that. “Are you taking a room at the tavern tonight?” The rest of the question didn’t need to be voiced: Or are you bringing your customers home. He hated when she did; her cries disturbed his sleep.
Perhaps her career was the true reason he became a stargazer. As a child, he was up all night, every night, with nowhere to escape his mother’s business, except the roof. Then there was nothing to do except stare at the lights flickering in front of the temple, or the watchman as he walked the streets. Or the night sky.
“It doesn’t matter to me,” Ezzi said, standing up and brushing any possible bread crumbs off his Old Boy’s robe. “I will be at the temple, discussing the stars with the—”
She snorted. “Be safe on the streets.” Then she walked to his side and kissed his head. He flinched; her painted lips had kissed a thousand men, and the thought of being just another man to her made his skin prickle with disgust.
She froze at his movement. She knew his thoughts. Holding herself stiffly, his mother Ulu crossed through the courtyard and slipped out the door, drawing it shut silently behind her.
Ezzi stared at it a moment, toyed with the idea of chasing her down in the street and giving her a hug. They lived in this two-story house, he had the best education and dined on the finest food because—
He couldn’t convince himself. The real reason why they lived here was because she was too much of a tramp to keep to one husband, so she had divorced Ezzi’s father and supported her son by doing what she loved the most: working on her back.
At the least, he should have a copper tub.
The sky beckoned; was that a new star? Was it his future the gods teased him with? Just in case, Ezzi poured some oil before the statue of his personal god and offered a quick petition.
Then he combed the rest of the oil through his hair, straightened the fringed fabric that wrapped over his shoulder and around his chest, adjusted the basket hat that announced to the residents of Ur that Ezzi was among the best class, wiped his face clean of the peasant’s dinner he’d had; and, finally, set off through the dark streets to the staged temple of the Moon God Sin, and his consort, the capricious goddess Inana.
* * *
Guli pulled the door shut, debated locking it, then decided against it. If someone broke in and stole all his belongings, he would just file a complaint against the commonwealth for not protecting his property and start over with the credit they’d give him.
Despite those considerations, he still shouldn’t make it easy for the criminal element. He tested the handle; it stuck, which was almost as good as a lock, then turned away. The street was dark. It was always dark. “I couldn’t have picked a worse location,” he muttered. “Too many more weeks of this, and I’ll be back in the gardens.” As he said this, he walked by a clump of palm trees. He spat at them in the darkness, then looked over his shoulder in case anyone saw him.
Ur was crazy for trees, and bushes and plants of all sorts. Certainly, he understood it kept the city cool
er in summer. It was easier to grow vegetable gardens, in the protected shadow of a clump of palms. He wasn’t an idiot.
However, he had been one of those poor, unfortunate souls who hauled donkey shit in the early double hours, before the sun even woke, to keep everything that was already green, lush and blooming. He was one of those who dug out irrigation works with his hands until his nails were split and bleeding, who spat and snorted out mud for weeks at a time. His childhood, as a slave to the commonwealth, had been spent shinnying up the curving trunks to get the dates the commonwealth sold, tax-free.
He spat at another group of palms.
According to the cursed lugal of Ur, there should be a “spot of greenery” every corner—in every direction.
Guli couldn’t prove it, but he was sure the lugal’s family grew palms and sold them to the commonwealth.
“Those days are behind you,” he reminded himself. “Just make a little money, pay off the loans, and stay out of court.” He turned onto Tavern Street and inhaled deeply.
Beer. Dark and light, sweet and tart, breakfast beer, lunch beer, beer for the afternoon, and beer for after a good lay. They all served it, and he knew exactly what he wanted, and why.
“Guli!” the ale-wife greeted him. He kissed her lustily, feeling a twinge of craving from the sour taste of mash on her lips. “How does the day greet you?” It was well after twilight, deep into the night.
“Today!” he said, pounding the baked-brick table in front of him. “Today is going to be blessed by the gods!”
“Bribed ‘em, have you?” Ge, the old fisherman said.
Guli laughed. “Give me your finest breakfast beer, old girl.” He looked at the fisherman. “How is the south sea?”
“The flood confused the fish, yet I got a couple hundred.”
Guli clapped the man on his back. “Charge my breakfast to this man!” he said. They all laughed, and Guli cracked the seal on the jar, inserted his drinking tube and settled back for a leisurely sip. Just stay out of trouble, he told himself. No schemes, no plans, and no women.
No more jail, no more corvées, and no more trouble.
Justice Ningal had told him if he saw Guli in court one more time, it would be the final time. Guli closed his eyes and dedicated himself to enjoying the spices and mash of his fine brew. Beer was the only good thing the gods had ever done for humanity.
That included creation.
He was kissed. “I’d recognize those lips anywhere,” he said.
“So would most of Ur,” the fisherman said. “Give us a kiss, too.”
Guli opened his eyes and saw Ulu straddle the fisherman, her mouth a cubit from his.
His lips pursed out of his bearded face as she drew closer and closer to him. The tension in the tavern rose, until no one was drinking, they all watched, anticipating the kiss and wishing they were the lucky one. Ulu didn’t kiss on the mouth often, but it was almost better than when she kissed below the skirt. She was that good a kisser.
And she usually tasted like sweet mash.
Her long, red tongue slid out of her mouth. The old fisherman’s mouth opened, almost drooling. His eyes were so popped he looked like one of his fish. Ulu caught the edge of his drinking tube with her tongue and slowly sucked it into her mouth.
Everyone laughed, except the poor fisherman, whose chest moved up and down like a boat on the tide.
“Nice brew,” she called to the ale-wife, then turned back to the fisherman. “Are you happy enough to see me, old man? Or do you want your beer instead?”
“Beer or Ulu!” someone cried. “No contest!”
The room laughed again, as she rose off of him and turned to the ale-wife. Her glance at Guli was sideways. “How are you, handsome?”
“The gods are good, Ulu,” he said.
“They should be, we bribe them enough,” she said.
“What has been the most successful bribe?” Ea, a young lapidary, asked, pushing his way into the conversation. He wasn’t even bearded, and he’d cut his lip on the drinking tube.
She looked at him long and hard, then ran her hand down her long neck to one full breast. Ulu lifted it up, like an offering. “Who needs more?”
The boy blushed. Guli turned his back to him and created a close space with Ulu. “Who did your hair?”
She dropped her gaze. Defensive. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Your wig is new.” He knew it was the beer talking, but he couldn’t believe the sense of betrayal he felt. “You told me I was the only one.”
“Guli,” she said, with a pleading glance. “It’s nothing. Really.”
“Looks like something to me.”
“Just a little frippery.”
He wrapped one falsely red curl around his finger and tugged.
She winced and reached for her head, holding the fake hair in place.
“Feels expensive, like asses’ tail.”
“It’s not, I assure you,” she said with a false laugh. “You know I would never spend that—”
“I don’t know, Ulu. I don’t know that I know you anymore at all.”
“Guli”—her hand was on his shoulder now—”have another beer. Let’s discuss this like friends.”
“No, I don’t think we have anything left to say.” He turned to the ale-wife. “May I pay you on at the week’s end?”
“Of course, Guli. God speed you home and have a good day.”
“Guli, please, don’t leave like this,” Ulu pleaded.
He turned and put his face very close to her painted cheek. “Did you get it dyed to match?”
“Guli!”
“Did you?”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Guilty.
He turned on his heel and walked out. She followed him, called his name, but he ignored her. You think you have friends, you think you really know people; he just couldn’t believe it. An asses’-tail wig and dyed to match. What kind of friend would do such a thing?
“And here I am going out of business,” he said to the uncaring black night. “Because my so-called friend won’t even come down to let me do her hair!”
He kicked open his door and stomped into his cold, dark house. The courtyard smelled like stale fish, and Guli couldn’t be bothered to light a fire. He slumped onto the bed and felt the palm fronds sag a little more. “In a week I’ll be sleeping on the floor,” he muttered. Somewhere in the branches above him, in the cursed palm fronds that were plastered over with mud for a roof, insects scurried.
“I hope you go to Ulu’s house and nest in her expensive fake hair,” he said to them, then pulled the blanket over his head and turned on his side.
The fronds slipped a little bit more. A revision: He’d be on the floor in three days.
* * *
The three of them walked in. The girl kept walking, through the courtyard and back into the room where she’d left her belongings. She slammed the door. Kalam and Ningal exchanged glances. “Wine, sir?”
“Yes, I think some of the northern date palm would be nice.”
Kalam hurried off to the kitchens to rouse a slave. Ningal sat down in the chair, sighed heavily, and stared up from the courtyard. The stars were sprinkled like precious silver drops on the breast of a Khamite woman. He hadn’t seen any Khamite women, not for years, not until today. Chloe, as she called herself, didn’t recall anything about her parentage or location, but she was no ordinary marsh girl.
In the last generations, her skin testified, her roots had been with the First Family, albeit the least favored son Kham, and probably—Ningal tugged at the tuft of beard just below his lip—someone fair. A father from the mountains, perhaps? A mother from the desert? At any rate, the girl was extraordinary to look at.
“Your wine, sir,” Kalam said, giving Ningal the choice of two hammered gold cups. Ningal selected the one closest to him, showing Kalam he was a trusted aide. Ningal tasted its sweet depths.
“Join me,” Ningal invited the man.
Kalam pulled over the chair Chloe had sat in earlier and took a drink of wine. Though Kalam pretended to like it, Ningal had him figured as a sour-mash man.
Wine was sweet, but as Ningal aged and fewer of the things that used to delight him continued to, he enjoyed its sweetness. Sour drinks were for young men with fire in their bellies and burning ambitions. Like his young aide. “What did you think of tonight?” he asked Kalam.
“She made a fool of herself,” he said.
Ningal nodded.
“I doubt she will stay through the night. Probably will sneak out before dawn and lie in wait by the grazing grounds for her flock. If they are her flock. Who knows, she could have stolen them. Idiot female.”
Ningal tugged at his beard. “What did you think of the council’s reactions?”
“I am glad the ensi didn’t take time from her day to listen. I felt bad enough for wasting the lugal’s evening.”
“How do you think it could have been bettered?” Ningal took another sip of wine. Sweet, sweet. And a little sharpness there. Cloves? He swirled the taste around his mouth.
Kalam snorted, leaned forward so his elbows were braced on his knees. The fringe of his kilt caught the light from the few torches, and Ningal found himself fascinated by the shimmer of gold. “If she had spoken well, it would have helped. If she had taken guidance from an artisan for her makeup or dress, it would have helped. If she had remembered anything, it would have helped.”
“What if she hadn’t vomited on the lugal?”
Kalam glanced over at the kilt the slaves would launder in the morning, and he would return, shamefaced, to the lugal by lunchtime. “That was the finishing touch on a disastrous evening. But by then, it was a farce. So it almost fit.” Kalam grinned ruefully as he sipped his wine, too caught up in the memory to remember to hide his grimace at its taste. Ningal looked away from the fringe and back at the night sky.
Wind rustled the tops of the palms in the courtyard and whistled around the clay pots set on the roof to catch the seasonal rains. “Can I get you anything else, sir?” Kalam asked.
“No, no. You go on home,” Ningal said. “Thank you.”
Twilight in Babylon Page 4
