Twilight in Babylon

by Frank, Suzanne

  Something must have gone wrong with the plan, though. Nimrod and Cheftu should have been there double hours ago. It was dark again. Drums were beating, faintly, but beating, again.

  All of this had been to assure that the eclipse would be only that, and just like after twilight, the sun would return.

  That had been the reason for the whole exercise. What could have possibly gone wrong? Eclipses eclipsed, then it was over. What signs could they have seen that made the drums beat?

  Maybe it’s a continuation of the burial process, she thought. Nothing is wrong, it’s just taking longer for them to get away than they thought originally.

  She didn’t have water; there had been no place to hide a flask in her funeral clothes. Nor did she have food. Don’t even think about candy bars, she reprimanded herself. Halva, she thought. The ancient candy bar.

  You don’t have that either, so think about… bugs.

  The fried roaches in the bazaar, the seasoned worms they sold like calamari, ant soup, grasshopper pie—okay, she was losing her appetite. She flicked a spider off her arm and stared down the tunnel.

  “Hurry up and wait,” she muttered. “It’s becoming my motto.”

  Chapter Seven

  Cheftu moved his lips by rote, letting the training he hadn’t done and the memories he didn’t have take control. The clients stepped so cheerfully, so pridefully to their death. For them, it was honor. Life was a task of serving the fickle, anthropomorphic gods, and some bets were won and others lost.

  In his soul, Cheftu was an ancient man. He understood the confusion and desperation and resignation that could come with crop failure, flood, eclipses, and unexplained events in the heavens. There was a very good chance that after today, the seasons would return to their paces, the sky would stay in its appointed place, and life would return to normal. It was not his place to decide for these ancients; they were the merchants of their lives.

  Aside from his soul, he had a nineteenth-century-educated mind that had been expanded by his sometimes caustic and usually skeptical twentieth-century wife.

  It screamed at the insanity of this performance.

  The heavens were gas and fire, as unaware of the Black-Haired Ones as the Black-Haired Ones were of viruses—so Chloe had taught him. Farming ran in cycles—some years were good and some were bad. Whole regions were wiped out by bad luck and bad weather, she said, and told him about a part of the United States colonies that had become a Dust Bowl and brought on a Great Depression. Her family had had a farm and made it their duty to feed those who passed through their gates. But thousands had lost everything.

  It was the way of the world. Cycles.

  One of the things Cheftu had hated most in European travelers was how they compared everything to home. The English in Cairo who complained that the tea wasn’t properly brewed; or the Frenchmen who were irritated when the right silk wasn’t available for a hat. Even as a youth, Cheftu had wanted to shout at those people to go home.

  Egypt wasn’t about brewed tea, it was about thrice-boiled tea, made of mint and served sticky sweet, or tiny cups of coffee whose bottom half resembled damp soot. Egypt wasn’t a land of silks, but of the finest, sheerest cotton and lightest linen. The only hat should not be one of Parisian design, but a turban or a fez.

  Cheftu couldn’t change the way he thought now. The streets of Ur were filthy, but these were the people who first conceived of writing. They slaughtered animals in the lane, and one had to step over bloody streams, but they ruled democratically and taxed men proportionately. Their eyebrows were unkempt, but through accounting and complex mathematics, they knew to the kernel how much surplus barley they stored and how many people it would feed.

  If volunteer sacrifice was the means of their religion, it could be they knew more than he did. And this sacrifice would certainly help the rest of population, regarding supplies of food and water.

  So Cheftu continued to move his mouth, as he watched old men, young men, goldsmiths and weavers, dyers and wheelwrights, move into the earth. Death came to all humans. Perhaps it was better to choose when, than to have it chosen for one. It was definitely better to die for a reason than just to die because it was part of the cycle.

  The lugal’s gaze met his, and Cheftu inclined his head, to show his respect. Heart heavy, he followed the leader into the chamber. Men leaned against the walls, packed the room tightly, surrounded by the outward trappings of their positions.

  Shem turned to him. “I can do this,” he said. “You are among the living, my friend. Go, comfort our families and tell them we do this for respect of the commonwealth, the health and affection of our lines, and in obedience to our gods.”

  They embraced, and Cheftu climbed up the stairs, out into the torchlit wildness of living.

  * * *

  Chloe dozed, absently brushing away the creatures that explored her arms and legs. It was downright cool, and she pulled her woolen dress and cloak closer to her body, twisting them in an attempt to discourage curious multipeds. The drums were soft, especially compared to her stomach, which was loud, talkative and irritated. The words of “To His Coy Mistress” floated through her head, and Chloe reflexively cursed her English teacher. But the frights of the night before had faded—perhaps from such frequent viewing in her imagination.

  “Sss—”

  The noise jolted her awake; she couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Surely not the death pit?

  “Sss—”

  “Sss—” she hissed back. And hoped she was hissing to the right person.

  “Chloe—” It was Nimrod, whose pronunciation of her name always sounded exotic, though he’d told her in Sumerian it meant little clods of dirt. “Don’t move.”

  “Yesss—”

  “There is a problem. It will be later.”

  Later? How much more later? “Yesss—”

  “Good girl,” he said. “I leave food here. Be careful, quiet, and return to the pit when you have gotten it. It’s the safest place to hide you. I’ll come for you there.”

  The sound of a soft impact.

  The tunnel was long, maybe a block and half. Food was at the end, though. I wonder if this is how rats reason, she thought, slinking her way through the dust, the spiderwebs and the dirt. She seized the bag, chanced a glance up, saw starlit sky, and returned down the tunnel. Back to death, back to decay.

  At least now she had lunch.

  Fried quail, barley bread, and pea paste, followed with a jar of date wine. From Ningal’s treasured hoard, no doubt.

  She put the jar down and sat, thinking. She wrapped the uneaten food and turned so that she was on her knees. She tried folding her hands, then clasping them, and settled for lacing her fingers in her lap.

  “I owe You an apology,” she whispered in her first prayer that wasn’t accusatory. “I’ve bitched and moaned constantly about my body, this place, why and where, and why again. You gave me friends here, people who looked after me, who keep on looking after me.

  “Ningal, who decided to protect me and bankroll me. Nimrod, who didn’t think I was crazy when I realized that me and the marsh girl were in the same body. That we’re the same person. And Cheftu, God You brought Cheftu to me. As the en, he’s the only one who could have decided to save my life. I guess if I say it’s like You already knew, it’s a little redundant.”

  She reached up and tucked some hair behind her ear. “And thanks for the body. I really like the way I look now, and I’m more comfortable in my skin than I ever have been. I always thought I was too pale. Can’t accuse me of that now.” She chuckled. “I am one hot babe. Guess I shouldn’t speak that way to You, but what’s the point of pretense? I was so unhappy in Jerusalem, and I didn’t realize it until I got here.

  “I don’t know how I got here, I need to ask Cheftu, but thank You. If there is some other place or time we’re supposed to be in, You’re going to have to make it really obvious, because I don’t want to leave. And, oh God, You picked an awesome body for Cheftu. I
know he’s a little wigged-out about everything, but… I guess You know.”

  She glanced up at the bricklaid vault roof. “You’d think I’d learn by now, but I don’t. This isn’t a challenge or anything, but, God, I’m not going to doubt again. You’ve saved my bacon every time. And it’s always better than I dreamed anything could be, when I just let You… do what You do best.”

  She played with the beads of her belt. “I guess that’s it, I just wanted to apologize, formally. It’s hard to believe You do care, with the whole world to look after. All time and space. You know me though, You know me well.” Chloe wiped the tear that had gathered at the edge of her eye. “Thanks, God. I really mean it. I’m sorry for being such a brat so much of the time. I’m going to be better. I don’t promise, because You do know me, but I’m going to be better.”

  Her legs were falling asleep, so she said amen, twisted around again to be comfortable, thought for a minute, then opened her lunch. Now she could enjoy eating.

  * * *

  “Drink,” the lugal, Shem, said.

  Guli looked at his cup, then put it to his lips. In one swallow it was gone, the bitter taste masked by dates and honey, cardamom and cinnamon. A lutenist played, no one spoke.

  His lips went numb, then his fingers. His chest rose and fell faster as the sensation of no sensation crept from his feet to his groin, up his arms and neck. There was no name on his lips, no love he mourned. He pitied those who had joy they were turning their backs on here. There was no joy in Kur.

  Noises filtered through the daze growing in his mind. His neck was stiff now—not painful, just final. Lamps glowed in all parts of the room, and Guli could see the bodies lying close together, filling the chamber. Coffins stacked against the wall, riches beyond his imagination heaped in the center.

  He blinked; the feeling was a little like falling asleep after drinking too much beer. Disconnected awareness. It seemed that mist rose from the dirt, shapes that were long and translucent.

  A tugging at his head—not the body—but at his awareness. He let go and was squished through a narrow opening, then popped out and soared—weightless. Free.

  All around him, perceptions poured in.

  He couldn’t taste, or smell, or see, but he knew everything. Every man in the pit; every concern of those above. All was laid before him, explained and known and understandable. Joy bubbled inside him. If only the others realized! Could he tell them? Just a moment with Ningal.

  No, resounded through him. It’s not for you to do.

  Below him, he saw the death chamber. Wax and dirt shapes, freed of their users, melting back into the comfort of the soil. The gold would last, but its meaning was less than the dirt. The body of Guli was stiff, but his eyes were blankly peaceful.

  If only Guli had known, Guli thought.

  Other mists swirled around him, their joy contagious. With laughter and excitement they passed through the arched brick roof and up into the night. Dirt and wax stood on feet in the courtyard, hundreds and thousands of them, lined up, burdened, worried, shallow, and wonderful.

  Tears poured from Guli. He hadn’t wept when he was dirt and wax, but when he saw them he couldn’t stop. How incredible, how intricate, how ignorant they were. Their frets and fears were written on them like envelopes. That is what they are, he thought. Envelopes, inscribed with the contents, protective of the true document and once broken, impossible to reuse.

  Dirt and wax, wrapped around joy and breath.

  He could see from horizon to horizon, around the globe of the world. The world was round as a fruit, filled with a million souls. They lived in places and ways Guli had never even imagined. It was a storehouse of envelopes, unaware that they were, and unaware that they were exactly like each other, except for each one’s dream.

  He rose above the Plain of Shinar. It stretched out, the twin rivers twisting and winding through the land. Already he could see the channels the heedless waters had abandoned and he realized the Euphrates wouldn’t run forever beneath the western wall of the commonwealth of Ur. Fish jumped in the south sea, and Dilmun’s orchards shone beneath the clear, full moon.

  Ziusudra, who would never be free of his envelope, and who thought that was a blessing, looked up. Age had been arrested in him, but it had happened too late, and he was bent with years and crippled by disillusion.

  Kalam, on board a ship a day’s sail from the port of Ur, looked back fearfully. His fingers were white around the wooden prow, and his eyes were wide, peering through the night, anticipating the lugal’s soldiers or the priests of the temple approaching and demanding that he take his place in the pit.

  Thank you, Guli said to him. You blessed me, and you didn’t know it, didn’t intend it. But that doesn’t make the action any less a blessing.

  Kalam shivered and pulled his cloak around him. He eyed the air, and Guli whisked away on the breeze.

  Leave the envelopes to their own.

  His joy floated him like foam on the sea, to land on the distant shores of a new, higher world. But he knew the face he held dearest, he would not see. Ulu, fearful and wounded, but free to start her life again, was headed north. She was alive.

  But someday, she too would know this joy.

  * * *

  It took eight priests four double hours to arrange the bodies, give each an individual funeral for his name, cover him with dirt, carry in the remaining bribes, pour the libation offering, set the table for the funeral feast, and climb out of the pit.

  Cheftu ached, he reeked of death and dirt, his stomach was cramped from hunger and his desire for Chloe. To touch her was a craving that he feared would drive him insane. He didn’t see Nimrod anywhere in the courtyard; consequently, he didn’t know where Chloe was.

  “En,” a priest said. “You need to, uh, bathe and change before the final set of offerings. The people will return with their farewell wishes, then we’ll fill in the rest of the shaft.”

  “Of course,” Cheftu said.

  “A bath is drawn for you.”

  “Who?”

  “Shama serves you now. As you requested.”

  Cheftu muttered thanks and headed toward the labyrinth of offices and quarters. When he didn’t think about where he was going, he didn’t get lost. His door opened at his touch, and he stepped inside.

  A woman’s leg moved in the other room, as she filled his bath.

  “I specifically requested Shama,” he said, irritation edging his voice. “No women.”

  “Okay,” she said, stepping into view. “But I thought I’d try to change your mind.”

  He seized her, and she held him as they both shook. “Chloe, my beloved. Oh my Chloe,” he murmured against her black hair.

  “Never let me go,” she whispered. “Don’t ever take your arms from around me again.”

  “I can’t.” he said. “I won’t. My beloved wife, oh Chloe.”

  * * *

  The house was his. As soon as the coppersmiths got new copper, he could order a bathtub. He had money now, position as Asa’s eyes, power over the old stargazer to do whatever he wanted. Ezzi was set for life.

  He’d fired Ulu’s servants and sold her slaves. It was quiet, and dark. Her perfume lingered in the air; he had the strange sensation she might walk in and disturb his blessed peace. She couldn’t. She was dead, buried beneath a shaft of dirt as deep as the stages of the temple were high.

  The stars looked far away, removed from man’s touch. The showers they had sent seemed to have passed. The gods had been sufficiently bribed. Ezzi sat at the table, hungry. Then he realized he had to get his own food.

  He lit a torch and walked back into the kitchens. Everything was bare—no bread in the basket, no stew on the fire. The stores of peas and onions were empty, the narrow flaxen twists of spices open and stacked.

  “That is just as well,” he said to the lonely darkness. “I can just go to the tavern. Get a warm dinner, and refreshing beer. Chat with the clients from my street as civilized men do.” He walked
back to the courtyard and let himself out.

  There were no shouts tonight, no laughter, no mirth. It was as dark and silent as waiting in front of the temple had been. No matter, humans would be clustered at the tavern. Ezzi’s steps were quick and loud against the packed-dirt road, and he turned the corner.

  No torches burned without. No lamps glowed from within. He tried the door, but it was bolted. The tavern wasn’t open. “She always was a lazy old ale-wife,” he muttered. Her competition, whose brew was superior anyway, was just across the canal. He’d go there and be better off for it. “Maybe I will just go there from now on,” he said to himself. “A whole new start.”

  Ulu hadn’t worked there. That would be good—they would recognize him as Ezzi stargazer, instead of the whore Ulu’s useless whelp. He wouldn’t have to listen to them talk to him about her, how much fun she was, how much they missed her. He’d be an independent man, an impressive one. He halted in the street and pondered if he should return home and put on his fresher Old Boy cloak.

  It was late; he was too hungry.

  Doors were shut tonight; birds cooed in the trees, and occasionally a wild dog howled. He heard no people. Ezzi was alone.

  He walked across the bridge, toward the other tavern.

  The torches by the door were lit, the warm welcome glow bid him come in and eat. The ale-wife looked up. “What is your pleasure?” she asked. Her teeth were split and black, her hair as thin as cobwebs spread over her head. Huge hoop earrings dangled from stretched earlobes, and her eyes were swollen nearly shut.

  “Beer,” he said.

  “That’s a surprise, boy. What kind of beer?”

  “What do you have?”

  “Sweet barley beer, tart barley beer, spiced barley beer, dark barley beer,” she ticked off on her fingers. “Fresh green beer, corked beer, New Year beer, harvest beer—”

  “Do you have a breakfast beer?” he asked.

  “Sure do.”

  “I’ll take that.”

  “I don’t serve breakfast until after dawn.”