“Starving to death?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Ravenous, but I don’t want you to go anywhere.”
“There is no need,” he said, then reached down for the blanket and covered her to her chin. “Scribe!” he bellowed.
“Are you crazy? What if he discovers me? Who all knows about the substitution?”
A priest stepped to the door. “Bring me food,” Cheftu said. “Enough for six.”
“Meat, sir? Beer? Bread? Salad?”
“Everything. And wine.”
“Of course, sir,” he said, and scampered out.
“Who knows who is still alive?” Cheftu asked, putting his arm around her shoulders. “You, me, Nimrod, Rudi, Asa, Ezzi, and, of course, Puabi. And Shama.”
“Who knows that I escaped?”
“You, me, and Nimrod. Ningal.”
“And Shama.”
Cheftu nodded.
“So we just hide here, enjoying room service with a smile?” Chloe said.
“Should enjoy it while it lasts,” Cheftu said, moving on top of her, rotating his hips gently. “It’s going to last a long time, chérie.”
“Is… this… you… or… Kidu?” she asked in gulps as the pleasure built.
“Do you care?” he said.
“N-n-no,” she said. “I—” Conversation became pointless, useless, extraneous, as Cheftu played her body as though he were blind and she were a lyre. He loomed over her, sheltering her, tasting of salt, moving like a piston, adjusting to her every reaction. It seemed they were in a dance, connected at the root and shifting their bodies around that connection. Chloe knew nothing except the blood that sang through her, the reality of slick hard muscle and speechless need.
Again they collapsed in a heap, and this time Cheftu lay beside her quietly. A breeze from an oven door flowed through the room.
Cheftu’s stomach made its presence known.
“Where’s that waiter?” Chloe muttered, spread like a starfish across the bed. “Man, it’s hot here.”
“He left the food outside,” Cheftu said. “It was hours ago.”
“Am I going to be able to walk?” she wondered out loud.
“If so, I mustn’t be doing my job right,” he said, swinging his feet to the floor. “Excuse me.”
When she woke up again, he was setting a tray on the end of the bed. They’d ripped the sheets from the four corners and tossed pillows to every part of the room. “I ache in places I didn’t know I had to ache,” she said, sitting up and reaching for a cup.
Cheftu peeled the seal away and opened the jar of wine. Its sweetness perfumed the air. He leaned over and kissed her. “Do you complain, chérie?”
“Mmm… as you said before, are you mad? I was just going to kill you if you’ve known that stuff all along.”
He sipped his wine and raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Actually, I don’t care where or when you learned it, just don’t forget it.”
“I won’t.” The flippancy faded from his eyes, and they reached for each other again, winding like vines together, holding tight. Chloe listened to his heart beat against hers. Perfection.
“It was far worse than standing before a firing squad to have to move your lifeless body,” Cheftu whispered. “No food or water, left in the dark.”
She shivered. “It was pretty hideous, but the reaction to the drug kept me busy for a while.”
“You are so brave, so courageous, my love.”
“Not by choice,” she said. “And I never, ever want to be in the dark again.”
His embrace tightened. “We will sleep with a fire burning every night for the rest of our lives.”
She chuckled. “Darkness here is misnamed. There’s ambient light. There, it was just nothing. No reflections, not a clue visually. It was like being wrapped in black felt. Muzzy-headed pitch.”
“I couldn’t have done it.”
She remembered the countless visions of worms and rot, maggots and decay, and shivered again. “I wouldn’t have thought I could. It doesn’t seem like I did. It’s so unreal.”
“It was real for me,” he said. “Leaving you there, hoping you didn’t get so sick from the drug that you couldn’t function, or that you wouldn’t trip and fall, bleed to death on your way out. Then we found some robbers—”
“You caught them?”
“Nimrod did. Did they hurt you?”
“They were so scared by the time they were leaving that had I raised my head, they probably would have thought I was a ghost or demon. At the time, well, I was petrified. How did they survive?”
“Nimrod thinks they were in the chest, drugged to sleep silently. Then they woke up, moved the things, crawled down, raided the tomb, and slipped out.”
“How did they know about it?”
Cheftu sighed. “I don’t know.”
“Did you ask them?”
“They didn’t say.” His tone was curt, and Chloe let it go. She closed her eyes and reveled in the weight of his body—some of it, anyway—on hers. “Are you hungry?” he asked.
“Yes, but I don’t want to let you go.”
They fell asleep, and only woke when the drums sounded outside. Cheftu sat up, instantly alert.
“What does it mean?” Chloe asked.
Cheftu was up, half-dressed. “I don’t know. I must find out. Eat, I’ll be back.”
He was out the door again, and she was half-sitting up. The tray sat on the corner and she reached for a plate. Sliced mystery meat, bread, onions, and pea paste. She fell on her dinner with a passion.
* * *
Nimrod looked at the map, then at Gilgamesh. “Well then, how are the fields around Fara?”
Gilgamesh shook his head. “They’ve been there since Before; in truth Ziusudra was there. The barley grew to half-size this season. The dirt is frosted with salt.”
Nimrod’s finger crossed the channel that connected the Euphrates to the Tigris. He was still looking in the Plain of Shinar. “Nippur? Are they open to settlers?”
“Brother, I’ve told you. Every commonwealth is facing the same problem, from Kish to Eridu. The water dries the fields. The fields aren’t producing.”
“If there were fewer people, you think that would solve the problem?”
“Less work for the land. Then we could rotate crops and let fields lie fallow? It would help.”
Nimrod stared out at the slash of shadow on the wall. “Is the frost another curse from Before?”
“The dying fields? I don’t know. Not a stated one, not according to Ziusudra.”
Nimrod looked at the map again. “What about farther north, farther from the sea?”
“We have cousins in Agade, almost to the headwaters.”
“What of this land in between?”
“It’s desert.”
“So was this, before irrigation.”
“This was marsh, first,” Gilgamesh corrected him. “It always had water. Easier to drain water already there, than to coax water into a new place.”
Nimrod sighed. “Maybe we should take just artisans and trade for food, avoid the problem completely.”
“No fields?”
“No commercial growing. People, individual humans, could have their homesteads if they wanted, but nothing like Ur.”
“What happens to your people when the droughts hit? They will, they always do every few years.”
Nimrod was silent. “What always happens. People die. People survive.” He snorted. “It’s in the hands of the gods.”
“Truth, surely. How many were you thinking to take?”
Nimrod sat back. “A hundred to start, then add another few hundred in the next season.”
“You always wanted to be a lugal, didn’t you?”
It was a baited question: Gilgamesh, the oldest son of Shem, had been lugal in Ur. His rule had been so oppressive that the council had begged Puabi to intercede. She had gone to the mountains with Nimrod to find Gilgamesh
a companion to take his mind and energy off whipping the residents of Ur into his idea of efficiency. Nimrod had considered capturing a wildcat, but Puabi had seen Kidu and desired him. After Nimrod had trapped Kidu, and Puabi had used sex to tame the man, they had brought him as a gift to Gilgamesh.
The ploy hadn’t worked. So the council had pleaded with Shem to become lugal once more. Gilgamesh had left in a rage and gone to rule another commonwealth. Nimrod had seen the conflicts between his father and brother, and decided in his heart what was fair and just. Nimrod must walk carefully around Gilgamesh, however; he needed him at the moment.
“Not here,” Nimrod said. “Someplace to start new. I’d build the staged temple first, to establish the infrastructure that would support a council and community. Provide clothes and grain, order and law.”
“Are you ready for the responsibility? Your life is no longer yours, if you become lugal.”
Nimrod ignored his older brother. “It’s probably wild up there yet,” he said, pointing to a blank space on the map, just below where the rivers flowed parallel. “The people need a good hunter to keep them safe. Not to mention a defense against raiders.”
Gilgamesh looked at the spot Nimrod pointed to. “The people will need a defense against Pazuzu and his demons there. You’ve pointed to Bab-ili, the gate of the gods.”
Nimrod withdrew his finger. “Those tales are nonsense.”
“They are from Before; indeed, those are the spirits who haunt the place.”
“Have you been there?” Nimrod asked.
Gilgamesh shook his head. “I am brave, but not foolhardy. Monsters inhabit the remains. It is one of the gates to the underworld.”
“It’s by water,” Nimrod said. “Both rivers.”
“It’s full of ruins from—”
“The fields are probably good.”
“You are going to risk your people there?”
Nimrod shook his head. “There is no reason to, I was merely curious.”
Gilgamesh sighed with relief. “Were you thinking on leaving soon?”
Nimrod stood. “Yes, now.”
“Now?”
“We’d need to get there in time to dry some bricks for housing, plant fields with the winter crops.”
“Who is we? Whom are you taking?”
“My family, a few of my men, not many people. But we need to leave immediately.”
Gilgamesh nodded. “Before Ur gets back to normal, just make your absence part of the loss of… the sacrifices the gods required.”
“We need to be there by the cool season.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Grain.”
Gilgamesh hesitated. “I am not the one who makes that decision.”
“In a time of war or persecution, you can make all kinds of decisions. Make that one for me. Give me the grain to start with.”
“It will come with a cost,” Gilgamesh said at last.
“I expected as much. What?”
“Taxes, brother. I’m going to ask for a percentage of your taxes to see Ur through.”
Nimrod glared at his brother. “What percentage?”
“Twenty, not much.”
“Five.”
“Eighteen.”
“Seven.”
“Sixteen.”
Nimrod groaned. “Ten, my last offer.”
“You forget, brother, you are asking from me. Not the other way around.”
“You forget also, brother, that ultimately I will be taking hundreds of mouths you would have to feed, away.”
“Fourteen.”
“Ten.”
“Fourteen.”
“Ten, I tell you! They will have to pay five to the temple, five to me… my people are taxed by 20 percent already!”
“I wouldn’t tell them that as you are rallying them,” Gilgamesh said, standing up. “Best to wait until they are there, engrossed in your building project, or finished with it, before you tell them about the 20 percent.”
“I’m taking my soldiers,” Nimrod said. “You won’t have a guard any longer. Eleven.”
“I’ll find some sailors,” Gilgamesh said. “Mercenaries are truer because you know exactly what their loyalty costs.” He reached out and clapped Nimrod’s shoulder. “We don’t know each other at all, do we? Twelve it is. For the sake of our father.”
“When do I get the grain?”
Gilgamesh sighed. “I’ll have it delivered to your house, by dawn tomorrow.”
“Twelve,” Nimrod said. “Thank you.”
“Twelve,” Gilgamesh said. “Because you’re my brother.”
* * *
“What exactly did the Crone of Ninhursag mean by ‘God’s Mercy’? Chloe mumbled, mostly asleep. Cheftu cradled her body with his. Neither of them had an ounce of energy left to raise a finger; most of Ur felt the same way, for no sounds issued from the streets. Exhaustion had overtaken the people. That, and sorrow.
Sorrow was the antithesis of Chloe’s feelings. Though exhaustion counted. They had both eaten like kings, then burned off every calorie and more. The time with Cheftu blurred together like some delicious erotic dream. Conversation had been limited: hot, but concise.
“Who is she?” he muttered.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Chloe said. “But… how did I get here?”
Cheftu snored.
She prodded him with her elbow. She must be tired; that was the first time she’d touched his stomach and not been drowned in pure, animal lust. “How did I come to be here?”
“Do you remember anything?” he asked. His voice sounded far more awake than she felt. “About Jerusalem?”
“A little. Did I hit my head?”
His hand moved over her scalp, found the ridge of the healing cut. “You did.”
“The marsh girl must have, too. That’s when we… merged. I guess.”
“Hmmm…” Cheftu said.
“What do you remember? Why are we here? How did we get here? Why were you so late, or have you been here the whole time? Did I forget—”
“I’d forgotten how you chattered once your belly was full and your tensions were eased,” he said.
She waited a minute. “Are you going to answer my question?”
Cheftu kissed the top of her head. He didn’t say anything.
“Are you going to tell me?”
He was quiet so long that she almost fell asleep. “There was a fire,” he said. “It happened on the spring equinox, which coincided with a lunar eclipse. You were dying. I—” He pressed his lips to her temple. “I begged God to take you anywhere so that you could live, be happy, be fulfilled. You weren’t, in Jerusalem. Not happy or fulfilled.”
Chloe was very still, listening.
“I waited, I don’t know, for hours, listening to you breathe. Then, finally, you slipped away. All I could do was hope.”
“How did you get here?”
His chuckle wasn’t all that amused. “That was rather a trick. You appeared to have vanished. Witnesses saw me enter the house and not return. No bodies were found. I lived in the catacombs, got what I could for food, prayed a lot. And waited. The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that the astrology of our birth dates was involved with the eclipse.”
“Was it?”
“I don’t know. I haunted the place until there was a blood moon in late spring. I pleaded with God.”
She turned then and wrapped herself around him. “You saved my life,” she said. “You…”
“Ssshh, chérie. You are my beloved. There is no meaning for me without you.”
“To them, in Jerusalem, we both just vanished?”
He nodded. “To them, we did.”
She was falling asleep again, this time for real. “I want to stay here,” she said. “I like this place.”
“We’re leaving the commonwealth,” he said. “We have to. You are quite publicly dead.”
She nodded. “But I want to stay with these people, the peop
le who think like this. They’re the true originals, Cheftu. The Greeks, the Egyptians, the Renaissance, no one created anything that these people didn’t think of first. Probably not even nuclear fission.”
“Nook clear what?” he said.
“Nothing, it’s just… I want to be here. These minds could put us on the moon in the thirteenth century. There’s no need for Dark Ages.”
He patted her head. “Remind me, I want you to tell me about space someday. What happens with the fire and gas during an eclipse.”
“Someday,” she murmured as she fell to sleep.
Then she woke up, sharp and alert. “Cheftu, how are we going to get you out of here?”
He sighed. “I have to become quite publicly dead, too.”
* * *
“Your hair is the most important thing,” Chloe said, as they plotted later. “It’s beautiful and so identifiable.”
Shama nodded. Then he ran into another room. When he came back it was with a wig.
“A wig,” Cheftu said. “Agreed. My hair won’t be enough to convince them, however.”
Shama patted his chest, coughed, then spoke in a voice as raspy as a camel’s. “Leave to me. I will do it. Tonight, you go to the temple and be seen. A sign of disfavor will be shown to you. Tomorrow, you will be dead. I myself will attend the body, struck down by the gods. Those viewing will see a healthy man, with hair and beard, already consumed with maggots.”
“Tomorrow? Is that enough time?” Chloe asked. She reached out and touched Cheftu’s long, golden braids.
Shama nodded.
“I cannot believe you are worried for my hair, chérie,” Cheftu said.
“You’re just so damn sexy,” she muttered. “Pure selfishness.”
Shama went to his bag and withdrew a long, wicked, metal blade. “Scalp,” he said.
“The scalp!”
“No blood.” He smiled.
“What about the temple tonight?” Chloe asked him.
Shama smiled and pointed to Chloe, then he waved the wig. “I think I’ve been nominated to build your wig,” she said to Cheftu.
Shama nodded.
She smiled. “Show me how.”
* * *
The priesthood gathered in the courtyard, a few stragglers from the populace stood outside the tenemos walls. Rudi and Asa, tall in their star-struck robes, watched from the roof of the stepped temple. A silent lamb was led to the en. He placed a hand on its head and bent over it to pray. Lamplight flickered over the gold that covered him from the diadem on his head, to the thousands of beads that tipped his long, braided hair and were woven into his beard, down the sweating strength of his chest to his sword belt, with empty scabbard.
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