Twilight in Babylon

by Frank, Suzanne

  “Can I deduct it?” she said.

  “From what?”

  “No, no receipt.” Chloe walked farther down the stalls, and paid more attention. Every shopper paid the vendor, then paid the taxman. Every vendor had a taxman. Nirg related the same thing on her purchases—50 percent tax.

  “I’m finished,” Chloe said. It was hot already, and she needed to prepare the meat before it turned. “Let’s go.”

  At the archway leading into the market, they were stopped. “Did you enjoy your shopping, ladies?” a man asked.

  “No,” Chloe said.

  “That’s too bad,” he said. “The two of you, purchasing—” he calculated what they spent, “owe—” he named his price.

  “For what? We bought our stuff and we paid our tax! This is unbelievable!”

  Nirg laid a calming hand on Chloe’s arm. “Why do we pay you?” she asked the man.

  “A shopping tax. It goes to maintaining the courtyard, keeping the awnings in good shape, watering the palms that provide ease from the sun.”

  Chloe looked over her shoulder. The market consisted of patched and pitched awnings that leaned against the walls and three palm trees planted in the center of the plaza. A lump of clay, formerly a staged temple that had lost its facing bricks and experienced too many seasons of water, huddled to the side of the market. Three other people shopped, cautiously.

  “You’re going to kill the economy,” she said. “If people can’t shop, then they won’t, which will put your vendors out of business here. Everyone will start going someplace else to get what they need.”

  “They do,” he said. “We just tax them when they return.”

  Chloe exchanged glances with Nirg; she didn’t have anything else that could be considered “cash.” “This has been a terrible day,” she said to the taxman. “It started when a snake fell on my head. Now my meat is going to go bad, and I will have wasted all my time and money. If you want to tax me, you can follow me home.” She walked away. Nirg followed. The man shouted at them, but didn’t pursue.

  They reached the gates of the estate where half of the group was staying, without meeting any more taxmen.

  After washing their hands, Chloe and Nirg tore into the meat. Nirg, an expert with a metal blade, started chopping—Chloe added the spices.

  “Where did you learn to do this?” Nirg asked. “It is not a food of the Black-Haired Ones.”

  “No, it’s not,” Chloe said.

  “Then again, you are a foreigner, like me.”

  Nirg’s hair was the color of a Florida beach, and her eyes were azure blue. Next to Nimrod she looked like an Olympic swimmer, with broad shoulders and a muscular body.

  “Yes, I am,” Chloe said. She remembered a little of the marsh girl’s life. Enough to know that her mom was a black woman—a Khamite—and her dad was fair. “Did you grow up in the mountains?” she asked Nirg.

  “Yes, with the people of Kidu’s tribe. We ate food like this, but we put it back in the intestines and smoked it. For hunting.”

  Anything that went back into the intestines was gross, Chloe thought. How could you ever get it clean enough… don’t go there. “It makes it easy to eat,” she said. “Bite-sized.”

  Nirg’s strong fingers mixed in the herbs. Then Chloe added the cheese—not the cheese she’d known—preshredded cheddar—but the only slightly hard cheese she could find. Then flour and a little bit of leavening, some milk and salt.

  Together they mashed it into a mass, then divided it into greasy little balls. Chloe watched the fire and when she thought it approximated 375 degrees, they put the trays in and closed the door to the oven.

  Nirg excused herself, and the heat of the day wore on. August, Chloe thought. It’s August and I’m slaving over a hot stove outdoors. “I’m certifiable,” she muttered to herself, and went to sit under the lone palm. The garbage pile was opposite her, so she pinched her nose and closed her eyes.

  She jolted awake and checked on her concoction. They were still baking, not quite ready yet. Chloe wiped the sweat off her forehead, then squelched a yelp when she was yanked into the shade.

  “Now,” he said as he lifted her up and leaned her against the tree. Chloe gasped as Cheftu entered her. She locked her ankles behind him and held on to her tree above her head. “Silence,” he whispered. She clenched the bark of the tree and gritted her teeth as ecstasy unfolded within her. Her head was spinning, her eyes were shut, her hands became claws as she fought to be quiet. Cheftu’s mouth was on her neck, her breasts, sucking the air from her lungs. Then he held her tight, his lips on hers, and she opened her eyes to see his, unfocused and glazed as he trembled inside her. She put her arms around his neck and whispered in his ear. “I love you.”

  His only reaction was a hiccup, then his grip loosened. “Your food is going to burn.” he said.

  “My balls!” she cried, and pushed him away. Tugging her skirt into place, she raced to the oven and opened it. They were just about perfect, brown and sizzling.

  “What’s that smell?” the man of the house said, as he closed the door behind him. Chloe just smiled. Her plan was going to work.

  * * *

  The taxman looked at her. “You are paying your 45 percent by giving me a recipe for food?”

  “No,” Chloe said. “I’m paying my 45 percent by franchising my recipe to my hosts until the payment you claim we, from Ur, owe, is completed. Then they will pay me for the use of the recipe.”

  “What is the recipe?” he asked.

  “That,” Chloe said, pointing to her creation, the cooled brown balls nestled in a bowl. “Taste it.”

  “I don’t think this is going to be acceptable,” he said. “We need our high taxes to afford to buy what our fields can’t grow.”

  “If you will allow my hosts to buy their supplies at a discounted tax, then they will be able to make more money, which means you will get more tax in the long run, instead of mina-ing them to death right now. Which means you can buy more, when the crops are bad.”

  “They’re always bad,” he muttered. “What is it?” he asked as he held one of them up. “What do I call it?”

  “Just bite it. It won’t kill you.”

  He sniffed it. “I’ve never smelled such a thing.”

  “No, I doubt you have.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Fresh food that’s good and good for you.” Not exactly a lie.

  He looked over her shoulder at the assembly who waited: those from Ur; their hosts; and a few ubiquitous tax collectors.

  He bit. He groaned. He fanned his mouth.

  Chloe pushed a jar of beer toward him.

  “By Ningirsu! That must be what the court of heaven dines on! That—is there more?”

  “My hosts,” Chloe said, beckoning for them to step forward, “need a third partner. If you wanted to underwrite them in this business venture, then they would be able to feed you this recipe.”

  “If I don’t?”

  “Then the people of Ur are willing to offer you ten sheep, fourteen woolen cloaks, and a new hoe,” Nimrod said. “That will be our payment, in total.”

  The taxman looked back at Chloe. “How do I know that what you give them will be the same as what I’ve eaten? You might keep the… what did you call it, recipe? For yourself.”

  “No, and I’ll tell you why. Every major metropolis in the land of the Black-Haired Ones is going to sell these. A different person in each town will make them. The trick is, you’ll know it’s my recipe because of this.” She picked up a stylus and motioned for the ever-present scribe to hand over his tablet.

  “A snake fell on her bed this dawn,” one of the hosts offered to the taxman while Chloe drew. “It’s a good omen. How can you ignore such a clear sign from the gods?”

  With a hand trained in advertising, expert at copying and aware of how confusing this was going to be to any Sumerologist, Chloe drew two connected curves. “Everyone who sells these balls will show this sign for authenticit
y. Imagine it in yellow on a red background.”

  “Golden arches?” he said, looking at the image.

  She looked up at the taxman. “Trust me, you want to be part of this. It’s going to make history.”

  Uruk

  “Pay heed to the word of your mother, as though it were the word of a god.”

  “Nothing, lugal,” the aide said.

  Asshur paced, enjoying the flow of energy and heat through his legs and back. The early sun was warm already; the afternoon would be sweltering. He didn’t look at the drying canals; they just irritated him and made him worry more. “Tell me what happened, exactly.”

  The aide referred to his tablet. “Your surveyors followed the path of the rivers—”

  “Yes?”

  “Until it reached the mountains—”

  “Just as Ziusudra said—”

  “Yes, lugal, and the tablets in the library referred to the same location.”

  Asshur turned and looked at the man. “And? Tell me. What did they find?”

  “Nothing, lugal.”

  “The stories are wrong? Those from Before told falsehoods?”

  “No, lugal. The sources are missing.”

  “We have the rivers, yet.”

  “The glaciers are gone, lugal. You can drink the water, cold.”

  “The stories say you can’t drink the water unless it is warmed, without great pain.”

  The aide nodded. “Which is why Lud concluded that there is nothing there.”

  Asshur turned away, until he could control his expressions again. It was part of the job of lugal to remain stalwart and unflinching, so as to give the people strength. Maybe Lud was too old; maybe Asshur should have sent someone else. “Did anyone go farther up into the mountains, to see if the glaciers, the water, was there?”

  The aide jostled through his tablets. “I believe, oh here it is.”

  Asshur held his breath, waiting for the man’s words.

  “They went into the snow, lugal. The very ice is changed.”

  “There must be other sources! The rivers can’t both come from one small location! Where is Lud?”

  The aide watched him with an impassive expression. “Lud left two surveyors behind, to monitor the waterfalls.”

  Asshur bowed his head. Of course Lud would; he, more than anyone, knew what the loss of that water would do to future generations. The list was long. Already Asshur saw young women strutting around, full with child. So many of them. He looked out the doorway again, onto the city, forcing the fear to melt away. Impassive and strong, that was his image. But this was too important; on this one topic, his logic and reasoning fled, and all he felt was panic and worry.

  Panic and worry were the two things he should avoid, for they brought age and illness. “What about the attempts at re-creating it?”

  “Ima works her way down the list. The last addition of copper to the experiment served no purpose.”

  Asshur inhaled deeply and flexed his chest and arms. More weights, he must push his body more, eat less, sleep less, and get back to his potter’s wheel to soothe his soul. “Very well. Thank you, Ukik.”

  “I’ll bring the next update when Ima finishes it.”

  Asshur felt hope bloom in his chest as he looked over his shoulder. “When will that be?”

  “Tonight, a double hour before midnight. That is her estimate.”

  Asshur’s gaze rested on the courthouse, where the finest men and women he knew waited, administering justice, building a worthy city and culture… to leave it to children raising children on top of children. “What is next?” he asked.

  “Your schedule? You start with negotiations. Then you have a meeting with the engineers to discuss alternatives to the canal issue.”

  Asshur nodded.

  “Later you have a council meeting, which will take up the remainder of the afternoon.”

  “Very well, I’ll see you in chambers.”

  The aide bowed, a sign of deference that Asshur felt was unnecessary, but much better than obeisance, a choice of other communities. And there might come a day when Asshur needed all of the respect, real or feigned, that he could raise. So he would let people bow. Oh gods, he thought as he stared at the city. The door closed behind Ukik, the draft moved the bottom of Asshur’s beard, and tickled his navel.

  “Lugal, your breakfast,” Harta, who had just taken him to husband, called. He stepped inside, momentarily chilled away from the sun, and sat at the table. She had prepared, according to his family’s traditions, a small meal. Asshur never ate more than fit in his palm, and that he ate with careful bites, pondering: the way the seed had fallen to ground; the time it took to take root and grow; the season it had weathered the heat and rising river; the hands that had harvested it and prepared it for his table.

  Today, as he promised himself, he ate even less.

  When he finished his food, he drank his water. Not water like his forebears had had, but ordinary river water, purified through heating. He drank until he felt full, then washed his face, his tongue, and donned the clothing a citizen, every citizen of the city, wore.

  His only concession to being the leader was his horned hat, just one horn on either side of the white-wool cone that covered his shaved head, for he was only a mortal. The gods’ similar hats had several horns. Harta moved slower than he was used to seeing, and she looked worn, tired. “How was Dor?” Last night had been her evening with her second husband. Asshur was her third.

  Harta was fertile, so she was married to several men. Asshur hoped the next seed that took root would be his, but who could know. One woman for many men was a safe way to establish an economy—and hinder population growth. “He was well,” she said, kissing Asshur’s neck as she cleaned away the dishes. “I’m off to the shop.”

  She went into his room and came back with a linked necklace, heavy gold with inserts of green stones. “For you,” she said, handing it to him. “For today, your meeting. It’s good luck.”

  Asshur didn’t speak; he was too touched. He lifted his hair so she could fasten the necklace. She kissed him again, and he held her there. “I missed you this dawn,” he said, immediately regretting the weakness. They hadn’t been married long; still, he hated to complain. “Thank you for the gift.”

  She pulled back, her smile was wan but some of the tension was gone from her shoulders and neck. “Just another reason to keep a granddaughter of Tubal-Cain around.” He stiffened, and she withdrew. They made no promises for twilight, and Asshur felt that lack as the door closed behind her.

  * * *

  “I don’t remember sausage balls in Jerusalem,” Cheftu said. Rather, he complained. They were on the road again, if the narrow pathway that ran beside the brackish river could be dignified by the term “road.” The sheep ran in front of them, the immigrants from Ur stretched out behind them. The sun glared from above, and Chloe wished she had caterpillar eyebrows. “Why don’t I remember them?” Cheftu said.

  “We never ate them,” she said. “It was hard to buy pork and venison, you may recall. Lamb isn’t fatty enough.”

  “Are they a food from your past?” he asked.

  “Definitely. For hunting trips or football games, which amount to almost the same thing. They travel well, they’re filling and easy to make. My brother, who never picked up a gun, and my father, who adored guns, and both men, who disliked each other, would endure the pretense of quail season just to eat Mimi’s sausage balls.” She didn’t think she could explain Thanksgiving Day and its attendant American traditions—including the food.

  “It’s extraordinary that you can make something from that world, in this world. I never thought you were that much of a cook.”

  “Cheftu!” she said, halting.

  He glanced back at her. “Ah! Forgive me, I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Did you starve?”

  “Well—”

  “Okay, after it took me the first six months in Jerusalem to learn how to make bread, did you starve
?”

  “I am here,” he said.

  Noncommittal rat, she thought with a smile. “In my time, sausage balls had three ingredients: sausage, cheddar cheese and Bisquick.”

  “Bees-queeck?”

  “A shortcut for busy women who still wanted to make biscuits. I don’t know. I just know it was the hardest thing to figure out in ancient times, what was IN Bisquick. That’s where learning how to bake really great bread—ahem—”

  “Excellent,” Cheftu said on cue.

  “—bread helped me out.”

  “And in your country, are those golden arches for the ownership?”

  Chloe laughed. “Someday that trademark is going to be everywhere.” She looked at Cheftu’s furrowed brow. “We’ll talk about trademarks some other time too.” And whether or not the trademark being “everywhere” was a good thing or a bad thing. McDonald’s as the true ambassador of American culture could be interpreted in many ways.

  “Good,” he said. “Tell me about space? I know what you said before, about the moon, the gases and fire, but tell me more.”

  Their hosts had told them to rub basil, which grew in the fields, on their exposed skin, and the bugs wouldn’t bother them. With basil-scented bodies, the annoyance factor of their journey was down. Still, it was unspeakably hot, even walking in the shadow of the palms.

  “Space?” she repeated, and walked along. What else did she know about space?

  What was that Stanley Kubrick movie… 2001?

  Relating that should kill an afternoon.

  “Have I ever told you what a computer is?”

  * * *

  Asshur picked at the fruit in front of him. “Do we have any alternatives? Make a list.”

  “We could buy grain and vegetables from other markets, places where they have excess,” his merchantman cousin suggested.

  “Great concept, but no one has excess. Ur, the richest of us all, is almost starving.”

  “They’ll survive, they always do.”

  “Do we have any other sources for water other than the rivers?” Asshur asked.

  “Is that a different list?” the scribe asked him.

  The lugal nodded.