Isle of Woman (Geodyssey)

by Piers Anthony

  Now she realized. “Yes, High Priest.”

  “And if he is, what will you say of me?”

  “Nothing, High Priest.” Indeed she understood: she could not testify against him if she hoped to save her life or that of her son.

  “What does the leopard priestess know of this?”

  “She suspected, when she saw the child,” Blaze said. “But she hoped it would not be known.”

  Boro smiled grimly. “Of course.”

  Soon Stone arrived, carrying Tree. It had evidently been made plain to him that Seed had been captured by the priest, and that her life was at stake.

  “Bring him here.”

  Stone brought the boy to the priest. Boro looked at Tree’s head, parting the hair. In a moment the scab on the scalp showed, where the priestess had pinched it. “She tried to scratch it out!” Boro said. “She knew this child was mine!”

  “She said it was a bug in his hair,” Blaze said.

  “She saw the mark!” Boro exclaimed. “See!” He bowed his own head, parting the hair. There was a dark patch of skin.

  “I didn’t know you had such a mark,” Seed said. Then, her mind still working, she added, “Too.”

  Blaze had to admire her quickness. She knew as well as he did that there had been no such mark on Tree’s scalp. There was only the scab where the priestess had scratched. But the priest was incapable of believing that the priestess would ever try to help him in this way. He was sure she had tried to do the opposite: to expunge an existing mark.

  Boro focused on Seed. “You will testify only to the age of your son, and the mark?”

  “As long as I live in peace,” she agreed.

  The priest nodded. They understood each other.

  After that it was routine. Tree was presented, and the mark shown. All the family agreed that they had not before recognized the significance of the mark, but could not now deny it. Stone seemed uncomfortable about the matter, understandably, but did not argue. He, too, well appreciated the fact that the mark was their salvation; there would be no further attempts on Seed’s life, and the family would be allowed to remain in the city. He also was pleasantly surprised to discover a certain extra quality of attention in his wife. It was as if her love for him had been restrained, and now was unrestrained.

  There was more that Stone did not know, but Bunny did. “It is over,” she murmured when alone with Blaze, reading his manner.

  “We still care for each other,” he demurred. There was no need to identify the people he meant.

  “But the dream is gone.”

  Of that he wasn’t sure. “She was only a representation of the dream. Now I know she is not the dream.”

  “The priestess lost, but her power remains strong,” Bunny said. “When the priest dies, she will be supreme.”

  “We shall certainly support her, when that time comes,” he said. “She brought us to the city, and saved Seed’s life.”

  “And banished a dream.”

  He realized that this had been one of the effects of Lea’s ploy. The prospect of death had caused both Blaze and Seed to reassess their values and emotions. They had realized what had some future and what did not.

  “I always did love you,” he told Bunny. “Now the shadow is gone.”

  “I know it.”

  They proceeded to further erase the shadow.

  At its height, the city of Catal Huyuk may have had 10,000 people. One layer followed another, as one generation built atop another, with individual houses seldom lasting more than 120 years. There is no evidence that the city was ever conquered or damaged by hostile people. Eventually the inhabitants simply moved elsewhere, and this section of Anatolia reverted to wilderness. Nevertheless, Catal Huyuk was one of the first great cities of the world, a center of trading, art and religion, and its place in history is secure. Its people’s use of identification stamps or seals presaged the wider use of similar seals by the later Sumerians, suggesting a continuity of culture. Thus we may owe a great deal to this truly ancient city.

  CHAPTER 12

  * * *

  KINGDOM

  The developing cities in the Levant and Anatolia saw their full flowering in Mesopotamia, beginning about six thousand years ago. Perhaps for the first time, war between cities became feasible, and the formation of larger political states. Each city was under the protection of its own special god, and when that god failed to perform sufficiently, the city was conquered by another and its god icons taken away to reside in ignominious captivity.

  The city of Lagash had been governed by a relatively benign ruler, Urukagina, who also ruled her neighbors Nina and Girsu, which was the religious center. Then came Lugalzaggisi, “King of the Lands,” of the nearby city of Umma, intent on conquest.

  It has been claimed that one of the earliest activities of civilization was the brewing of ale: it was necessary to develop competent agricultural and manufacturing and distribution mechanisms to handle this most precious product. Well, maybe.

  OH, I hope Carver is all right,” Crystal said anxiously. “He’s really not a fighter.”

  “Neither is Scorch,” Ember replied. “We simply must have faith that our god Ningirsu protects us all.” But the twitch in her cheek belied that faith.

  Crystal’s faith did not look strong. Neither was Ember’s; she knew that when one city fought another, one god fought another, and that meant that one god would lose. How could they be sure that their god was stronger than the enemy’s god?

  They reached the temple of the goddess they served directly: Ninkasi, “The Lady Who Fills the Mouth.” Ninkasi was not the highest in the hierarchy of gods, but she had perhaps the most devoted following. She was the goddess of ale, and four of every ten measures of barley in the city went to her product. Ember had worked her way up from lowly furnace watcher to head brewer, and now was one of the most important women in the city. She made sure that the rations of the goddess went out to every man in the service of the city. In this time of war, that meant almost all of them. Two big mugs of ale a day, to each. No other god brought such regular and wholesome cheer.

  The slaves were ready. “Move out the crocks,” Ember said. “To the front gate.”

  The slaves put their shoulders to the harness. The wagon rolled onto the street, bearing its burden of large crocks. Progress was slow but adequate.

  “Mistress,” the head slave called respectfully. “What news of the front?”

  Ember was ready. “Our brave men went out this morning. Surely they are routing the enemy troops even now, and will soon return in good order.”

  “Mistress, are you sure?” He sounded worried.

  Honesty was best. “I am not sure. But our god has always protected us before, and surely he will now.” She reflected a moment, realizing that this was not adequate. “I shall try to obtain a more immediate report. Failing that, I’ll see if I can get us up on the wall so we can take a look ourselves.”

  “Oh, mistress!” he replied, awed.

  Crystal smiled. She knew that women were not supposed to mount the wall during wartime, but that such things could be accomplished if properly phrased.

  Reassured, the slaves moved along. They reached the front gate, where the guards were more than ready for their rations. Ember lifted her arms in a benediction for a crock, and the slaves unloaded it and carefully poured the precious ale into lesser containers. These were in turn poured into the waiting mugs of the men. Crystal counted the number served and made a note on her ledger. Each man was entitled to one and only one mugful at this time.

  “What news of the battle?” Ember inquired.

  “Mistress, we have none. But surely our brave and bold men are giving an excellent account of themselves.”

  “Surely,” Ember agreed. She looked up. “What of the men on the wall?”

  “Mistress, we are shorthanded because of the number of our men in the field,” the gatekeeper explained. “They may not come down until the relief contingent arrives.”

/>   “We can’t wait for that,” Ember said. “We have the other gates to serve.”

  “You can fill their mugs, and they will have them when they come down.”

  “And how many will be mysteriously empty by then?” Ember inquired cynically. “We must serve them personally.”

  “They can not come down,” he said. “They must maintain guard on the wall, lest the enemy make a sneak attack.”

  “Leave a lookout on the wall; the men can climb back up there much faster than the enemy can approach across a plain which extends to the horizon.”

  “It is against regulations.”

  Ember knew it was, and she did not want to get the man in trouble. She was angling for another solution. “Then we shall deliver the gift of the goddess to them there. Our men must be served.” Without giving him a chance to object, she turned to the slaves. “Pour out the second crock and carry the containers to the top of the wall on either side. Mind you spill none, but don’t dawdle. Bear in mind that you are assisting the defense of the city.”

  The slaves jumped to the task with such alacrity that the gatekeeper knew he had been had. He elected not to challenge it. He turned his back and surveyed the street. He would be able to report that he had seen no women or slaves on the wall. He would not have done it if he had not known how much the men needed the ale of the goddess, and that Ember was trustworthy.

  Crystal followed the slaves up to one side, and Ember followed those ascending to the other side. They were greeted by hearty cheers as the men realized what they were doing. They all knew and liked Ember, the mistress of the blessing of the Lady Who Fills the Mouth.

  “Heed me,” Ember announced. “I want no report of anything irregular occurring here. Bring your mugs in silence.”

  There was a murmur of understanding. No one would speak openly of seeing any women or slaves on the wall.

  The men brought their mugs, and the slaves filled them. Between mugs, the slaves looked out across the irrigated fields and the plain beyond, hoping to see returning troops.

  When the measures had been delivered and recorded, the party was ready to descend back into the city. Ember gazed outward one more time, just in case she might spy the dust of a returning mission.

  And she did! Just a faint stir, to the west. “Look!” she exclaimed, pointing.

  Everyone looked. Soon there was no doubt. But after that it became apparent that something was wrong. The column was not in fit marching order, but strung out, bedraggled, and slow. They must have lost the battle!

  Ember shook her head. There had been a time, she understood, when Sumer had been at peace. But not in her day. There was always news of one city quarreling with another. Lagash had had its own quarrels, and indeed was now the mistress of two other cities. But the present governor was a peaceful man, so had not done much with the city’s defenses. Now, she feared, they were about to reap the consequence.

  “If you will, mistress—off the wall, quickly,” the gatekeeper cried.

  Ember, Crystal, and the slaves hastily got back down to the city street. Oh, this was surely trouble!

  “Mother—do you think Father and Carver are all right?” Crystal asked anxiously. Scorch had been among the troops going out, because there was always need for a blacksmith when weapons got battered. Carver had simply been of age to qualify for troop duty.

  “I hope so.” That was all she could say.

  They trundled their ale wagon back to the temple. They were not able to serve the other city gates, in the face of this apparent disaster. “Report to the slavemaster,” Ember told the slaves. “If you stay in the temple it should be all right, because the enemy likes ale as well as we do. Just make sure you are not mistaken for fighting men.”

  “But we want to fight on your side, mistress,” the head slave protested.

  She shook her head. “If your help would enable us to save the city, you still would not be allowed to fight. You know that. Weren’t some of you captured from Umma in one of the routine skirmishes?”

  “Yes, mistress. But we are loyal to you now, for you have treated us well.”

  “I’m sure you are. But I’m also sure that our commander would never believe it. Be practical: if the situation seems hopeless, we’ll have to concentrate on preserving as many lives as we can. You will serve the new order. Pray to the goddess that you are well treated there.”

  Immediately the group of slaves broke into the litany of protection, appealing to Ninkasi. Ember was sure their prayers were sincere.

  She turned to Crystal. “Fetch Flower here,” she said tersely. “We shall all be better off at the temple, and our husbands will know we are here.”

  Crystal turned her clay tablet over to the mistress of accounts and hurried away. She knew that Ember was right. If there were no problem, the temple was still a good place to be. But if the worst occurred, the temple was their best chance for life.

  Ember tried to interest herself in the temple routine, but simply couldn’t concentrate. Scorch, Carver—had they survived? What would the family do, if—

  A slave approached her. “Mistress, if it please you.”

  She turned to him. “Yes, Crock.”

  “Some of us would rather fight.”

  “But I told you—”

  “Yes, mistress. But we think that maybe the goddess really could use our help, this time. If we could go to the wall, at least—”

  “Crock, your lives will probably be spared, because you’re noncombatants. But the moment you take up arms, if by some mischance the commander allows it, you’ll be subject to the same strictures as the men. That means death or—”

  “Or slavery, mistress,” he said, smiling. “It isn’t as if we have much to lose.”

  “But with us, you are enlightened slaves, scheduled to earn your freedom before too many years. With them, you would have no such assurance.”

  “That is true, mistress. But we are already slaves—and if they win, we will be their slaves. They won’t honor the credit we have earned with you. Our lives will be disrupted, at best. At worst, only our women will survive, unpleasantly. We’re better off with you. So we want to help you win.”

  Ember was touched. She didn’t want to tell them no outright, so she temporized. “Let me check.”

  She went to talk with those of other temples. Their slaves had similar sentiments. The news from the field was worsening; the city would be under siege within hours. If the walls did not hold, all was lost.

  Ember returned. “I will take any of you to the wall who wish to help in a noncombatant role, assisting our defenders. If we repel the invader, any who have served well will be freed and granted citizenship. But be aware: half of you may be dead, even if we win. That wall is apt to be a hazardous region.”

  “We know,” Crock said grimly.

  “Go to the morning keg and fill your mugs. There won’t be slaves to bring you your rations from the goddess.”

  They laughed. They went for their ale.

  Soon they were ready. “Crock, you will be my second-in-command, in this noncombatant effort,” Ember said. “You will relay my orders. That means that when I say we shall march to the gate, you will yell it loud, and give any additional orders you deem necessary to accomplish that mission, and report to me that it is being done. If we approach in impressive order, the gatekeeper may allow us to mount the wall and assist the defenders there.”

  “We understand.” Slaves were considered to be worthless for combat, so they had to demonstrate otherwise. In the guise of being noncombatants.

  “To the gate—march,” Ember said.

  “Gate—march!” Crock bawled with enthusiasm.

  The slaves started off. At first they shuffled in normal slave fashion, but Ember picked her feet up high and set them down hard, and Crock emulated her, slapping the pavement with his feet. “March—so!” he cried. “In step with me. Show whose god you are serving!” They picked up their feet, and soon the ground reverberated with their cadence. Th
ey were showing something seldom permitted in slaves: pride.

  They came to the next temple. More slaves were waiting there, eager to join. “Fall in!” Crock bawled. “Match the step!”

  By the time they reached the gate there were more than a hundred slaves keeping the step. They came to a prideful halt.

  Ember approached the gatekeeper. “You are shorthanded. I bring noncombatant reinforcements. They will need tools and instruction, but they will serve well.”

  “Slaves?” the gatekeeper asked incredulously. “Slaves never bear weapons.”

  “Of course they don’t,” she agreed smoothly. “They are here merely to assist the soldiers, as they did when they brought the ale this morning. Perhaps this time they can bring other supplies, or serve in other ways.”

  “This is highly irregular. Slaves are not to be trusted.”

  “I trust mine. The will is there. They know they are better off with us than with the enemy. Indeed, they know they will be freed, if they serve well. Give them their chance.”

  “We might as well just open the gate to the enemy!”

  She cocked her head at him. “How long has this shift served since relieving the prior shift?”

  “Too long. But—”

  “How long before the next shift comes?”

  His lips drew tight. He knew, as she did, that there was no relieving shift; all the remaining men had gone out to battle. The men would soon be useless because of sheer fatigue.

  “Let each of your men become a leader,” she said. “Let him order the slaves. Naturally he will not direct them in the firing of arrows, the throwing of bricks, anything like that. They will do what he requires, obeying without thought. When he knows they are ready, he can rest for awhile, recovering his strength. That way we will have fresh, alert men on the walls, instead of suicidally fatigued ones.”

  “But slaves! Who ever heard of this?”

  “I will go up and stand on the wall near the gate,” Ember said. “I will depend on their goodwill.”

  “The first enemy arrow would take you out!”