NOTE: The following story is set in the historic city-state of Sumer; the details of the region are based on in-depth research, particularly the burial practices.
In the month of Tashritu, the new year, all the land of Sumer celebrates rebirth, renewal; it has been the ageless wisdom of the Gods, and no one in Nippur would dare refute this ritual.
Streets, winding dark mud-packed lanes, come alive with parades of colorful and sacred rites. Those defiled by unclean lives must be purified; members of impure castes must take themselves outside the walls and build a temporary village; weak and deformed animals must be slain; houses and public buildings in need of repair are put in order, then the festive decorations are brought forth.
Parades led by harpers and tympanists, whores in brightly colored scarves and the cloak of the goddess, dance along the avenues; men adorn their left sides with women's clothing. Priests and priestesses carry bloody swords, the double-edged axes with which the sacrifices have been performed. Dancers leap through hoops and jump over ropes.
Standing outside the dimly lit mud-bricked hut, Ishhara watched the procession with joyful eyes; it was her birth-date and of special significance. This year on the new of the moon, when all the peoples would gather to watch the sacred blessing of Ninlil at the Eshmah Shrine, she would turn fourteen. Her mother, Ama-sukkal, had prepared a feast for later; her father, Namhani, had already been hard at work on an elaborate pottery urn as a gift.
Their craft of Pahar, pottery making, had come down through generations, originating with those from the Old Way. Many times Ishhara heard her father speak reverently of their talent, and how it was their Chosen Path in life. Thus, the Pahar Hut belonged to them. As their only child, Ishhara knew she would inherit it someday, and mold pottery on the tournette, and sell it at the open-air marketplace.
It was on this sweet-weathered day, as Ishhara stood watching the noisy, flamboyant parades, that she first glimpsed He Who Touched Her Heart. She saw the slaves, all bound in leather ropes and neck yokes, their feet shackled, all shuffling along toward the Anniginna. There, in the looming walled compound, they would be confined until their labor was needed.
Ishhara wondered why, on this day of celebration, the shuffling, shackled slaves were being led through the streets, but her father told her, "Is to show Nippur is Great! King Agga defeated our enemies, the Elamites, and captured these slaves."
Ishhara watched the fierce faces, and thought how different they were from familiar small-boned people of Nippur. These men were tall, broad-shouldered and muscled, dark-skinned with thick, curly black hair covering their heads and chests. Wild, they seemed to her.
"But father," she implored, "they are...hurting."
"Yes my only child, but is the Gods who make slaves such as these."
Ishhara stared at the procession, and as the last slave shuffled by, he moaned from the harsh tightness of the yoke. She felt herself weak with compassion: How he must be suffering, she thought!
The slave mumbled, and oddly his language was that of hers. Ishhara found herself moving alongside him, saying, "You are not Elamite?"
He grunted, and shook his head, exclaiming, "Am of great Martu desert tribe!"
"But, but the battle of Kish was with Elam..."
Gruffly he commanded, "Go away little one! Do not mix with slaves!" His words were hard, cruel.
Ishhara stopped, speechless.
And that was the last time she saw He Who Touched Her Heart until much, much later...
In the month of Kisilimu, when heavy rains sweep the Land, blackness descended upon Namhani and Ama-sukkul. They were directed to the palace and met by a Mashkim, and told of their infringement. Due to the wars, and restrictions on trade, Pahar crafts went unsold; the markets were overstocked. The Pahar Hut owned by Namhani had a past debt unpaid by his father, and unmet even now. The hut would be seized by law, unless Namhani could present full payment. He was given two days to prepare for a review before the Ditilla Court.
That night skyrise was smoky fog from the many clustered hut fires, a sharpness in the air. Ishhara returned from her nightly walk and found her father weeping in his tiny room. He was bent over a small statuette of lapis lazuli, the Great Enlil replica he'd inherited from ancestors. His soft words mingled into a plea for justice, a savior to prevent them losing the Pahar.
Ishhara went to his side, alarmed. She'd never seen her strong father in this weakened position, and her heart ached for him.
"Father, why? What is wrong? Why pray to the Great God Enlil, our King of all Lands?"
"Yes, my only child...I need His help."
"But why?"
"I'm to lose the Pahar, all our ancestors' Old Ways will be lost!" He hid his wretchedness from her, turning his face to the shadowed fireglow.
Her mother's mellow voice, from the woolen covered bed, murmured, "Is unpaid debt of Namhani's father."
Unable to comfort her father, Ishhara crept into her room and lay down. Sleep did not come though, and tears streamed down her face.
At last she knew what had to be done; Ishhara, at only fourteen, was brave of spirit: She would offer herself into slavery to pay the debt.
The Ditilla Court heard Namhani's plea, and then the Mashkim offered a compromise. Stonily, it seemed to Ishhara, the Ditilla of seven judges nodded acceptance.
The immense echoing alabaster-walled place overwhelmed Ishhara; she had known only dried-mud walls, reed rugs, darkened quarters in dingy rooms, torchlight at night, cramped indoor scents and airless, windowless homes. Other wealthier merchants owned the airy, mosaic homes, not open to the meager craftsmen. Although Ishhara made the ritual visits to Ekur and Kiur temples, being awed by the sparkle of jewels and glistening animal murals covering whitewashed walls, she'd never felt comfortable amongst the grandeur.
A feeling of fear and wonder always clutched at her heart when she entered the temple shrines, and the same sensation engulfed her now as the Mashkim squinted toward her. His tiny, squeaky voice pronounced, "So be it. Ditilla orders you, Ishhara, daughter of indebted Pahar Namhani, to be enslaved for no more than three years, at which time you shall have paid in full the debt and the Pahar shall be decreed yours, clear of any and all other claims."
Ishhara heard the dates read, all the proclamations declared, and the shuffling of others. She turned to her father's stricken face, and forced a smile. "My father, it is Enlil who wishes this debt paid by my sacrifice."
The crinkled face of Namhani was for once severly hardened. "The Gods must have their due -- fatted calves, tender sheep, the spoils of blood-lust, but why you?"
Ama-sukkul came forward, and whispered, "My only child, may Ninlil be with you, to guide you through these dark times, until we once meet again." She embraced Ishhara, and tears mingled on their cheeks.
Abruptly the Mashkim took Ishharas's hand, and led her away, away from all she'd loved, all she'd known. She walked now in the shadow of those Gods, the mysterious masters of Nippur who deemed her Fate.
Sanga spoke: "It is decreed by the Ditilla that you, Ishhara, shall be Ekur temple cloth maiden. Your duties of dressing and laundering the temple harem clothing will be carried out with highest regard for cleanliness."
The women giggled, silly in their brief, sheer wisps of cloth. Not only did it reveal their ample breasts, but also made a mockery of modesty -- which Ishhara had always been taught by her mother.
But Ishhara nodded bravely, agreeing to the task. There was no choice, and she followed the harem women as they proceeded to a passageway. It was a long tunnel, winding downward into the caverns beneath the grand Ekur Temple...darkened and musty, the heavy scent of wet earth permeating it.
As they walked, the women chattered aimlessly. One asked, "You are slave?"
"Yes, I am slave for three years." Ishhara's voice echoed eerily in the tight canyon, dampness seeping from the mud walls, candles flickering at interconnected passages.
"Is good you are here instead of fields...hard work, sickness, beatings..."
"I had several years at the Edubba, can decipher, so am here."
The giggling group suddenly quieted, and the one holding an oil lamp said, "Listen, the Priestess awaits; hear her laughter?"
A tinkling laughter reached them, and Ishhara listened to the sweet sound. She asked, "Is the High Priestess, the Great Chosen One who embraces the Goddess Ninlil?"
A slant-eyed girl whispered, "No, Priestess Ninlil is old now. She lives in the Eshmah Tower. But this is Priestess Inanna from Uruk come to claim her choice of young handmaidens for her royal service."
Ishhara knew all human priest and priestesses were the bodily form of the great Gods and Goddesses. She was surprised Inanna would visit here, as it was not the custom for a High Priestess to leave the temple in which the Goddess dwelled.
Soon they were climbing steep rocked stairs and emerged into blinding sunlight. It was the open courtyard, and the laughter was now louder, happier.
Each girl proceeded toward the center of the wide, open floor. One told Ishhara, "Stay here. We are to perform for Priestess Inanna."
Ishhara slipped into a shadowed corner of the ponderous lion statute crouched at the arched doorway. She watched in fascination as several musicians with harps and lyres, tambourines and reed pipes, began a lilting song of Old. Moving with perfect timing, the harem flowed outward then inward, their bodies suggestively symbolizing the coupling of man and woman.
Ishhara was amazed, spellbound; her eyes glanced at the beautiful young Priestess Inanna, who was bedecked in royal blue robes, sparkling jewels of lapis, ivory, carnelian, golden braids in her flowing black hair. It took her breath away, seeing the painted face of Inanna: kohl lined her eyes, making them black, hugely entrancing, and green streaks mixed with blue covered her bare skin giving her the look of a sea creature.
Afterward, the harem slivered back through the doorway and Ishhara followed. They directed her to a magazine room off the main courtyard, sunny and openly fresh. It was decorated with reed rugs, woolen hangings and wooden furniture -- rare cedar wood not found in the small households of Nippur.
Ishhara showed the girls her badge of copper which had the slave-symbol of Priestess Ninlil on it. This was her identification, and the girls compared it to theirs, noting little difference.
Then it was night, and Ishhara slept; she dreamed of her mother and father, the smell of clay, the softness of it as she spun it round and round on the turnette, her deft fingers molding it to the shape of a vase, spinning and spinning, her hands working with the Old Way of Art.
The temple Ekur connected with Kiur temple; together it was a massive building, towering high above the town of Nippur. Far into distant Sumerian city-states, the ziggurat tower was visible; interior recesses and buttresses relented into mud-brick columns, and zigzags, lozenges and triangles inserted into painted clay cones made it impressive. The cella shrine was maintained with a degree of worship and unequaled devotion; it was made more sacred by the Great Ninlil statute of purest gold, fronted by an offering table of white-washed mud-brick.
One day another slave from Eshmah Lofty Shrine approached Ishhara, asking, "You are Ishhara, slave whose parents are of Old Way in Pahar?"
"Yes," replied Ishhara, washing the clothing in acid-water, her hands stinging from months of abuse.
"I come to offer message of Abisimti, the highest royal servant of Priestess Ninhursag, our Water-God and Mother of all Creation."
"And what is message?"
"Abisimti wishes your talent to be used, to make you Pahar of her small temple crafts."
Ishhara stopped, her mouth falling open. She struggled to find her voice, "But...I am slave!"
"Abisimti sent me to you. Will you reply?" The slave-girl seemed ashamed, her eyes cast downward. This touched Ishhara, and she looked at her, saying, "Hold your eyes up, you are not to look down in my presence. I am slave too."
The girl looked up at her, but still seemed unsure.
"Tell Abisimti if she secures my orders to Kiur temple, with her as my overseer, through Sanga, it is acceptable."
The girl scurried away, heading to the lower corridors beneath the connecting temples which served the slave messengers, exorcists and wizards.
When Emesh arrived again with its hot breath of summer, Ishhara was ensconced as Abisimti's personal Pahar. She was given tools of her trade, and freedom to create; it had eased the hurt and loneliness, and the days had passed more smoothly.
Abisimti had proven a friend, simple and open, not holding herself above Ishhara. It was a bond that formed over the months, and yet fragile due to the Priestess Ninhursag who often chose to exert authority by removing those in her royal service.
Abisimti was owned forever by the temples; her ancestors had been wards of Kiur temple and belonged to the High Priestess. Her freedom could never be attained, a fact which made her sad and somber.
However, Abisimti was not without hope; she wanted to someday be chosen as priestess...for this could happen. She was quick to gain favor with Priestess Ninhursag whenever possible, so it was in this manner that she suggested the great god statue of Ninlil was in need of repair; the mud-bricked offering table was crusted and could use whitewash.
In addition, Abisimti did not fail to notice a crack in the cella wall, and one which threatened major problems if not mended. She told of it, and harbored her secret quietly from all other than the High Priestess Ninhursag.
Priestess Ninhursag, dwelling aloft in her Eshmah tower, toured the Kiur temple but once a year. The following spring she was majestic in her sweeping festival; the streets came alive as people celebrated in the month of Tashritu. Also Priestess Ninlil was present, and just at the moment of the new moon, when all the courtyard was teeming with celebration, Priestess Ninhursag announced the severe crack which could damage the sacred dwelling place of Goddess Ninlil -- pointing out the exact place Abismti had shown her.
It was a resounding victory; Priestess Ninhursag, now in her older days, had lorded it over the palace officials -- even King Agga himself whose mass of assistants failed to discover the crack. She was exultant, overzealous in her glory. The battle between temple and palace was often pitched for control, and this conquest gave the temple a lofty status; she was more ruler than ruled.
Thus Abisimti was awarded slave labor, and assigned to oversee rebuilding of an entire wall. She asked that Ishhara inspect the wall, and create new painted clay cones with originality to be inserted alongside triangles and zigzags.
The day was ovenlike, a baked dryness that seared Ishhara when she first studied the wall. It was being torn down, and slaves worked in the hot dustiness without complaint. The loud poundings of stone hammers and cuttings of chisels swelled as Ishhara walked along the wall, surveying the size and complexity of each crevice.
Inadvertently, she looked up into the dark face of a vaguely recognizable slave. He was sweating profusely, his dark skin glistening and muscles rippling with powerful strokes of his hammer and chisel.
Ishhara looked away, then felt his eyes upon her. She clutched her skirt, pulling self-consciously at the shawl which revealed her right shoulder. It was an awkward moment, and she stiffened, trying to cover herself; the custom of a bare shoulder had always seemed brazen to her.
His voice boomed, "Ah, little one we meet again."
Instantly she knew him; it was He Who Touched Her Heart long ago in the streets, the slave who marched in yoke and shackles. "Oh...it is you," she murmured.
He stood as though struck by a God; his brazen black eyes traveled over her body tenderly, then back to her face, a broad smile moving slowly across his fierce features. He was lusty, big, broad-shouldered and had his curly black hair pulled behind his head in a tight plait. He said gruffly, "Little one, stare not...do not mix with slaves!"
Ishhara met his direct gaze with determination, stating, "I too am slave!" and thrust her copper badge in his face.
His smile disappeared, and he frowned hard. "No?"
"Yes."
He began chopping with the chisel, pounding the hammer as if she had gone away.
Ishhara felt ignored, hurt. Yet something in his eyes...he looked stunned. The other slaves had noticed their exchange, and a few were sneering, or snickering derisively.
He said, under his breath, "Little one, slip around to back of wall?"
Ishhara walked away, trying to feign indifference. But when out of view to the other slaves, she quickly hid in the overhang near a statue of leopards triumphantly cast in lifelike size.
She heard the jangling of his leg shackles, and then he was at her side, his voice hard, "Why you are slave?"
"My parents were to lose the Pahar. I must pay debt of three years as slave to keep it."
"Ah, little one is brave!" He suddenly looked away, as though seeing a distant memory. "I too am here for my father of the desert."
"But you speak the language, not of desert folk, but of Nippur..."
"Yes, is my grandfather's Old Ways, but I harbor blood of wild desert folk too. I am mixed of blood, but is hot blood, angry blood..."
She was startled by his violent temperament, and stopped him by saying, "What is your slave badge?"
He wiped dark hair from his forehead, and she gasped. He had been branded on his forehead with the serpent's fork -- entwined snakes with forked tongues -- and it made a gash which had burned deeply into the skin. She blurted, "Oh no, it must have hurt!"
'You know it means I cannot be free, ever! I am slave unto death for I was feared in battle. I was revered as javelin thrower, with both hands I could slay the enemy and that is why they bind me here now. I am danger!"
Ishhara said softly, "You do not frighten me,"
He grinned, showing white even teeth, "Ah, but little one, you do not judge."
"You are not...not evil.'
He swooped low, kissing her tenderly on the forehead. "What is name, little one?"
"Ishhara, and I am slave of Abisimti, the Pahar of her choice." His tender gesture had surprised her, and she kept her face averted.
He looked cautiously around, still seeing no one in the shadowed alleyway between connecting rooms; the cella wall loomed high above them, and a cool wind off the canals drifted down the tiny corridor.
"I must go, or be punished." He touched her bare shoulder where she'd allowed the shawl to slip away. "Ishhara, I am Ku-ninda. We'll meet again little one."
And he was gone, a disappearing rattle of his ankle chains as he rounded the corner. She heard his booming voice direct the other slaves to work harder, and the pounding increased. He was apparently Chosen Overseer for those who were of lesser intelligence....and yet he was shackled at the feet, having to walk in an embarrassing shuffle. Maybe he was dangerous?
Even so, as Ishhara went to her Pahar shop the memory of his tenderness conflicted with that violent voice which described his enslavement.
Ishhara sat by the silvery moonlight, listening to the reeds sigh in the thickets that night; her heart was stirring like the moist wind from the canals, but she did not know of its meaning.
Did the Gods have a plan for her?
Ishhara had the cones molded, and was diligently working on unique designs of painted brightness in her tiny shop, off the main cella. Days were hot, dry and less wind from the canals made it stuffy, stifling; all the day long, pounding from the slaves echoed through the suffocating stillness.
Abisimti was preoccupied, providing little diversion; she had told Ishhara in confidence that the Priestess Ninhursag was failing in health, almost bedridden, and she had to be of service constantly.
Ishhara had dreamed of the wild slave Ku-ninda a few nights, then tried to dismiss him. He was too different, unlike her peoples, and not of her class. Even if she were free, he could never be.
In less serious circumstances, a slave could buy freedom, marry a free person or even engage in business. But Ku-ninda was a slave captured in battle; he had no chance for freedom.
Besides, Ishhara knew her father, Namhani, was hoping someday to betroth her to a family of higher standing, and to that end he'd saved certain precious Pahar vases as her dowry.
But one night, when the heat of Emesh had abated and a cool wind promised better weather, Ishhara was staring at the misty moon, dreaming again. It had been impossible to forget Ku-ninda entirely, and in her sixteen-year-old fantasy he loomed larger than life.
A younger slave-girl asked, 'Why is sadness?"
Ishhara tried often to pretend she was alone, not surrounded still by the harem. But the girls had noticed her dreamy eyes and were curious. She said, "Sadness is not of my heart...a joy, a joy of rebirth, a gift found deep in the heart."
All eyes were upon her and she explained, "Love, my heart feels love for one I know not."
Puzzled, they turned away. Ishhara was unlike themselves, and had proven beyond their comprehension.
Unable to sleep, Ishhara finally pulled on a linen robe and leather sandals, needing to escape the close quarters.
Quietly, she went for a walk about the temple. although confined to the grounds, it was lovely in moonlight and her heart craved the solitude. Far in the distance, Ishhara could hear night sounds of Nipper -- dogs barked, cattle bellowed and the ever-present sighing of reeds in canal thickets sang of soft winds. She looked upward and saw a shimmering smokelight filling the sky from outdoor torches. She thought it comforting, warm and welcoming; the walled city was her home, the only haven she knew.
Ishhara lightly walked around, through the immense cella now shrouded in darkness with imposing statues vaguely outlined. Balmy air sweeping from the canals brought a refreshing coolness, a sweet-scented ripeness of fields, crops, farms and harvest.
A deep voice thundered, "Stop! I command you, go no more!"
Ishhara gasped, staring at the military emblems, the flanks of leather and hard metal which was worn on the tall, menacing solider. She stammered, "I'm Ishhara, slave of..."
"Present your badge!"
She quickly held her wrist out, showing the copper badge. The solider inspected it with his oil-lamp held closely. Finally he asked, "Why you go here alone?"
"I...I wanted to....uh, I could not sleep." She knew it was a lame excuse, and further words lodged deep in her throat.
He was glowering, his eyes hard as obsidian. "Return to your quarters, now!"
Ishhara hurried away, fear quaking in her soul. She'd seen the legions of rigid-faced soldiers, always marching around stiffly, always practicing their javelins, their bow-and-arrows, flaunting their military skills in the big pavilion, but this was her first encounter with one.
As she rounded a corner, there was the shuffling rattle of slave-shackles. Curious as to why slaves would be marching in the middle of night, she stood rooted to the spot, hiding behind a stone eagle's outstretched wing.
The shackles were loud, and the slaves quiet; they passed in a solemn line, not looking to either side. Following them was a solider carrying a whip, which he frequently cracked to make them move faster.
Ishhara was perplexed; she knew something was amiss, something out of order, but just as she was about to leave, she saw Ku-ninda in front of another slave group. He was now shackled not only at the feet, but his hands as well were shackled and tightly bound. A yoke was about his neck, and the extension connected with each slave behind him -- all moving in that awkward shuffle.
She suddenly had an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch him, but dared not do so. Her heart was hurt to the core, seeing him cuffed and subdued. He was such a mighty, powerful man, and to inhibit his very manhood was surely a sin.
Ishhara was shocked by her thoughts, and uttered a quiet prayer from her soul to the Great Enlil, the Lord of Storms, to forgive her thoughts against the Gods Wisdom.
Running back to her quarters, she had to force her thoughts away from Ku-ninda; he was dangerous, otherwise why the many shackles? The many restrictions?
She lay awake long into the morning, wondering why slaves should be moved during the dead of night...
Several moons passed and then the Season of Feasts occurred So many, many rites and rituals to perform! The city was filled with the thick, heavy smell of blood from all the sacrifices: The Feast of the Eating of Gazelles, The Feast of the Blood of Lions. Then followed the Feast of the Eating of Barley and a continuous retinue of slaughters, wherein old King Agga would slice a razor-sharp knife into the fattened animal flesh, pour blood upon himself and offer up to the Gods their insatiable demands.
There was often date wine and frothy dark beer drank by the citizens who watched, celebrating the Gods Divine Reckoning. Stars of An, Enki, Enlil and Ninlil were sighted in the night skies, and more praises lifted to the High Heavens of Gods. It was bedlam, but with sacredness and joyous sensations.
Most of these took place at Eshmah Temple, the Lofty Shrine which was raised up high on a White Platform atop many stairs. It was here, observing the thick-scented sacrifice of a grossly overweight ox, that Ishhara first realized why the slaves had been in the streets at night.
Off to one side, there was a gaping pit being dug -- the dirt piled up beside it. Even at night, several slaves were working, making the sloping dromos-ramp precise and smooth. Completed, it would be a masonry tomb chamber for burial.
Later, she asked Abisimti, "The tomb, is for burial?"
And Abisimti, who had come to inspect the colorful clay cones, replied, "Is for the sacred burial, when needed."
Ishhara now understood; it was a custom of long-standing that royalty at death be buried with their entourage -- possessions, and many, many other precious objects inside a masonry tomb, then to join the Gods and Goddesses there in that House of Dust and Darkness, where they'd arise in a new morning as real Gods and Goddesses.
Her parents had versed her well in this rite, and she accepted it; the ones chosen to die with royalty would be exalted to the lofty status of the Gods, and were considered fortunate indeed. Otherwise, death was just that: a descent into darkness and no return, burial among the reed waters, in cold graves outside the city or in tombs beneath homes.
Abisimti, looking soberly at Ishhara, said, "Priestess Ninhursag is ailing, worsening by day and night."
"I am in prayer for her to the Gods."
Abisimti studied her a long moment, then said, "King Agga is unwell also, death is at the door."
Ishhara was silently reverent, not expressing her confusion.
At length, Abisimti stated, "You are of the city, you are of the Gods...dying for the Gods is sacred."
Ishhara was chilled; what did she mean? "Yes...I am humble."
The usually friendly face of Abisimti was composed and inscrutable; she left quickly, not looking back.
That night Ishhara never slept at all, worrying and pondering over Abisimti's mysterious speech, as if hinting at something for Ishhara's future.
When sunrise lightened the temple, Ishhara found herself listening to the grating work-noise of slaves, her mind unable to focus on the cones. Her heart was heavy, troubled.
By late afternoon, Ishhara was staring at her reflection in a copper-shined mirror; she realized with a shock how much she resembled Abismti, the same huge eyes, the same long-flowing hair worn in a bun, the same facial features...why, they were even the same height and weight!
A terrifying notion struck Ishhara, and she ran from the Pahar room, her feet pounding down the narrow corridors, not knowing where she was going, blinded by hot tears of fear.
A ruthless voice commanded, "Stop!"
A solider of course, watching over the slaves, had seen her frantic state and detained her. He walked toward Ishhara, his eyes of stone not leaving her flushed face. "You! Return to temple, now!"
Suddenly she dashed past him, and was face to face with Ku-ninda, her voice low and pleading, "Help me! You must help me. They will...oh, they are...they will use me, I fear!"
The solider grabbed her arm, dragging her away from Ku-ninda. Her voice was quieted, so she pled only with sad tears as they took her away, back to the Pahar.
That night, a soothing voice in Ishhara's dreams told her to be still, to calm her heart; she was not to fear the unknown.
She awoke, tranquil.
Deep in the caverns beneath the temples, Ku-ninda worked at repairing a massive door; it had slipped off the hinged track, and he was ordered to the task.
His mind was elsewhere, faraway in the arid deserts...he was roaming with his nomadic tribes, combing the Land for an oasis, leading his tribe with vigor and vitality -- and his ways were of Princely Eminence.
Ku-ninda knew he was of the barbarians, yet his blood flowed in the patterns of his Uruk ancestors also. A half-breed, though his tribe had never known...he was a man of the desert, a man of their own. And in this, his twentieth year of life, captivity was killing his very soul.
Ku-ninda despised the city of Nippur; the bloody feasts, the rites and rituals, the very essence of which had been hated by Martu desertfolk. Cities made men soft like women, sapping their strength, his father said. He felt a sharp pang of regret; in falling to slavery, he'd failed his father of the desert.
The battle had been unfair; Ku-ninda became angered, remembering the sneak attack on Elamites. He'd only been in Elan to barter goods when the place was over-run by Kish soldiers. If only he could relive that moment, undo what had happened. But it was too late for hindsight.
The girl, little one? He tried to shake off her presence but since the moment she'd first spoken to him in the streets, he'd carried her in his heart. She resembled his dim memory of a past ancestor, the fragile-boned body, the large, solemn eyes...
Ku-ninda's tribal father had often spoken of a long-ago heritage from the city Uruk. The legend was of a young Uruk girl, Amargi, who had been kidnapped by tribesmen planning to ravish her.
However, when the great tribal leader, Ku-ninda's great-great grandfather, looked upon the beautiful Amargi, his heart was conquered. They were united, and lived out their lives together.
If only he could have her, Ishhara, by his side -- take her into the desert wilderness and reclaim his tribe! But Ku-ninda shook his head of the daydream, and recalled Ishhara's plea for help. What had she meant? What did she fear so that it had brought her to him against all the rules? To defy the soldiers, to cross that line and ask him for help...
And then he knew; it hit him with a horrific blow. The old king, the fat, balding Agga -- and the ailing Priestess Ninhursag, the pit dug by slaves...the whispered preparations for a sacred burial.
Ku-ninda knew suddenly why the fear of death was in little Ishhara's eyes; he must save her, he must find a way. Frantically he looked around at the dim corridors, the many interconnected tunnels beneath the temple. Once a slave told him there was a tunnel leading to the canals...and that could become a route of escape!
He surged with pride; he would find a way! And perhaps if he could be clever enough, cunning enough, he might yet escape with Ishhara into the desert.
But if he couldn't?
The city of Nippur was swarming with activity; people crowded in the narrow, winding streets, all moving with a funereal rhythm toward the great Eshmah Temple, their somber eyes turned toward the High White Platform.
A hot stillness settled over the masses; the wind had died in Heaven, as though Gods were holding their breath.
The Palace was far from the Temple, and the assemblage of royalty had gathered, soon marching into the streets: the Queen, her two sons, court harpers, warriors, butlers, maids, cupbearers, acrobats, grooms, charioteers, gardeners, musicians, dancing-girls, barbers -- all parading solemnly in their grandest clothing, toward the Eshmah.
The Priestess Ninlil awaited them at the White Platform, and they trooped up the steep stairs. There on a polished alabaster slab lay King Agga, laid out in grandeur of a half-length flounced skirt, a mantle of white wool and a dark blue robe richly woven with threads of silver and gold.
Beside his head rested the horned crown of a king who is a God. By his left hand lay his scepter, decorated with rings of lapis lazuli and mosaics of brightly colored seashells, and by his right was a wondrous dagger with a blade of gold, a hilt of lapis lazuli and gold studs, and a sheath fashioned of gold strands woven in openwork like plaited leaves of grass.
Heaped up before the king on the floor was an immense mound of treasure: errings and finger-rings in gold and silver, drinking-cups of beaten silver, dice-boards, cosmetic-boxes, alabaster jars of rare scent, golden harps and bull-headed lyres, a model in silver of his chariot and one of his six-oared skiff, chalices of obsidian, cylinder-seals, vases of onyx and chalcedony, golden bowls, and much, much more.
Immediately to the dead king's left, on another alabaster slab, lay the lifeless Ninhursag. Surrounding her were boundless treasures similar to the kings -- jewelry gleaming in sunlight, precious stones glittering.
A hush fell over the crowds, and Priestess Ninlil began a mournful chanting in a language known only to the Gods. To one side stood Abismti in her best servant garments, decked in an oddly gleaming gold crown similar to Priestess Ninlil.
Then a dozen lords of the city knelt and lifted to their shoulders the massive alabaster slabs on which lay King Agga and Priestess Ninhursag, carrying them down the steps, toward the gaping pit. The royal party followed, the Queen kissing both sons before becoming subdued; the last one to leave the platform was Abisimti, her face reflecting grace from Priestess Ninlil.
The slanted dromos of the elaborate tomb was lined with slaves, all awaiting commands to their task. None dared move as the procession halted, only the slabs being carried down into the tomb.
Off to one side of the elaborate tomb, Ishhara awaited her summons in a cramped, dark chamber; she knew what Fate awaited her. She would be exchanged for Abisimti, descend into the tomb of death. Hearing the proceedings outside, she bowed her head...scared, yet prepared to do the Gods bidding.
A haunting chant now swelled in the air as Priestess Ninlil and Abisimti joined voices; then a loud hollow booming of the lilissm drum beat steadily as the people began forming a wide circle around the tomb.
A priest set up a great bowl filled with deep reddish wine. And then more movement: balag-drums and the shrill skirling of clay whistles heralded the Queen to drink of the wine. She gave each son a good-bye kiss, and then walked down into the tomb.
A sledge-chariot came forth, drawn by two asses. It was driven by King Agga's chief charioteer, who drank of the wine and descended into the tomb, followed by other charioteers, the massive quantities of objects, and all the palace servants and warnings accompanied only by the drumming beat of the lilissu-drum.
Then Priestess Ninhursag's temple servants drank of the wine, and all marched willingly into the tomb. Abisimti stood near the sloped dromos, her arms outreached to heaven, chanting and singing; she nodded to Priestess Ninlil, signifying that the time for the exchange was near.
In the chamber, Ishhara knew that any moment now a soldier would arrive and she would be taken to the ceremony where Abisimti would undress, ceremoniously putting her garments on Ishhara, removing the thin linen shift. One by one Abisimti would bestow the layers of fine clothing, and then lastly, her slave badge. Ishhara would then look remarkably like Abisimti had before -- an image of a high ranking servant to Priestess Ninhursag.
People would watch with no surprise; this was often done when an older priestess died, and the younger Chosen Priestess (who was now Abisimti) had to remain in this world. Changing places was an honor; it would mean Ishhara would rise to become a real Goddess.
Ishhara shuddered, not willing to die in order to become a Goddess. And just then she heard a familiar booming voice: "Come! Hurry, little one, before is too late!"
Ishhara turned to see Ku-ninda at her side. He seemed like a wild animal, unchained and frantic. "No one saw me slip in, come!"
Astonished, she was unable to move, but suddenly he was pulling her to her feet, and they were edging along a narrow corridor that led underground back to the many tunnels of the temple. She said, "What of the guard? He is to take me forth..."
"Fear not, we are ahead of them. Come, run little one. We are to escape! I have made way!"
He forced her to run, faster and faster, the dim, damp corridors twisting and turning until she lost all sense of direction. Behind her, she could hear yelling and she could visualize the bedlam that broke out when she was found missing. In her mind's eye, she knew how the remainder of the burial ceremony played out:
Once her clothing was exchanged, she would have moved as if in a trance to the wine bowl, drinking deeply. Then she too would have walked down the sloping dromos...
Into the darkened earth she would have tread, fearing death. She would have let her eyes adjust to the candle-lit tomb interior, seeing people lying down, many already dead from the strong death drink, others in a stupor. There would be the splendid array of magnificent treasures to be buried with them all, everywhere glittering...
Instead, now they came to a slab of rock, seemingly at a dead end. But Ku-ninda said, "Fear not, I made way."
He then began to move the stone, his powerful muscles working to roll it slightly away, just enough for them to pass through. They slipped into a more narrow passage, pitch-dark, but Ku-ninda's torch soon lit the way. He quickly heaved the stone slab back into place, sealing off their escape route behind them.
And then they were running swiftly, only the sound of their hard breathing and footfalls echoing in the tunnel. Soon Ishhara glimpsed a small opening ahead and before she knew it, they were outside....standing near the swaying reeds surrounding the canals.
Ku-ninda took a deep breath, looked down into her eyes. "I love you. Come with me to desert, for new life together?"
She nodded, breathing deeply of the fresh, moist air. "Yes, oh yes! I love you, I want to go with you."
His wide face lit up, his eyes bright with joy. "Ah, little one, our life as desertfolk will be of Olden Ways. Come, let us go toward dawn."
She smiled at him, suddenly shy...but knowing her Fate now lay with this man of the Martu Desert Tribe and all her days on earth she would never forget how he had rescued her from certain death.
They turned toward the canals, where a small skiff hidden among the reeds awaited their journey into tomorrow.