Word Fulfilled, The (18 page)

Twenty-three

Nineveh, the Temple of Ishtar

Twenty-seventh Day of Simanu

ulalitu pressed her point with the High Priestess’s aide. “I must speak with her. It is of great importance.”

“Issar-surrat is not to be disturbed. She rests.”

“But I have—”

“Come back before the evening meal. Perhaps then.” The senior
naditu
pulled the embroidered scrim across the doorway. Hulalitu heard the attendant’s soft sandals pad a gentle rhythm across the smooth floor.

She heaved a sigh and turned away.

Issar-surrat tossed on her sleep mat. She kicked aside the scarlet silk coverlet draped over her bare legs. The seed of a headache centered low in the back of her head sprouted into a hundred thorny tendrils that clamped down and gnawed at her brain. The onslaught had cut short her preparations for the evening rites and drove the High Priestess to her chamber. She left three senior
naditu
priestesses to finish. Issar-surrat gripped her head and dropped onto the luxurious mat without shedding her robe.

Her eyes quivered beneath her kohl-lined lids.

“You have arranged for the girl?”

Issar-surrat jerked her head. “Yes, Mistress. She has . . . learned quickly as a
naditu
.”

“Her time is coming.”

Issar-surrat grimaced as another bolt of pain shot through her temples. “Yes, Mistress. I’ve ensured her preparations . . . have been thorough. She will not . . . disappoint.”

“No, she will not disappoint. But she needs more power for her task.”

“More power, Mistress?”

“Of course. The threat is great. The defense must be greater.”

Issar-surrat tried to lift her head, but an unseen weight pressed it further into her pillow.

“You have named her as your successor, no?”

“It was recorded . . . four days ago, Mistress. Although I do not see why—” The weight on her head cut off her words. Issar-surrat struggled, but her neck sank deeper into the pillow. The rich cushion billowed and puffed up against the sides of her head.

“And you are sure the king will assent?”

“All has been . . . arranged, Mistress.”

“You have done well enough, Issar-surrat. You have been compliant. Perhaps you will not be forgotten.”

“Forgotten? What do you mean—”

The fringes of the pillow folded over her face. Issar-surrat’s thick fingernails tore at the fabric as the cushion closed over her mouth and nose. Her legs flailed and sent the coverlet into the air. Muffled screams pushed through the bulging pillow but melted into the heavy air. The priestess’s back arched and slammed to the mat where she writhed and fought for breath. Gradually, the struggle abated to a twitch, then to stillness.

Her left arm slipped from the pillow and slapped against the floor. As though on cue, the cushion deflated. It released the dead priestess’s face and flattened against the mat under her head. Streaks of kohl smudged Issar-surrat’s powdered cheeks and splayed streaks of charcoal gray away from sightless eyes.

Mother Ishtar would have a new High Priestess by nightfall.

Lll

Ianna sat on the floor of the cella. The
Entu
ceremony had concluded at sunset. The hall was empty; only the subdued hiss and snap of the torches broke the stillness.

The ornate robes of the greatest religious authority in Nineveh lay piled around her diminutive figure in a rumpled heap. The gold cap and bejeweled ceremonial staff lay on the floor by her side. A heavy, multi-strand necklace, now removed from her neck, draped over the cap and staff. She sat with her elbows propped onto her knees, her chin pressed into the palms of her hands. Through her foggy mind, she tried to reconstruct the series of events that had led her to this lonely spot on the floor. . . .

Ianna’s dramatic rise to the most exalted position an Assyrian woman could attain surprised her more than anyone. Issar-surrat’s sudden death stunned them all, but preparations had to be made quickly for her replacement. The post of High Priestess could not be vacant. Issar-surrat’s foresight in naming her own successor quickened the process, as extraordinary as the act was. The king’s assent to her nomination documented on a clay tablet bearing his seal lay next to her body. Its contents shocked the senior
naditu
council, but nothing could be done. The King’s decision was final. No sooner had the High Priestess’s body been removed from her bedchamber than the tight-lipped council of senior
naditu
priestesses met and began their preparations for a hurried ascension ceremony.

The astonishment at her summons before the council still numbed Ianna’s mind. The solemn pronouncement that she would assume the ultimate position in the cult of Ishtar left her speechless. She was not alone in her reaction. The strained resentment that clouded the council room was palpable. Shalla, the presiding senior
naditu,
refused to make eye contact with the High Priestess designee. It had been assumed by everyone, not least by her, that Shalla would be Issar-surrat’s eventual successor. After the charge for Ianna to prepare herself for the ritual, the taut-jawed
naditu
adjourned the council without ceremony and stalked out of the meeting hall, her disdain undisguised.

When the news of Ianna’s ascension raced through the temple, Hulalitu retired to her chamber and did not reemerge. Her absence from the rite—an absence that should have earned her at best a severe censure, at worst banishment—was noticed. But no censure came. Those in the position to impose the sanction were too occupied with their own violated egos to bother with a formal reprimand for a lesser priestess who only did what they all wished they could have done.

Ianna’s own shock rendered her impervious to the reactions of others. She plodded from the council summons to her chamber in a daze. The young
naditu
entered the room, sank to the floor and stared at the wall. She took no steps to prepare herself for the ritual—if, indeed, she even knew what steps she should take. When the senior
naditu
escort came to her door to convey her to the cella, they found her in the same bewildered state in which she left the council meeting.

The walk to the cella was a blur. The door opened in front of her, and a wide yellow swath spilled into the dim hall from the room ablaze in torchlight. Someone took her arm and guided her to a marked spot on the floor in front of the great statue of Ishtar. A whisper in her ear, a slight nod, and she lay prostrate before the Mother Goddess, for how long she had no idea.

The words of the mantra incanted by the assembly jammed in her ears against the shell of numbness that encased her brain. Another tug on her arm raised her to her feet, where she turned to face the gathering. She didn’t know how large or small the crowd of witnesses was. Their forms blurred together in a pastel smear, punctuated by flashes of silver and gold that glinted in the flickering torchlight. They had no faces.

A few terse, hushed words—who knew how many?—from Shalla, and the heavy robes of the High Priestess suddenly pressed down on her shoulders. An unseen pair of hands draped the festooned gold chain around her neck. Another pair lifted her arm and pressed the short staff into her listless fingers. After an indeterminable pause, a single voice began the final chant of dedication to Mother Ishtar. Something in her told her to turn and face the statue. She did so with unfocused eyes. Other voices joined the chant. She stood dumb.

Her next memory was the dull thud of the massive chamber door, and she was alone. . . .

Ianna sighed. She wrinkled her brow at a sudden prick in the back of her skull. She sensed, more than felt, the jab expand into a numbness that slid over her brain, where it sent twinges of needle pricks into the skin under her hair. The sensation enveloped her head like a thorny sheath. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets as her eyelids slid closed. Her breath came in short gasps

“You are the chosen one. Prepare to meet your Mistress.”

Ianna shook her head and pressed her fingertips to her brow.

“Speak your readiness, your desire, to serve the Mistress.”

The new High Priestess forced her eyelids open. She touched her fingers to her temples and massaged her throbbing head. The numbness began to recede, but then clamped down and dug its claws deeper. She grimaced.

The silky voice hissed,
“Speak your desire to serve!”

Ianna moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue and took a deep breath.

The voice screeched in her mind’s ear,
“Now!”

She gritted her teeth. “Who is speaking? Where are you?”

Ianna jerked her head as the ethereal shell snapped and disappeared. The seizure cleared, and the vestiges of a headache lurked behind her forehead. She squinted into the muted light. The statue of Mother Ishtar hovered over her shoulder, her enameled eyes bearing down on her new supreme servant.

The High Priestess collected the accoutrements of her office and pushed to her feet. She stretched the stiffness from her joints, replaced the necklace around her neck, the cap on her head, and padded to the door.

She turned to glance once more about the cella, faded now with the glow of the dying torches. Then she opened the door and stepped into the corridor.

Mother Ishtar glared at the door from her pedestal.

Lll

“The girl is difficult. She resists.”

“Leave her to me.”

Twenty-four

Kal
ḫ
u, the Royal Palace

Twenty-eighth Day of Simanu

ing Adad-nirari scrutinized the plans for his palace in Nineveh. Ahu-duri, the Senior Scholar and the king’s closest advisor, fidgeted on the far side of the low table while the king muttered under his breath.

“How near are we to completion?” The regent didn’t look up from the drawings.

It was the first question the king asked and the one Ahu-duri feared the most. “We are on schedule, my lord.”

Adad-nirari raised his eyes, but his head remained bent. “That is not what I asked.”

Ahu-duri cleared his throat. “The work on the Temple of Nabu took longer than expected, my lord. Materials are slow coming in, but we are making progress.”

The king narrowed his gaze. “I do not—what is that?”

Ahu-duri didn’t answer. He thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. A clay dish with two styluses at the corner of the work table began to clatter and bobble. The floor beneath his feet undulated as though he stood on water. He gripped the table and jumped when the clay dish tottered off the edge and shattered on the floor. Everything around him moved while he fought to stand still. The vizier never felt so helpless, so out of control. He stared wide-eyed at the king.

Adad-nirari’s face was set. He gripped his side of the table, willing it to stand still. The king muttered the word absently, as though it was an afterthought. “Earthquake.”

The tremor ended as suddenly as it began. Ahu-duri held onto the table, his equilibrium not yet convinced the floor had settled. For a moment, neither man spoke. Shouts rose from the streets below and spilled into the room through the high windows.

The king finally looked up. “Report back to me on any damage. We will resume this discussion later.”

Ahu-duri nodded and hurried to the door. Once outside the chamber, the advisor heaved a sigh of relief, despite his raw nerves.

Lll

Urdu rose from the floor. He clutched a jumble of parchment rolls that had spilled from an overturned urn. The quake only lasted moments, but the documents stacked against the wall needed little encourage-ment to collapse and jitter across the floor. Thankfully, none of the stellar instruments or clay tablets was damaged. He righted an urn and eased the parchments back into it just as Zakir burst into the room.

“What’s broken? Is there any damage?”

“No damage, Master. Only a mess.” Urdu retrieved the hinged writing board and set it on the stone table.

“The city will be in an uproar. It’s been long since the earth has moved in Kal
ḫ
u.” Zakir took a deep breath and reached out to steady a stack of tablets.

Urdu didn’t reply. He stroked the log with an absent expression.

“You are all right then? Unhurt?”

“Yes.”

Zakir steadied the tablets and stared at his apprentice. “What are you thinking?”

Urdu just shook his head and continued to stroke the wooden pad.

“Come, come. Out with it.” Zakir grasped his assistant’s wrist. “I think the lunar log has sufficiently recovered from its trauma.”

The young astrologer pushed aside the wooden palette. He turned and leaned against the table, his arms folded across his chest. “I’m trying to make sense of this. Two nights ago Sin darkened his face. Now the earth shakes.”

“And . . . ?”

Urdu shrugged. “You spoke of omens.”

Zakir nodded. “Yes, I did.”

“What does it mean?”

“You do well to think in such a way. It is discomforting, no?”

Urdu persisted. “I want to know what it means.”

The senior astrologer turned to face his assistant. “As do I.”

“But, if we don’t know—”

“Urdu, the gods create such omens not as explanations, but as hints. There is no vapor in the air, no secret formula, that details the exact meaning of omens. It is not that easy.” Zakir eased his back against the table beside his apprentice.

“But there are ancient writings, adages that give the meaning of signs, are there not?”

Zakir smiled. “Yes, of course there are. The
Enuma Anu Enlil
, our collection of celestial omens. How much of it have you read?”

Urdu tinged red. “I know I was supposed to begin my study of them, but I’m afraid I’ve not yet started.”

Zakir nodded. “I have read it all. Those stacks of tablets in the corner are a small part of it. And, in my humble opinion, it is useless.”

“Useless?”

The master astrologer shrugged. “Guesses. The musings of men who strain beyond the limits of their wisdom.”

Urdu’s shoulders sagged. “But, if the
Enuma Anu Enlil
are useless, what can we know of the
ittu
at all? How are they omens if they cannot be read?”

“That man fails to understand them does not mean they are not omens. There are things that can be discerned, things upon which we can act. It is the difference between their meaning and their significance.”

“How so?”

Zakir stroked his beard. “Well, take today’s earthquake. The writings have much to say about their meaning, and they vary greatly. If the earth shakes in the month of Nisanu, there will be a revolt against the king. If in Du’uzu, the king will be exalted in the lands of his enemies. If in Tisritum, we will have a curious combination of prosperity and hostility in the land. If it occurs at night, it means devastation in the land. Oh, I could go on and on.”

“And the significance?”

“Ah, yes, the significance is much more useful. When the earth shakes, we know Nin Ur, the God of the Earth, has begun to march. So, we know which god has been moved to action. We do not know whether he is pleased or displeased—which would be the meaning of his movement—but we know he moves. That is the significance.” Zakir pushed away from the table and crossed to a stack of clay tablets beside the
Enuma Anu Enlil
.

Urdu shook his head. “But isn’t discerning his mood of most importance?”

“Why?” Zakir selected an ancient tablet near the top of the second stack and blew a layer of dust from it.

“So that we know what we should do, of course.”

“Whether he is pleased or displeased does not change our response. In either case, we appease him. If he is displeased, we appease to assuage his anger. If he is pleased, we appease to bolster his good graces. Appeasement is always the key. Then, who knows? Maybe he will hear and relent in his evil intent, or increase his good intent.”

Zakir squinted at the tablet.

“What do you have?” Urdu frowned at the brick of dried mud.

The elder astrologer brought the tablet to the table. He eased it down and brushed the remaining dust from its surface. As the writing became clearer, Urdu creased his brow. He had never seen symbols like these, nor had he observed a tablet with its contents organized in such a fashion. The nameless scribe of a distant age who pressed his stylus to this clay had separated the surface into three parallel columns. Each column was divided into several rows, which formed blocks into which symbols were grouped. Centered at the top of each block were two large symbols. Urdu noted the glyphs were repeated in successive blocks, but in different combinations. Beneath the dual-symbol headings, several more markings appeared, grouped in rows reading right to left.

“Master?” Urdu glanced at his mentor.

Zakir’s face was set, his eyes intent. He traced his finger down the center column, then stopped four blocks from the top. He nodded and looked up at Urdu.

“This is the Chart of the Gods. It has been long since I have consulted it.”

“I don’t recognize the writing.”

“It is very old. Let me explain. These symbols represent the principal gods of the ancient order.” He pointed to the large markings at the top of the first block. “The sign in each block reveals the relationship of the gods whose symbols are paired at the top. This is an early symbol for the sun god, Shamash. Paired with him in this block is the King of the Gods, Ashur.”

Urdu nodded his head. “I see. I think I understand what you’re saying. The dimming of Sin by itself was not sufficient to discern any meaning.”

“Significance, not meaning.” Zakir held his finger up to accent his point, but kept his gaze on the tablet.

“Significance, then.” Urdu rolled his eyes.

“Words are important, boy. Use them well.” Zakir’s tone teased, but his face betrayed no levity.

Urdu continued. “The earthquake by itself, although more disturbing, was also a single sign. Am I right that one of these blocks is dedicated to the Sin—Nin Ur relationship, and by that we might be able to determine what the two omens together might mean—I mean, signify?”

Zakir smiled without looking up. “I knew there was a good reason I chose you among all the other apprentice candidates.” He pointed back to the fourth row in the second column. “Here they are.”

Urdu crowded Zakir’s shoulder. “What does it say?”

The old astrologer squinted. “It has been long since I’ve read these symbols. Let me see . . . Sin, among the luminaries, is closest to Nin Ur, the Earth. He is perceived here as a nephew, of sorts. This symbol means ‘good’ and indicates that they are close.” He straightened and stretched his stiff back.

“So, what does that mean?”

Zakir raised his eyebrow.

Urdu sighed. “Signify.”

Zakir buried his smile behind a sniff. “Most of the writings that identify a close relationship between two gods or goddesses imply concurrent activity is significant—more significant than deities who have no close relationship, but less significant that those who are at odds, noted by the ‘bad’ sign . . . here.” He pointed to a block several rows down the tablet. “This is the block for Ishtar and her sister, Ereshkigal, the Goddess of the Underworld. Very bad blood there.”

“Why is ‘bad’ more significant?”

Zakir glanced at his apprentice. “More dangerous than collusion among the gods is war among them.”

Urdu thought for a moment. “So, what do we do?”

“The significance, in counsel with our brother seers and their observations, should lead us to the meaning.” Zakir tapped the surface of the tablet. “We have enough now to report to the court. The earthquake will have King Adad-nirari’s attention. He needs to know of Sin’s involvement. We cannot ignore the ancient record.”

Urdu smiled at his mentor. “But I thought you didn’t trust the writings.”

Zakir shrugged and returned the smile. “Well, we must start somewhere, must we not?”