Word Fulfilled, The (2 page)

Ancient Mesopotamian days were divided into twelve “hours.” The First Hour began at sunset. Below is an approximate chart of hours as they pertain to this story.

Prologue

The Jezreel Valley

841
b.c.

and and pebbles underfoot crunched as they circled on the riverbank. Abim gripped his sword and prayed the enemy soldier wouldn’t notice his hand shake or his whitened knuckles. The Israelite was taller but appeared close to him in age, as neither of their beards had filled in. Like his own tunic, the warrior’s showed no blood or damage of battle; the hollow look born of taking another man’s life had not yet clouded his face.

The din of the fierce battle—the screams of the wounded and dying, the clash of sword upon spear—dimmed to a fuzzy echo. The rumble of horses’ hooves and hiss of arrows—sounds that obsessed him only moments ago—now huddled in the recesses of his mind. Only two people filled his world: his opponent and himself.

True to his training, Abim focused on the Hebrew’s shoulders. An attacker’s face could deceive, his head feint, his eyes intimidate. But a dip of the torso or a twist of the neck would betray an attack. So he watched. He waited. And they circled.

Abim was among the new conscripts at the rear of the Assyrian column when the Israelites attacked. The enemy charge ripped through the center of the formation and severed them from their leadership. The untried soldiers broke ranks and scattered southeast through the valley, the only way open to them. Weapons clattered to the ground and were trampled, and men less swift on their feet fell with them. Dignity and honor bowed before survival.

The world shrank around Abim as he raced along the river. It became the wet gravel under his feet, the fallen logs he vaulted, the boulders he skirted. He hurdled a downed soldier, only to be overtaken by another warrior who shouldered him aside. The young Assyrian didn’t know which way to go . . . only that he must flee. Although his heart pounded against his chest and his lungs threatened to burst, he was certain he could have run until he reached his home in Nineveh.

He turned a bend in the river and a barrage of screams shattered his thoughts. He skidded to a halt. The swarm of retreating soldiers had run into an enemy force hidden among the rocks and trees along the hillside. The Hebrews pounced and slaughtered the recruits in their tracks. Time came to a standstill. Abim gaped at the carnage piling up along the river before him. Only when an arrow embedded itself in a fallen tree by his side did his trance break. He wheeled and raced back up the valley the direction he came. He knew the enemy was ahead, but they were also behind. There were few choices.

He collided with the Israelite soldier when he rounded a rock outcropping. Stunned, they fumbled their weapons and toppled to the ground. His heart in his throat, he groped for his sword and scrambled to his feet just as the Hebrew regained his stance. They crouched and brandished their weapons only a few paces apart. Abim’s pulse pounded in his ears and his vision tunneled. Aside from training, this was his first taste of combat since being forced into King Shalmaneser’s army.

Skill in the art of war had always eluded Abim’s intuition. The sword never settled well in his grasp, and the spear fit worse. His apprenticeship as an artisan had done nothing to imbue a warrior’s heart in him, and army life, with its grit and austerity, held little attraction. But here he was, and this day’s end would see if he would ever mix pigments for his beloved pottery again.

Neither man made the first move. Abim’s eyes flicked to the Hebrew’s face. The soldier looked no more sure of himself than Abim felt. His eyes were glazed, his jaw clenched in the same taut lines. Abim wondered if his own face was as pale as the Hebrew’s.

A twitch in his adversary’s eyes broke Abim’s concentration. Then the Hebrew did what Abim least expected. He abandoned his defensive crouch and pulled himself erect. Abim searched the man’s face, but he detected no guile, no trap. Abim hesitated, then straightened to match the Hebrew’s stance.

When the Israelite lowered his sword, Abim knit his brow. Was that a smile turning the corners of the Hebrew’s mouth? He lowered his own weapon, when he thought he heard a chuckle. The Israelite shrugged and laughed. He actually laughed! Despite his shock, Abim found himself unable to subdue a return smile. This was ludicrous; he knew it. Terror raged around them and the two enemies looked at each other with silly grins. The fearsome enemy that was the Israelite evaporated to reveal an ordinary man—one apparently with a sense of irony. It occurred to Abim that the young man opposite him wanted to live as much as he did. The hope in Abim fancied a refinement in the Israelite’s mien. Maybe he even liked pottery.

The smiles faded, replaced by awkwardness. The Israelite gestured with his free hand. Abim shook his head. The Hebrew frowned and looked down, apparently at a loss. Suddenly, he raised his head and began to speak. An arrow tore through Abim’s rib cage at the Israelite’s first word.

The thin shaft radiated a bolt of searing pain through his abdomen, followed by a numbness that gripped his body. Wide-eyed, Abim dropped to his knees. His sword tipped from his hand and clattered onto the gravel. Through his stupor, he fingered the feathered notch that protruded from his side, as though not convinced it was real. He stared at a crimson stain that blossomed onto his tunic. His body stiffened, and his shoulders began to sag.

A pair of strong hands grasped his shoulders. The Hebrew knelt, easing Abim to the ground. His vision narrowed, and his breath chopped to short gasps. He reached under his tunic and tugged at a leather thong around his neck. The garment shifted to reveal a gold medallion clutched in the dying man’s hand. Too weak to pull it over his head, Abim thrust the amulet toward the enemy soldier. The Hebrew’s eyes widened, but he didn’t move. Abim pushed the pendant into the Israelite’s chest. Imploring the man with a final look, the young Assyrian laid his head back and died.

Stunned, the Israelite sat back in the wet gravel. His eyes welled up at the wasted young life, even if it was Assyrian. He turned the amulet over in his hand and stared at it. An ornate
menorah
etched into the polished surface gleamed in the midday sun. He shook his head. What was an Assyrian soldier doing with a priceless Hebrew heirloom? The man looked too young, too new to battle, to have spoils from a previous conflict. He looked back at his former adversary’s face but met only a frozen stare. He eased the medallion over the fallen soldier’s head, then brushed the man’s lifeless eyes closed with his fingers. The Israelite looped the thong over his own head and tucked the pendant beneath his shirt.

He retrieved the Assyrian’s sword and laid it across his chest. With a nod of respect, he picked up his own weapon and rose to his feet. He turned upstream and skirted a still pool of water trapped on the riverside by a low sandbar. It was there the Assyrian arrow found its mark at the center of his chest. His eyes bulged, and he crumpled into the dark pool. He was dead before the water settled around his body.

Lll

PART ONE

So Jonah arose,

and went unto Nineveh,

according to the word of the L
ord
.

J
onah
3:3

One

Nineveh, the Temple of Ishtar

Second Day of Šabatu

786
b.c.

pungent haze of incense swirled about the lithe form of the young girl as she swayed to the monotonic chant of the temple priestesses. The primal throb of ceremonial drums and pop of tambourines, the tinkling of belled instruments and the hollow cooing of reed and clay pipes caressed her ears. She submerged herself in an atmosphere bloated with sound, smell, and sight.

A sheen of tears thickened and blurred her vision, birthing tears that spilled over the thick kohl lining beneath her dark almond eyes. Briny drops traced gray rivulets over cheeks stained with henna and powdered with ochre. Some droplets curled around the contours of her half-parted lips; others glistened on the tip of her tongue, where their muskiness assailed her taste. Charcoal smoke and incense fumes squeezed her throat and convulsed her chest. Her violated lungs fought for air and her brain slowly surrendered to the hypnotic effect of the frankincense and myrrh clouding the cella of Ishtar’s temple.

Ianna reveled in her coming-of-age ritual. She and her sister initiates rocked and dipped to the mantra of the
naditu
priestesses paying homage to the Mother Goddess.

Praise the goddess, the most awesome of goddesses.

Let one revere the mistress of the peoples, the greatest of the Igigi.

Praise Ishtar, the most awesome of the goddesses.

Let us revere the queen of women, the greatest of the Igigi.

This was the day the young beauty had awaited for so long. Today, the only daughter of a prominent Ninevite family crossed the threshold into womanhood. As they became marriageable, young women across the land gathered under the tutelage of Ishtar’s priestesses and gave themselves in sacred ritual to the Goddess of Fertility, Love, and War. After the ceremony, each would remain at the temple until a random traveler through the city selected her as a carnal partner. He would pay for the encounter, but she would accept his proposition regardless of the price, for it was the spiritual aspect of the rite that was important. Besides, the money went not to her, but to the temple and into the service of the adored goddess.

The young initiate was fortunate in her extraordinary beauty. Her time at the temple would be brief, perhaps only a night or two. Others less comely could look forward to a longer stay, indeed some waiting weeks or even months to catch an eye. After their inaugural night in a man’s arms, a few would remain at the temple to become
qadishtu
and
ishtaritu
, priestesses and sacred prostitutes, destined to remain unmarried and childless in dedication to the Mother Goddess. Few alumni of the ritual, though, aspired to that level of devotion. Most would return home, marry and bear children, as Ianna knew she would.

For now, though, the temple ceremony was everything she dreamed it would be. Through her daze, she became aware of priestesses who specialized in ceremonial dance and song joining the festivities. They mingled with the novice devotees and, almost as a single organism, undulated their oiled and painted bodies with the swell and ebb of the music.

She is clothed in pleasure and love.

She is laden with vitality, charm, and voluptuousness.

Ishtar is clothed in pleasure and love.

She is laden with vitality, charm, and voluptuousness.

The young girl’s movements slowed as her strength flagged into hypoxic lethargy. Her head swam, and her legs stiffened under the heady aromatic fumes that drugged her mind and body beyond their ability to respond. She closed her eyes, and her feet rooted themselves in place as she twisted and reeled with the musical reverberations in her ears. Finally, her oxygen-starved muscles succumbed, and she ceased all movement. Her arms settled to her sides.

In lips she is sweet; life is in her mouth.

At her appearance rejoicing becomes full.

She is glorious; veils are thrown over her head.

Her figure is beautiful; her eyes are brilliant.

Ianna didn’t know how long she stood there when she sensed a delicate touch glide up her arms to her shoulders. She lifted leaden eyelids and peered through a glassy sheen at a
naditu
. Through the thick haze, the priestess sparkled with multiple necklaces, bracelets, and rings of gold inlaid with lapis, that set off an alluring light-blue tunic. Ianna tried to speak, but her lips, now encrusted with half-dried ochre, tears, and sweat, failed her. The priestess only shook her head and slid her fingertips back down the young girl’s arms. Ianna lost focus, and the
naditu’s
painted face began to fade. The young girl’s knees buckled. The last thing she saw was the glint in the priestess’s ebony eyes before everything went black.