Pretender

CHAPTER 10.

Another message awaited Enkidu in his cell. He brought it out happily, anxious to distract his mind from the ominous interview earlier in the day.

I DID NOT BELIEVE YOU COULD BE WHAT YOU CLAIMED. IT WAS TOO OBVIOUS—ANOTHER PRETENDER APPEARING AT THE VERY TIME I WAS CONFINED, AND IN THE VERY NEXT CELL. ONE WHO COULD READ, AND WHO HAD THE INITIATIVE AND CAPABILITY TO BREAK THROUGH THE WALL. I KNEW IT HAD TO BE AN AGENT ASSIGNED TO TEST MY RECANTAL, AND ONLY ONE PERSON WOULD SPONSOR SUCH A THING, AND THAT PERSON NOT A MEMBER OF THE NAMELESS TEMPLE. SARGAN WOULD NEVER OPERATE THAT WAY, OR PERMIT IT IF HE KNEW. BUT THIS OTHER PERSON WANTS TO PROVE MY RECANTAL FALSE, SO THAT I MUST BE TORTURED AND SOLD AS A SLAVE…

And as the tablets were exchanged the next two days, Enkidu learned the story of Amys.

Her grandmother had been eighteen when her city of Jerusalem fell the second time to Nebuchadnezzar, and its inhabitants exiled to Babylon. Amys’ mother had tried to instill the Hebrew faith in Amys despite her people’s captivity. She told her the ancient stories of Abraham and Isaac, of Jacob, Joseph, Moses, Joshua and David; the prophets of Yahweh, or Adonai, the Israelites’ god.

But what set Amys’ pulses racing were the tales that her merchant father, a Babylonian, told her of the city’s ancient gods. He smiled indulgently when her mother took her to an improvised meeting center in a shabby house near the Kebar where there was endless talk of Adonai and of prophets and wishful prophecies of future deliverance of the Hebrews from their bondage in Babylon. Next day he took her to Etemenanki.

He led her up the steps built against the massive ziggurat’s side, past the white, black and red stories—each seven or eight times the height of a man!—until they came to the half-way point and rested on the flat terrace provided for that purpose. “At the top,” he told her as she flopped exhausted on the marble bench, “is the great temple of the gods. Inside that temple stands a mighty couch with a golden table by its side. This is the couch of Marduk, ruler of the gods, and at the moment the new year begins he comes to that couch and unites with the beautiful maiden awaiting him from Ishtar’s temple. Thus is the new year conceived…”

But her father died unexpectedly. Amys’ mother was sold to a minor functionary whose star was rising in an obscure mystery sect.

Her new father was a strong, severe man, far more strict in his standards than ever the old had been. Amys did not like him. He never gave her sweetmeats or pretty things to wear, nor did he keep her spellbound with fabulous stories of ancient heroes. She dreamed fervently of the magic world spread before her by her natural father: the tales of Babylon in its ancient splendor, a dream-city more wondrous than any. She dreamed of Gilgamesh, whose home city she had heard was Uruk, but which in truth must have been Babylon.

As she grew older she pictured Gilgamesh in some detail: towering hero-king, two-thirds a god by birth, so powerful no man could match him in combat. Gilgamesh, who unwittingly inspired the love of the goddess of love herself, Ishtar…

She bared her snowy limbs in a forest glade beside a bubbling crystal pool where sweet hyacinth and roses bloomed, where goldfinches, green-plumed parrots and gorgeous herons flew, where woodchuck and wild deer browsed. Queen of the gods, Ishtar waited with all her charms for the approach of Gilgamesh. And the hero came, innocently hunting game, seeking only to quench his thirst—and spied her in rare loveliness.

And then did she blush all over her body, and wrought about herself her golden locks as though from modesty. “Thou seest only Nature’s robes,” she said, hurling at him a sultry glance as she bounded into the cool water. But in a moment she came again to land and spread her limbs, that her handmaiden might brush the moisture from her and clothe her in fine raiment, while Gilgamesh watched in rapt surprise.

“Come, Zir-ru,” he said, mistaking her for a waternymph. “I will please thee with a mortal’s love thou has not known before.” And the comely queen accepted his hand and lay with him amid the reeds and fondly placed her arms about him… while above, the spirits of the earth and forest flew, singing of the wedding of the Queen of Love and the King of War.

Alas, Gilgamesh overheard. “Have I embraced a god?” he cried, springing up in alarm. She nodded, laughing at his horror. He ran from her and fled to his home city, for this thing was forbidden.

Oh, to be a goddess, Amys thought, for now she had some inkling of what a goddess might do with a handsome man. Oh, to smite the mortal hero with longing!

So it wasn’t entirely unconscious, Enkidu thought, looking up from the tablet. Women did like to entice men!

Ishtar, unrequited, visited her lord Gilgamesh that night as he lay sleeping upon his jeweled couch, the silken purple canopy hanging about his bed in royal folds. Over his imagination she cast a spell, and nestled in his arms as she had done in the wood, and moved her face to his—but dared not kiss his lips lest he awake.

Overcome at last with longing, she rested her head upon his breast and kissed him—once. In wild ecstasy he woke and clasped her burning form. But she faded and hid from him, fearing his fury were he to learn the truth. She pretended to be a maid of the palace, and left him to wonder at the fragrant perfume that lingered.

In this manner did Amyitis dream as she developed into young womanhood—but she did not share her fancies with her stern stepfather. Yet the man did not neglect her education. When he saw that the child was intelligent he undertook to train her to read and write himself, for he was literate. Though she was but a lowborn girl, he instilled in her the skills becoming a highborn woman. As she grew and came to know him well she realized that this stern man was actually giving her far more of himself than had her original father. Sweets and tales of adventure were fun, but education was invaluable.

Her stepfather finally taught her to worship his own god, for he was now high in the councils of the nameless temple. Gradually she came to understand this god Aten and to relegate to the world of heathen myth her foolish dreams. Aten was a far more select god than the materialistic idols of Babylon, and his worship was so privileged that no outsider was permitted even to know his name. Her belief in Aten became absolute.

Enkidu almost dropped the tablet. Aten was worshiped in the nameless temple? By Amalek? By Sargan himself? Those who had cursed his name, who were trying to force Enkidu to recant his belief in Aten?

He shook his head. He would have to think about that later.

Amys, now a young woman with uncut tresses and uncommon grace, presently became a disciple of Aten. She knew the catechisms well and waited only for the death of a Chosen one to take the vow of the Chosen herself.

She was seventeen when such a vacancy occurred. She became a formal candidate as soon as the mourning was over.

As part of her apprenticeship she was taken to see the nether regions of the temple. There for the first time she learned of the pretenders: men and women held prisoner for their sacrilege of professing to worship Aten. She saw the torture chamber. She watched in horror as Dishon poured boiling oil on the belly of a bound man—a man who screamed continuously for the aid of Aten until his gag, which had slipped off, could be replaced.

Shocked, Amys renounced Aten. “No true god of mercy could permit such evil, let alone sponsor it!” she swore. And her stepfather’s face turned slowly ashen as her words of bitterness and renunciation poured out. He had thought she understood…

But to renounce the god in words was one thing; to obliterate the faith built up over the years was quite another. She had spoken words that must forever cast her out from the company of those worthy of worshiping Aten; therefore her faith must be forever expunged. Amys herself became a pretender.

She was especially dangerous because she knew Aten’s name and his ritual, and could easily backslide into imperfect worship unless forced to utter recantal. There could be no halfway measures when the integrity of Aten was concerned. The priests had to be sure of a candidate’s absolute belief, or his absolute disbelief. For Aten was more than a god of temporal regions; he cared for the spirits of his worshipers after their bodies died. The worshipers of other gods had to wander the earth as invisible demons, miserable and destructive. Aten’s additional responsibilities were great, and the priests of his nameless temple labored dutifully to ensure that he was not overtaxed by the spirits of the unworthy.

“But torture is not necessary!” Enkidu protested by stylus. “They can just bar pretenders.”

But it was the inner faith that counted with Aten, not the outer profession. The spirit of a true believer, even one not conversant with the formal ritual, would have claim on the god. There was enormous power in a name, and even more in faith. Since it was not possible, in the present state of the art, to remove a name from memory, it was necessary instead to break the faith. A man who recanted under torture was unlikely to backslide soon, and in time he might forget Aten, or at least find other interests.

Enkidu was coming to understand the mysteries of the temple. These priests were not the evil genii they had seemed. They had reason for their actions. He found that he did not wholly disapprove. He had himself noted the corrupting effect of largeness, or power. Look at Marduk! A religion was only as good as its membership, and a good god was wasted on poor worshipers. The only sure standard of faith was an absolute one. Certainly Aten must not be diluted.

“But how can you defend torture?” Amys demanded. “Aten is benign!”

And there was the pith of that palm. If Aten were kind, if Aten were merciful—could he sponsor the inflicting of unbearable pain? Could Enkidu himself worship a god whose priesthood employed torture in an attempt to abolish that worship? The object was valid; the purity of the religious body had to be preserved. But how terrible the means! He could not subscribe to both, since he faced that torture himself.

Strange inversion, NK-2 thought. First the natives made a religion of the galactic Station A-10; then they tried to prevent other natives from joining. Probably the galactic representative had become aware of what was happening and acted to correct it—and only succeeded in complicating the problem. Mismanagement there, that would bear investigation.

He knew now, from two sources, that this was A-10. But he had encountered only the enemy penumbra. Could the enemy have taken over the galactic station? Then what had happened to the legitimate representative?

Caution, caution, caution!

As a girl first blooming into beauty, Amyitis had attracted the notice of a wealthy trader and slave-dealer who lived in a neighboring house. This merchant, Gabatha, undertook to purchase the young girl for his personal use.

Here the moral fiber of her foster father balked the merchant. The girl was free, his ward, and a disciple of the nameless temple. Under no circumstance would he permit her to be subjected to the degradations of slavery. If Gabatha desired any further business with the temple, he would take care never to mention this matter again.

The paunchy merchant did desire the business, and he well knew which man he could coerce and which he could not. But young Amys felt his porcine eyes upon her, glowing internally, every time she stepped out of the red door of her house. She knew that there was desire in lesser men than Gilgamesh, that burned as strong.

One day she was chaffering near the clamorous docks, as her mother had done in the years before. She had just purchased several large crayfish from a hawker and had set down the earthen jar she had brought balanced on her head, ready to place the crayfish within. The jar was half filled with water, to keep them alive until she could get them home. The last one was by far the largest, and she was absorbed in the task of trying to fit it into the small opening while keeping her fingers clear of the wicked pincers—when she found herself abruptly face to face with the merchant Gabatha.

She was fourteen and wore no veil. More than one man had turned in silent homage at her passing, and though her face remained serene under the tall jar she took a certain pride in such glances. Now she wished she were ugly.

Gabatha moved with surprising swiftness in spite of his girth. One jeweled hand closed over her wrist cruelly as he jerked her forward. The jar fell on its side, its water gurgling out.

“Ah, flutter your pretty wings, my butterfly!” he exulted as she fought vainly to pull free. “You are about to be treated to a signal honor.”

Amys knew that somewhat more than this gross embrace would be forced on her unless she escaped immediately. But the rings on his black-nailed fingers bit into the flesh of her arm, viselike. She screamed as he caught her other hand and dragged her swiftly into a dreary fish-smelling alley. Gabatha stunned her with a back-handed cuff across the side of her neck, and pinioned her hand again. He was expert at this sort of thing. In the noise and confusion of the hawkers no one heeded her scream. Gabatha backed her against the wall and pinned her there with one knee in her belly as his sweaty hands tore into her light tunic.

“You will have my father to answer to for this!” Amys gasped, still trying to fight him off. “He will have your eyes!”

Gabatha brought up one forearm and pressed her neck relentlessly to the wall. He ripped out an oath of shocking vulgarity. Then he lowered his knee, laughing nastily. “A pious hypocrite—and most un-neighborly. He never fooled me for an instant with all his noble talk. It will be my pleasure to share his pleasure this day.”

Amys tried to scream again, but she could not breathe. She tried to move, but managed only to snatch a breath of air. Then his elbow ground in again and his sour breath was in her face as he savored his coming pleasure while rationing her supply of air.

Then his fingers ripped her tunic and clawed at her breast. He was savoring her rising panic at the realization that she could not hope to resist him.

Amys fought down her terror. Something moved in her hand. She was still clutching the crayfish.

Through a wave of blackness she saw Gabatha’s fat face close in on her, its flabby lips dripping with spittle. She gathered all her failing forces, bent her elbow, and rammed the crayfish at the side of his face.

Gabatha dodged automatically. His elbow moved just enough to allow her to slip out from under. But he spun about, closing a hand about her throat, holding her painfully.

He now stood between her and the wall, chuckling at her efforts. He was, if anything, enjoying this more than if she had not struggled at all. Again she rammed the crayfish into his face. He tried to dodge his head again, but crashed it into the wall behind. The outsize claws of the huge crayfish spread wide, then closed reflexively.

Gabatha screeched and clawed wildly at the thing that now hung from his face.

Amys pulled her ripped tunic about her and ran for home. But that was not quite the end of it.

Several days later her stepfather paid the merchant a call. Amys had told her father nothing, but somehow he knew.

Gabatha’s face was flushed, and a great bandage covered one eye. He tapped it furiously, not waiting for his visitor to speak. “Your slave-slut—my eye—I demand—” He was scarcely able to speak intelligibly, so great was his wrath.

“I have heard about your accident,” the visitor informed the merchant coldly. “I extend my condolences over your misfortune. Of course I do not for a moment believe the foul tale whispered among slaves that a certain disreputable merchant attempted to overcome an innocent maiden in the market place—”

The blubbery lips gaped open, making no sound.

“Nor that she defended herself by striking out his eye with the claw of a crayfish. But I am bound to make this statement: were any man so base as to attempt to impose so on my daughter, I would feel obliged to remove from his countenance, with certain instruments at my command, his other eye.”

The merchant stepped back, comprehending the threat.

“But first, in leisurely fashion, his tongue, his ears, the fingers of his hands…”

The merchant slammed the door.

YOU THOUGHT I WAS GABATHA? Enkidu inquired, now comprehending the cryptic reference to crayfish in Amys’ first message. BUT WHAT WOULD HE BE DOING IN THE NAMELESS TEMPLE?

Amys believed that Sargan after satisfying himself that her recantal was genuine and complete would sell her into slavery. This would destroy her self-respect, and help prevent her from aspiring to worship Aten again. If she died soon in that servitude, so much the better. That meant Gabatha.

BUT GABATHA’S AGENT WOULD NEVER HAVE ALLOWED ME TO DIE. HIS REVENGE IS TOO IMPORTANT TO HIM. AND SARGAN WOULD NOT HAVE ALLOWED IT EITHER, LEST MY SPIRIT BURDEN ATEN. WHEN I TOLD YOU I WORSHIPED ATEN, AND THAT DAY PASSED, AND NOTHING HAPPENED, I KNEW THAT YOU WERE NO SPY. AND I WAS CHAGRINED—No reason for that! he protested generously. She had no way of knowing—ISHTAR NEVER TREATED GILGAMESH WORSE THAN I TREATED YOU, she insisted.

That was an unfortunate parallel, as it reminded him of his Ishtar bracelet and the way Tamar had called him Tammuz. I AM NO GILGAMESH, he protested. I AM NOT EVEN ENKIDU, THE HERO-COMPANION TO GILGAMESH. I AM ONLY ENKIDU’S NAMESAKE, AN UNCLEVER MORTAL IN THE SHADOW OF HIS NAME. There were so many legends about the legendary Enkidu, all embarrassing now.

Her reply was terse.

YOU ARE GILGAMESH TO ME.