Pretender

CHAPTER 13.

It was the morning of the start of the Harvest Festival, but Sargan sat beside the water-clock without pleasure. He had kept vigil here since dawn, staring into the sparkling pictures and looking for the sign from Aten that did not come. The sign that he need not do what he knew he must do: be executioner to the living spirit of his daughter. In the name of Aten.

Amalek had arrived periodically with reports: more of Cyrus’ army was camped outside the walls of Babylon, to the north, but no one in the city knew what they were doing out there. The women were gathering at the temple of Ishtar to absorb the harangue of the ambitious priestess Tamar. The pretender had undergone the first inflicting of oil, and the second, moaning and retching within his gag but never making the signal of recantal. And Amyitis—forgotten be her name!—was to be heard sobbing in her cell. Things were proceeding, but nothing was going well.

How could he forget the lovely child, the butterfly, that had brightened his somber days? The regime of the temple was often harsh, but she had been his joy when he went home. That child had grown to an exceedingly comely young woman—a woman Aten himself should have been proud to number among his chosen.

If only he had shown the good judgment to leave the child to her happy heathenhood! She could have lived out a good life as wife to some upright citizen—not a priest, not a merchant, no!—some soldier or scribe. She would at this moment be free.

Instead his touch, his teachings, intended to exalt her to eternal life, had withered her joy in a dark, unwholesome cell. He, Sargan, had done this to her.

Yet did not a part of the blame attach to her? Soon she would have been admitted to fellowship in the nameless temple. Then she could have profaned the name of Aten with impunity, since the duty of loyal members was to discourage belief in their god only in outsiders. Sargan himself had profaned Aten many times when interrogating pretenders.

But her exclamation, coming as it did before her final confirmation, had been the ultimate in ill timing. It had betrayed the fatal insecurity of her faith, at a moment when she was still vulnerable. To admit her to fellowship after this heresy would have been a gross breach of his responsibility to Aten. His only recourse had been to try to undo, at any cost, what had been done; to reject her as a candidate, thus forcing her into the status of pretender. To secure a recantal, and then…

“Show me your will, my god,” he prayed to the wall, while the clock dripped beside him. “The hour of decision is at hand. All that I have labored for is in peril. I know not which way to turn. How may your temple be saved? Is it your will that I do to my daughter what I must do? Show me your will, I implore you.”

If there were an answer, he could not fathom it.

“In all ways I have labored to honor your name,” he continued. “To your service I have dedicated my life. There is nothing I would not do for you; there is no sacrifice I would not make…” He paused.

Was he really prepared to sacrifice his daughter? “Only show me your will, Aten, and it shall be done. Show me your will.”

Tears coursed down his face as he stared into the wall. But Aten gave no sign.

“Do not turn from me, my god. If I have offended you, if I have wronged you in any way, show me the nature of my neglect and I will make it right again. My life is yours. Grant me your presence, Aten; without you I cannot live…”

Yet how could a man live with himself, if he delivered his daughter into the hands of Dishon or the likes of Gabatha?

Aten withheld his presence.

It was a long vigil for NK-2, too. He could not reenter his primary host during the physical and emotional stress of torture, yet he was gaining nothing here. Both he and this Sargan-host were helpless until the pretender recanted.

Strange that the girl had helped Enkidu make the necessary decision. If this were a device of the enemy, it was remarkably subtle. Could she be host instead to a friend: the galactic representative? Somehow stripped of his penumbra and helpless? Or was that what NK-2 was meant to think?

Show me your presence, A-10…

The idea struck Sargan quite suddenly. He sat very still and thought about it carefully. Presently he rose, paced the floor, and thought some more. He was so absorbed that he almost bumped into Amalek coming in.

Amalek said: “The pretender is ready to recant.”

Sargan scarcely heard him. “I have the answer!” he cried. “Thank Aten, I have the answer at last!”

But he knew in his spleen that the answer had come not from Aten, but from the depths of his own despair. “Amyitis can be spared… Listen.”

Aten had withheld his presence. So be it, then. Sargan outlined to Amalek the answer he had found within himself.

Amalek listened—and remained silent.

“Well?” Sargan prompted at last. “Is this way not better?”

Amalek was doubtful. His black brows knotted. “No such disposition of a pretender has ever been tried. How could it possibly work? Even if you were successful from day to day, still everything—everything!—would depend on whether she cleaved to her recantation. Should she backslide, should she even temporize…”

Sargan brushed this aside. “I would stand warrant for her. It would not be a perfect solution—there is no perfect solution! It would be hard on her, and hard on me. But it would spare her the worst.” Then, as if to forestall any further objection Amalek might make: “Bring this pretender to me. When the business with him is settled I will write out the necessary papers, then release my daughter myself.”

Alone once more, Sargan paused to offer a prayer of thanks to the god, though distressed that he remained excluded from Aten’s presence. He brought a purse from his robe and laid it on the table beside him; it was heavy with silver. He waited.

The pretender was pale and unsteady, his torn tunic filthy. He had to be supported by the sweating Dishon, who still wore his gauntlets. Strange that the torturemaster never suffered himself to touch or be touched, skin to skin!

There was no visible mark on the pretender, but Sargan knew that there would be great red welts on his belly, and that every breath the subject took was excruciating. He was disappointed, almost, that the man had proved in the end to be so weak; he had succumbed in less than half a day. Even though this recantal came barely in time to foil the Ishtaritu raid! Sargan winced at the remembrance that he had pondered this man even for an instant as candidate material. Well, the torture room separated out the real beliefs from the superficial. The pretender’s expressions on Aten in the earlier interviews had been remarkably clear and forthright. This was a man Sargan might have judged fit to wed his own daughter, had things fallen otherwise. A lucid, honest scribe… but now he stood revealed as a weakling.

The thought of the girl was like the touch of a red-hot iron. He suppressed it and proceeded immediately to business. “Pretender, do you hereby recant your idolatrous belief in the god Aten, and swear never to utter that name, never to worship that god, never to direct any prayer to him in public or in secret, so long as you may live?”

Enkidu nodded wearily. “I never worshiped an idol, so it wasn’t idolatrous. Nevertheless I recant.”

“Are you prepared to fix your seal to a statement to this effect?”

“My seal was taken.”

Sargan fumbled in a pocket sewn into his tunic. Two seals were there. He brought out the pretender’s and set it on the table. “I am pleased that we have been able to save your spirit from the degradation of such a belief,” Sargan said, though he found in himself only a ponderous sadness. “Dishon—take this man to the fountain and bathe and dress him suitably.”

Actually, the lamp-bearer would do the job under Dishon’s supervision, for the torturemaster never soiled his hands on mundane tasks. Sometimes Sargan wondered who really ran the nameless temple: himself or the eunuch.

Amalek wrote up the document, using Egyptian papyrus and script according to temple tradition.

Sargan knew he should be glad to have this business finished. But he still could not feel Aten’s presence. The forms had been observed, the recantal had been secured. The raid of the Ishtar zealots was being foiled, and the nameless temple would be preserved sacrosanct. And Amyitis would not go to the merchant of lust.

Yet Sargan felt, quite illogically, as though he had been party to some monstrous evil.

Was this really Aten’s will? If Aten had wanted the pretender to recant, why hadn’t he arranged for this before the brutal business of torture became necessary? Why didn’t he arrange for all pretenders to capitulate so early, so that the persuasion chamber could be discontinued entirely? Surely Aten, in his grace and mercy, could not desire the infliction of pain on any person, even a pretender. Especially a pretender!

Strange were the ways of a god. Aten, the benign, yet required torture at his temple—while Ishtar, most fickle and indifferent of goddesses, sponsored in her temple the ultimate joys of union. Could a mortal ever really comprehend the true nature of divinity?

NK-2 tried again to return to the primary host, but there was still an impassable barrier of agony, both physical and mental. Transfer was impossible in such a storm. But this would surely pass within a few hours—and it would be easier when this alternate host relaxed, too.

Enkidu returned. The filth had been washed from his body and face, much improving his appearance. He was now a handsome young man in a plain but clean tunic and serviceable sandals.

Amalek presented the papyrus document; the recanter, a scribe himself, studied it. He obviously was not well versed in this form of writing, for his brow furrowed in perplexity. “But this is only a disclaimer of Aten!”

“As represented,” Sargan said.

“Don’t you want me to confess also to theft, unclean living, association with demons—?”

Oh. The ordinary man, in confessing his sins to a priest, habitually admitted to far more than he was actually guilty of, since it was better to be absolved for too much than for too little. This was an interesting insight into the pretender’s origins—and perhaps into his assessment of this temple!

“This is not a confession, but a recantal,” Sargan said. “Once you renounce Aten you may go to an established priest of the god you select to worship, and confess to him whatever you desire. There would be no point in confessing to Aten, since he is not your god.”

The man nodded, comprehending. He took his seal from the table, looked at it, then stared at the document, nonplussed. The seal could not be used on papyrus, obviously.

“You are a scribe,” Amalek murmured. “Surely you have also a quill-signature?”

“Yes.” Awkwardly the recanter signed.

“To which god will you now repair?” Sargan inquired, touching the purse on the table.

“Ishtar.”

Of course. The whore-priestess had married him! The recanter certainly did not look like a giant in lust—but it was never possible to tell. It would be an interesting reunion!

“Ishtar’s characteristic number is fifteen. The nameless temple therefore provides you with fifteen shekels for your severance.” Sargan counted them out. “We give you also a certificate of your freedom. You are no longer a slave.”

Enkidu straightened. “I did not recant for money!” he said angrily. “I recanted because your god betrayed me.”

“My god?”

The young man seemed to reconsider. “You have taken him from me; he is therefore yours. I was also not a slave. You bought me illegally.”

“We purchased you for the good of your spirit,” Sargan said, and hated the lie. “It was according to the laws and practices of this city. And you are free now. May you discover fulfillment in Ishtar.”

“Show me the way out,” Enkidu said.

Amalek moved to guide him. “Take up your silver and your certificate. The nameless temple bears you no ill will, and would not deny you what is yours,” he said.

“I will take neither!” the recanter exclaimed. “Nor do I want your good will.”

Sargan stared at him curiously from behind his cowl. “But it is our custom. You must accept these things.”

Enkidu stepped forward and swept coins and paper to the floor. “You did not buy my god from me!” he shouted. “You showed me your nature, and through yours, his. You helped my unbelief. And now I know what you do not: Aten is a false god, a hypocrite of a god, a god no man of integrity can worship. I will not touch the tainted goods of such a monster.”

He subsided at last, his face contorted by the pain of his activity.

The recantal was genuine, then; but there were things about it that disturbed Sargan. The recanter sounded very much as though he knew that the nameless temple was of Aten, not against him.

“If Aten exists at all,” Enkidu added after a moment, “he allowed you to torture me. He was therefore acting through you. Whatever you may profess—you are his agent. He is your god, and you serve him well.”

Now Sargan understood. The recanter was trying to insult the temple by his implications; he knew nothing. Very good. “Whom, then, do you wish to have this sum?”

“Give it to your torturemaster! Let him buy gold to melt in his pots, that his art may be richer.”

Sargan ignored the irony. “So shall it be. And we shall hold the certificate until you claim it. Farewell.”

But he was sick inside as he watched the erstwhile pretender leave.

Still too stormy to transfer! Yet the primary host had been saved, and he should be safe enough for now.

It was not too early to consider how he should locate and deal with the enemy. The only time he had touched the enemy had been when Amalek approached his host in the courtroom. Yet there was nothing in Sargan’s mind and memories to suggest that the enemy controlled Amalek directly. That could be an alternate host—and NK-2 had to be certain of the primary host before taking action. Elimination of an alternate would only alert the enemy. It was the umbra, the heart of the entity, that had to be reached—either by direct invasion of the host, or by unanticipated and sudden destruction of the host.

Yet how could he act—when he himself was more vulnerable than the enemy? And if, as he suspected, the enemy’s primary host was this native girl Amyitis—how could he ever arrange his own host’s assistance in eliminating her?

Sargan reached for writing materials and began drafting out a memorandum of his intended disposition of the case of the pretender Amyitis for the temple records. He paused part way through, in growing distress.

It would be hard for the girl, for her proud spirit. She had left his house one day as Sargan’s daughter. She would return to it now as Sargan’s slave.

He would do everything possible to ease her lot. Never would he remind her of her servitude, so long as she did not pretend to worship Aten. But still it would be a very bitter lot for her.

He would have to arrange for surveillance to continue after his own death. Never must she be permitted to have further contacts with Aten’s Chosen, apart from himself or the subsequent guardian. Never could she marry or be otherwise placed outside the control of the temple, lest she secretly lapse back into belief and so regain power over Aten.

Sargan’s head throbbed painfully. It was an unhappy arrangement, perhaps an impossible one. Yet it was the only alternative to placing her into an even more terrible bondage. It would at least keep her in the custody of those who would care for her welfare. It would isolate her from Gabatha.

For how long?

Amalek had spoken truly. This whole compromise would turn upon the validity and permanence of Amyitis’ recantal. Should she ever temporize or give the slightest evidence that she harbored doubts, the arrangement would no longer be tenable. Her spirit would then have to be destroyed utterly.

On that bleak day would he have the fortitude to do what he could not do now?

His mind turned for relief to the matter of the other pretender. How was it that the man had held out so strongly while confined to his cell—only to capitulate so readily under torture? Why had not his pretender faith sustained him through as many hours of hot oil as it had through days of isolation? This was an atypical pattern.

Where was the missing factor?

Sargan put pen and papyrus aside, knowing this was only a pretext to delay the completion of the damning document, but grasping at it nevertheless. It had become his duty to find the missing information.

He paced down the dark corridors holding the lamp aloft. He hated these dank cells, the stench of their refuse, the misery of their isolated prisoners. Yet such things were necessary to spur recantal. Pampered pretenders never saw fit to change their ways. Once again he marveled at the peculiar mechanisms of the mercy of Aten…

Sargan came to the black door of his daughter’s cell. Involuntarily his fingers reached for the lower corner of the voluminous sleeve of his robe. Through the cloth he fingered the small cylinder within. But he dared not tarry, lest he lose control and cry out. He hurried on.

Next was the vacant cell Enkidu had occupied. He held the light high and stepped inside.

The interior was foul and gloomy even in the combined light of day and lamp. The floor was matted with excrement, with only a portion near the door cleared. Little comfort amid this squalor for a lonely prisoner!

Sargan brought the lamp down and studied the floor. An incredible amount of material had accumulated during the last year of intermittent use. Not all was offal—there seemed to be many fingerlengths of gravel laid over the base.

No gravel had been authorized. It would have taken a bucket-line like that of the hanging gardens to fill in this amount. The notion was ludicrous. Yet here it was.

Sargan was not stupid. Very shortly he was running his fingers over the wall surfaces, feeling for loose or faulty bricks. He found them. He pried one out and studied it thoughtfully. A loose brick resembling any other.

But why?

He removed two more, then began on the inner layer. One was somewhat larger than ordinary. He held it up to the light.

One face of the brick was covered with a shell of hardened mud formed from hair and excrement. Sargan lifted this free and discovered another face beneath. Set in this smoothed pungent surface were tiny wedge prints. Clay-writing!

I TAKE THIS WOMAN AMYITIS TO BE MY SECOND WIFE…

He noted the twin seal-replicas. This was, as far as practicable under the circumstances, a valid document. Certainly it was a statement of intent. But its significance was much greater than its overt commitment.

He stared at it in the lamp’s light for a long time, and his fingers became numb. He read and re-read the incriminating words.

…IN THE PRESENCE OF ATEN, THE MERCIFUL.

This was a worse thing than he had dared imagine.

Amyitis had backslid into belief in Aten before ever leaving her cell. Her butterfly image was on this tablet, calling on Aten to witness her marriage contract.

But even beyond that, his own daughter had given most intimate aid and comfort to this pretender.

No wonder Aten had averted his countenance!

For if Amyitis had acted with so little regard for the principles of the temple, the fault was not so much in her as in her education and selection.

Sargan had done both.

According to temple regulation, Amyitis would now have to be put to continuous torture until she recanted both the god she had sworn by and the pledge she had given the pretender. Then her person would have to be sold to the most demeaning and brutal bidder…

His daughter!

How could he put her under the weights, the burning oil, and all the rest—this butterfly child he had raised from paganism to true religion? The weights he had sought to put on her were earrings, the oil an ointment for her hair.

She was a strong-willed girl. She would never give over under duress what she had refused of her own free will. He remembered the time that obese heathen merchant had tried to make free with her… how proud he had been of her that day, when she showed her mettle unmistakably, yet never complained.

Yes. She was strong enough. The flaw had been in her tutoring. One did not condemn the crooked stone for being imperfect, but the inept stonesmith.

He paused again outside her silent door.

My daughter! My daughter!

He would never see her again.

Grimly and with infinite sadness, Sargan passed on in silence.

Amyitis host to the enemy! It made less and less sense to NK-2. She had destroyed herself, when she hadn’t had to. She could have made up another name to fool Enkidu, arranged it so that all the blame would fall on him. In effect, she had sacrificed herself while helping him go free.

She must, then, be host to a friend. But at this moment, detached as he was from his own umbra, he could not check. His penumbra was entirely taken up with the occupation of this alternate host, acting as a temporary umbra. He would have to return to his primary, recover his unity and strength, then cast out on an exploratory basis.

By that time the girl would be under torture.

Amalek was back in the cloak room.

“She must be sold today!” Sargan said abruptly as he entered. “Delay only long enough to make her presentable.”

Amalek made no pretense of misunderstanding. “You have evidence that her recantal was not genuine?”

Sargan nodded beneath his cowl.

“Then we cannot sell her until a firmer recantal is obtained under duress—”

“I will take the responsibility!” Sargan interrupted. “I say this in the presence of Aten: the measure of recantal shall be filled to overflowing.”

Amalek departed softly, not deigning to debate, and the drip of the water-clock became loud.

Sargan brought out a new scroll, set up his pen and ink, and began to write. The first letter was addressed to Amalek.

“Sudden business has come upon me,” he wrote carefully, “and I find it necessary to depart immediately for Egypt. Until my return I appoint you head priest of the nameless temple, and I ask you to handle its affairs in the manner that befits our god.”

He went on to itemize the various properties and monies available to the temple, and noted the members whose contributions were in arrears. He recommended a man to serve as second, in Amalek’s old position, and gave sundry other instructions.

“If I do not return within a year,” he concluded, “cross my name from the roster and enter a vacancy in the membership. Admit a pretender who is worthy of our god.” He thought for a moment, fingering the cylinder in his sleeve-pocket once more. “I have assigned a special project to Dishon. Please close his office to all visitation and inquiry until he has completed his work.”

He signed his name and rolled up the letter. Amalek would be too busy with the affairs of the temple to pay attention to the torturemaster’s project for many days. Dishon was quite competent; he needed no supervision.

Dishon. Strange that the most intimate business of the temple—the final purification of pretenders—had to be accomplished by one who believed in no god. Dishon was certain in his own mind that Aten was a false god—false to the point of nonexistence—and that made the eunuch ideal for his position. His hand never held back in the hope that a pretender might endure. Dishon felt a genuine sense of accomplishment when he secured a recantal.

The second letter was addressed to Dishon himself. It would be necessary for the torturemaster to borrow a scribe in order to understand it, of course, but that would only briefly delay the honest slave. Dishon had been given instructions by letter before and would not question this.

“Dishon: You will find a new pretender in the second cell. Take this man immediately and put him to the torture until he recants. Pay no attention to anything he may attempt to claim in lieu of recantal. He is an ingenious and confirmed liar, and should be thoroughly gagged. When his complete recantal has been secured, relegate him directly to the bosom of the Euphrates.”

That avoided the technicality of death, though a man in such condition was unlikely to survive the river. “After this task is done, notify Amalek that some of the bricks in the cells are loose. These must be repaired before the cells are used again.” He knew Dishon would take this instruction literally, too; he would not mention the bricks until his subject floated in the Euphrates.

The slack-jawed lamp-bearer arrived in answer to his summons. “Take this to Dishon… slowly,” he ordered, speaking carefully so that the man would understand.

The dull eyes lighted. “Dishon!” The foolish smile, the departure. Slowly, as instructed—it would take many minutes for the delivery. Any task at all made this creature happy; comprehension and performance brought rare satisfaction. This time Sargan envied the mindless slave.

Alone once more, he stood up, put away the writing equipment, and left the letter on the table where he would be sure to find it. He faced the wall. “May your mercy extend to my daughter,” he said. “The fault belonged to another.”

The midnight stars glinted, watching him. But Aten was not on the wall.

He turned, sadly, and left the room without taking a lamp. The halls were long and eerie in the scant natural illumination. He found his way to the region of empty cells, not daring to verify whether Amyitis remained.

He re-entered the vacant place of the pretender Enkidu and swung the gate shut. By careful manipulation he was finally able to prop the bar in such a way that it fell into place outside when the gate was slammed. He had locked himself in.

Sargan removed his white robe and folded it neatly. He took off his finely constructed sandals. He pried loose the three bricks and withdrew the marriage tablet, running his fingers over its indentations. He held it firmly and bashed its surface against the wall.

Caked mud shattered, and in his hand remained an ordinary brick. Sargan fitted his robe and sandals into the space he found behind the inner wall, where so much gravel had been removed; then he replaced every brick. Except that one.

He was left standing bareheaded, barefooted, in his coarse white undertunic. After a moment’s consideration he removed this also. He dropped it in the dirt at the lower edge of the cell and delicately trampled on it. Then he redonned it. Now he was dressed for the part.

Dishon had never heard the normal voice of his master, or seen his bare face. The torturemaster would discover only another pretender whose disposition was covered by the letter.

He looked at the brick that had been his daughter’s marriage tablet, somehow passed through the wall. He picked it up and ran his fingers across its blank surface. He leaned against the firm gate and closed his eyes.

“Not the stone, but the stonesmith,” he said aloud.

And as he held the blank tablet and awaited Dishon’s footfall in the corridor… at last he felt the presence of Aten.

The host slept, the storm abated. NK-2 departed.