Pretender

CHAPTER 7.

There was bread and water in the alcove, and Enkidu ate again, disturbed in several ways. No gods were banned in Babylon, and Aten certainly should have no enemies—yet here were people dedicated to his interdiction. How could this be?

After a time he remembered the prisoner in the next cell. Was he still there?

Enkidu knelt beside the wall, the bracelet of Ishtar in his hand. Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap.

He listened eagerly for a response. He longed to talk with the stranger, to learn more about this foreboding situation. In the contemplation of another’s plight he might find respite from his own fear and bafflement.

But there was no reply.

Enkidu set to work cleaning out his cell, kicking the offal into the lowest corner. During the brightest part of the day—still very dim, here—he searched the walls again. No gaps. He tapped again, hopeful. No answer.

He leaned against the door and stared up at the ceiling, high above his farthest reach. Was there any chance of scaling the wall to reach that tantalizing glimmer and perhaps pry his way out? If this were an ordinary dwelling, with palm-bough roof supports, yes. But here the ceiling was domed, the circular rows of bricks overlapping inward, rank inside rank, until only the tiny circle at the apex was left with its slit of light. The task was hopeless.

“Aten,” he prayed aloud. “Give me a sign, that I may recover the confidence I sorely need.”

In the stillness he noticed the rustlings of the rats, scuttling in search of provender. He saw one go to the wall, wriggle, then vanish.

He brought his mind back to the problems of escape—but it only drifted again. He did have a friend, or at least a wife—but how could he trust her until he understood her motives? She had come to him only when she heard him utter Aten’s name. Yet she worshipped Ishtar.

After a time Enkidu drifted off to sleep. He dreamed of Nineveh in the hour of its destruction; the thunder of the siege machines as they battered down the walls, the flaming pitch, the great stones hurtling over the city from the catapults, the spears and the flights of arrows. The air torn by the screams of dying men, the shrill ululations of ravished women, the bawling of children suddenly orphaned. The ornate temples crashing down, their marvelous stones hauled away, their gods defiled and desecrated. Mighty Asshur fell that day, his power gone, to become little more than an evil memory.

He stood within the temple of Aten as the city crashed around it. Aten was a god foreign to Assyria and its atrocities—but Nineveh, like Babylon today, had been the center of all religion. Aten’s worshippers were slaughtered, his principles ignored, and his idol was borne away in the careless tread of Babylonian vengeance.

His host was correct about that part of it, NK-2 thought as he stretched. Station A-10 had been located at Nineveh, and it had surely been relocated here.

Was it possible that this nameless temple was in fact the station, taken over by the enemy? Were regular reports sent out galactically, while the enemy trapped any galactics who docked at this planet? Or was it being set up for an intrusion into the galactic authority itself? If so, it was a monstrous plot, and far more was at stake than NK-2’s own existence.

He had to ascertain the truth, and somehow survive to reveal his information. But the chances of his present host were diminishing.

This was a difficult step, and one he did not like at all—but he would have to make preparations for transfer to another host.

If he could find one remotely suitable.

Enkidu woke. Was this dream, or vision? Imagination or history? What did he really know about Aten?

He stood and stretched, feeling better. He went to the wall and poked where the rat had gone—and found the hole he had missed before, hidden under accumulated refuse. One brick had cracked and the rats had chipped and squeezed until they were able to pass.

He put his fingers into the hole and pried. The rest of the brick budged. It was loose, then! He had the beginning of his escape.

He remembered his communications. This was the wall he had been tapping. He took out the lion bracelet and tapped again.

This time an answer came back. A varied pattern of taps established that the other prisoner was back in his cell, perhaps after an interrogation.

But tapping was not enough. There was no meaning to it, once the occupancy of the adjacent cells had been established. An exchange of information was necessary.

He dared not shout; that would surely bring Dishon. He studied the rat-hole. Did it go all the way through?

These brick walls, he knew, had to be very thick, especially at the base. This one had very little slope. Even at shoulder height and above, the wall must be too thick to reach through. Probably the rats lived inside, deserting their nests only for the promise of fresh offal.

He let his fancy wander. Why not catch a rat, tie a note to its tail… but no rat could drag a tablet through.

As though nudged externally, his mind started a new chain of thought. Was it possible to communicate through the tapping itself? To set up a code: one tap for “yes,” two for “no”? Each word had its own wedge pattern; could he make wedges in sound?

No, it wouldn’t work. Taps could not be oriented up, down or sideways; there were just noises. Yes and No were the only practicable words—and even if the other party knew which signal stood for which word, the conversation would be limited. “Yes, no, yes, yes no?” And the reply: “No, no, yes, no, yes!” He dropped the whole idea.

What about a written message, assuming it could be delivered? Would the other prisoner be able to read it? Surely only Enkidu himself was stupid enough to become a literate dungeon inmate. And of course he had no tablet.

“Aten, what am I to do?”

A cake of mud fell with a plop from the far wall. Apparently it had stuck there during his vigorous housecleaning. It flattened and settled in the muck, reminding him for the moment of the surface of a fresh clay tablet.

A sign from Aten?

Enkidu shook his head. Aten seldom gave him overt signals. Marduk guided flights of arrows, assisting the priests in their divinations; Ishtar inflamed the passions of men and women; other gods altered the livers of sacrificial animals in order to make known their wills. But Aten seemed to be a god of the mind. Rarely did he provided physical evidence of his intent.

A tapping inquiry came from the wall. Enkidu tapped back reassuringly, then put away the bracelet. He would have to proceed on his own.

He wedged the two strongest fingers of both hands into the rat hole and tugged at the brick. It budged, protested, slid out part way, braced itself, then held firm. It protruded from the wall no more than a finger’s width, while the length of it was well over a handspan. Enkidu pounded it back with his fist, then took hold again. This time the brick came out a little farther.

A third try overcame its reluctance. It popped out of the wall, toppling him into the muck—and landed heavily on his big toe.

He hoped that Aten was not listening for the next few breaths. Then he brushed off the brick, complimented it on its solidity and rigidity, and set it aside. It was flat and roughly square—more than the length of his foot on each side and thin enough so that three piled together would make a fair cube of matter. He now had a creditable hole with which to work, and a creditable tool, too. He could bash out the next brick, if he had to.

Shadow prevented his seeing into his excavation, but his searching fingers found the second row of bricks behind the first. They told him that these bricks were of the softer, sun-baked variety, and no mortar bonded them together. He had only to gain a finger-hold and they should come free.

The rat-hole passed into this cruder wall, providing that finger-hold. But the bricks behind, although loose, were not aligned with those in front and would not fit through the space available. And of course there was weight on them. Somehow he would have to enlarge the opening.

The other prisoner had lapsed into silence, though Enkidu’s operations must have been quite audible. Suddenly, however, there came a flurry of tappings.

Enkidu paused. Why this burst of chatter? Did the other man know something he didn’t?

The tapping ceased. In the silence he heard the heavy tread of the torturemaster. He scrabbled for a loose brick, jammed it into its place, and trampled down the loose powder. Then he waited anxiously while the fateful footfalls came closer.

The gate jerked and shuddered. The panel to the food alcove slid open. He heard the thunk of new supplies replacing the old. “Recant!” Dishon’s bass voice admonished. The steps departed.

After a suitable interval the tapping from the other cell resumed. It was safe to proceed.

Enkidu was beginning to like the neighboring prisoner. He removed the brick again and held it. His fingers passed over its surface. He frowned. The name of the manufacturer was imprinted there.

Enkidu disapproved of such crass commercialism. What would it lead to, should every manufacturer advertise his product by such means? There must be hundreds of businessmen in Babylon, and no doubt the effort of imprinting the bricks with this inessential message added materially to their cost. Such promotion could eventually cost more than the investment in the product itself!

But this reminded him: this brick was very like a gross writing tablet. The mud of the cell was filthy and it stank, but the jellied slop had certain similarities to clay. It hardened as it dried, for one thing, and it held its shape indefinitely until wetted down again. A smooth coat of it on the surface of this brick… but he still needed a stylus.

He fetched his bread from the alcove and munched while he turned the situation over in his head. Suddenly he remembered the tough weed-stalk of the last meal. There was his stylus!

He resumed excavation on the wall. Hard labor dislodged a second brick, and with that as an implement he soon freed a third. Now the gap was big enough to permit the removal of bricks from the inner wall.

Easier planned than accomplished! But he finally found one that was not completely pinned by the weight of those above, and pried it loose.

A shower of sand and grit poured out. Enkidu had anticipated this. The substantial walls of large buildings were normally filled with loose matter between the more rigid surfaces. This made his task at once easier and more difficult—easier to clear out, but harder to keep open. He would have to spread the sand on the floor thinly and hope it would not be noticed, and just keep tunneling it out until the hole stayed clear. Well, it should soak up some of the muck underfoot. If the other prisoner had sense enough to tunnel from his side, it might be possible to connect with his cell.

Enkidu was bone weary by the time the thin light overhead waned. He would have to stop and rebrick his aperture before Dishon stomped by to deliver the evening repast. Discovery now would be disaster! And he should mark his tablet while he could still see it. The surface should be nicely set now, ready for imprinting and final hardening.

He filed the hard stem into a wedge-shaped cross-section against the under-surface of the brick. How should he begin? “To Whom It May Concern” or “Please advise if you are unable to read this”? Ha-ha.

As the light faded altogether Enkidu completed his message, incised in crude but adequate wedges: FELLOW PRISONER: MY NAME IS ENKIDU, OF CALAH-ON-THE-TIGRIS. I AM HELD PRISONER BECAUSE I WORSHIP ATEN, GOD OF MERCY AND COMPASSION. I HAVE BEEN INTERROGATED BUT NOT TORTURED YET. IF YOU ARE ABLE TO READ THIS, PLEASE ERASE THE TABLET AND USE IT FOR YOUR REPLY. WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF AMALEK, SARGAN AND DISHON? WILL THEY REALLY TORTURE A MAN BECAUSE HE CHOOSES TO WORSHIP ATEN? IS THERE ANY ESCAPE? TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF.

It was too dark now to read it, but he had the sentences by heart. It was not the most elegant message conceivable. How easy it was to make great speeches in one’s own mind—but how quickly the splendor faded when these same words were committed to tablet. Was he miscast as a scribe?

He was about to stamp his seal at the foot of the message when he heard Dishon bringing the evening meal. “Recant!” the eunuch admonished. Then: “Pass out your seal.”

Enkidu’s turmoil could not have been greater if he had demanded an arm. “My seal?”

“Do I have to come in and take it from you?”

Enkidu looked toward the hole. It was not sealed up. It would be the first thing Dishon would notice.

Enkidu handed over his seal. The seal was, after all, only a convenience—not a physical part of himself. The turmoil in his spleen was ridiculous; he did not let it deter him from the tasks he had set himself. He felt somewhat cheered when he was able with his writing implement and a thumb to produce a replica of the imprint of his seal—extremely crude, yet recognizable, he decided optimistically.

There was a faint sound. A kind of scraping from within the wall. Yes! The other man had realized what was up and was tunneling in from the other side!

That revitalized his efforts. What was a seal, compared to human contact? This nameless temple was trying to take away his identity and make him anonymous, but he would not let them succeed!

Much later, weary and numb, Enkidu faced the truth: he had tunneled to the limit of his reach, scooping out dirt and sand by the handful, skinning his fingers—but he hadn’t broken through. He heard the soft scratchings as the other man did the same. Their excavations were aligned—thanks to Aten and the rats!—but they simply failed to connect.

Close, so close—but not enough! Probably no more than the thickness of a brick separated them. It might as well have been the thickness of the ziggurat Etemenanki.

He put his mouth to the hole and whispered into it. No response. He tried again, this time calling out as loudly as he dared, not knowing how sharp the eunuch guardian’s ears were. He waited. Presently came a sound that might have been a reply—possibly a muffled and distorted human voice.

Voice communication wouldn’t work.

“Aten,” he prayed, “show me how to complete the tunnel, so that I may transfer my tablet.”

In the dark he stumbled over the piled excess bricks, but Aten did not reply. Dejected and utterly exhausted, Enkidu lay down on the now-gritty floor and slept.

NK-2 had seldom faced such frustration. He was sorely tempted to extend and touch the person in the next cell—but did not dare, because that might be the very thing the enemy wanted. If the enemy pounced while he was vulnerable he could certainly amputate NK-2’s penumbra and grievously wound his umbra as well. But if it were not a trap, and if that prisoner were a normal, unoccupied human animal—then NK-2 was passing up what might be a promising alternate host. A wrong decision either way could be fatal.

Meanwhile, his own host was being extremely obtuse about the hints presented. He had almost missed the stylus, and had missed the potentialities of the piled bricks. But if NK-2 dissipated his strength by trying to control his host more specifically, he would lack the resources to change hosts later.

All he could do was remain withdrawn, providing minimal hints, and waiting for some advantageous development. He almost felt like praying to “Aten” himself!

Tapping woke him in the morning. The other man was warning him. Dishon was coming—and the bricks were still stacked in plain sight! Enkidu scrambled to his feet, grasped a brick in each hand, and began shoving them into the hole. In his haste he jammed some in cornerwise, so that not all of them would fit. Why had he taken out so many!

Dishon’s solid feet were tramping toward the door. Enkidu put his foot against the outermost brick and shoved. It gave slightly. He shoved again, desperation giving him strength. The column of bricks slid back, into the wall—making room for the front layer.

Enkidu swiftly fitted the baked front bricks into their slots—and discovered that one was his tablet-brick. He would shatter his carefully mudded surface, message and all, if he tried to jam it into its original place.

The feet stopped outside. The bars lifted. Dishon was coming in!

Enkidu stood up, trying to kick the damp matting of the floor over to conceal the vacant spot. It refused to kick. The gate creaked open.

Enkidu backed against the wall, holding the tablet behind him as the lamplight spilled in, trying to cover the hole with his heel though it was far too large for that. The light was incredibly bright, illuminating every detail of his cell. Quickly he squatted to cover the gap with his body. He was almost sitting on the tablet now, and hoped the cold sweat of his body was not smearing its surface.

Dishon’s bulk was outlined in the bright flicker. “You have been restless, pretender. There have been noises!”

“I’ve been trying to clean up this filthy cell,” Enkidu said quickly, then cursed himself for the half-truth. Did his principles vanish so readily under pressure?

Could he strike the eunuch over the head with the brick and make his escape? No. Too risky. And he had, as yet, no cause to injure the big slave—assuming he could.

“Recant!” Dishon repeated. “You will then be freed.”

Enkidu tried to see him better. Was this man actually trying to help him? He sounded sincere. To him, no doubt, it was a simple matter: if the worship of one god offended someone, change to another that offended no one—or to no god. Avoid discomfort and stinking cells.

“I’ll think about it,” Enkidu said. His heel ground sweatily against the wall and the tablet brick almost slipped from his grasp. Had he exposed the gap?

To his immense relief Dishon withdrew, leaving the customary victual and removing the empty jar. It had been a nasty moment.

The tapping signaled all-clear. Enkidu went to his perilous aperture and once more removed the bricks. He had miscalculated, but was still fortunate that he had been able to cram all the rest in. If there had not been that resiliency—Resiliency. Sand?

Unlikely. No, the give must have been a result of the excavation from the far side. The small remaining barrier had given way under the pressure of the lined bricks. The sand between tunnels had been shoved out, displaced by a brick. The other prisoner would have more cleaning out to do.

Enkidu looked at his tablet-brick and thought of the column effect. Push on the rear brick hard enough and the front brick would advance. It had to. It might be possible to ram a brick right through to the other side, if the column were long enough.

Suppose the tablet were the leading brick?

Feverish now, Enkidu hauled out bricks, to empty the tunnel. But he was disappointed. No bricks had been jammed into the sand; the end brick had merely straightened out so that it was even instead of cornerwise, and another had slid in above it. A neat packing job, the hard way.

Yet the column effect should still hold. Perhaps the idea was more important than the fact. It was worth trying.

He carefully inserted the hardened tablet, which was mercifully free of moisture, and lined another brick behind it. The third brick projected from the wall somewhat.

He tapped to indicate that something special was happening, then pushed. The bricks jostled together but refused to slide as a unit. More power was needed. He braced a foot against the projecting brick and shoved. Still no result. Was he too weak, after all?

“Aten, grant me strength!” he prayed, then placed his heel against the brick again, set himself, and made as though to leap away from the wall. He did not stint.

His body flung back. He slid ridiculously in the slop and crashed into the far wall. But the brick had not budged. He simply did not have the weight to push the column.

Had it come at last to defeat? He saw that no amount of strength would avail him unless he had something to brace against—and there was nothing. If he were to use the bricks, lining them across the cell to support his feet while he pushed with his hands, he would have none left to shove through the wall, unless he excavated a much greater number—but then the wall itself might well collapse, and bring Dishon galloping. And it would take too much time. He needed something now.

He removed the bricks and explored the dark recesses with his reaching fingertips. Had there been any movement at all? He detected none; the rear of the hole was still within reach. Yet there was something—a vertical crack, a flaw in the packed sand. It must have been there before, but he had been too busy to notice it. He traced it from the bottom to the top of his excavation, then felt for other cracks. They were there—so narrow that his finger could barely detect them, but evidently projecting deeply into the wall’s interior. He stopped and thought about it.

How could there be cracks in a solid sand wall? This was no random mudbed!

But perhaps it was! Water could have seeped into the walls during one of the infrequent rains, helping the dirt to pack and jell. Then months of hot sun—and the water vanished in its mysterious fashion and left deep cracks…

Probably such flaws existed throughout the walls. Vertical, of course, because the flat cracks would immediately fill in from above. Too bad, because he needed to push flat bricks through.

Flat? “Aten! I have the answer!”

He scraped feverishly at the hole, this time extending it upward. Soon he had a narrow, high excavation. He set his tablet brick upright into this, so that its sides paralleled the cracks. Now it could work with the flaws instead of across them. This should make it much easier to break through; it would have to dislodge a much smaller column of sand, since the section pressing down from above would be smaller—he hoped. And the flaws would inhibit material from caving in at the sides. He hoped again.

He placed another brick upright behind the tablet, and a third. Once more he braced his foot, leaped—And accomplished nothing.

His soft foot and inadequate weight simply could not provide the necessary force. If only he possessed a heavy hammer, to drive it in like a stake—And of course he did. He lifted one of the extra bricks, assessing its weight. Yes—it would do.

But it was awkward to handle. The necessary vertical position and the lowness of the excavation and the heft of the brick itself combined to make his task exceedingly difficult. He tried bending over, but was drawn off balance before he could make an effective swing. He tried kneeling, but could propel the brick only a short clumsy distance in that position.

Finally he straddled the projecting brick, faced away from the wall, bent over, grasped his brick hammer, and swung it down between his spread legs. The weight of it sent him sprawling again, as his rear banged into the wall when it tried to compensate for balance. But he found that he did have room this way for a complete, powerful and accurate swing.

He moved out from the wall just far enough for proper balance, aligned the hammer, lifted it high in a long stiff-armed arc, and swung it down as hard as he could.

The noise of contact was horrendous—but he felt give in the column at last! He struck again, and again. Yes—the projecting brick was retreating slowly but steadily into the wall. Success!

Suddenly he heard the running tread of Dishon.

Oops! The noise had given him away! How could he have forgotten that?

But inspiration came, Aten-sent.

“I can’t stand it any more!” he screamed, knowing that the torturemaster would stop and listen with professional satisfaction. “I’ve got to break out of here!” He threw his body against the cell door so that the dull impact was plainly audible. He paused, panting and rubbing his shoulder.

Dishon called: “Now are you ready to recant!”

“Never!” Enkidu crashed painfully against the door again, this time managing to make a sound roughly similar to that of the hammer.

“I have seen it before,” Dishon asserted. “You are becoming crazed from your aloneness. Were I to unbar the door at this moment you would charge me like a maddened bull. But you will tire soon, and then you will recant. Your spirit is broken.”

“Never!” Enkidu cried again, hoping that his voice cracked with the proper note of desperation.

He listened joyfully as the torturemaster’s tread diminished up the hall. Then he returned to his hammering, assured that the noise would go ignored. Perhaps once the channel had been opened it would be possible to force the bricks through by hand, silently. Already the chore seemed easier.

He inserted another brick and repeated the performance. He was getting the knack of it now. Two bricks behind the tablet should do it, three at the most, assuming the other man could pull it free from the other side. Too bad there would be no way to remove the intervening bricks from the tunnel thus formed—but they would be out of reach and could only be pushed out by other bricks, leaving it blocked. No direct talking would be possible.

The third brick went in more easily. Had he broken through? He straightened stiffly and rested against the wall.

If the transfer were successful, and if the sand had not scraped away his wedge-marks, and if the man could read—why then he had established communication. If the other were not a spy for Sargan.

A spy! Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Suppose his message were turned over to the chief inquisitor—He heard muted sounds, as of a tablet-brick being hauled out. He was powerless to stop the transfer now!

NK-2 was no less alarmed. He had thought host-host communication would be safe, but now he realized that if the enemy occupied the other host the result would be disastrous. No ordinary prisoner would have attempted such a message.

He might just as well have tried penumbra contact. That would have settled the matter far more expeditiously. Now—he would just have to wait, letting the host handle it, while NK-2 conserved his strength for the battle to come.

All day Enkidu waited in anguish, regretting his impetuous action. What had he really expected to gain by contact with another prisoner? His freedom? Hardly. Information? What could the other know that Enkidu did not?

His fingers found the bracelet of Ishtar. Ishtar! Was he wrong to cling to Aten? Why not embrace the goddess, and perhaps be freed to embrace also this mysterious wife of his? Surely he had more evidence of the power of Ishtar than of Aten—and her way was certainly more intriguing.

Yet there was that in him that refused the joys of such a goddess, irrationally. One could not change gods simply because of convenience—not if one’s faith were real.

Dishon brought the evening meal. So he was not to be summoned for interrogation today! Was that good or bad? Surely they would have acted by now, if they had the tablet… unless they wanted him to incriminate himself further.

He ate and slept. What was to be, was to be.

The next day was long and silent. But towards the end the tapping came. Without pausing for further consideration, Enkidu yanked out the lined bricks. He had to know!

All bricks were clear now except the ones beyond his reach. He could see nothing. The column should move more easily now that he had rammed through the first tablet, and maybe the foot-pushing technique would be sufficient. Unless the other man had been weakened by long confinement.

Presently motion came. The brick edged toward him, touching his fingers. Enkidu clutched at it, pulled, and brought it out of the depths. It was not the tablet-brick; that would be back in the line, two or three bricks.

Bit by bit the second brick advanced until it too was free. The other seemed to have barely strength enough to make the push, but movement continued. The third brick came, and finally the fourth. This one had to be the tablet.

It was! He felt the mud coating. He grasped it with shaking fingers and carefully withdrew it. He tapped on the wall to signify his receipt.

He could not read it, for it was dark. But he could not wait. His fingers told him that there were different wedges in it—larger and deeper, as though the man had fashioned a clumsier tool. Literate! Against all odds: another scribe!

Or was this evidence that Amalek was at the other end? The odds against that were not so great.

But he had to read it. The marks had set, their squared-off bases directed toward the left in standard format.

He set his own stylus against the tablet, sliding it along until it dropped into the larger indentations there. This was a clumsy mechanism, but he was able to determine the configuration of the wedge-marks, and so to read.

The message itself, so deviously come by, astonished him. He checked and double checked, making certain of it.

ENKIDU-OF-TIGRIS: MY NAME IS AMYITIS, OF BABYLON. I WORSHIP ISHTAR, GODDESS OF PASSION. I HAVE BEEN INTERROGATED TWICE BUT NOT RAPED YET. I KNOW AMALEK BUT DO NOT UNDERSTAND SARGAN. DISHON HAS NOTHING FOR ME. ANYBODY WHO WORSHIPS ATEN DESERVES TO BE TORTURED. THERE IS ONLY ONE ESCAPE: RECANT. YOU MAY NOW ENTER MY CELL WITH IMPUNITY, SINCE I HAVE NO CRAYFISH IN MY HAND.

His neighbor was a woman!

The message had been signed with an improvised seal, as had his own. He traced it with his roughened fingers. It seemed to be the likeness of a butterfly.

…and a bitter woman. He could not miss the supreme irony of language. “Interrogated but not raped—yet.” That was a parody of his own assumption of impending torture. “Dishon has nothing for me”—Dishon being a eunuch. And the reference to Aten! Finally, the suggestion that he visit her personally…

That bit about the crayfish made no sense at all, unless it were some code-word that she assumed he would comprehend. Of course he couldn’t!

He pondered the rest again. The implication that he could visit her, as though he were a guard…

She was accusing him of being the spy!

Very clever, enemy! But NK-2 would not be lulled that way! He would stay close and safe within his host until he was sure—one way or the other.

The sarcasm was too finely edged. This seemed far too elaborate to be a ruse. A spurious reply should have been calculated to win his confidence, to allay his suspicions, while this letter was oppositely slanted. The sender wanted to infuriate him—particularly if he happened to be a spy.

Well, he had already incriminated himself beyond recall in his opening missive. Whether prisoner or spy, the mind at the other end fascinated him. He would proceed on the interesting assumption that this Amyitis was what she claimed to be: a woman who worshiped Ishtar.

But why, in that case, was she a prisoner here?

Was Sargan against Ishtar too? He couldn’t be; he would have to incarcerate all the women in Babylon, and many of the men also. No—the butterfly was in the cell for some other reason—if this were not the flaw in her story that betrayed her insincerity.

He dampened his tablet, coated it with another pungent layer of mud, and wrote. His practiced hand, he found, did not need light for this.

AMYITIS: EVIDENTLY YOU BELIEVE ME TO BE AN AGENT OF SOME SORT SPONSORED BY THE NAMELESS TEMPLE, SENT TO WIN YOUR CONFIDENCE AND TRAP YOU INTO SOME DAMAGING CONFESSION.

He was, he realized, exactly stating his suspicion of her! Perhaps the only way to meet that problem was to extend his own trust, hoping that he would in turn be trusted.

I DO NOT CONDEMN YOU FOR WORSHIPING ISHTAR, BUT HER RITES ARE NOT FOR ME. I CANNOT RECANT MY OWN BELIEF IN ATEN, THE ONE GOD WHOSE MIEN IS MERCIFUL. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND ANY PERSON’S OBJECTION TO SUCH A GOD. BUT AS LONG AS ATEN HAS SUCH ENEMIES I KNOW THAT HIS NEED FOR A FRIEND IS URGENT. I CANNOT DESERT HIM NOW.

There was room left on the tablet. He was unwilling to let it go to waste. Yet what could he say to a person he did not know? A highly distrustful and sarcastic person…

…and female.

Female. The idea was both fascinating and alarming. He had assumed the other to be a man. What, in Aten’s name, was a girl doing in such a dungeon? She could hardly be pretty—not amid such filth. And who would confine a pretty woman in a cell like this, regardless?

He tried to picture the long, straggly tresses, coarse features, bent peasant’s body. No, that did not mesh with her message. She was literate, therefore no peasant. The sexual suggestion, sarcastic though it was, indicated a woman who was sure of her ground. Who considered her body desirable.

Or who wished to give that impression…

But such conjecture was futile. He would simply have to inquire—and to formulate his image from the response. If it were invalid—well, he would probably never see her, physically, so what difference could it make? Best to imagine something pleasing.

WHAT DO YOU LOOK LIKE?

Still there was room. What could he say? She was probably an exceptionally bright woman, to have become a scribe. Intelligence in a woman was wasted, of course; but she could still be worth knowing. What would interest her?

Actually, this was his message. He would write what interested him. She could respond in kind.

Enkidu began to write—about himself and his god.

He was busy far into the night, too avid to sleep. He filled the tablet and set about making a second, then a third. He started the first through while the second hardened. Nineveh, shedu, slavery, Tupshar, literacy, freedom, Babylon, Aten…