Chapter Twenty Three- The Lamb

In Eneduanna’s garden, protected by the sacred azure walls of the inner city, flanked by rows of thorny hedges and falling rose petals, stood an old willow tree. Under its melancholic branches gathered the priestesses of Inanna.

It was evening black, and a pair of torches cast threatening orange light on the bark of the willow. The tree creaked and groaned in protest, its long slender branches swaying in the wind. A soft rain came down over the city, but under the canopy of the willow the priestesses were dry. The tree’s hanging stalks closed them off.

Within the willow-chamber Priestess Amalda ordered the other women to silence. She was Matron of the order, nearing fifty, her youthful allure exchanged with a stricter, more reserved type of beauty. Raven black hair, eyes like a wildcat; orange and calculating, darting over her sisters. She had a low hoarse voice accustomed to command. Her upper lip, showing the first hairs of old age, curled up as she started speaking.

‘City in turmoil, waters rising, enemy at the gates.’

Her smoky voice grated over her own throat as she spat the words to her fellow priestesses.

‘She takes too long. I have observed the rites. Passage needs to be paid.’

She saw that the others listened, these younger women. They too had hard eyes; eyes that stripped men of their dignities, knowledgeable eyes filled with arrogance and cold mercilessness. Predatory like Amalda, though the raven haired matron wielded a certain imposing presence even over them. ‘Passage needs to be paid.’ She repeated. ‘Do you understand what that means?’

‘Dumuzid.’ A priestess replied. ‘The one the Revered one released.’

The others gave a hum of understanding and the matron nodded.

‘Yes, Eneduanna seems to have developed a preference for the Hurrian. For her own good we will take him away. Exchange him for her. Find the Dumuzid, bring him here. We will drown the man in the name of the Revered one.’

Sjerub stared into his cup, the smooth surface of the liquid reflecting back troubled grey eyes.

The man in the drink stared back. The gaze, he knew, tried to warn him. All his worries and tiredness were down there at the bottom. Uneasily he turned his head away.

The Hurrian was sitting in an innhouse of dubious quality, men sitting elbow to elbow besides him on a long filled table. His left ear heard gulping, chewing, and singing. His right ear heard snorting, laughter, and haggling.

With a sigh Sjerub rose from the long table, emptying his cup and slouching to a calmer seat at the shadowy back of the drinking hall. He chose a crooked chair next to a small corner table, perched against paned glass that overlooked a passing canal. Rain gently tapped on the window and Sjerub watched the passing boats. Strange city, simultaneously repellent and alluring.

A fat tavern girl came over, dexterously fencing of a multitude of eager drunkard’s hands to reach the slumped-over Hurrian in the back. ‘Girl on your mind?’ She asked, bumping her prominent hips against the small table.

When he didn’t reply she placed her fleshy hand on his shoulder. ‘Man of few words I see. Where you’re from stranger? You dress like a noble, but your eyes are too bright for a native and your body too tall.’ Sjerub glared at his clothes; scarlet black and gold, given after his release from his dark and cramped prison. Prince of Uruk. Prince of Nothing...

‘I come from the North.’ He stated, tapping his now empty cup. ‘I’ll have another.’

The fat waitress yelled an insult back at the busy table when one of the drunkards offered her a price, then smiled at Sjerub as she twirled her dark curling hair.

‘Ofcourse, northman. You one of those Hurrians?’

Her dark eyes shined. Sjerub looked up to inspect the inn-girl. Small chin, chubby reddened cheeks, small nose and a broad smile.

‘Hurrian, yes.’ He said cautiously. ‘Sworn to the Revered one.’

She leaned over. ‘I like a foreign man.’ The big girl whispered. ‘Beds are upstairs, cheap, and I think there’s just one available, though you have to share with me.’ She winked.

‘I’ll think about it.’ He replied awkwardly. ‘To be truthful I dont know where I’ll go. Leave or stay…’

She gestured her thick arms at the windows. ‘In this rain?’ she chuckled. ‘Believe me sweetie, youre not going anywhere.’

She turned away so he had a good look at her sizable trunk, and the waitress returned to the rowdy drinkroom.

Sjerub leaned back, hand moving to the sword at his side. Still in its sheath, it was the only thing that reassured him. Wherever he went, his blade would be there; even in the grave.

Leave, his heart said, remembering the long time he had spent blind in the prison confines. Stay, his heart said, remembering when in the dark, a tall body had clambered into his cell.

It had been days since he had word of his mistress. The gates of the inner-city were closed. He only received the glint of arrowheads and the quick priestess command to leave. The Revered one was in ritual, in sleep. He had become a retainer bound to a comatose ruler.

Outside Uruk the world still awaited, roads leading to all directions of the wind. There could lie his destiny, travel to even stranger lands, or back north to the highlands and snow-capped mountains where his kin lived. He had gold, he had his blade. If his mistress would not see him, not use him, leave him to rot in jails to starve and thirst, what use did loyalty still have?

This city he mistrusted, disliked, could not and would not give him rest. But then why did the prospect of abandoning Uruk give him such difficulty? Every thought of him riding off through the gates and over the roads inevitably lead back to her. Eneduanna. Sjerub shook his head.

Can you not find someone else to love? The Hurrian silently asked his heart. Eneduanna. Her tall body was misfitting to his own. Her actions were abusing, with little affection. Yet something had stirred him. He gritted his teeth. Leave now or stay forever, It resounded in his mind, and he made his decision. Her tall silhouette appeared in his mind. Then forever it is.

Sjerub looked up. The fat waitress had gone, replaced by a thinner one. The noise of the guests continued, steadily worsening their inebriated states.

From another corner in the shadowy backroom an old figure shifted.

Sjerub had not even noticed him until the grey mass of long greasy hair of vale worn garments stirred. A black boot raised and planted itself firmly on the wooden floorboards. The shoulders pushed up and the face that had apparently lied backwards in slumber turned to Sjerub. Two cloudy eyes watched him, the original colour hidden by a thin white veneer of blindness.

The old man opened his mouth, a gurgling noise slowly gaining strength until it was able to push out a word.

‘Hurrian.’

‘You’ve been eavesdropping old man?’ Sjerub placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.

‘Eavesdropping? I just got here.’ The old man took out a small pipe from his pocket, lighting it with a nearby candle. He inhaled into his old lungs and released a great cloud of smoke, followed by a few ragged coughs for good measure. The old man shuffled closer.

‘The name is Angiras.’ His voice suddenly surprisingly strong, reverberating through the smoke while other sounds muffled. ‘Gift a gold coin and I’ll give you advice.’

‘Steep price for the advice of an old beggar. Get back to your seat.’

Angiras halted halfway towards the Hurrian. ‘Are you sure? You might want to know what I am about to say.’ The smoke began fading.

Sjerub flicked a copper at the floor. ‘Get yourself a drink and leave me be, old man.’

Angiras slowly bent his back to pick up the copper piece at his feet. ‘I told you, the name is Angiras. A copper gets you this: Don’t drink from the cup.’

Sjerub sneered. ‘That's your wisdom?’ He laughed thinly. ‘Away with you Angiras.’

The old man made a rejecting gesture with his hand, coughed again, and disappeared into the mass of revelling drunks.

Sjerub eyed the new waitress questioningly as she strode to his table. ‘Where did the other go?’

The waitress smiled disarmingly. ‘She will be back soon. Change of clothes. Got all excited and the like.’

She placed a filled cup before him. ‘On the house.’ And she left to serve others, where ‘The sons of Uruk’ began rolling from dozens of lispy tongues.

Sjerub stared at the drink, hands firmly planted on the wooden surface of the table. I wouldn't drink that - young man, the old voice grated between his ears.

Sjerub sniffed uneasily, took up his sword and rose. Perhaps it was better to go, find a calmer place to rest, and see what he could do to see Eneduanna tomorrow.

‘Fine Hurrian, where are you going?’ It sounded from above. He looked up to see the the fat waitress returned. She stood atop of the stairs leading to the upper floor, and she now wore scarlet. He froze.

With a tiny rosy smile on her double chinned face the priestess raised a blowpipe and sent out a small dart towards him. The projectile was accidentally caught in the neck by another guest whose unsteady gait had stumbled past. The victim touched his neck, felt his knees soften and fell to the ground like a statue.

The fat woman grimaced. ‘Sisters!’ she warned.

The door was flung open and a pack of scarlet women rushed inside the drinking hall. Their shining black hair was tied back in tails and their hands held spears and long daggers.

‘On your knees, Dumuzid!’ The fat one yelled from atop the stairs, jamming another dart in her blowpipe.

The Hurrian drew his sword and the drunken crowd in between roared with excitement as they retreated to the edges of the hall.

Damned Uruk. Harlot-city. A first priestess managed to push through the drunkards. Raised in her hand was a long kris-knife, surface slick with an oily sheen.

‘Halt your fugitive efforts. Bow down male, the needs of the sisterhood you will oblige.’

‘I will kill each and every one of you. I am sworn to Eneduanna, not to you.’

With an angry screech the priestess lunged forward.

A single swing and her decorated head was decapitated. Fountaining red, the headless torso leaned against him like an eager lover.

More priestesses came forward, sharp spears pointed at him.

A prick in his leg, a tiny dart embedded in his skin. With a grunt the Hurrian pulled it out.

He showed his teeth in defiance, but his legs became weak and he stumbled around. The priestesses began to melt in scarlet and black swirls.

‘Do not hurt the Dumuzid. I need him alive.’ He heard the fat priestess say.

‘I only serv, Eneduan.’ He slurred back, weakly swinging his blade towards a scarlet blur.

The Hurrian fell to the ground, bloodied sword clattering over the floorboards.

Walls of thorns, intricate webs of barbed vines, surrounding a hidden field of soggy grass, with dark rainy sky overhead. Sjerub blinked, vision somewhat blurry. He found his hands bound on his back, rain dripping on his naked body. A pair of female hands pressed down on his shoulders, their skin was soft but their nails dug into his skin.

Two rows of hooded priestesses flanked a small stretch of grass towards a dark kettle leading to a dark kettle. There the Matron awaited, broad shouldered and hair cropped short, inspecting him with her orange eyes. With smoky voice she ordered the Hurrian to be brought forward. .

‘Dumuzid.’ Amalda spoke solemnly. ‘Have you any affection for the Revered one?’

Sjerub said nothing. An open palmed hand struck his face. ‘Speak, male.’

He grimaced. ‘She put you up to this? I have seen enough of this city and I am tired of her games.’

‘Eneduanna sleeps, Dumuzid. She knows nothing of this.’

His head was pushed down to the kettle, seeing it filled with rainwater.

‘Say now, have you any affection for the Revered one?’

Sjerub forced his gaze up from the kettle towards the Matron. ‘A hag like you would never understand.’ He scraped his throat and spat a thick wad of slime at her.

Her tongue flicked out to taste before wiping it from her face. ‘Whatever she saw in you, it will be your downfall. In the last moments before she went to the below, she ordered you to be made Prince of Uruk.’ She laughed in disbelief. ‘Do you feel a prince? Perhaps you need a crown… thorns all around!’

Her happy smile evaporated, leaving only an unfriendly hard stare. ‘Send him down to the below.’ She ordered. ‘-Drown him. An offering of the lover!’

A multitude of hands pushed him down to the kettle’s water. Sjerub endured it in disbelief, then gradually gave himself over to rage. His naked muscular body rippled with strength, resisting every inch down. With a roar he forced himself up to his feet. He rammed his forehead in the face of the first priestess before him, breaking her nose with a spurt of blood. Another he kicked in the stomach, forcing her backwards to the ground. Hands still bound behind his back he ran.

‘Eneduanna!’ He screamed in desperation. ‘Eneduanna! Eneduanna!’

The priestesses laughed as the naked man, hands still tied behind his back, fled into the ferns and rosy hedges of the garden.