Chapter Thirty Two - Divine Judgement

Kitun swiftly made his way through the narrow alley. Exciting city folk and militia-men blocked the way, drinking and celebrating. They stood in the doorways, they leaned from their windows, they crawled mind-numbingly drunk through the filth. Eneduanna had returned to rule over them and one word was upon her lips: war. Now everyone seemed eager for war and bloodshed, every ill-fated beggar and youthling clutching old knives, clubs and stones.

The King had no time to waste on them, and he marched through the puddles of spilled wine and the miasma of energized, burning sweat that hung throughout the city’s narrow walkways. His loyal guard was at his back, their marching feet sounding against the brick walls. Fully armoured with captured Larsan equipment, covered in bronze, weapons sharp and ready. Rows of ears hung below great black curling beards. They had been cowards during the rainy weeks of Eneduanna’s absence. Kitun had even faced difficulties getting them out of their garrison houses, leading to a chaotic period of hungry masses taking the streets, and ultimately, assaulting the inner-city itself. Now the warriors were hungry for blood, eager to wash away the shame and the stink of fear. A long line of bronze and red, following their King to a sacred war.

Kitun noticed their impetuousness, their pent-up aggression, their open lust for killing so great that they stared with calculating, predatory eyes at the passing commoners - hastily pushed back into their doorways. Kitun breathed in deeply, feeling his heartbeat rise. He felt the same.

They rounded the corner and there she was, hovering on her brass, winged throne, standing tall. The masses surrounded her, armed and in ecstacy. A bitter smoke lingered over the heads of the people, emanating from silver thuribles swung by priestesses making their way through the crowds. Kitun’s nostrils flared upon smelling it and his judgement clouded. He and his men violently forced themselves through the commoners until they could kneel before Eneduanna’s throne.

‘Lions…’ she spoke. ‘I have need for you. Are you ready to die?’

‘We will die whenever it pleases you, Most Revered one.’ Kitun eagerly spoke. ‘But give us a lake of blood to drown in, so we may ascend with you to the heavens when the time comes.’

Eneduanna nodded, she sat down in her seat and placed her long feet directly before the King’s bowed head. ‘You may worship my feet, Royal of Uruk. I have returned from Ritual and I have been purified, proven a worthy vessel for Inanna. The Queen of Heaven is me, and I am her, she speaks through my mouth, she sees through my eyes. Outside the walls the first enemies have been sighted, how joyed am I that I can be baptised in their blood. Am I not the Goddess of war?’

‘You are, Most Revered one. Will we carry your blessing into battle then? I, Kitun, and my men, my lions in the thousands, all loyal servants of your blessed light, desire a blessing before we enter the maw of war. Will you grant us our wish?’

‘Consider yourself blessed and anointed, Go and I will be looking. I see all. I can see at this very moment a plague of locusts coming from the south. But they will not be your target. Instead you will intercept the isines that approach from the north. They are frightened and wish to join forces with the southerners. You will cut them off with a thousand men, no more, and collect the Isines into my service. Strike the King and take his men. Have my orders been clear?’

‘Consider Isin itself your domain.’ Kitun hesitated, wanting to say more, but opting for silence instead.

‘Follow the animals, all living things in Uruk will have gathered around them, the lions, vultures, the ravens, the beetles and the worms, attracted by the promise of death. Their approach will be marked, but you will find them in the valley of the Lions.’

***

Drums sounded as Eneduanna’s throne was carried out of the southern gates. Loud, fearless drums, reaching far over the barrens. Brick shacks of the shanties outside the walls were occupied by grimy people, falling on their knees at the side of the dusty road.

A few Uruk scouts rode ahead on pale-grey horses, the beasts bucking at the reigns. Soon they sighted the southerner’s host on the horizon, heralded by great dust-clouds.

The throne halted, Eneduanna gazing past the far away riders and to the ominous red-orange plumes. Tiny soldiers, tiny banners, coming in silence, fearful hearts steeled in resolve. Strength in numbers.

Matron Amalda stood at her side, the broad shouldered woman uncertain of her role.

The Palm-leaf servants arrived, casting the High-Priestess in shade and cool air. Warriors, merchants, the entire city followed er out onto the barren plains.

‘You might wonder why I have not killed you yet.’ Eneduanan spoke, showing Amalda unworthy of her glance.

‘If you wish for my life, I will give it.’ Amalda replied.

‘I wanted to take your head, but Inanna told me to keep you.’

‘Thank you for your mercy, Goddess.’

‘I want my Hurrian back Amalda, nobody gets away from me. I am the swamp that no man can escape from…’ She sighed. ‘While you still breathe you must at least make yourself useful to me. Prepare the people for combat. How many men can we muster?’

‘Five thousand, blessed mistress.’ The Matron spoke with soothing voice. ‘But not all are as capable as the lion-packs we usually employ. Many are cubs, or worse, simply very devoted fanatics caught up in the joy of your return. Their resolve may be fickle, despite our best attempts, and prove false when the first arrows start to fall. The southern forces are formidable. I have tracked their progress ever since they emerged from the tall wet-land reeds. The southern Kings seem to have made a serious attempt at your life. They outnumber us, and they have better soldiers than us.’

‘But we have faith.’

‘Indeed, Revered one. We have faith.’

‘We will face them in open battle of course, it is unfitting for a Goddess to cower behind walls. If they have their way they march straight past us and merge with the Isines, killing the King in the process.’

‘You place a lot of faith in the King, my mistress.’

‘Shouldn’t I?’ Eneduanna turned a single almond eye to the Matron.

‘He will provide, but we must make plans for if he does not.’

‘Are you a coward, dear servant? When battle first commences I expect you at the frontlines.’

‘I do not fear battle, most Revered one.’

‘Then prepare the masses for war. I'm sure we can squeeze out more than five thousand, my city is filled with useless mouths. People are the least of my concern, especially if their lives buy more time. Tomorrow we do battle, and the day after, and the day after. Then it will be over.’

‘Do you foresee victory then, Revered one? And do you foresee more? Who dies and who lives?’

Eneduanna thought in silence. Soft groans audible beneath her. ‘You are dismissed.’ She finally said.

As the despised priestess moved away, and began barking raw orders at the nearby warriors, she felt her unease rise. A vision from Inanna; 3 days of bloodshed. But nothing beyond. A warning?

***

‘Valley of the lions…’ Twelve-toes said softly, the tall warrior turning towards his King. ‘You think the High-Priestess meant it in a literal sense, or just in the vicinity?’

‘She said valley of the lions, so that’s were they’ll be.’ Kitun looked out over the bleak, arid landscape. Dry red soil, dead roots, coarse warm winds from the desert. In the distance rocky outcrops of the hills to the north-west of Uruk, an area usually avoided by the warriors. Inside lay the valley of the lions, a whole region of Uruk offered up to the sacred beasts.

How glad he was to serve. Shame swirled within him, the seeds of betrayal carriedi n his memories. The words of that treacherous Dan Sarpa kept him awake at night. Shame and guilt. He should have taken out that little merchant when he had the chance, right then and there. If only the High-Priestess would know what kind of venom was spoken against her in her own city.

When he had kneeled before her throne, this early morning, he had almost confessed. Spilled the black treachery before her shining illumination. Wisely he had kept his mouth shut at the last moment. He would not live, that much the merchant had right. The unease gnawed at the back of his neck, like a parasite that he could not remove, slowly suckling in his shame and lies until it was a bloated sack on his skin, pumping poison into his veins in return. Thinking upon the matter only brought him to the same path; that of rage. Burning, sweltering rage that made his troubled heart white-hot with fury. Anger that brought comfortable forgetfulness, even if only temporary. He would douse himself in the blood of her enemies to try and wash himself clean. His pace increased and the man at his flanks followed. Old warrior friends, spaced out over the barren plains, each leader of their own hunting packs - all subservient to the King. They were with a thousand men but they traveled swiftly. They knew the land and they were laden lightly, only carrying the essentials. Eager for the hunt, many had even left their heavy armour behind.

‘Just like old times, isn't it my Lord?’ Twelve-toes said at his side.

Kitun nodded to his old hunting companion. They had shared many raids and battles, shared drink and women. The tall warrior at his side was beyond a loyal soldier also a friend, and there were many others like him. He could see their faces all around them. Twelve-toes, Birdcatcher, Kalam the taxer. Old names, old scars. They were his pillars, his brothers, some relations going back to the scarlet-run orphanages from which most hailed.

‘Just like old times.’ Kitun repeated, thinking back on the many men he had known over the years who were now dead. Lost during slave-raids in Isin, taken by the Larsans, drowned in the southern reed-swamps. Mauled and eaten by lions, picked apart by birds - trapped in cages hanging from towns they had failed to take. His companions had been dragged to the halls of the dead by sickness, woundrot, by the hands of their fellow kin, some even put down by the sisterhood itself. Death was a certainty, and Kitun wondered when it was his turn. Thirty summers, how many were left? The men of old at his side reassured him; the warrior was not alone.

As the march continued doubts faded, and the image of the trespassing Isines strenghtened with each step. Rows of enemy soldiers, coming to wage war against the Revered one. They must be punished.

A flock of crows circled ahead over the hills on the backdrop of a setting sun. Red light reflected in Kitun’s eyes.

***

First Darkness was setting in when the scout returned. A young boy, breathing heavily, his naked hairless chest covered in sweat. He collapsed before Kitun’s sandals. The light footed Uruk force hard worked itself up in the foothills of the dry highlands. During normal times they would have already been beset by predators, but now all animals were absent.

Kitun dragged the exhausted boy from the dirt. ‘Speak boy, is the enemy near?’

His dark eyes sparked. ‘Over the hills…’

‘Isines?’

‘Soon you will hear ... their dogs bark.’

‘How many?’

‘Many my lord, more than us.’

‘Encamped in the valley of the lions?’

‘In the valley my lord.’

‘And did any of them see you?’

‘I kept clear my lord, and returned immediately to you. I ran.’

Kitun let go of the runner. ‘Valley of the lions.’ He stated to whoever stood nearby. ‘The High-Priestess told us where to find the unbeliever. Now we have found them we must complete our task. Our commands are to behead the King of the Isines and force the remaining Isine warriors into submission. Eneduanna wants them as servants, not corpses.’ He held out his hand. ‘Bring my shield, my armour, my helmet, my weapon the morning star of Inanna. Bring me water and wine, and follow me up over the ridges.’ A sharp grin was visible through his black beard. ‘I'm excited. A hunt, a true hunt. Too long have we all been penned up in the city, with the weak and the women. Our purpose is out here, in the barren wild, to hunt. Beyond those hills are five thousand frightened Isines…’

Men crowded around him, faces and banners lighting up in torchlight. ‘Who here has killed an Isine before?’

He was replied with a multinious roar. Kitun smiled. ‘Do not boist so loud, Isines are easy. And douse your flames, we hunt in the dark. Remember the barren fields where we slaughtered the Larsans, the men we thought unbreakable, covered in their bronze and brightness of the sun. Remember the heat of that day, how you thirsted, struggled. And then the night came, brought down by the Revered one herself. The night is for slaughter, and tonight we must commit a massacre upon the Isines. We strike for the heart of their encampments, pulling them from their bedded nightmares. Our approach must be silent, careful, deliberate. We must get as close as possible before we attack. Dispose of their sentries, but when their guard-dogs bark I want to hear a war-cry the High-Priestess can hear back in Uruk! Be without fear, you are with brothers and you carry the blessing of the High-Priestess. Be without fear, you are lions amongst sheep. After this night, Isin will kiss your feet.’

When Kitun was done, his attendants strapped his heavy armour around his broad torso. They placed his bronze helmet atop his head. They gave his shield and weapon, and gave him wine and water to drink. Prepared for war, he gave up control over the anger whenever it came asking. As he climbed, he lost the ability to speak, his eyes became glassy and his nostrils flared. He was guided by his companions, who he could distinguish as friends only by their scent, and once at the top of his mouth was foaming. This was Inanna’s true blessing, the form of the roaring bull bestowed upon him. In battle he was no man, and the man with all his doubts and troubles and fears and guilts were deposed, left at the side of the road and crushed under the hooves of the beast.

Beneath him he now saw lights, and the King descended silently upon them with his men.

***

The Isines had retreated deep into the valley, placing their tents close to each other, fearing the dark and what lurked within. They had crossed into the barren lands of Uruk and had quickly learned of their status as prey. Their scouts were harassed and dragged off, their unprotected baggage trains ambushed by packs of hungry lions. The sacred cats had long since learned of the taste of man, knew of the dangers of arrows and spears, so they stalked after the Isines, picking off the unwary and slow, and with each kill their number grew.

One day’s march from Uruk, in the valley of the lions, the five thousand strong Isine army sat huddled together. Their sentries were placed close to the encampment, none daring to occupy the heights surrounding them.

The Urukian warriors crept up to them, stalking like the predator hunts the prey. Slowly, carefully, descending, until an Isine war-dog barked in the night. A dozen hounds joined in the warning, and a great cheer roared from the surrounding hills. The red men charged down screaming, weapons drawn. They jumped over the last rocks and boulders and streamed into the encampment.

Startled Isine guards were smashed and cut down. A brazier was pushed over, igniting the tent besides it. Fire arrows rained down. Red men rushed through the half-dark between the flickering shadow of flames. They slaughtered those in their beds, stabbing through the fabric of collapsed tents. A path through the Isine camp was cleared of resistance, and through the smoke and flames came charging the Bull of Uruk, his bellow waking the last of the Isines and throwing chills down their spines.