
Okay, I realise the last excerpt was a little bit murdery. I would like to prove to people that this is not my only writing style. My default, yes, but not my only one.
Most of the book is not that.
The MS has flown past 30k now, so here's a chapter introducing Baby Sargon. He's like Baby Yoda, but with a slightly healthier complexion and smaller ears.
I made the mistake of titling this chapter The Rose Garden, and now I can't get Lynn Anderson out of my head.
It's an issue.
Anyway, as ever with a work in progress, this is rough as a pair of Dura-Gold pants.
The
Rose Garden
Akki reclined on a leather cushion beneath
a wide-branched hawthorn. Its delicate white petals peppered the ground,
lending a sweet fragrance to the afternoon. Little Apsu stood a few feet away,
unsteady on his young legs. He was peering into the pail of freshly drawn water
that Akki had lifted from the well. After laughing at his own reflection, he
dipped his tiny bucket into the pail and tottered off amidst the flowerbeds to
water the weeds. He spilt more of the water down his tunic than he did over the
plants, but the look of joy on his face prevented Akki from interfering.
It had been five years
since he had found the boy sealed inside the casket, caked in his own waste.
The next morning, a girl had returned the child to him when he woke, along with
three skins of fresh mare’s milk for the journey home. Zilittu had disappeared
with the morning mist and he could not find her to thank her.
Leaving Sepu to begin
preparations for the work, he strapped the child to his chest and rode gently
for home. Each time the child became restless, he stopped to feed it or to hold
it beneath each armpit so that it could sprinkle the earth. As the high city walls
of Kish came into view, the child began to wriggle and kick beneath Akki’s
shawl. His tiny face wrinkled up and he thought the boy might scream, but he
settled again as they passed below the tall gateway.
“Welcome back,” one
of the guards greeted him. “Was your trip productive?”
“Very,” Akki replied, touching
his hand to his nose in greeting. He felt bad that he had not stopped to speak
with the guard, who was a distant cousin of his wife’s, but the child needed a
quiet place to rest, and so did he.
He took the back streets,
circumventing Temple Square with its market, and turned onto a quiet track that
wound between the date groves. Most of the trees had been harvested and he
loosened the reins, allowing his horse to munch at the
forgotten fruit which had escaped the women’s baskets.
It was cool beneath the
trees and Akki was pleased to see that the boy had fallen back to sleep. The
road they were on led to a fine summer palace that belonged to Puzur-Suen, the
King of Kish, but they turned off some way before that. His own modest estate
lay on the edge of the king’s grounds. He had dug many of the irrigation
ditches for the palace himself, and the plentiful supply of water allowed Akki
to grow beautiful gardens. His wife, Kasiru, had a fondness for roses, so he
had devoted an entire garden to them. In the evenings, they would sit in that
garden, sipping sweet wine and breathing in the heady scent of the buds.
Sometimes they spent the entire night there, making love until the horizon
turned as pink as petals.
They had not yet been
married a year when he returned from the village with the boy. Kasiru ran out
to greet him as he dismounted from his horse, but stopped when she saw what he
carried. The child did not wake as she came forward to study him. Nor did he
wake as she lifted her questioning eyes to Akki.
“What is this you bring
me?” she asked.
“It is a long story,” he
replied, stroking her soft cheek. “I am weary from the road. May I wash and
explain once the wine is poured?”
She nodded, though her
frown followed him into the house.
Five years,
he repeated to himself. Five years that had flown by like swallows. In less
than a year, their own son, Luadu, would be strong enough to join his brother
at the well, helping to water the parched earth and make the flowers bloom.
It had been Kasiru’s idea
to name the boy Apsu, after the deep-running water that had birthed him into their
care. Akki had wanted to name him something more military, to reflect his
warrior spirit, having fought so hard for life, but his wife felt his choices
inappropriate for an infant. Watching him now, dipping his bucket with a look
of giddy pleasure, he had to agree.
That first day, he had
been so afraid when he sat down to tell the story of how he found the boy. In
his heart, Akki had already claimed him for his own. A gift from the river
goddess. Yet, it was too much to ask Kasiru to feel the same. She had not yet
fallen pregnant with their first child, how could he ask her to raise a
stranger’s? He had thought on this on the long ride back to Kish, and had
formulated a plan. They would ask their neighbour Huziru to raise the boy. All
of her children were grown now and her husband in the ground. They would pay
her to feed him and clothe him, and later for tutors to provide him an
education.
Akki opened his mouth to
suggest all of this, when the child woke and began to cry. Immediately, Kasiru
rose to her feet and went into the house to fetch him. She returned carrying
one of the skins the old woman had given Akki, and sat beside him,
cross-legged, whilst the infant suckled from the leather teat.
“He will need a name,”
she said. “And tomorrow we will have to send for a wetnurse, a crib and fresh
swaddling.”
“Are you saying he may
live with us?”
“Well, where else would
he live?” she replied, with the same wifely authority her mother had taught
her. “He can hardly provide for himself. And look at those sweet little lips.
Who will kiss him and hold him if we do not? Who will sing him to sleep and
warm milk for the morning?”
Akki had loved his wife
then more than he ever thought possible. Under her watchful eye, the child had
grown strong and gentle. He had refused every wetnurse they sent for, only
accepting the milk of a mare. Kasiru worried when she fell pregnant that the
boy might resent a rival for her attention, but from the moment he saw Luadu,
he loved him. Apsu was constantly bringing back gifts from the garden: snail
shells and cherries, feathers, fat catterpillars, and the elegant laticework of
decomposing leaves.
Kasiru accepted each with
a smile, often with Luadu asleep at her breast, and vowed to save them for when
he woke. Satisfied, Apsu would climb into his little alcove and fall to
dreaming with his thumb in his mouth. When Akki came back from inspecting the
city waterways, he would carefully collect the bowl of offerings and place them
for a moment in front of the shrine of Khepat before depositing them behind a
fragrant cedar bush.
Kasiru lived in fear that
their son would ask what they had done with his gifts, complicit in her
husband’s nightly crime, but by the time Apsu woke in the morning he had
already forgotten they ever existed. Akki made it their first ritual of the day
to light the lamps on Khepat’s shrine. The simple act of scraping butter into clay
lamps, rolling wool for the wicks, and watching the flame melt its solid mass
to a puddle of gold, enchanted his son. They filled the censer with cedar sap
and hung it above the flame, then filled the water bowl and placed fresh fruit on
the tray.
Every house in Kish had a
shrine to Khepat. She had been the mother of the present King of Kish, known as
Queen Kubaba when she lived. Puzur-Suen had loved his mother dearly, and the
entire nation fell to mourning when she passed, for she had liberated Sumer
from the Mariotes. The Mari Kings held rule over the Sumerians for generations,
until Kish rose up against their leader, Sharrumiter. Now, it was they who
played slave and the Sumerians who stood proud upon their native land.
Queen Kubaba of Kish had
been a humble alewife when the war began. She had served beer to the occupying
Mariotes with the same hand she served her own people. Some say she suffered
brutally beneath their rule, locked in a basement and ravaged when the wine
went to their heads, others say she lost three sons to the resistance and broke
like a pot from grief. The truth of the tales none will ever know, for who dare
ask a queen to explain anything of herself?
What is known, is that
she took up arms against the Mariotes in that final battle. She rode with the
fury of Nergal in her heart. Her battle cry drew men like a storm summons
waves. They fought for a day and a night, and when dawn broke, her enemies lay
as corpses at her feet. All who remained standing bent the knee and bowed their
heads, not a voice spoke out against her.
She reigned peacefully
over the newly liberated Sumerian people for many lifetimes. She bore a harvest
of healthy sons, yet never took a husband. Her favoured son, Puzur-Suen, became
king on her passing but refused to administer his duties for he said his heart
was breaking. He spent every day at the temple. He paid half the city to kneel
and say prayers, every hour of every day, in her honour.
Eventually, the High Priestess
of Zababa came to him and offered the sleep of the poppy. He was so exhausted
that he slept there in the temple for three days. When he awoke, he spoke of
having seen his mother in a dream. She had appeared to him, shining like the
heart of the sun, smiling beatifically and stroking his cheek. He said her
touch brought peace to his heart and that all about the dry desert of Sumer
bloomed flowers, ripe fruit and butterflies.
“Your mother has been
deified,” the priestess told him.
“You mean she is not
trapped in the darkness of Kur?”
“That is right. She has
been plucked from the underworld and lives in bliss amongst the gods. They have
done this for her because she saved their people from Mari tyrants and restored
the gods to their rightful thrones.”
This answer satisfied Puzur-Suen.
The priestess told him his mother’s name should now be Khepat, goddess of the
sun and mother of all living beings. And so, each house was ordered to erect a
shrine in the east and to worship the rising of the sun with golden ghee and
ripe fruit. This would ensure his mother’s strength and her benefaction of the
city of Kish.
This done, Puzur-Suen set
about his business as ruler.
Beside the well, Apsu had
dropped his bucket and was now smashing his palms against the surface of the pail.
Fat droplets of water hit the dirt and quickly began to fade in the heat.
“Apsu, it is almost time
to eat,” Akki said, rising from his cushion.
“No, play!” Apsu replied.
“Come now, your mother is
waiting.”
“No!” the child said
again, with the granite tone of determination.
“Very well, have it your
own way, but you will go hungry.”
Apsu ignored his father
entirely and set about scooping water in his hands and trying to carry it to
his bucket, but he was not yet coordinated and most of it trickled between his
fingers. Akki considered this for a moment, and then walked away, smiling. The
boy had absorbed stubbornness rather than strength from a diet of mare’s milk,
and he knew that they were too soft on him. He did not respond to threats,
because he and his wife never carried them out. Of course there would be a
plate of food waiting for him when he was ready to come inside.
He removed his sandals at
the entrance, and lifted his skirt over the step, allowing the heavily embroidered
hem to fall back to his ankles. As a family, they were wealthy, yet they chose
to live modestly. Akki had been his father’s only surviving son, eight others
having died in childhood and one, his brother Mitu, having drowned in a
dredging accident two moons before he was due to marry. As such, Akki had
inherited his family’s possessions and his father’s not-insubstantial savings. His
own wife came from a family of Assyrian wool merchants. Although he had paid a
substantial bride price to her father, she had brought with her the deeds to a
large swathe of pastoral land on the outskirts of Kish. They hired her brothers
to continue the family tradition of raising sheep. The textile industry was
lucrative if you knew what you were doing, and they did, so Akki and his family
were always well dressed and well fed.
After his father’s death,
he had found suitable husbands for his sisters. His mother had gone to live
with her eldest daughter, and Akki and his wife had relocated from the bustling
town house of his youth to the tranquil pastures of the city outskirts. Their
land was still within the protected boundaries of the city, but it was far
enough from the market and the temple that they could sleep soundly. The house
had once belonged to a servant of the adjoining palace and was modest for the
current age. There was a small inner courtyard quartered by flower beds with a fountain
in the centre. Kasiru had grown jasmine up the inner walls and the scent
soothed them to sleep at night.
Smooth, whitewashed walls
surrounded the courtyard. Behind him was a tall archway studded with carnelian
and jasper. Three smaller openings led off in each direction to other parts of
the house: the kitchen, the bath house and their private quarters. The kitchen
had an upper floor where the cook slept, surrounded by supplies, and their
private quarters also had an upper level where they slept, with a balcony
looking out across the rose garden. There was a separate building for the
servants, at a respectable distance from the main house.
Akki turned right into their
private quarters and found his wife already on the floor, their evening meal
spread before her. Their son, Luadu, had maize porridge glued to his fist and
was about to wipe it on his mother’s dress, so Akki raced forward to stop him.
Their infant daughter, Susanu, was asleep in her cot, already full on her
mother’s milk.
“Should I call for more
bread?” he asked.
“No, I think we have
everything here. Where is Apsu?”
“I could not tear him
away from his games. He will come in when he grows hungry.”
Kasiru nodded and passed
a cushion to her husband. He seated himself opposite her and reached forward to
dip his fingers in rosewater before plunging one hand into the mound of rice and
goatmeat that sat between them. Kasiru opened a pot of thick cream, coating a
leaf of flatbread with it before delicately rolling up a piece of meat and
chewing.
They washed it down with
fermented wheat juice and chewed dried apricots in honey after the savoury food
was finished. They spoke about a deal her father was making to purchase more
land for his flock, and about Akki’s latest expedition to the countryside to
see how Sepu was progressing with an irrigation project. The sun slowly crept
down between the date palms and one of the servants entered to light the oil
lamps. It was only then that Kasiru sat up with worry in her eyes.
“My darling, where is
Apsu? He still has not come in to eat. Please go and fetch him.”
“Of course.”
Akki rose to his feet and
went in search of his sandals. Apsu was such an independent child. He wandered
as he pleased throughout the day, getting in the way of the gardeners and
stalking cats through the undergrowth. He knew every inch of the estate and
regularly stayed out playing until dusk, when his stomach called him home.
Akki became less certain
when he reached the well and found his son’s little bucket beside the empty
pail. Glancing around, he held his fingers to his lips and made the kissing
call of the rock partridge, which was their secret signal. He waited and then
made it again. When there was still no reply, he cupped his hands and called
Apsu’s name.
He set off through the
roses and over the wooden bridge into the poppy garden.
“Apsu?” he called, over
and over.
As he walked beneath an
archway of vines into the vineyard, he caught sight of Haddis, the head
gardener.
“Are you all right,
master?” he asked, seeing the worried look on Akki’s face.
“Have you seen Apsu
anywhere? He has not come home for supper.”
“No, I’ve not seen the
little mite all day. Let me help you look.”
The two of them set off
in different directions, both calling out to the boy. The last of the light was
fading and the stars looked down with scorn. The boy had stayed out late
before, but he always came when he was called. Akki’s heart thumped heavy in
his chest as his eyes searched the undergrowth.
At that moment, he pushed
through a tall frond and came upon a sight that made him stop. There, in the
little grove before him, sat a young girl, no more than seven years old,
dressed in a simple white tunic and sandals. She was twisting a blade of grass
between her fingers.
Beside her sat Apsu,
staring up with a wide-eyed look of wonder. Akki drew back to observe, a flush
of relief coursing through him. The boy was alive, nothing bad had happened.
But who was this strange girl who sat telling stories beneath the crescent
moon? He knew all the families in these parts, but he did not recognise her.
She was telling him the
story of Inanna and Dumuzid. The goddess Inanna, granddaughter of the Sky and daughter
of the Moon, was promised to Enkimdu, the Great Farmer, who made the lands
fertile and filled the bellies of his people. He sowed seeds, ripened crops and
ensured the harvest. Under his protection, Inanna would want for nothing. He
was plump, with strong arms and a thick beard, dressed in the finest fabrics. All
the gods were looking forward to the wedding feast, for it would be the most
bountiful ever attended.
Yet, one day, as Inanna
was inspecting Enkimdu’s lands, she came across Dumuzid, the Shepherd. He was
slim and tall, dressed in a simple woollen kilt. His hair was cut short and his
face clean-shaven so that he looked more like a boy than a man. Yet, when he
turned, as though sensing her presence, his eyes held the world within them.
Inanna was lost for words and retreated to the safety of her betrothed’s fine
palace. For Inanna was the Queen of Heaven and was never lost for words. She
wielded lightning and made the earth tremble. She commanded the hearts of men.
Nothing made her blush.
Each evening, she would
wander down the valley looking for Dumuzid, but she did not find him. One
evening, not long before the wedding, she turned to find him following her. The
light of the moon haloed his head, washing away the shadows from his smooth
skin. He held his shepherd’s rod in one hand and held out the other to her.
Instead of taking it, she drew back, turning her face from the light.
“Beautiful Lady Inanna,
is it not I you have been searching for these past nights? Well, here I stand
before you. Take my hand.”
“Don’t be foolish,” she
snapped. “Why would I be looking for you? You’re nothing but a shepherd, and I
am to marry a fine lord.”
“Oh, is that so?” Dumuzi
asked, running his tongue behind his bottom lip. “If that be true, I wonder why
you come walking out here, alone, at night?”
“It is warm in the house
and I wish to feel the cool night air on my skin.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, indeed. I do not
like the way you look at me, common sheepherder. You stink of mud and dung.
Get out of my sight, before I tell my husband of your impertinence!”
“And what would your
husband do?” Dumuzi asked, taking a step towards her.
“Why, he will withhold
his bread, so you starve. He will withhold his beer, so you become sober. He
will withhold his flax, so you have nothing to wear and go naked about the
fields–”
“I wear wool,” he pointed
out. “Though I would be happy to remove it if that is what you prefer?”
She glared at him. “I’m
warning you, Enkimdu would not find that funny and neither do I.”
“Oh, Inanna. Why do you
speak of the farmer? Why do you speak about him? If he gives you black flour,
I’ll give you black wool. If he gives you white flour, I’ll give you white
wool. If he gives you beer, I’ll give you sweet milk to drink. In place of his
bread, I offer you honey cheese. How could he starve me? It is I who will offer
him my leftover cream, my leftover milk. I ask again, why do you speak of the
farmer? What does he have more than I do?”
“Shepherd,” she spat. “Do
you know who my mother is? If it weren’t for her favour, your sheep would have
nothing to eat. If it weren’t for my grandmother, they’d have nothing to drink
and you’d be driven to the steppes in search of water. If my father, the Great
Moon God, did not shine above, you would have no roof beneath which to shelter,
and don’t even get me started on my brother Utu, who blazes brightly all the
year long...”
Dumuzi held up his hand
to hush her. “Inanna, do not start a quarrel,” he said, softly. “My father,
Enki, is just as wise and strong as your father, Nanna. My mother, Sirtur, is
as beautiful and knowing as your mother, Ningal. My sister, Geshtinanna, is just
as radiant and hardworking as your brother, Utu. Oh, great Queen of the Palace,
let us talk it over.”
And so it was that Inanna
shed her superiority as she shed her robes, and fell in love with a simple
shepherd.
The little girl lent
forward and placed a kiss on Apsu’s forehead.
Akki chose this moment to
reveal himself. He stepped out from behind the frond and spoke softly. “Do not
be alarmed. I am here searching for my son. Apsu, it’s time to come home, the
stars are out.”
The girl stood up but did
not look frightened. Apsu had placed his little hand in hers and was looking at
his father with some reluctance.
“You are his father?” she
asked, doubtfully.
“Yes. And who are you? I
thought I knew all the children hereabouts.”
“I live just over there,”
she said, pointing absently over her shoulder into the undergrowth. “I must be
getting back now. My mother will wonder where I am.”
She let go of Apsu’s hand
and hurried off before Akki could call to her. The look of abandonment on his
son’s face was almost comical, it was as though his favourite toy had been
taken away.
“Come on, little warrior,”
he said, hoisting him onto his shoulder. “It is well past suppertime and you
should be sleeping.”
As he turned for home,
his son twisted to look back over his shoulder to the place where the girl had
disappeared. He swore he heard him whisper the word, ‘Inanna.’