Twilight in Babylon (21 page)

Barley mold, set on the ripening ears. It could ruin the whole crop, if it spread from field to field. Barley was the staple of the people in the plain. If the barley crop failed, or was even reduced by half, it could spell hard times for the plains dwellers.

If it was reduced further, it could mean famine.

Either way, Samana just confirmed that the
ensi
—whose responsibilities were crops and weather—was in disfavor with the gods.

He threw open his door. “Call me a sledge,” Cheftu ordered. “We’re going to the fields.”

*      *     *

School was canceled.

Some places had snow days; in Ur, they had rust days. The population spilled from the gates and into the fields. Though the people were shipwrights and merchants, craftsmen and scribes, no one was so far removed from farming that he couldn’t spot rust.

Ningal was no exception, and he and Chloe joined the masses of quickly dressed residents picking their way carefully down the narrow ditches between the barley rows. Every ear had to be examined, every field scrutinized. The
lugal
rode the land on a donkey, moving slowly, scribes in his wake to make notes as the clients ran up to tell him which fields were clean and which weren’t.

Any sign of rust on a stalk meant the stalk had to be cut down and burned, so not to infect the others. There was no singing, no joy as the people—mothers with children in slings, great-great-grandfathers with canes, boys and girls whose eyes were wide with fear, and young farmers who had used credit to plant their fields—threaded through the thousands of acres outside Ur.

Gossip was that the great
en
and
ensi
had been to the fields at dawn, seen the damage, and were even now interceding with the gods.

“Samana!”
they would hear the call from one side, then
“Samana!”
from another.

“It’s this,” Ningal said, pointing to the ear. Chloe crouched down and saw the reddish stripe on the leaf of the plant. He knelt and drew on the ground the sign for “poison.” “Go tell the
lugal
there is
samana
in this row.”

Chloe noted the location, then inched down the narrow path beside the irrigation channel. It was hard to believe on such a beautiful, cloudless day, destruction was sighted. She reached the main path and saw the people standing five deep around the
lugal’s
donkey. Scribes took notes and sent priests to mark the rows. A cart from the far end was making its way down, to take away the poisoned stalks.

“Cut it,” the scribes told people. “There’s too much. Cut it before it passes on.” She listened to them tell this several times, then ran back to her row and picked her way down it.

“Ningal,” she called softly. He had knelt again, marked the spot. “Ningal!”

He turned, and she hurried to him, staggered at the number of stalks he’d marked. The rust had spread evenly down the row. “We cut them,” she said. “There’s too many, they said.”

“Do you have a blade?”

Chloe produced a delicate bone knife she had bought with the rest of her wardrobe.

“Make certain to get the root,” he said. “Don’t let it fall into the water and thus spread the rust, or touch the other stalks. Work from here down, I’ll work the other way. We’ll meet in the middle.”

She nodded and knelt at the first symbol of
poison.
Barley had shallow roots, and her knife wasn’t as useful as a pronged fork would be, yet it worked. She laid the stalks on the ground, stepped over them and worked at the roots of another one. The sun climbed in the sky. The calls of
“samana”
had become the chorus of a very sad song. To her right, Ningal sweated and chopped. Between the two of them the row was decimated.

Chloe bundled a stack of poisoned stalks together and carried them to the end of the row. Someone had laid sheeting on the ground so the stalks wouldn’t touch any dirt. She walked back to bundle some more. No one had stopped moving. There were no breaks for lunch and only the muddy ditch water to splash on her face and arms and wet her tongue as the day got hotter.

“
En
Kidu!” someone called later. “
En
Kidu appears!”

Chloe looked down her row and saw a line of priests, identifiable by their bald heads and fringed skirts. They walked two abreast. The words
en
Kidu raced like mice through the fields.

The oxen that pulled his sledge were white, with golden rings through their noses and traces of red-and-blue leather. Priests in white and gold flanked him. She stood on tiptoe to see the great
en,
the high priest of the staged temple. What would a high priest of fertility look like?

Ohmigod. He’s gorgeous.

He was tall, broad, his fair hair was fixed back, and he wore a golden fillet. His beard was full.

People called to him, and women screamed, like groupies at a concert. They prostrated themselves as he passed. Chloe watched as he shook hands with the people, waved at them, smiled and blessed them.

In her ancient travels, most of the priests and aristocracy ignored the people, especially in a procession. Then again, this was a democracy, and though the
en
wasn’t elected by the people, he must be aware of their power. The entourage could barely move for all the congestion. Chloe meandered down her row, transfixed by the man.

In the sun, he was slick with sweat, which just made him look like an overdressed athlete, emphasizing the muscle and sinew of his arms and shoulders. She dumped her stalks on the sheet at the end of her row, and he glanced her way. “Bless you, client. We will win against the
samana.
” His smile was white-teethed and his voice low.

She didn’t see his eyes, but she felt his magnetism. As she turned, he spoke to another person on the edge of another row, but she had the sensation of his eyes on her body, as strong as touch. The thought made her even warmer than the day, and she knelt by the stream to pat water on her face. When she looked up, he had moved a little farther, but glanced back at her. Their gazes met, and Chloe felt electricity zoom through her.

She turned back at the water, willed her body to stop trembling.
You are married,
she told herself.
Though he may be a thousand miles and a thousand years away, you made promises. You’re scoping out the high priest of fertility—have you lost your mind?
She heard the jangle of the oxen’s bells as the sledge moved away, and breathed a sigh of relief. Back to the barley.

*      *     *

Cheftu watched the girl splash her face again and marveled at the grace with which she moved. Her hips swung with the unhurried sway of those who are used to carrying enormous bundles on their heads. All the women moved similarly, but most didn’t have long, lithe legs and high breasts that even a clumsy felt dress couldn’t disguise. Her headdress shadowed her eyes so all he could distinguish were full lips, high cheekbones, and skin that glowed with hard work and an African heritage.

A man worked in the row with her, handsome, with a white beard and camel-colored skin. Her father? Her husband? The lust Kidu felt for all females had become almost an accustomed thing. But never before had Cheftu been intrigued by the details. To Kidu’s undiscerning palate, being female and having breath seemed to be the requirements for a bedmate. The girl was returning to her row. Cheftu gestured to the driver, and he drove the oxen forward, hiding her from Cheftu’s view completely.

As well he should,
Cheftu told himself.
You are a married man.
Maybe she had green eyes, he reasoned. But she was Khamite, dark-skinned. She wouldn’t have green eyes.

He returned his attention to his duties and eyed the bundles left at the end of every row for burning. The fields were almost cleared. The clients, freedmen, slaves, and gentlemen of the commonwealth sweated under the sun, but it was too late. There would be an investigation into the watchers, how the rust had progressed so quickly and never been spotted. Still, there was nothing to be done now.

Was the water bad? No one knew how
samana
passed from plant to plant. They left that knowledge in the hands of Ur’s sadistic gods. Cheftu offered blessings and encouragement automatically to the citizens while his gaze took in the bigger picture. From the height of his sledge, he could see endless empty rows. Fifty percent was the danger mark, and on this side of the city, they had surpassed it.

He gestured to a scribe. “Go to the south gate. See how their fields fare. Bring me word immediately.” He gestured to a second scribe. “Tell the
ensi
Ur will be on famine rations and to summon the record keepers of the granary. Go.”

A third scribe. “Find the
lugal,
tell him to convene the council.” A final message: “Have Asa the stargazer, his attendants, and Rudi the stargazer in my audience chamber in two double hours.”

The sledge moved forward and Cheftu grasped hands, smiled into weary, stricken faces, and kissed children while the sun blazed down and the rust spread throughout the fields of barley.

That day, the power had shifted.

*      *     *

Shama finished encircling Puabi’s eyes with gold paint, and she sighed, as content as a cat when its desire to be petted is met. He draped the cloak of her gown and secured it with a shell-headed pin, then opened the jewel chests. He bowed and waved to the splendid disarray there.

“I don’t know what to pick, Shama,” she said. “They expect to see Inana incarnate. Why a goddess would set foot in this place is something I don’t understand. If I were a goddess, I think I would stay on Dilmun. They don’t have to worry about
samana
there. Those shouts woke me this dawn. And you know I don’t sleep well since the
en
has taken to supplicating all night. Every night. He hasn’t even sneaked in a little rendezvous with a slave. He’s been celibate.” She sighed again. “Thank the gods that isn’t required of
me.
”

His mistress didn’t seem worried. Whether that was truth, or she was portraying an unflappable front for the people to take courage from, Shama didn’t know. He had to believe the best. And dress her like the personification of the goddess that she was.

So he settled on all gold and mother-of-pearl. The wreath of shells and gold beads for her head, then a filigree choker, freshwater pearl necklaces, one on top another, gold hoop earrings, bangles and armbands with inlaid shells and gold drops, and another woven wreath for her head. He belted her gown with a strip of leather the width of his hand, adorned with gold, and white paste beads. The ends fell to her hem, and her every movement was accentuated by the chime of tiny golden bells. Her sandals were bleached leather, and he’d gilded the nails on her toes.

A worthy consort for the bronzed
en,
and dazzling for the council members who had never beheld true beauty. Puabi finished cleaning her teeth with a gold toothpick and dropped it into Shama’s outstretched hands. He opened the doors, and her attendants, slaves, scribes, and acolytes, all in white-wool skirts with gold chokers, waving fans of iridescent turquoise feathers, bowed. The acolytes began singing, and Shama laid the toothpick on the table and took his place in the procession.

En
Kidu met them on the landing, his wool as white, the amount of gold as dazzling. One perfect pearl the size of a robin’s egg dangled from his ear. Smaller pearls, pierced, were woven into his beard, and his filigreed diadem almost blended in with his hair. Like Puabi, he wore gold around his eyes and on his lips, and gold dust on every exposed square of flesh. The attendants to the two blended, and the powermongers of the temple moved to meet the decision-makers of the commonwealth.

*      *     *

Cheftu woke in a sheen of sweat, his hands clenched in the bedclothes. He’d dreamed—oh how vividly—of Chloe. Chloe’s mind, her laugh, her smile, the wicked ways she had with her tongue. Alas, to his shame, he dreamed of her in the field girl’s body, those legs around his waist, those elegant hands clasping him, guiding him—

He threw water on his head, his chest, and lower. It was lukewarm at best.

Cheftu barked for an acolyte, the boy who had retrieved the meteor the other night. “What do I do for exercise?” he asked him.

“Uh, sir, you wrestle sometimes.”

“Anything else?”

“Hunt. Run—”

“Do I swim?”

“Yessir. In the lake outside of town, beside the fields.”

“I don’t remember how to get there.”

“I will guide you, sir,” the boy said.

Cheftu finished tying his kilt. “Good, let’s go.”

*      *     *

Chloe met her sheep in the morning. After a week of fighting
samana,
today was a god’s birthday—she didn’t remember which one—businesses and schools were closed, and the streets were packed. The
en
was going to be riding around today, flaunting his perfect golden body; she must resist the temptation to join the drooling masses.

She needed to get out of the city. “I bet you guys would like to eat out today,” she said. “I just hope I remember how to take care of y’all now that I’m really me again.”

The shepherd waved at her—she didn’t even need to show her receipt anymore.

Mimi snipped after Kami as soon as they were all grouped again. “How about we walk through the palm groves?” Chloe asked them. “We’ll all stay cool, and those new tender shoots should be perfect for lunch.”

They baaed, which she took as assent. Instead of heading out toward the fields now bare of barley, she cut around the wall of the city to the palm groves. They spread out, it seemed, forever.

Palms with not just dates, but a dozen different varieties of palm she wasn’t familiar with. Slaves, those who had sold themselves to the commonwealth or to a landowner from indebtedness, scampered through the mud. The sheep poked at the tender grass, and the goat ran after the birds and ground creatures.

It was cool in the shade. Chloe sat down and felt the sweetness of the morning steal up on her. The sheep found a pleasing patch of grass, and the goat, too. Chloe sat on the grass and watched them play. For a moment, she was at peace.