He felt good enough to pay very close attention to the way the Imhursaggi slave woman walked when she went back to the kitchen to bring the feasters more bread. He paid close enough attention to make Gulal speak sharply to him, though she did so in a low, polite tone of voice. Even after that, he kept watching the slave woman. After a bit, Tupsharru went over to him and murmured something into his ear.
“Ah? Is it so?” Dimgalabzu said, looking as if he had bitten into a plum and found an unexpected rotten spot. “What a pity, what a pity.”
Nanadirat patted Sharur on the knee. “What did Tupsharru tell him? Why does he look so disappointed?” Sharur looked at his younger sister. Looking at her, he realized she was not so young as that. One day before too long, someone’s father would be dickering with Ereshguna over bride-price for her. To Sharur, who automatically thought of her as an annoying brat, that realization came as no small shock. Because of it, he answered her seriously rather than with an evasion or a joke: “You know what men and women do when they are alone together.”
“Of course I do.” Nanadirat tossed her head. “We wouldn’t be having this wedding feast if men and women didn’t do that when they were alone together.”
“That’s right, we wouldn’t,” Sharur agreed. “What I think Tupsharru was telling Dimgalabzu is that the Imhursaggi slave woman takes no pleasure in lying with a man, and gives a man who lies with her as little pleasure as she can.”
“Oh.” Nanadirat thought about that. Sharur waited for her to ask how Tupsharru would know, or, for that matter, how Sharur could make such a good guess about what Tupsharru had said to Dimgalabzu. She did neither. She simply nodded. She might be his younger sister, but she was a woman, and she knew what women knew.
After the fine wheat bread was all eaten, the Imhursaggi slave woman came out yet again, this time with a bowl of apple slices candied in honey. With great ceremony, Betsilim passed a slice to each of the feasters. “May the union between our two houses prove as sweet as this candied fruit,” she said.
“So may it be,” everyone echoed. Gulal added, “Engibil grant that it be so. The gods grant that it be so.”
No one corrected her. No one disagreed with her, not out loud. Sharur hoped the gods would bless the marriage, too. If, however, the gods remained silent on the matter, he intended to go on with his life as best he could anyhow.
Everyone looked around, as if searching for something, anything, else that wanted doing before the marriage ceremony should be completed. No one said anything. Sharur presumed that meant no one found anything. Ereshguna glanced over to him and nodded, ever so slightly.
Sharur got to his feet. Ningal got to her feet. They stood side by side before their families. Sharur did his best to keep his voice steady and firm, as if he were describing the virtues of a bronze axhead to an Alashkurri wanax. Despite his doing his best, his words came out in a soft, nervous squeak: “I, Sharur the son of Ereshguna, stand here with Ningal the daughter of Dimgalabzu in the presence of witnesses who will see and remember that we so stand.”
“You do. The two of you do.” Ereshguna and Betsilim, Dimgalabzu and Gulal, Tupsharru and Nanadirat all spoke together.
Sharur took the lengths of veiling that hung at either side of Ningal’s head and brought them together in front of her face. “She is my wife,” he said, and then made himself say it again, for no one, very likely including Ningal, could have heard him the first time.
“She is your wife,” the members of the two families agreed, as formally as before.
From behind the veil, Ningal said, “He is my husband.” That was not part of the marriage ritual, and no one echoed it. Nevertheless, Sharur was glad to have her affirmation.
Ereshguna rose then, a wide smile on his face. “And now, my son, my daughter-in-law, come with me, that you may consummate the wedding you have celebrated.” Not only did Sharur and Ningal follow him, so did their families and even the slaves of the house of Ereshguna, all calling advice so ribald, Sharur’s ears burned.
The slaves had cleared jars and pots and baskets from what was normally a storeroom. They had set stools in all the comers of the room, a lamp burning brightly on each one. In the center of the floor lay a sleeping mat. On the sleeping mat lay a square of fine linen, to serve as proof of the ending of Ningal’s days as a maiden. Everyone pointed to the square of cloth and shouted more bawdy advice.
Sharur closed the door. That only meant everyone outside shouted louder than ever. He saw someone had thoughtfully put a bar and brackets for it on the inside of the door. Ignoring the racket in the hallway, he set the bar in the brackets. Behind the filmy veil, Ningal nodded.
He turned to her and parted the veil he had closed. “You are my wife,” he said. “You are my woman.”
Her answering smile was nervous and eager at the same time. “There is something we must do before that is truly so,” she murmured.
“And so we shall,” he said. He freed the veiling from her hair and let it fall to the ground. That done, he pulled her shift up over her head. The lamps shed plenty of light to let him admire her for a moment before he stepped out of his own kilt.
He stepped forward and took her in his arms. Her body molded itself to his. His mouth came down on hers. His right hand closed on her left breast, his left on her right buttock. The kiss went on and on. Ningal sighed, deep in her throat.
Sharur’s grandfather’s ghost shouted in his ear: “By the gods, boy, do you call that a kiss? And squeeze her there, don’t just pat her. Anyone would think you were a virgin yourself, the way you’re going at it. What you have to do is—”
He couldn’t even chase the ghost out beyond the barred door. He had to try to pretend it was not there and make the best of things. And he did.