“Imhursag arms for war,” Sharur echoed. By echoing one part of what his guide said, he let the man—and the god who might be, who probably was, listening through him—gain the impression he was echoing all parts of what Aratta said.
Gibil’s peasant levies were not much different from Imhursag’s peasant levies. Sharur did not think his people would cower. He did not think his god would tremble. He did hope Engibil would notice.
He came under the walls of Imhursag a little before noon the next day. What he saw outside the city convinced him that Engibil would indeed notice what Enimhursag purposed hurling against Gibil. Already a large encampment had sprung into being, an encampment that grew larger by the moment as men came in to it from the countryside and out to it from the city. With so many men moving busily through it, it put Sharur in mind of an anthilclass="underline" a thought he carefully kept to himself.
Through Aratta, Enimhursag said, “See the might Imhursag brings to bear against the god run mad. See the might Imhursag brings to bear under the god who is the shepherd of his people.”
“I see,” Sharur said, and see he did. Not only was Enimhursag summoning the peasant levies who would, for the most part, spread over Gibil’s fields to rob and bum, he was also gathering together the men who would fight battles in fi\e van. Some were his priests, striding through the camp with bronze swords and bronze-headed axes, helmets of bronze or of bronze and leather on their shaved heads, corselets of bronze scales over leather protecting their vitals. Some were Imhursaggi nobles, also armored, who rode in four-wheeled chariots drawn by donkeys, from which they would ply the Giblut with spears and arrows.
“See the might a ruling god can bring to bear when he chooses,” Enimhursag boasted. “See the force that will blow away the Giblut as the wind blows away chaff at harvest time. See the fierce, bold warriors before whom Engibil shall tremble. See the strong, brave warriors who will course Engibil as the hounds course an antelope.”
“I see the might, great god,” Sharur said. “I see the force. I see the warriors.” He took a deep breath. “Truly it will be fine to have men who know and honor the strength and majesty of their god come into Gibil once more.”
Had Enimhursag peered into his heart at that moment to learn whether he spoke truth, all his hopes would have crashed to the ground like a mud-brick house collapsing when its roof got too heavy. But Enimhursag, as Sharur had thought he would, had b^pome convinced Sharur’s story of Gibil in disarray and Engibil mad was so because he thought that was how filings in the neighboring city should be, and no longer saw the need of examining the words of the Gibli who had come to Imhursag to bring him such wonderful news.
Through Aratta, Enimhursag said, “Come and be made known to my warriors. Let them seethe man who will rule Gibil in my name after they drive the raving Engibil from the temple his presence now profanes. Let them see the ensi through whom I shall rule as the great god of Gibil.”
“I obey,” Sharur said, which was a reply always acceptable to Enimhursag. Sharur obeyed with something less than a heart full of gladness; the more who knew him here, the more he was kept at the center of Imhursag’s army, the more difficult would his escape be.
But Aratta took his arm and led him through the milling hosts of Imhursag, crying out with Enimhursag’s authority in his voice to clear a path for the man who had caused the god to assemble his army. He urged Sharur up onto a small swell of ground and went up there with him, calling to the growing army: “Warriors, see the man who will rule Gibil in Enimhursag’s name after you drive the raving Engibil from the temple his presence now profanes. See the ensi through whom Enimhursag will rule as the great god of Gibil.”
All the assembled warriors cheered. The peasant levies gaped at Sharur, as peasant levies throughout the land between the rivers habitually gaped on the rare occasions when they saw something new and unfamiliar. Enimhursag’s priests examined him with eyes as sharp as those of hunting hawks. And the nobles of Imhursag sized him up as a potential rival. He could see that in the calculating expressions they carefully hid—but not fast enough—when his gaze lit on them. He did a much better job of hiding his own smile. Even in Imhursag, some folk looked to their own advantage, not merely that of the god.
He knew he would have to say something, with so many men staring so expectantly. Taking a deep breath, he called out in a loud voice: “Imhursagut, may you gain what is rightfully yours in the coming war against Gibil. May Enimhursag gain all the revenge rightfully his in the coming fight against Engibil.” He suspected he and they had differing opinions on how much that was, but did not feel inclined to go into detail over the differences.
The Imhursagut took his words as he had hoped they would. The peasants cheered once more. The priests nodded in satisfaction; he took that satisfaction to mean Enimhursag was also satisfied with what he said. And the nobles looked as if they had bitten into plums not yet ripe enough to be sweet.
Through Aratta, Enimhursag cried, “We march against Gibil! We shall overthrow the Giblut! We shall cast down
Engibil! We shall liberate the city to the south from its mad god, who lets its men run wild.”
Now the cheers were loud and unending. When the god spoke, those he ruled agreed with and approved of what he said. It could hardly have been otherwise, as he helped guide them toward just such agreement and approval.
“In two days’ time, we march against Gibil!” Enimhursag shouted. The roar from his warriors left Sharur’s ears stunned and ringing, as if he had been caught in the center of a thunderstorm. The priests led the peasants in a hymn of praise to the might and wisdom and splendor of their god.
Giblut going off to war praised Engibil, too, and asked for his aid against their foes. But no Gibli since the time of Igigi—and probably since long before the time of Igigi— would ever have sung, as the Imhursagut sang, “With you, great god, we can do anything. Without you, great god, we can do nothing.” Giblut took too much pride—aye, and too much pleasure, too—in doing things for themselves to think they were impotent when they did not lean on their god as a feeble old man leaned on his stick.
“When we cross into Gibil, the Giblut shall flee before us,” Enimhursag said to Sharur. “When we cross into Gibil, Engibil shall not stand against us.”
“So you have said, great god,” Sharur replied.
“So I have said,” Enimhursag replied complacently. “So shall it be, for I, a god, have said it.” He took Sharur’s silence for agreement.
In two days’ time, the army of Imhursag marched on Gibil. Sharur marched at its head, still accompanied by Aratta, through whom Enimhursag had chosen to speak for the time being. Behind him came the nobles in their slow, heavy chariots and the warrior-priests with their armor and axes and swords. Behind them, eating their dust, trudged the peasant levies who made up the bulk of the army.
More peasants joined Imhursag’s army as it moved southwards. Some came in from the west, some from the east, and some, breathless with exertion, caught up with the host from behind, from out of the north. “Never have we gone to war with so great a host,” Enimhursag declared through Aratta’s lips. “Never have we gone to war with so valiant a host.”
“They are as many as the ears of barley nodding in the fields,” Sharur said, like any wise merchant quick to agree with the one in whose company he found himself. “Surely they will prove as valiant in battle as so many lions.” Aratta’s lips shaped a smile. It was not quite a man’s smile. It was the god’s smile, written on the flesh of a man. Seeing it made Sharur’s own flesh creep. Despite the effort it took, he smiled back.