She put her hand on his wrist. “Tell me, Hunzuu,” she pressed. “Please. I do not… I wish to understand his anger, that I may not incur it. What happened?”
“It is nothing you need concern yourself with,” Hunzuu shrugged. “It was merely the boy who tended the horses. He was careless with the feed. There was mold, and a horse died. The master was… angry,” he finished. “As I said. He will want a woman tonight. Make sure the lamps and the incense are ready. Do not trouble about the wine. I will handle that.”
“He killed the boy over a horse?” Beletsunu asked.
“Horses do not come cheaply,” Hunzuu shrugged again as he left.
Had he paid attention, he might have noticed that Beletsunu did not ask out of shock, but rather a need for clarity.
* * *
She watched him with his women.
He preferred to have the bedroom brightly lit and gently scented. He preferred his wine cut with water. He paid little heed to the pleasure of his partners, but expected them to praise his prowess.
Some were whores. Some were servants. A few, spread over the course of months, were other men’s wives. Adultery was a crime for women, but not for men… and if Milkilu could buy a husband’s silence with his gold, then there would be no accusation to worry about.
When all was well, he settled for cheap satisfaction. When troubled, or angered, he would pay for good company to relieve his tension. He enjoyed scented oils, on himself and his women, and paid to have plenty on hand.
He liked to find quick, early satisfaction, and then to let a woman try to coax him to readiness again. His second bout would always last much longer, driving him to distraction. He was loud and careless. He would kneel on the bed, facing away from the door, and usually for his second coupling he preferred to take his women from behind.
A woman could sneak into the room while he rutted this way. Even a woman with a crooked back and shuffling feet could do it.
* * *
“Two horses!” Milkilu roared, striking Ubar with the shovel again and again. His young servant gave up any attempt at prostration or pleading for forgiveness. Ubar simply curled up and covered his head, absorbing the blows as best he could with his arms and his back. It didn’t help much.
“You stupid fool! How could you be so careless?” Ubar jerked with each blow, sobbing but too frightened to defend himself or flee-and now too injured in any case.
“Master!” came a voice. Milkilu spun, finding Hunzuu there on his knees. “Master, mercy! The boy made a mistake. He has been punished, and will learn better.”
The rage did not abate. Milkilu strode forward, swinging the shovel at Hunzuu now. “And who should have taught him?” he roared. He struck his faithful servant across the shoulder, and then in the hip, and more. “You know better! You know to have the feed sifted and checked!”
“I did, master,” Hunzuu cried between his gasps and grunts of pain. “I did! We both knew! We both checked! I am sorry, master. We are both so sorry.”
Milkilu struck Hunzuu again, breathing heavily as he tired from the exertion of beating his servants. The blow landed across Hunzuu’s ankle, awkwardly but painfully. Milkilu tossed the shovel aside, letting it fall across Ubar’s back. He stomped away, past the dead horses at the edge of the stable.
It occurred to him that Hunzuu should have been out in the fields. He wondered how Hunzuu even knew that Milkilu was in the stables, or that Ubar was being beaten. No matter. One more thing to discipline Hunzuu for later.
His intervention hardly did any good. Ubar would likely die from his injuries. Milkilu had seen it before. And now most of the other servants were gone on business. Hunzuu would not be running errands for a day or more. Milkilu fumed, striding through his home, wondering who could fetch-
She knelt in the kitchen, her head bowed to the floor and covered by the hood of a cloak. “Beletsunu,” Milkilu growled.
“Yes, master?”
“Do you know the way to Gemeti’s house?”
“Yes, master.”
He grunted. Subjecting Gemeti to Beletsunu’s face would not be the best way to summon her, but he could soothe any insult with more gold. “Take money. Go to her and tell her to come here tonight. Then get back here and prepare the bedroom.”
“Yes, master,” Beletsunu replied, and waited until he had passed to rise.
Milkilu let out a sigh. At least his wife was good for something. Convenient, he thought, that she was there in the kitchen when he needed her.
* * *
The wine was stronger that night. The incense, too. Milkilu failed to notice either change, consumed as he was by his company. In truth, both the wine and the incense had grown slightly stronger each night for months, bit by bit, carefully measured so as to escape his detection.
Milkilu didn’t notice. Nor did the whore, Gemeti. She stayed on her hands and knees as he required, moaning loudly at his magnificence. Their bodies gleamed in the candlelight from the scented oils that covered them both.
Even with the loss of the horses, Milkilu considered that he could practically buy Gemeti now. They could come to some arrangement and he could have her live here in the home with him, or at least come to him most nights. He gave it a moment’s thought, gulping down his wine while he held her hip with his other hand. No. Better to look into who might be available for marriage soon. He had the money for a sizeable dowry, should anyone desirable be offered.
At this point, he’d been married to Beletsunu long enough that an accident would not seem so suspicious. It was about time he got rid of the stupid, ugly cow, too. The thought of freeing himself from her drove him on. Gemeti’s moans became commensurately louder.
He never saw his wife until it was too late. The kitchen knife slid across his neck, cutting deeply, robbing him of his voice. He gasped and pitched forward, blood spraying all around as he collapsed on top of Gemeti.
Beletsunu grabbed the whore’s hair with her free hand. She stabbed the screaming, naked woman without a second thought. Beletsunu didn’t know what had driven Gemeti to prostitute herself and didn’t care. All that mattered was her silence. Beletsunu murdered the young woman on her husband’s bed, and then turned her attention to her flailing, gasping husband.
He tried to knock her away with one hand, keeping the other on his neck as if to stop his bleeding. Half-drunk and disoriented by pain, though, Milkilu couldn’t land much of a blow. Beletsunu ignored it. She stabbed him several more times, giving special attention to his legs. She jerked and carved with the knife, just to ensure that he could not run.
“Your servants will notice how your screams have ceased,” Beletsunu said as he collapsed back onto the bed. “Hunzuu or Ubar will come to your aid. They may be on the way now. But they will not move quickly tonight after the beating you gave them both.”
His eyes were wide with panic. He stared at his wife, gasping for breath that came now with a sick gurgling noise.
Her one good eye looked on without pity. “I will be distraught when I am told that you did not escape the fire,” Beletsunu told him, her voice entirely flat. “I will weep for you, husband. I will grieve. Everyone will see, and take pity.”