“Aten, what am I to do?”
A cake of mud fell with a plop from the far wall. Apparently it had stuck there during his vigorous housecleaning. It flattened and settled in the muck, reminding him for the moment of the surface of a fresh clay tablet.
A sign from Aten?
Enkidu shook his head. Aten seldom gave him overt signals. Marduk guided flights of arrows, assisting the priests in their divinations; Ishtar inflamed the passions of men and women; other gods altered the livers of sacrificial animals in order to make known their wills. But Aten seemed to be a god of the mind. Rarely did he provided physical evidence of his intent.
A tapping inquiry came from the wall. Enkidu tapped back reassuringly, then put away the bracelet. He would have to proceed on his own.
He wedged the two strongest fingers of both hands into the rat hole and tugged at the brick. It budged, protested, slid out part way, braced itself, then held firm. It protruded from the wall no more than a finger’s width, while the length of it was well over a handspan. Enkidu pounded it back with his fist, then took hold again. This time the brick came out a little farther.
A third try overcame its reluctance. It popped out of the wall, toppling him into the muck—and landed heavily on his big toe.
He hoped that Aten was not listening for the next few breaths. Then he brushed off the brick, complimented it on its solidity and rigidity, and set it aside. It was flat and roughly square—more than the length of his foot on each side and thin enough so that three piled together would make a fair cube of matter. He now had a creditable hole with which to work, and a creditable tool, too. He could bash out the next brick, if he had to.
Shadow prevented his seeing into his excavation, but his searching fingers found the second row of bricks behind the first. They told him that these bricks were of the softer, sun-baked variety, and no mortar bonded them together. He had only to gain a finger-hold and they should come free.
The rat-hole passed into this cruder wall, providing that finger-hold. But the bricks behind, although loose, were not aligned with those in front and would not fit through the space available. And of course there was weight on them. Somehow he would have to enlarge the opening.
The other prisoner had lapsed into silence, though Enkidu’s operations must have been quite audible. Suddenly, however, there came a flurry of tappings.
Enkidu paused. Why this burst of chatter? Did the other man know something he didn’t?
The tapping ceased. In the silence he heard the heavy tread of the torturemaster. He scrabbled for a loose brick, jammed it into its place, and trampled down the loose powder. Then he waited anxiously while the fateful footfalls came closer.
The gate jerked and shuddered. The panel to the food alcove slid open. He heard the thunk of new supplies replacing the old. “Recant!” Dishon’s bass voice admonished. The steps departed.
After a suitable interval the tapping from the other cell resumed. It was safe to proceed.
Enkidu was beginning to like the neighboring prisoner. He removed the brick again and held it. His fingers passed over its surface. He frowned. The name of the manufacturer was imprinted there.
Enkidu disapproved of such crass commercialism. What would it lead to, should every manufacturer advertise his product by such means? There must be hundreds of businessmen in Babylon, and no doubt the effort of imprinting the bricks with this inessential message added materially to their cost. Such promotion could eventually cost more than the investment in the product itself!
But this reminded him: this brick was very like a gross writing tablet. The mud of the cell was filthy and it stank, but the jellied slop had certain similarities to clay. It hardened as it dried, for one thing, and it held its shape indefinitely until wetted down again. A smooth coat of it on the surface of this brick… but he still needed a stylus.
He fetched his bread from the alcove and munched while he turned the situation over in his head. Suddenly he remembered the tough weed-stalk of the last meal. There was his stylus!
He resumed excavation on the wall. Hard labor dislodged a second brick, and with that as an implement he soon freed a third. Now the gap was big enough to permit the removal of bricks from the inner wall.
Easier planned than accomplished! But he finally found one that was not completely pinned by the weight of those above, and pried it loose.
A shower of sand and grit poured out. Enkidu had anticipated this. The substantial walls of large buildings were normally filled with loose matter between the more rigid surfaces. This made his task at once easier and more difficult—easier to clear out, but harder to keep open. He would have to spread the sand on the floor thinly and hope it would not be noticed, and just keep tunneling it out until the hole stayed clear. Well, it should soak up some of the muck underfoot. If the other prisoner had sense enough to tunnel from his side, it might be possible to connect with his cell.
Enkidu was bone weary by the time the thin light overhead waned. He would have to stop and rebrick his aperture before Dishon stomped by to deliver the evening repast. Discovery now would be disaster! And he should mark his tablet while he could still see it. The surface should be nicely set now, ready for imprinting and final hardening.
He filed the hard stem into a wedge-shaped cross-section against the under-surface of the brick. How should he begin? “To Whom It May Concern” or “Please advise if you are unable to read this”? Ha-ha.
As the light faded altogether Enkidu completed his message, incised in crude but adequate wedges: FELLOW PRISONER: MY NAME IS ENKIDU, OF CALAH-ON-THE-TIGRIS. I AM HELD PRISONER BECAUSE I WORSHIP ATEN, GOD OF MERCY AND COMPASSION. I HAVE BEEN INTERROGATED BUT NOT TORTURED YET. IF YOU ARE ABLE TO READ THIS, PLEASE ERASE THE TABLET AND USE IT FOR YOUR REPLY. WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF AMALEK, SARGAN AND DISHON? WILL THEY REALLY TORTURE A MAN BECAUSE HE CHOOSES TO WORSHIP ATEN? IS THERE ANY ESCAPE? TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF.
It was too dark now to read it, but he had the sentences by heart. It was not the most elegant message conceivable. How easy it was to make great speeches in one’s own mind—but how quickly the splendor faded when these same words were committed to tablet. Was he miscast as a scribe?
He was about to stamp his seal at the foot of the message when he heard Dishon bringing the evening meal. “Recant!” the eunuch admonished. Then: “Pass out your seal.”
Enkidu’s turmoil could not have been greater if he had demanded an arm. “My seal?”
“Do I have to come in and take it from you?”
Enkidu looked toward the hole. It was not sealed up. It would be the first thing Dishon would notice.
Enkidu handed over his seal. The seal was, after all, only a convenience—not a physical part of himself. The turmoil in his spleen was ridiculous; he did not let it deter him from the tasks he had set himself. He felt somewhat cheered when he was able with his writing implement and a thumb to produce a replica of the imprint of his seal—extremely crude, yet recognizable, he decided optimistically.
There was a faint sound. A kind of scraping from within the wall. Yes! The other man had realized what was up and was tunneling in from the other side!
That revitalized his efforts. What was a seal, compared to human contact? This nameless temple was trying to take away his identity and make him anonymous, but he would not let them succeed!
Much later, weary and numb, Enkidu faced the truth: he had tunneled to the limit of his reach, scooping out dirt and sand by the handful, skinning his fingers—but he hadn’t broken through. He heard the soft scratchings as the other man did the same. Their excavations were aligned—thanks to Aten and the rats!—but they simply failed to connect.