The message had been signed with an improvised seal, as had his own. He traced it with his roughened fingers. It seemed to be the likeness of a butterfly.
…and a bitter woman. He could not miss the supreme irony of language. “Interrogated but not raped—yet.” That was a parody of his own assumption of impending torture. “Dishon has nothing for me”—Dishon being a eunuch. And the reference to Aten! Finally, the suggestion that he visit her personally…
That bit about the crayfish made no sense at all, unless it were some code-word that she assumed he would comprehend. Of course he couldn’t!
He pondered the rest again. The implication that he could visit her, as though he were a guard…
She was accusing him of being the spy!
Very clever, enemy! But NK-2 would not be lulled that way! He would stay close and safe within his host until he was sure—one way or the other.
The sarcasm was too finely edged. This seemed far too elaborate to be a ruse. A spurious reply should have been calculated to win his confidence, to allay his suspicions, while this letter was oppositely slanted. The sender wanted to infuriate him—particularly if he happened to be a spy.
Well, he had already incriminated himself beyond recall in his opening missive. Whether prisoner or spy, the mind at the other end fascinated him. He would proceed on the interesting assumption that this Amyitis was what she claimed to be: a woman who worshiped Ishtar.
But why, in that case, was she a prisoner here?
Was Sargan against Ishtar too? He couldn’t be; he would have to incarcerate all the women in Babylon, and many of the men also. No—the butterfly was in the cell for some other reason—if this were not the flaw in her story that betrayed her insincerity.
He dampened his tablet, coated it with another pungent layer of mud, and wrote. His practiced hand, he found, did not need light for this.
AMYITIS: EVIDENTLY YOU BELIEVE ME TO BE AN AGENT OF SOME SORT SPONSORED BY THE NAMELESS TEMPLE, SENT TO WIN YOUR CONFIDENCE AND TRAP YOU INTO SOME DAMAGING CONFESSION.
He was, he realized, exactly stating his suspicion of her! Perhaps the only way to meet that problem was to extend his own trust, hoping that he would in turn be trusted.
I DO NOT CONDEMN YOU FOR WORSHIPING ISHTAR, BUT HER RITES ARE NOT FOR ME. I CANNOT RECANT MY OWN BELIEF IN ATEN, THE ONE GOD WHOSE MIEN IS MERCIFUL. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND ANY PERSON’S OBJECTION TO SUCH A GOD. BUT AS LONG AS ATEN HAS SUCH ENEMIES I KNOW THAT HIS NEED FOR A FRIEND IS URGENT. I CANNOT DESERT HIM NOW.
There was room left on the tablet. He was unwilling to let it go to waste. Yet what could he say to a person he did not know? A highly distrustful and sarcastic person…
…and female.
Female. The idea was both fascinating and alarming. He had assumed the other to be a man. What, in Aten’s name, was a girl doing in such a dungeon? She could hardly be pretty—not amid such filth. And who would confine a pretty woman in a cell like this, regardless?
He tried to picture the long, straggly tresses, coarse features, bent peasant’s body. No, that did not mesh with her message. She was literate, therefore no peasant. The sexual suggestion, sarcastic though it was, indicated a woman who was sure of her ground. Who considered her body desirable.
Or who wished to give that impression…
But such conjecture was futile. He would simply have to inquire—and to formulate his image from the response. If it were invalid—well, he would probably never see her, physically, so what difference could it make? Best to imagine something pleasing.
WHAT DO YOU LOOK LIKE?
Still there was room. What could he say? She was probably an exceptionally bright woman, to have become a scribe. Intelligence in a woman was wasted, of course; but she could still be worth knowing. What would interest her?
Actually, this was his message. He would write what interested him. She could respond in kind.
Enkidu began to write—about himself and his god.
He was busy far into the night, too avid to sleep. He filled the tablet and set about making a second, then a third. He started the first through while the second hardened. Nineveh, shedu, slavery, Tupshar, literacy, freedom, Babylon, Aten…
CHAPTER 8.
The day passed. Dishon came with the meals, exhorted the prisoner gruffly to recant, and departed.
Why were they ignoring him? They had wholly failed if their hope was to break him down by such sequestration, for he was eagerly awaiting the next message from Amyitis. He readied more tablets so that he could answer her promptly. The hidden inner wall was already denuded as far as his arm could conveniently reach, and great amounts of sand swelled the floor. Much more of this and he would have a cavity large enough to hide in!
At last her reply came through. Enkidu’s pulse fluttered as he held the tablet up to the wan light.
CONGRATULATIONS ON A MASTERLY PERFORMANCE! YOU MAKE ME FEEL QUITE GUILTY ABOUT DENYING ATEN. AS LONG AS YOUR GOD HAS FRIENDS LIKE YOU HE HAS NO NEED FOR ENEMIES LIKE ME.
What did it mean? Surely this was sarcasm—but what was her target? Could she actually believe that his worship was somehow hurting Aten? Was she implying that if Aten had no need of her enmity, she might become his friend? Confusing!
Why should anyone hate a beneficent god? He shook his head dubiously and read on: I ADMIRE THE WAY YOUR MIND CENTERS ON THE ESSENCE. WHAT IS IMPORTANT ABOUT YOU IS YOUR BELIEF IN THE (MERCIFUL) ATEN. WHAT IS IMPORTANT ABOUT ME IS MY APPEARANCE. VERY WELL—I WILL GIVE YOU ALL THE VITAL FACTS YOU LUST FOR. I WORSHIP ISHTAR: I AM THEREFORE BEAUTIFUL. I BECAME A CONVERT TO THE LIONESS SINCE MY RUSTICATION HERE: I AM THEREFORE STILL A MAIDEN. I WAS NOT IMPRESSED BEFORE BUT I BEGIN TO APPRECIATE YOUR SUPERLATIVE POWERS OF INVENTION.
And her improvised butterfly signature.
What was her purpose? He had tried to respond to her provocation politely, with this result.
He was sure now that Amyitis was no spy. But how could he convince her of his own good faith? He read the tablet again, and grew angry. Her assumption of his basic interests was insulting. Maleness she equated with lust.
He could not deny being attracted by the better looking women. Most nubile unmarried females seemed to have little regard for anything that did not contribute to their erotic appeal. Yet as a slave he had seldom been exposed to the provocative side of any woman he might consider for marriage. As a free man—As a free man he had come to Babylon in search of his god—and found himself a wife. Now he had the liability of marriage without its reward. And Amys mocked him as a lecher!
Well, obviously she wanted to correspond, or she would never have replied to his messages. She was likely some old harridan whose obsession was the delight she could never bestow upon man.
He had sent his tablets through singly as they hardened sufficiently. He was writing again before he sent the last. This time he described in some detail the adventures leading up to his imprisonment. A prostitute had robbed him of money, clothing and tablet: so much for analogy. He skimmed over the episode of the Kebar Canal to get to the court session and his garden visit with Tamar. A lovely woman—and his wife.
THEREFORE, he finished smugly, PLEASE MAKE YOUR SOLICITATIONS ELSEWHERE. I HAVE HAD ENOUGH TROUBLE WITH YOUR KIND.
This note had to wait until late at night for shipment, as conditions were poor for hardening. In a fever to send it through before he reconsidered, he had another bright idea: make a protective cover for it, similar to a tablet envelope. Then the cover would absorb much of the abrasion, and the messages could be sent sooner after imprinting.