As she grew older she pictured Gilgamesh in some detaiclass="underline" towering hero-king, two-thirds a god by birth, so powerful no man could match him in combat. Gilgamesh, who unwittingly inspired the love of the goddess of love herself, Ishtar…
She bared her snowy limbs in a forest glade beside a bubbling crystal pool where sweet hyacinth and roses bloomed, where goldfinches, green-plumed parrots and gorgeous herons flew, where woodchuck and wild deer browsed. Queen of the gods, Ishtar waited with all her charms for the approach of Gilgamesh. And the hero came, innocently hunting game, seeking only to quench his thirst—and spied her in rare loveliness.
And then did she blush all over her body, and wrought about herself her golden locks as though from modesty. “Thou seest only Nature’s robes,” she said, hurling at him a sultry glance as she bounded into the cool water. But in a moment she came again to land and spread her limbs, that her handmaiden might brush the moisture from her and clothe her in fine raiment, while Gilgamesh watched in rapt surprise.
“Come, Zir-ru,” he said, mistaking her for a waternymph. “I will please thee with a mortal’s love thou has not known before.” And the comely queen accepted his hand and lay with him amid the reeds and fondly placed her arms about him… while above, the spirits of the earth and forest flew, singing of the wedding of the Queen of Love and the King of War.
Alas, Gilgamesh overheard. “Have I embraced a god?” he cried, springing up in alarm. She nodded, laughing at his horror. He ran from her and fled to his home city, for this thing was forbidden.
Oh, to be a goddess, Amys thought, for now she had some inkling of what a goddess might do with a handsome man. Oh, to smite the mortal hero with longing!
So it wasn’t entirely unconscious, Enkidu thought, looking up from the tablet. Women did like to entice men!
Ishtar, unrequited, visited her lord Gilgamesh that night as he lay sleeping upon his jeweled couch, the silken purple canopy hanging about his bed in royal folds. Over his imagination she cast a spell, and nestled in his arms as she had done in the wood, and moved her face to his—but dared not kiss his lips lest he awake.
Overcome at last with longing, she rested her head upon his breast and kissed him—once. In wild ecstasy he woke and clasped her burning form. But she faded and hid from him, fearing his fury were he to learn the truth. She pretended to be a maid of the palace, and left him to wonder at the fragrant perfume that lingered.
In this manner did Amyitis dream as she developed into young womanhood—but she did not share her fancies with her stern stepfather. Yet the man did not neglect her education. When he saw that the child was intelligent he undertook to train her to read and write himself, for he was literate. Though she was but a lowborn girl, he instilled in her the skills becoming a highborn woman. As she grew and came to know him well she realized that this stern man was actually giving her far more of himself than had her original father. Sweets and tales of adventure were fun, but education was invaluable.
Her stepfather finally taught her to worship his own god, for he was now high in the councils of the nameless temple. Gradually she came to understand this god Aten and to relegate to the world of heathen myth her foolish dreams. Aten was a far more select god than the materialistic idols of Babylon, and his worship was so privileged that no outsider was permitted even to know his name. Her belief in Aten became absolute.
Enkidu almost dropped the tablet. Aten was worshiped in the nameless temple? By Amalek? By Sargan himself? Those who had cursed his name, who were trying to force Enkidu to recant his belief in Aten?
He shook his head. He would have to think about that later.
Amys, now a young woman with uncut tresses and uncommon grace, presently became a disciple of Aten. She knew the catechisms well and waited only for the death of a Chosen one to take the vow of the Chosen herself.
She was seventeen when such a vacancy occurred. She became a formal candidate as soon as the mourning was over.
As part of her apprenticeship she was taken to see the nether regions of the temple. There for the first time she learned of the pretenders: men and women held prisoner for their sacrilege of professing to worship Aten. She saw the torture chamber. She watched in horror as Dishon poured boiling oil on the belly of a bound man—a man who screamed continuously for the aid of Aten until his gag, which had slipped off, could be replaced.
Shocked, Amys renounced Aten. “No true god of mercy could permit such evil, let alone sponsor it!” she swore. And her stepfather’s face turned slowly ashen as her words of bitterness and renunciation poured out. He had thought she understood…
But to renounce the god in words was one thing; to obliterate the faith built up over the years was quite another. She had spoken words that must forever cast her out from the company of those worthy of worshiping Aten; therefore her faith must be forever expunged. Amys herself became a pretender.
She was especially dangerous because she knew Aten’s name and his ritual, and could easily backslide into imperfect worship unless forced to utter recantal. There could be no halfway measures when the integrity of Aten was concerned. The priests had to be sure of a candidate’s absolute belief, or his absolute disbelief. For Aten was more than a god of temporal regions; he cared for the spirits of his worshipers after their bodies died. The worshipers of other gods had to wander the earth as invisible demons, miserable and destructive. Aten’s additional responsibilities were great, and the priests of his nameless temple labored dutifully to ensure that he was not overtaxed by the spirits of the unworthy.
“But torture is not necessary!” Enkidu protested by stylus. “They can just bar pretenders.”
But it was the inner faith that counted with Aten, not the outer profession. The spirit of a true believer, even one not conversant with the formal ritual, would have claim on the god. There was enormous power in a name, and even more in faith. Since it was not possible, in the present state of the art, to remove a name from memory, it was necessary instead to break the faith. A man who recanted under torture was unlikely to backslide soon, and in time he might forget Aten, or at least find other interests.
Enkidu was coming to understand the mysteries of the temple. These priests were not the evil genii they had seemed. They had reason for their actions. He found that he did not wholly disapprove. He had himself noted the corrupting effect of largeness, or power. Look at Marduk! A religion was only as good as its membership, and a good god was wasted on poor worshipers. The only sure standard of faith was an absolute one. Certainly Aten must not be diluted.
“But how can you defend torture?” Amys demanded. “Aten is benign!”
And there was the pith of that palm. If Aten were kind, if Aten were merciful—could he sponsor the inflicting of unbearable pain? Could Enkidu himself worship a god whose priesthood employed torture in an attempt to abolish that worship? The object was valid; the purity of the religious body had to be preserved. But how terrible the means! He could not subscribe to both, since he faced that torture himself.
Strange inversion, NK-2 thought. First the natives made a religion of the galactic Station A-10; then they tried to prevent other natives from joining. Probably the galactic representative had become aware of what was happening and acted to correct it—and only succeeded in complicating the problem. Mismanagement there, that would bear investigation.