He knew now, from two sources, that this was A-10. But he had encountered only the enemy penumbra. Could the enemy have taken over the galactic station? Then what had happened to the legitimate representative?
Caution, caution, caution!
As a girl first blooming into beauty, Amyitis had attracted the notice of a wealthy trader and slave-dealer who lived in a neighboring house. This merchant, Gabatha, undertook to purchase the young girl for his personal use.
Here the moral fiber of her foster father balked the merchant. The girl was free, his ward, and a disciple of the nameless temple. Under no circumstance would he permit her to be subjected to the degradations of slavery. If Gabatha desired any further business with the temple, he would take care never to mention this matter again.
The paunchy merchant did desire the business, and he well knew which man he could coerce and which he could not. But young Amys felt his porcine eyes upon her, glowing internally, every time she stepped out of the red door of her house. She knew that there was desire in lesser men than Gilgamesh, that burned as strong.
One day she was chaffering near the clamorous docks, as her mother had done in the years before. She had just purchased several large crayfish from a hawker and had set down the earthen jar she had brought balanced on her head, ready to place the crayfish within. The jar was half filled with water, to keep them alive until she could get them home. The last one was by far the largest, and she was absorbed in the task of trying to fit it into the small opening while keeping her fingers clear of the wicked pincers—when she found herself abruptly face to face with the merchant Gabatha.
She was fourteen and wore no veil. More than one man had turned in silent homage at her passing, and though her face remained serene under the tall jar she took a certain pride in such glances. Now she wished she were ugly.
Gabatha moved with surprising swiftness in spite of his girth. One jeweled hand closed over her wrist cruelly as he jerked her forward. The jar fell on its side, its water gurgling out.
“Ah, flutter your pretty wings, my butterfly!” he exulted as she fought vainly to pull free. “You are about to be treated to a signal honor.”
Amys knew that somewhat more than this gross embrace would be forced on her unless she escaped immediately. But the rings on his black-nailed fingers bit into the flesh of her arm, viselike. She screamed as he caught her other hand and dragged her swiftly into a dreary fish-smelling alley. Gabatha stunned her with a back-handed cuff across the side of her neck, and pinioned her hand again. He was expert at this sort of thing. In the noise and confusion of the hawkers no one heeded her scream. Gabatha backed her against the wall and pinned her there with one knee in her belly as his sweaty hands tore into her light tunic.
“You will have my father to answer to for this!” Amys gasped, still trying to fight him off. “He will have your eyes!”
Gabatha brought up one forearm and pressed her neck relentlessly to the wall. He ripped out an oath of shocking vulgarity. Then he lowered his knee, laughing nastily. “A pious hypocrite—and most un-neighborly. He never fooled me for an instant with all his noble talk. It will be my pleasure to share his pleasure this day.”
Amys tried to scream again, but she could not breathe. She tried to move, but managed only to snatch a breath of air. Then his elbow ground in again and his sour breath was in her face as he savored his coming pleasure while rationing her supply of air.
Then his fingers ripped her tunic and clawed at her breast. He was savoring her rising panic at the realization that she could not hope to resist him.
Amys fought down her terror. Something moved in her hand. She was still clutching the crayfish.
Through a wave of blackness she saw Gabatha’s fat face close in on her, its flabby lips dripping with spittle. She gathered all her failing forces, bent her elbow, and rammed the crayfish at the side of his face.
Gabatha dodged automatically. His elbow moved just enough to allow her to slip out from under. But he spun about, closing a hand about her throat, holding her painfully.
He now stood between her and the wall, chuckling at her efforts. He was, if anything, enjoying this more than if she had not struggled at all. Again she rammed the crayfish into his face. He tried to dodge his head again, but crashed it into the wall behind. The outsize claws of the huge crayfish spread wide, then closed reflexively.
Gabatha screeched and clawed wildly at the thing that now hung from his face.
Amys pulled her ripped tunic about her and ran for home. But that was not quite the end of it.
Several days later her stepfather paid the merchant a call. Amys had told her father nothing, but somehow he knew.
Gabatha’s face was flushed, and a great bandage covered one eye. He tapped it furiously, not waiting for his visitor to speak. “Your slave-slut—my eye—I demand—” He was scarcely able to speak intelligibly, so great was his wrath.
“I have heard about your accident,” the visitor informed the merchant coldly. “I extend my condolences over your misfortune. Of course I do not for a moment believe the foul tale whispered among slaves that a certain disreputable merchant attempted to overcome an innocent maiden in the market place—”
The blubbery lips gaped open, making no sound.
“Nor that she defended herself by striking out his eye with the claw of a crayfish. But I am bound to make this statement: were any man so base as to attempt to impose so on my daughter, I would feel obliged to remove from his countenance, with certain instruments at my command, his other eye.”
The merchant stepped back, comprehending the threat.
“But first, in leisurely fashion, his tongue, his ears, the fingers of his hands…”
The merchant slammed the door.
YOU THOUGHT I WAS GABATHA? Enkidu inquired, now comprehending the cryptic reference to crayfish in Amys’ first message. BUT WHAT WOULD HE BE DOING IN THE NAMELESS TEMPLE?
Amys believed that Sargan after satisfying himself that her recantal was genuine and complete would sell her into slavery. This would destroy her self-respect, and help prevent her from aspiring to worship Aten again. If she died soon in that servitude, so much the better. That meant Gabatha.
BUT GABATHA’S AGENT WOULD NEVER HAVE ALLOWED ME TO DIE. HIS REVENGE IS TOO IMPORTANT TO HIM. AND SARGAN WOULD NOT HAVE ALLOWED IT EITHER, LEST MY SPIRIT BURDEN ATEN. WHEN I TOLD YOU I WORSHIPED ATEN, AND THAT DAY PASSED, AND NOTHING HAPPENED, I KNEW THAT YOU WERE NO SPY. AND I WAS CHAGRINED—No reason for that! he protested generously. She had no way of knowing—ISHTAR NEVER TREATED GILGAMESH WORSE THAN I TREATED YOU, she insisted.
That was an unfortunate parallel, as it reminded him of his Ishtar bracelet and the way Tamar had called him Tammuz. I AM NO GILGAMESH, he protested. I AM NOT EVEN ENKIDU, THE HERO-COMPANION TO GILGAMESH. I AM ONLY ENKIDU’S NAMESAKE, AN UNCLEVER MORTAL IN THE SHADOW OF HIS NAME. There were so many legends about the legendary Enkidu, all embarrassing now.
Her reply was terse.
YOU ARE GILGAMESH TO ME.
CHAPTER 11.
Amalek was in charge of the tour of the torture chamber. He stopped at the door before they entered and turned to face Enkidu, while Dishon and the idiot lamp-bearer stood back. Amalek’s hood was down now, revealing a face somewhat younger than Enkidu had supposed—darker than the average, but not worth looking twice at in a crowd. He spoke matter-of-factly.
“Torture is generally employed for the riddance of malefactors in a manner discouraging similar behavior by others. The spectators are benefited as much as the felon. Perhaps more so, because there are more of them. A man who sees the flayed skin of a thief stretched upon a frame in the street will think again—and yet again—before reaching for what is not lawfully his. The head of a murderer mounted on a stake outside the city serves as an object lesson to potential murderers.”