He could not prove that he was not a slave.
“He’s lying,” the soldier said. “Look at him—you can see he’s too stupid to write.”
It was a crude gambit that nonetheless angered Enkidu. “Untie my hands and I’ll demonstrate.”
This was of course exactly what they wanted, and he was soon obliged. He walked to the court scribe, lifted the fresh tablet from his hands together with the stylus, and made a rapid series of characters across its moist surface. Since when do pigs wear silk and copper? He placed it on the magistrate’s bench while everyone in the room watched curiously.
The official huffed redly. He could not, as Enkidu had suspected, read. He was embarrassed to have this so publicly demonstrated. Low laughter sounded in the courtroom as he summoned the public scribe and returned the tablet. “Read it.”
The other scribe looked at the words. He swallowed.
“Well?” the magistrate demanded.
The scribe backed off, rubbing the message out with the heel of his hand. “It is of no account.”
“I’ll make the judgment!”
“Tell him what it says,” Enkidu insisted innocently.
“I—” the scribe faltered. “It—”
“Idiot! Does it make sense or doesn’t it?”
The scribe seemed most unhappy. “Yes, sir. But—”
“Yes what?”
The guard stepped up. “I can loosen his tongue,” he volunteered confidently. The scribe retreated in alarm.
The woman in the corner spoke. “Why not,” she inquired, “put it to the author? Surely he knows what he wrote.”
The spectators were openly laughing now, much to Enkidu’s satisfaction. He was getting his own back in his small way! “I am happy to honor the lady’s request. She is obviously more intelligent than some.” He inclined his head slightly toward the magistrate with an implication the gleeful spectators did not miss. Already more were sidling in the door, attracted by the show. “I merely commended his honor the magistrate on his elegant taste in clothing.”
That worthy sensed the irony but could not afford to acknowledge it. He faced the scribe. “True?”
“Oh yes, yes, certainly,” the man said immediately, anxious to change the subject. “Pig and copper—” he choked, realizing his slip. “He knows the script, without doubt.”
“But he’s still a runaway—a valuable one,” the guard insisted triumphantly.
“I am not a runaway!” Enkidu shouted. He knew it was a mistake to play their game, yet he was unable to school his temper after all he had been through. “I bought my freedom. You can’t hold me for reward. There isn’t any.”
The magistrate glared at the swelling mass of grinning faces. “Fetch me a temple priest!” he snapped to a functionary. He returned to Enkidu. “If you’re not a runaway, what mission brings you to Babylon?”
“I came to find Aten.”
Most spectators did not react, but the hooded figure stood quickly and came forward. A resonant voice sounded from within the deep cowl. “What is your interest in that name?”
NK-2 realized that something was seriously amiss. His host had rationalized A-10 into a god-figure, having no other way to comprehend the imposed incentive to locate the station. But no other native should react to the word similarly. Unless it was host to a similar entity…
The vicissitudes of primitive police and primitive court procedures had been annoying, though not immediately relevant. His host had handled himself well enough so far. But his use of his vocalization “Aten” should have elicited no informed response. The fact that the cowl obviously recognized the term could only mean that the cowl was, indeed, host to the station representative. His search was over!
NK-2 began to extend his penumbra, for he was unable to make contact without it, except by direct physical contact.
A presence was there.
Enemy!
NK-2 withdrew instantly. Trouble indeed! He had forgotten his caution and exposed himself dangerously. He only hoped the enemy agent had not spotted him, or if it had, had not identified the host. There was no way to locate a specific host from the penumbra alone; only direct touch could verify that. Yet the enemy should have a pretty clear notion from the context, just as NK-2 himself did—if the enemy had been aware of the momentary intersection of penumbras.
But the implication! The enemy had located Station A-10! The cowl-host must have been set to intercept NK-2—or any other galactic who tried to reach the station.
All he could do at the moment was remain tightly barricaded within his host, taking no part in the courtroom activities. Until the cowl was gone. Only after he had eluded the enemy could he set about locating the station.
“What business is that of yours?” Enkidu snapped. For a moment he had felt—something. But that was gone now, and he was thoroughly tired of this court and of his predicament.
The magistrate smiled at Enkidu’s words, not pleasantly, but said nothing. This meant even more trouble. Yet if the cowl knew something of his god—Suddenly the woman was between them. Startled, Enkidu allowed her to take him by the arm as she directed a plea to the bench. “Give me this man—until the priest of Marduk comes. I will return him to you.”
The magistrate hesitated, glancing at the cowl. But this woman seemed to have some authority, for he shrugged heavily and said, “Put your seal on this order, then.”
The woman took a small ceramic cylinder from a cord about her neck and pressed it to the tablet that the scribe held out. She rolled it under her finger so that it left an oblong imprint in the damp clay: a miniature picture in relief, the length and breadth of a large toe. Enkidu caught a glimpse of the representation of Ishtar the goddess holding in her two hands Ishtar the planet. Then she grasped his arm again and steered him outside the courtroom.
Had a third party stepped in to save him? He would soon know.
“I didn’t know the roll-seals were still in use,” Enkidu said, fingering his own stamp-seal in some frustration. He did not wish to inquire directly where she was taking him or for what purpose. She was a tall woman, with pleasing curvature hinted by her motions within the tunic. On her wrists were ornate open bracelets, the ends fashioned into the likenesses of lions.
“A few,” she said noncommittally. “The Persians use them, and they will presently be coming back into fashion.”
“The Persians or the roll-seals?”
“Both.” She changed the subject. “What did you write on that tablet?”
“I wouldn’t repeat it to a gentle lady.”
“Such tricks are apt to get you impaled on a very long, very sharp stake,” she said seriously. Enkidu blanched, a sudden vision of the impaled felon on the north highway presenting itself. He hadn’t thought of that, and wished she hadn’t reminded him.
He had led too sheltered a life. He had to school himself to realize that he was not a free agent at the moment. Justice was hard on strangers, and Babylonian justice could be sharply pointed. He rubbed his rear reflexively.
“I see that you understand,” she murmured. “That’s one reason I interceded. You are too independent for a slave. You have forgotten that this is Babylon, where runaways are not coddled. Your value as a scribe will not protect you.”
“I’m not a slave!”
Her eyes studied him. They were almond shaped, set in a mature but handsome face. “You are now,” she pointed out. “They won’t let you go without their reward.”
“There is no reward!”
She cautioned him with a gesture. “In a moment. Now—follow me and try to look like a eunuch.”