Books by Maggie Shayne (307 page)

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

DESTINY

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Jove edition / February 2001

All rights reserved.

Copyright
© 2001 by Margaret Benson.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com

ISBN: 0-515-13013-3

A JOVE BOOK Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

10 987654321

This book could not have happened without the help of some special people: My friends. They didn’t help me with the research, or the plotting or the character development. They did something far more important than that. They came through for me when I was in trouble. They were there for me when I needed them. With kindness and wisdom they reached out when I was drowning and pulled me onto the shore.

It shouldn’t surprise me. They always do. So here’s to you, dear ones: RomEx Rules!

Special thanks to Justine Davis, Anne Stuart, and Gayle Callen

It also couldn’t have happened without the support of my personal hero, who put up with my whining, tears, and hysterics over this project, and stepped in as he always does to take care of everything in the known universe so I could do what needed to be done. (And who dragged me off into the wilderness for a mental health weekend afterward.) Thank you, hon. You’re my rock.

Research on the civilization known as Sumer has been a hobby of mine for almost a decade now. I knew that one of these days I’d find the right time to use it in a book, and now I have. The culture, the customs, and the religion of the time are accurately portrayed here, right down to the manner of greeting a respected friend, the clothing, the names, and even the description of the queen’s headdress.

However, as happens in fiction, sometimes the author has to take a few liberties, and I want to be clear about those. First of all, two of the characters you meet in this novel, King Eannatum and Queen Puabi, were real Sumerian rulers. She was the Queen of a city-state called Ur, and he was the King of Lagash, and later all of Sumer. They both ruled around the same time—2500 bce, and Eannatum truly was credited with unifying Sumer and ending threats from the nearby land of Umma. However, there is no historical record of Eannatum and Puabi ever meeting, much less having the relationship depicted here.

The other bit of poetic license I took was in stating that a priestess of the temple had to remain unmarried and chaste until and unless she was chosen to perform the Sacred Marriage Rite with the king. I have no way of knowing if that was the case. No source yet has said one way or the other, and indications are that the Sumerians saw sex as normal, healthy, and even sacred, so they may not have forbidden their holy women to engage in it, married or otherwise. However, the Sacred Marriage Rite itself was very real, and was common practice in Sumer.

The observations I’ve made in this book about the changing roles of women during this pivotal time in history are absolutely true. Women are still struggling to regain the status and power they had prior to 2500 bce.

I’ve sprinkled a few Sumerian phrases through this book. These are guesswork at best, as pronunciations and meanings change with every new research book that comes out. Translating the old cuneiform tablets is one thing—trying to figure out how the language sounded is a great deal more difficult. Even the name “Nidaba” has been given as “Nisaba” in some sources. So nothing is certain.

All that said, I will add that any mistakes you may find in the research were obviously put there by evil typesetters intent on ruining my credibility.

Maggie Shayne

When she opened her eyes, there was a sheet over her face.

She sucked in her next breath, her
first
breath, the breath of life itself, and it rushed into her lungs with a force powerful enough to burst an ordinary set. The power jolted through her, arching her back, electrifying her every cell for just an instant. Then she went limp again and released the air in a slow, shuddering sigh. Slowly, awareness returned.

She was in a vehicle that moved wildly and wailed like a hyena. An ambulance, she realized dully. Disoriented still, she tried to clear her mind, to recall what had preceded this latest death and revival, and found only vague memories; a struggle on a rooftop, a gun, the sense of plummeting downward, and the shattering impact at the bottom. She lifted a hand, to push the sheet away from her face. But her hand moved mere inches, and no more. She was strapped down.

Strapped down!

The emotional dam she had so carefully built broke open wide to let ice-water panic flood her veins. A pulse beat in her temple and repeated itself, magnified, against her chest. Memories she had long ago buried clawed their way out of their graves, deep inside her mind, and a few gnarled fingers emerged to scratch at her hard-won sanity until they drew blood.

She had been strapped to a contraption like this one before. No details came just then, thank the Gods. Her control had been too hard won for that. Only sensations, feelings and emotions. Pain. Rage. Despair. Pain. Rage. And a tormentor who had savored her suffering.

“Release me.”

The voice she heard was her own. It was deep, and low, and bore a tone of command, even though it shook with the force of the emotion it sought to conceal.

“What the hell...” someone said. And her mind heard:
Young. Male. Confused. Afraid.

“
Release me
,” she said again, louder this time, more firmly.

The sheet was yanked away from her face, and the wide brown eyes of a young man blinked down at her. “My God, she’s alive!” he called, apparently to whoever was driving the screaming vehicle. He wore a uniform, a badge like a policeman might wear. Lights flashed from without, but the vehicle never slowed. “For the love of Christ, she’s ...”

“Loose the straps!” She commanded, twisting and tugging at the bindings that held her down.

“Easy, now,” he said, hands to her shoulders, voice lowering to a soothing tone. “Take it easy. The straps are just to keep you from falling off. You need to lie still. You’ve been—”

She tugged harder, and one of the restraints snapped in two, lashing backward like a whip and slapping the young man’s face even as he jumped away. He pressed a hand to his cheek, and his eyes widened. She could taste his fear but cared nothing about it. Reaching to the strap at her other arm, she ripped it free as well. Then the young paramedic found his courage and leaned over her again, grabbed her shoulders, pressed her body down.

“Calm down!” he ordered. “You’ll hurt yourself!”

She shoved him away from her with so much force that he flew off his feet, and his back smashed into the paraphernalia lining one side of the vehicle. He was shouting now. The ambulance skidded to a stop even as she tore at the one remaining strap at her waist, snapped it easily, and surged to her feet. She couldn’t stand upright in the vehicle. Bent over, she lunged toward the back of the ambulance, wanting only escape. Freedom.

All her life, it seemed, she had been made to fight for her freedom. She valued it above all else, in a way she imagined few others ever had.

The second man clambered in from the front and came rushing at her even as she reached for the doors. Escape was so close! He grabbed her shoulders. Turning on him like a cyclone, she flung him away. Items crashed and broke and spilled. Both men swore and grappled for her.

She lunged toward the doors again, but the younger one was right behind her now, having recovered himself. He jabbed her hard with something before she could fling him away, and the stab of the needle’s fang pierced her flesh. She felt her eyes widen as she looked down at the hypodermic in her arm.

Drugs
, her memory whispered.

Experiments.

Living death, mired in inky blackness with no hope of escape.

She would not go back to that place! She
must
not!

Yet she felt it creeping up on her even now. Reaching for her. Coming to pull her back into its cold embrace. “No .. .” she whispered.

She whirled on the young man, but dizziness made her sway. The man caught her in his arms. “Easy.”

“Gods, what have you done to me?” She pressed a hand to her head as if she could slow the dizziness, the weakness, push it away somehow. “The drugs ... you mustn’t... give me drugs ...” Her knees bent against her will. Her legs turned to water.

“It’s just a sedative,” he said, bearing her weight now, cradling her carefully. He was cut, bleeding in several places. The other one behind him held his arm oddly. Vaguely, she realized it was broken. He shouldn’t have tried to stop her. He should have just let her go.

“You’re going to be fine, I promise you,” said the one who held her. “Come on, now.” He eased her down onto the stretcher and she tried to push his hands off her, to resist, but she had no strength. Darkness closed in around the edges of her vision. Her body was slowly going numb. “Lie down, now,” he said. “Relax.”

“I... cannot...”

She moved her mouth, but no further words emerged. Hazy outlines now, the two men leaned over her, shaking their heads. One ran his hands over her legs, her arms. “I don’t understand it,” he was saying. “She was as bent and broken as—”

“Broken, hell,” said the other, still clutching his arm to his chest. “She was
dead.
We were going through the motions, but we both knew we’d lost her.”

“It was a mistake. We messed up—”

“She was dead, Jerry. You know it and I know it.”

“That’s not possible.”

Her vision faded even as she saw the man shaking his head. He said, “Damn, I think she broke my freaking arm.”

“Can you drive one-handed?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I can manage it. Can you handle her?”

“I can
now
.”

She heard the driver move away while the other man remained beside her, checking her for injuries. She felt the vehicle lurch into motion again, heard the siren begin to wail once more ... but then it, too, faded into nothingness. She felt herself slipping away as well, and she fought to cling to her soul.

“I cannot let go,” she whispered, sensing that if she did, she might never find her way out of the darkness again.

She needed something ... something to cling to. Something to keep her anchored.

It came to her slowly, like a gentle, loving hand curling around her own. Her memories. Not the horrible memories she had buried so deeply, but the better ones. The real ones ... of the life before.

“Yes,” she said, though she never knew if she had spoken the word or only thought it. Four thousand, five hundred years and more had come and gone ... but though the ages in between faded like morning mists, that
before-time
was as clear to her as if she were living it still. It was
her
time. She had known nothing of what she truly was then. She was a child, innocent, young, with so much ahead ...

More than she ever could have guessed.

2501 B.CE.

City-State of Lagash, Kingdom of Sumer

Her little
kaunake
dress was white and made of fine linen, just like the ones the grown-up priestesses wore.

It reached to mid-calf. Her feet were bare, at the moment. She wore the fringed shawl that was reserved for sacred occasions, and in her tiny hands she carried a large pottery bowl brimming with lush ripe fruits. The priestess beside her was dressed in the same manner, except that she also wore a golden band about her head, in deference to her station. Her arms were bare, save for the gleaming gold and silver bands wrapped around her coppery skin like vipers. Her hair was dark as night, and long and gleaming. The little girl thought the priestess Lia was the most beautiful woman in all the world.

Soberly, the two entered the
cella,
the room at the very top of the ziggurat tower. The little girl tried to concentrate on being serious and appropriately solemn as they crossed the dim room that was lined with stone statues, all winking their lapis lazuli eyes in the flickering torchlight. But the entire never-ending rite seemed so silly to her that she battled a smile, and finally a giggle emerged despite her best efforts.

The priestess looked down at her, a frown etched in her dark brows. “Hush, Nidaba! This is the most sacred room in the temple, the home of the Gods themselves! Show some respect.”

Biting her lip, Nidaba stopped giggling. Instead she spoke. “The home of the Gods is in the heavens, is it not, Lia?”

“You know it is.”

“Then how can they also live here, in these figures?”

“The Gods are everywhere, child. Now, come, we must attend them.”

Nidaba sighed, but obeyed. The two walked forward, side by side, their feet whispering through the dried rushes that lined the floor and filled the
cella
with their green fragrance. They passed by all the smaller stone figures, which represented worshippers, for the Ancient Ones must never be left unattended. At the front of the room were statues created to house the essence of several deities. Enlil Lord of Air, Enki Lord of the Fresh Waters and the
Abzu,
Nidaba, Goddess of the Sacred Script, for whom the little girl had been named. And standing in the center, larger and more beautiful than any, was the Queen of Heaven, Inanna.

Bowing deeply, the priestess Lia held her bowl of fruit before the Great Goddess, and chanted,
“Inanna me en, Inanna me en. Inanna duna agruna ka me en.”
She placed the bowl of fruit at the feet of the statue.

“She won’t eat it, you know,” Nidaba said, eyeing the statue. “She
never
eats it.”

“The offering is only symbolic,” Lia said, obviously struggling now to keep the impatience from her tone. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Nidaba sniffed. “The High Priest will eat what he wants of it, and we will get his scraps.”

“That’s enough, child. Now, go. Place your offering.”

With a sigh, Nidaba walked to the statue depicting her namesake, held up her bowl of sweet-smelling fruits, and heard her stomach growl as she chanted the sacred words. Then she set the bowl at the feet of the Goddess, licked her lips, and snatched a plum, taking a big, juicy bite before Lia could stop her.

“Nidaba, you
mustn’t!”
Lia pressed her hands to her mouth as Nidaba chewed and swallowed, smiling all the while. The priestess’s wide-eyed gaze darted into every corner of the room around them, as if fearing witnesses to such blasphemy.

Nidaba only shrugged and took another bite, then wiped the luscious juice from her chin with one hand. “Why mustn’t I? There is more of the Goddess in me than in this statue. And I am named for her, am I not? I will learn the sacred script one day soon. And then I will fill a thousand tablets with the reasons why it is wasteful and silly to feed delicious fruit to stone statues.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she nodded once for emphasis. Her long, dark hair fell into her eyes, ruining her powerful declaration, she thought, but she simply stuck out her lower lip and blew the hair aside.

The priestess Lia seemed to stifle a smile, but it was a sad one. Kneeling, she gripped the little girl’s shoulders. “You know that only boys are allowed to attend the
edubba
school and learn the sacred script.”

“It’s not fair, and you know it,” Nidaba said, her chin coming up higher. “The Goddess never made that rule! I’ll bet some ... some
boy
did!”

Lia lowered her head a bit, conceding the point, but not aloud. Never aloud. “It is the way of things,” she said. “It was not always so ... but... well, it is today, and there is nothing to be done. I’m sorry, Nidaba.”

“It was the Goddess Nidaba who gave us the script,” the girl said slowly. “And
she
is not a boy.”

“No, she is not.”

“And it was Nidaba who gave me to you, as well, and gave me her name,” the child went on.

The priestess nodded. “That is what some believe. You were found in a basket on the doorstep of the temple, with only your pendant, and the Goddess’s name was etched in its face.”

Remembering the tale she loved best, Nidaba softened her stance and her tone. “And you were the one who found me there,” she said.

“Yes. There was a terrible storm that night. I found you howling with rage, your little face just red with fury. I brought you inside, and all the priestesses gathered round to see you. We wrapped you in dry clothes, fed you warm goat’s milk sweetened with honey, sang to you until your wrath seemed to ease. And as it did, so did the storm. With your first smile, the clouds skittered away and the full moon beamed down on the city of Lagash. And that is why some believe you to be the daughter of the Goddess herself.”

Nodding slowly, Nidaba smiled. But then she recalled the beginning of the conversation, and her smile became a frown. “Then ... who would
dare
forbid me from attending the
edubba
school?” she asked.

Lia sighed. “It is as it is, Nidaba. We can only accept and be content.”

“I will
not
be content. I want to go! I want to learn! I want to go to
edubba?”
Nidaba made fists of her hands, stomped her foot, and grated her teeth as a flood of rage washed through her. Her face heated and her heart pounded.

The floor beneath her bare feet began to tremble as she ranted and raged. The shaking intensified; the entire room, perched high atop the ziggurat tower quaked and shuddered violently. The stone images themselves rocked back and forth, some of the smaller ones tumbling onto their frozen faces.

Screaming in fear, Lia fell to her knees, prostrating herself before the image of the Goddess Nidaba, even as the tremors faded. “Forgive me!” she cried. “The child
will
learn the sacred script! I vow I will make it so!”