Word Fulfilled, The (3 page)

Two

Nineveh, the Temple of Ishtar

Fifteenth Day of Nisanu

anna fixed a vacant stare at the mosaic fresco that framed the entrance to the Hall of the Ishtaritu. The late afternoon sun oozed through a narrow window high in the wall behind her and cast a hazy yellow swath across the faded tile chips. Her dull eyes traced the lower edge of sunlight as it edged up the frieze and released the ornate design into the solitude of dusk. The desire for similar release from the naked glare of life into the sweet anonymity of death wormed through her subconscious. She found herself in envy of the fresco and watched as it slipped into blessed obscurity.

She sat alone on the niche bench farthest from the statue of Mother Ishtar. The Matron regarded her with a thin, cold smile from her perch atop the back of a stone lion. Lately, Ianna fancied a mocking hue creep into the goddess’s enameled eyes. Over time, she found herself withholding all but the occasional glance at the Mother Goddess, whom she once beheld with unrestrained adoration. That was months ago.

Two months and thirteen days, to be exact.

A lifetime, to be less exact.

She sat motionless and avoided eye contact with her Patroness. Shame tilted her torso forward onto stiff arms propped on the smooth surface of the bench. Her slender fingers fidgeted on the edge of the seat over which her delicate legs dangled listlessly, toes angled toward the floor they came short of reaching by a full hand’s breadth. Once proud and erect, the weight of disgrace rounded her slender shoulders and slumped them into a posture more befitting a woman decades her senior.

Two novice
qadishtu
cult priestesses tittered through the doorway and drew up short at the sight of Ianna hunched in the shadows. Their cheeks flushed, and they fell silent as they hurried by. Once past, they stole furtive glances over their shoulders and shared clipped whispers. She knew they were too new to the temple to intend cruelty. They were simply curious. There were tales of a girl more beautiful than any of the others who passed through their rites but who could not consummate her initiation. For the others, the Temple of Ishtar was now a distant memory. Not for Ianna.

The tales were true. Ianna’s beauty was the fodder of legend, a rare gem among the steady stream of Assyrian girls who coursed through the temple. No one understood why she had never consummated her ritual, least of all she.

The young initiate had dutifully, even enthusiastically, fallen in line with the other girls to avail herself as a temple virgin. Surely, she would quickly consecrate her blossoming womanhood in a holy act of devotion to Mother Ishtar. Then she would return to her family to live out a normal life, sanctified. But something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong.

She remembered the initiation ceremony like it was yesterday, at least until she passed out as the closing mantra was chanted and the brass gong fell silent. She awoke in these chambers, unaware how she got here. And here she remained. For two months. And thirteen days. Or was it fourteen now? It hardly mattered.

Certainly there were ample opportunities for Ianna to complete her ritual. Her exquisite beauty ensured that. As expected, she was the first maiden selected countless evenings as the men came out. But, for reasons far beyond her understanding, after they retired to her bedchamber and shared the prescribed ceremonial cup of wine, none of the men had been able to perform. Her own mortification was compounded by the humiliation of her partners, many of whom turned violent in their embarrassment.

“What have you done to me? What is this curse? Whore!”

She could only cower in fear and bewilderment, while one after another the men stormed from her chamber.

Her selection was rarer now. Word got around.

“Ianna?”

She jerked as her name scraped through the antechamber on a coarse voice. Her shoulders drooped further at the sight of Hulalitu. Her assigned
naditu
mentor stood across the room, hands propped on her ample hips. Even after months, Hulalitu’s raspy voice sent a shudder up Ianna’s spine.

“Ianna!” Her advisor would not tolerate being forced to a third summons.

“I’m here.” The softness of Ianna’s breathy tone overlaid Hulalitu’s croak like balsamic myrrh on sandstone.

“It is late. There is an offering tonight. There will be men. Prepare yourself.”

Ianna sighed and pushed off the bench. Her soft leather foot wraps padded over the smooth floor. She clasped her arms over her stomach as she made her way to her bedchamber. Her mind darkened.

So there will be men. So what?

Lll

“I saw Ianna today.”

Hani tightened the last knot of the cable-stitch she hemmed on the sheepskin throw. She cut the mending twine with a flint knife and glanced at her husband, Mordac.

“She sat outside the temple. I saw her as I passed on the way to the marketplace. I couldn’t approach her. That horrible priestess was at her shoulder again.”

Mordac did not respond.

She laid the skin on her lap and looked at him. “She sat alone, apart from the other girls.”

The silversmith kept his eyes lowered as he sorted a small pile of nuggets by size.

“Mordac—”

“I heard you.” He sat back and rubbed his eyes.

Hani tightened her jaw. “They won’t let me see her or speak to her.”

“She should have come back home by now,” Mordac mumbled.

“She should never have gone.”

He narrowed his eyes. “We’ve discussed this. It’s what is done.”

“It’s a travesty, what is done!” She glared back.

“Hani, you know the custom. If we are to maintain a proper place here, we must make certain . . . concessions.”

His wife’s eyes flashed. “Concessions? Ianna is our daughter!”

“I know that!” He slammed his hand on the table. “Don’t you think I know that?”

“Sometimes I wonder.” Her voice cracked.

“She should have been home right away.”He rubbed his forehead. “It was supposed to be one day, just one day. Then she would be home, and we could forget it. Life could go back to the way it was.”

Hani’s shoulders sagged. “It can never be the way it was for a girl, Mordac. Not after the first time. It shouldn’t be like this.” Her voice softened. “It should be beautiful, like mine was.”

Mordac’s voice thinned. “It was supposed to be one day. Just one day.”

“The moon has been through two full passages, Mordac. And it’s halfway through a third.” Her voice sliced the air like an arrow.

He furrowed his brow and went back to his nuggets.

Hani’s voice dropped to a plaintive whisper. “What’s happening there?”

Lll

Ianna sat motionless as Hulalitu caressed her silky black hair with an ivory comb.

“What’s wrong with me?”

The
naditu
paused. “Nothing. Why do you ask?”

“You know why I ask.” Ianna shook her head and splayed her ebony tresses across her shoulders.

“Hold still!” Hulalitu frowned. She gathered her
ishtaritu’s
locks together and smoothed them down her back.

Ianna persisted. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Of course I have. Nothing is wrong with you.”

The young girl swiveled and glared up at the
naditu
. “Then why am I still here?”

“Will you turn around and hold—”

“No, I won’t!” Ianna folded her arms across her chest and met her mentor’s frown. “This is senseless. I’m just wasting my time. I’ve been with countless men, but none have consummated me.” Tears glistened in her eyes.

Hulalitu averted her look and tucked Ianna’s hair behind her ears. “Maybe it’s the men,” she offered with a shrug. “Perhaps your beauty intimidates them.”

“Oh, come now.” Ianna scoffed. “Other beautiful girls have come and gone. None of them . . . failed.” She choked out the last word.

“You haven’t failed at anything.” Hulalitu tipped her chin up with a finger. “There is more to this than beauty, more than . . .” Her eyes went distant, and she stopped. Her fingertips caressed Ianna’s cheek.

“More than what?” Ianna’s misty eyes beseeched Hulalitu’s for some comfort, some believable assurance.

Hulalitu’s hoarseness deepened. She averted her eyes again. “Mother Ishtar knows all. She will decide when the time is right, when the man is right.”

Ianna’s shoulders sagged at the lame reply.
Mother Ishtar
. It was easy to invoke the name of the Divine Mother when there were no real answers. Perhaps it was true, but it held no satisfaction.

Hulalitu cleared her throat and the edge to her voice returned. “Finished. Join the others. The men will arrive soon.”

Ianna sighed and pushed up from the mat.

“And no tears. You’ll run the color from your cheeks.” Hulalitu turned her by the shoulders and nudged her toward the door. “Go.”

Lll

Hulalitu slipped around the ornate tapestry into the small bedchamber assigned to Ianna. A goblet of wine sat on the floor next to the sleep mat. It was filled and ready for the ceremonial libation the
ishtaritu
would share with her partner before the ritual consummation.

She listened by the door. Satisfied no one was near, the
naditu
knelt beside the goblet. Lifting a vial from a small pouch tied to her waist, she uncapped it and stirred a measure of camphor powder into the red liquid. The anaphrodisiac disappeared into the wine, and Hulalitu wiped the rim clean to erase its telltale odor. She recapped the vial, then stepped back behind the tapestry and ducked through a low panel hidden in the wall.

This night, another man would find himself at a humiliating loss. Mother Ishtar was not ready to release Ianna.

Neither was Hulalitu.

Three

Nineveh, the Artisan’s Quarter

Sixteenth Day of Ajaru

amin tied off the stack of woven mats and carried them to the back wall of the small workroom. He dropped them into a corner, where they exploded a billow of dust into the still air. He coughed and fanned at the gritty cloud. The heat, the dust—this city was insufferable! Whatever had possessed him to offer his labor to Uncle Hiram and Aunt Rizpah for the early season?

From the day he arrived in Nineveh, Jamin began to count the hours until he could return to his home in Aššûr. Unlike the well-appointed residence his parents enjoyed, his relative’s home, like many others of the Jewish enclave in Nineveh, was tucked away in the poorer artisan quarter. The weight of the city seemed to press down on the ghetto, and its heaviness rolled down the streets from the ornate palaces and temples visible above the low rooftop of his uncle’s simple home. The filth from the alleyways, the stench from open sewage ditches and animal pens—even the oppressive heat of the sun—settled low in the narrow passages between the sun-baked clay hovels. The neighborhood of rich dwellings that abutted the poorer quarter made the lowliness of his surroundings even more pronounced, and he longed for the comfort of his home. But he had committed to help his uncle and aunt, so relief from the suffocating backstreets was weeks away.

The boat trip up the Idiqlat River from Aššûr to Nineveh had been an adventure, giving him high hopes for his stay with his relatives. Lush vegetation and the cool river breeze fueled his excitement during the journey along the great waterway. He daydreamed of his uncle and aunt working among the reeds for their woven goods by its banks. His mind basked in its mild waters surging from the mountains that bordered Assyria to the northwest. He held fond memories of his family wading in the same river as it flowed past Aššûr.

Instead, he spent his days choking on dust in the sweltering backstreets, where many of the Hebrews displaced from
ha eretz
lived.
He snorted his derision at the lesser Assyrian city. Nineveh, though large in its own right, did not match the splendor of Aššûr, which had enjoyed the resplendent attention of generations of Assyrian kings. As the former capital, Aššûr boasted a thousand of years of expansion and improvements, despite a period of subjugation to Babylon. Even when the second Ashurnasirpal moved the political capital to Kal
ḫ
u, Aššûr retained its importance as the religious center, for it was home to the chief national god of the same name.

Assyrian royalty only began to take serious notice of Nineveh in the past hundred years. The city’s growth picked up momentum under Ashurnasirpal, and his successors maintained the pace. New construction and restoration projects were evident everywhere. Its massive walls pushed out to accommodate the flurry of activity reviving the ancient city, which seemed intent to renew its influence over Assyrian politics, religion, and society. The once despoiled Temple of Ishtar rose once again as a predominant feature of the cityscape, along with new temples to the moon god Sin and the sun gods Nergal and Shamash.

More temples were planned, of course, as there were a host of other gods to supplicate for protection and prosperity. The current king, the third Adad-nirari, had just completed work on a new temple to Nabu, the God of Wisdom and Learning. Now his workers busied themselves on the king’s new palace not far from the temple plaza. Even so, Jamin doubted Nineveh would ever attain the splendor of either Aššûr or Kal
ḫ
u.

“Another hot one, eh Jamin?” Uncle Hiram stood in the doorway and squinted into the shadowed room.

“They’re all hot, Uncle,” Jamin muttered and barked another cough to clear his parched throat.

“Nineveh is not Aššûr, eh?”

A spark of guilt stabbed Jamin’s thoughts. He wondered if he had grumbled aloud, or if his uncle was able to read minds. “It’s all right, Uncle. Aššûr gets hot, too.” He dipped his head, lest his eyes betray his discontent. “It’s good to be here with you and Aunt Rizpah.” Jamin meant it, despite his impatience with the city. “Our family misses you back home.”

“And we miss you, as well. Perhaps a reunion sometime after the season . . .”

Jamin nodded. His uncle had proposed reunions with Jamin’s parents for the past several years, but none had ever come to pass. Obadiah, Jamin’s father and Hiram’s brother, only shook his head when the subject came up. He said he doubted Hiram and Rizpah would ever step foot outside Nineveh again. Esteemed members of the city’s Jewish community, their neighbors looked to Hiram for leadership and even brought religious and civil matters before him for resolution. He was not a judge in the Jewish tradition, but the enclave treated him as one. The weight of leadership rested heavily, but well, upon Hiram’s shoulders, and it rooted his heart in the poor quarter. There, he and Rizpah were needed among
Adonai’s
people, although they could have done much better for themselves, even prospered, if only they would return to Aššûr.

Jamin smiled. “Perhaps. After the season.”

“But for now, we have work to do. Those mats are ready to be taken to market. Abijah will be waiting for them.” Hiram stepped back into the alley and, with a wink, disappeared around the corner.

When his uncle had gone, Jamin settled against the wall and wiped his smudged forehead with his sleeve. He stared at the low ceiling and blinked in the flurry of dust motes his movement had roiled into the still air. No, Nineveh had nothing to commend it like Aššûr did. Except for one thing.

Jamin’s heart skipped a beat at the thought.

Except for one person.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

The girl.