The Good Mother
"You spoil him rotten, woman," Ninsug informed her, as she watched Anath-Sin once again carrying the child. "Every moment, you seem to be fondling him."
Her eyelids fluttered as if she were considering the information. She wasn't, really. It was no concern of anyone but herself how this child was to be raised, and she had determined he should have everything-including her complete devotion. Besides, Ninsug could not know how long it had been that she had longed for a child of her own-centuries. Nay, more than that.
"He is a prince. Why should his feet ever touch the floor?" Anath-Sin answered, lightly, but she then set him back down. "He is only young for this short time. It will not spoil him."
The other woman cast a knowing look on Anath-Sin-which she failed to recognize. She was too busy watching the child dart away after a passing insect. She knew, although Anath-Sin herself was oblivious, that there was something about her fascination with Naram-Sin that was not right. Already she filled his head with tales of life at court, and, disturbingly enough-battle.
It seemed to Ninsug that Anath-Sin's tales concerning war were a bit much for any child to hear. At the very least, they seemed terribly accurate. Although, perhaps that could be chalked up to Anath-Sin's imagination-which was something else.
Who else could describe, so vividly, events from her grandmother's time?
But it would certainly be better if Anath-Sin did not go into detail, before the child and other assorted company, about the slitting of gizzards and the removing of heads. And the assurances she provided the boy that he'd have his turn, someday. When he was king, he'd do these things, she would say.
Anath-Sin, only Anath-Sin, would have the cheek to do such a thing. It was bad enough that she made her foundling into a prince, but she would also see him become a king.
She stood back and beheld the woman, who seemed no older now than when first Sargon appointed her to the office. She was kneeling-apparently the boy now held the insect in his hand.
"No, take care you do not wound it. Let it go-see?"
The moth took flight, wobbling, and the boy followed it with his eyes.
"Freedom-the outside. That's better for the thing. And for you-lessons."
Ninsug wondered if freedom would not be better for the boy, but held her tongue. It was not as if the child knew better or seemed to mind the attention-of course, he probably thought all children were learning to read and write at his age. Or were being taught the names of the cities and families of the kingdom. Or had mothers who were constantly watchful, and fathers who were constantly absent.
But he did seem an intelligent child, and it probably did him no real harm. He would only be terribly spoiled.
*****
When she was done with the lessons, she let him lay on her bed, and then went to see her caller. It was only a messenger with some news-not one of those other visitors. When the other visitors came, he was told to stay in his own chamber, and not to come to her. He did not know what it was they did-Anna and the other callers-he only knew that she was sometimes more quiet afterwards.
He tried to sit still, but he wanted to get another look at the thing. It was well-wrapped in cloth, but he knew it had to be special, as Anna told him to never, never touch it. It couldn't hurt if he just looked, though, could it?
He knelt down to where it lay, and pulled at the cloth, just a little. Only enough so that he could see. Before he got a really good look, he heard a sound that made him turn. He stared-he had never seen her angry before.
He did not like the look on Anna's face when she was angry.
She snatched him up from the floor and shook him.
"Never, never touch that-do you hear me? I said 'never,'" she scolded. Her voice was not loud, but something in her eyes made his heart pound. And then, just as quickly as she had grabbed him, she held him tight, and said, in a softer voice, "You will know all about that, later. Much, much later."
He would have cried, but she seemed upset enough for them both.
*****
She dreamed of Taurus. The village was burning again, and she could hear the screams. Her own two hands had done this. Her own two hands, still bloody with her brother's blood, stung from the deeds she had done. She convinced herself it was the will of the goddess, but even she was not so sure. She did this thing-and even now she was uncertain why it had occurred to her to do it.
They would not follow her onto the plains. She did not know what she would do from there-she only knew that a dead woman had no village, and needed no family. She was running, then, and the smell of the smoke burned her lungs as she ran.
She could hear the screams, and they sounded the same in Larsa and Lagash, and in countless other places, at countless other times. They were wordless-or they were the names of children, brothers, sisters. They were always the same.
She awoke, and she realized she was the one screaming and the child was at her side.
She gathered him up in her arms. After a time, the child sank back into sleep, but she could not. It was at times like this that she wondered if she were wrong to try to raise the boy-monster that she was. Holding him, though, she realized she could not give this up for anything.
She needed him. He gave her hope. She knew what her life had been, but he might do great things one day. That was what mattered.