The Rite of the God
He looked across the crowd of the revelers, uncertain of what he had seen-but then he saw her again. A young girl, she seemed-a maid-but in the skirt and shawl of the priestess class. He knew at a glance, therefore, she was no maid. He reached out his hand to the arm of his most trusted counselor.
"Behold that creature, En Lilitu. Has this one been seen here before-she, the one with the hair like blood and skin like bone laid clean?"
The older man laughed. "Even when you speak of the beauty of a woman, you couch it in the phrases of a man of gore. That is your lukur-she is of the western land. It is said her people come from beyond Kish, and that her kinswoman was-"
The king held up his hand. "I know well who her kinswoman was. Perhaps you forget yourself. Her kinswoman must have been Anath-Sin. What do they call her?"
"They call her after her kinswoman, out of respect. She was given the name on the woman's passing. Or so the tale is told. But she will do well, do you not think? That her kinswoman was…"
"My mother," the king answered. "If ever I had one."
"This is no shame. She is the youngest, and thus the one they would give you. The purest offering."
"I would have her brought to me."
"You are Shar-kish-shari-lord. If you would have the woman brought to you before the rite…this is a thing that can be arranged." And with that, the man gave a lewd look. The look he got in return silenced him.
"Have her brought to my chamber. I would be alone with her."
Lilitu left, wondering what affected the king's mind. It was not the promise of the woman's favors that the king seemed to desire. He could only guess what else the woman would be good for.
Naram-Sin made his way to his chamber. It seemed almost a mockery that she should look so like Anna. It was even crueler that he should know her to be every bit his own kinswoman, if she were the kinswoman of Anath-Sin. And if that was the case, she was the only kin he should know-for he knew he was not the bastard of Manishtusu. The old man had told him as much, even as he had made his last attempt at self- preservation-even as he lashed out with the knife that marked Naram-Sin for life. His face was still handsome; there were wenches enough who would tell him that. But he could look on his face in a mirror, and see the price he paid for becoming king.
He sat, impatiently, and then the girl was brought in. He drew a breath. Face-to-face, the resemblance was even more striking, even though she held her eyes downcast, not daring to look up at him.
"Leave her."
She stood, hardly moving except for the slightest of quivers-the tremor of a faun caught in a snare. He approached her, and then lifted her chin.
"Look at me."
He could not explain the feeling of seeing them-those eyes. Like cloth cut from heaven's mantle still studded with stars, or like the eyes of the woman he last saw, falling to her knees amid a hail of stones, and then borne away on horseback.
"What do they call you?" he asked, trying not to sound enraged. How dare she look like Anath-Sin? And how would she dare to speak that name?
"You know well what they call me, my lord, or else you would not have had me brought forth. And I curse both name and face if they cause you pain. But if you would know, I am called Anath-Sin…and Anna by those who know me familiarly. Fate is cold to bring me here this way."
He reached out his other hand, grabbing her wrist. She did not flinch. She did not seem to care how he touched her, but regarded him, calmly except for that still-perceptible shaking, and the tears that began to stand in her eyes.
"How came you here?"
"Fate. I would it happened any other way but this-that I should be…"
She stopped then, as if unable to continue. He looked at her, deep in thought. Something about this was not right, and it then occurred to him what that something was. The woman was lying. Worse than that-she was lying badly, and to one who would easily catch her.
"Anath-Sin raised me. Your kinswoman, they say-but to me she was a mother until she was slain. I saw that thing. Did your people know of that? Were any messages sent to Babylon to tell them of her death in Uruk? Which of your people received them?"
"Please, ask me no more questions…"
"Anath-Sin had no people-she could have had no kinswoman. I was her son. Who are you that you come here bearing her face and name to torment me? I, who saw her die?"
Anath-Sin gasped, "I would never have had you see that. I had begged to have it otherwise."
He let her go, his arms suddenly weak. If such a thing could be, her skin went yet more pale, and her eyes seemed lighter, dazzled with tears.
"It is a thing that can not be-but here you are," Naram-Sin said at long last. "I saw you borne away on horseback. I could not fathom how you lived. I told myself it was a dream, even when Sharrukkin spoke of you. He spoke of you as if you were old. Old as himself, if not older. And it is you, isn't it? Mother."
She took his hands in her own.
"Never mother. I never had you call me that, had I? I had you know me as Anna-only as Anna. Look on me well-could I have borne you? Did you come from me? I held you in my heart, always, but never under it. I could not have been your mother, but you should know-I did love you. I always did, even as I traveled."
"Anna. It must be you. And you could not have-you seem younger than I."
She shook her head. He reached to the pins that fastened her hair, and let the blood-red locks drift down about her shoulders, as she had been wont to leave them. She lifted his hands to her lips, and held them there, unable to speak. He saw she was weeping, but so silently, as if weeping was a skill she had learned through constant practice. When she recovered, she smiled, sadly.
"It is as Sharrukkin told you. I am old. But I am a fool. Doubly so if I thought you would not know me."
She released his hands, and let them touch her where they would. She lifted her own to his face.
"You have become a man, and a king. And a warrior," she added, her fingers lightly touching the scar. "I had hoped you would be strong in battle, and brave."
He reached his hand up to cover hers, pressing it to his face. He did not know why he felt compelled to tell the truth to her, but it seemed that it should be made known. Even if all Sumer knew it not-it was the truth.
"No battle did this to me-but murder. Murder of Manishtusu. I killed him in your memory. And I paid."
She wept in earnest then, and took him in her arms. She held him tightly, and he could almost not imagine her letting go of him. It was as if she never had. It surprised him to feel her against him, and think of her as a woman. But he found that he did. She was not his mother, after all.
Anath-Sin broke her hold, and then she faced him. "You did well," she whispered. "It was what a man would do. When he parted us, I thought my life would end."
"I thought your life did end."
She had no answer for that. Their eyes locked, each searching the other for answers, but there were no answers. She could not explain how it happened, and he could scarcely care. Their lips met, and the kiss was not that of a mother and son, but of a man and a woman.
"Naram-Sin, forgive me."
"What for?"
"I don't know. Just forgive me. I never wanted us to reunite this way. I…and you…tomorrow we will perform the rite that makes you one with the god. Your people boast of being the heirs of Marduk, but tomorrow you will be Tammuz, and lay in the arms of the goddess. I am still the whore…"
"The goddess."
"The goddess," she repeated, and then smiled. "If you are not offended, my king."
He could not speak. It now occurred to him what they would do. They would lie together, before the people. He and Anath-Sin, but lately thought of as…
She kissed him again.
"Better it should be someone who loves you."
"Tell me what you are."
He seemed so eager to know-and he could have no idea of her reluctance. She had known even when she cradled him as an infant in her arms what he would be. She knew they were the same, but she knew it was not his time, and that his understanding of this thing would only bring him further pain.
"Tomorrow, I will be the goddess. Is that not enough? I am alive, and I have returned to you. And I love you, as I always have."
"It isn't enough."
"I can make it enough."
"How?"
"You are a king, aren't you? Did Sharrukkin speak of me? Said he nothing of what I am? Did he only make me seem old to you? Perhaps I must seem a witch-but there is more I can promise you. Patience."
He looked at her, speechless. He could remember more of it now, the sight of her in his room, naked, with her sword drawn, and her eyes wild. He remembered the image of her gliding to the door, and thought of how he wished she would slay his father. She had seemed another creature then…just as she seemed yet another creature now as she stood before him.
"I must prepare myself, even as you must prepare yourself. It will be but a little while," she told him, then, and, as if he were not a king, and as if she had not been summoned, but had come on her own, she left.
He followed her with his eyes, stunned, but only too curious at her claim to question how it had all come to be.
*****
She navigated the passageways, winding through the clumps of people who had come to the feast. She heard nothing but the sound of her heart, pounding like drums for a battle. It was cruel. That was all she knew-it was cruel. She had known that it would not be an easy thing for her to do-insinuate herself back into his life and then try to repair what had happened. It would have been for the best if this were to have happened gradually, but such was never her luck-to have things go as they should. Instead, it should happen this way. She was forced into the role she had taken time and again; only now, she would be playing it for him.
She returned to her own quarters, and lay herself on her bed. She had not been prepared for the flood of emotions she had experienced on seeing him. She had expected a mingling of regret and happiness, but what she felt was confusion.
He was a man, and he had already become a killer. And although it would be easier, far easier, if she did not make love to him-oh, hadn't that always been her way? Lay down with them, then make them murderers…oh yes, the pattern repeats, doesn't it? Only this time, the order is reversed. She cursed at herself. But it couldn't be helped. This was the only life she knew, outside of robbery and murder. And the lot of a temple priestess meant service to the king, pure and simple.
The worst of it was that she wanted to lay with him. It was terrible thing, but she burned to. She had cared for him as a child, and he was still a child compared to her years. Oh, but wasn't his face dear to her? Wasn't his body fine? The thoughts needled her. She wanted to not only lay with him on the morrow, but to possess him and make him her lover. There was the one thing she knew she dared not do. He was a king, and destined to be Immortal. There was no telling what harm she might do by seducing him.
She swore at herself, pounded the cushions of the bed, and then rose, to walk the floor. She told herself that there was but one proper thing to do-she would leave straightaway after the rite was performed. She would go back to Nippur and then, make herself scarce until she had recovered her senses.
Of course she would. Of course.
*****
She told herself she should not be so tense. This was nothing new to her, after all. She was not the youngest priestess-she was not the youngest anything. And even though she was about to lay with the man she once raised as a son and who haunted her dreams over the last two decades, she knew, really, there was nothing to be tense about.
It was only a rite she had taken part in thousands of times. It was older than she was-it was the oldest thing she could think of. Men did not even till the earth-not even that-before they knew this rite. The story itself was older than the Flood. Men from before the time of the Flood had committed it to stone, it was said. It was a thing known in this land and in all the lands she had ever traveled. In all lands, there was the Mother, no matter what she was called. She was Inanna. She was Ishtar. She was Astarte. She was Isis, and Iassuset. She was also sometimes called Anna. All things came from her. When Anna had been young, men made figures of the Mother in stone, and placed them in the earth that the ground would yield them a good harvest. When she grew, she was taught that to lay with the chief would also help in this thing. All things came from the mother-and eventually, the son would return to her. He would lay with her, and this would bring fruitfulness.
Anath-Sin always saw the irony in being a barren goddess. And now, she saw the irony in doing this with Naram-Sin. She could feel the weight of the eyes upon her-the way they had been when she faced down the snake in a long-ago cave. They were watching her disrobe. No matter how solemn the rite, the looks never changed. They were lascivious. She had not endured, unchanging, season after season, unaware that men found her desirable. She only cared that her king found her pleasing. It would be better that way, and she would need to do less.
She lay herself down, and anyone would think her to be as young as she then seemed. She wondered if her heart would never beat normally again. And then, she knew he was approaching, as much by the feel of his unrealized Immortality, as by the sounds of the onlookers. He was being made ready, donning the ceremonial pendant, and given words by the priest. And then, he knelt beside her, and she reached out to him.
Her one worry had been that he would be too overcome by what he knew of her to do this thing-and that would have meant disaster. Weakness of this sort in a king would be unforgivable. There was time when it would have meant immediate death, and she was uncertain if that day was so remote. But no, he was ready, and her heart was glad. If anything, she could tell that he was eager. He entered her, almost with force. But she found that more a relief than anything, for she, herself, was eager. Her hands slid along his chest as his weight settled against her, and her legs spread further, that she might take more of him in. She then set about matching his rhythm, and was pleasantly surprised.
It had been some time, she thought, since she had lain with a young man. He thrust into her almost recklessly, and she felt almost as if she was being ridden, but this was not a bad thing. On the contrary-it was wonderful. She thought she might know her passion quickly, with the way he was working her. It would be well if this went quickly, she told herself, but somehow, she never did want it to end.
"Anna," he whispered.
She brushed the sweat-damp hair from his face. "My king."
A look, close to pain, crossed his face. She wondered if she had somehow said the wrong thing-if the words had hurt him. "My love," she amended. She could feel him throbbing inside of her. His time was close, and she herself felt as if she was on the cusp of it. He groaned, and she added, "My young god."
His back arched, and he seemed to press himself tighter against her. He lowered his head, pressing his lips against her shoulder and she let one hand rest on his neck. He was grinding against her with intensity, but he was still only at the brink of his passion. She tightened the grip of her thighs against him, grinding in response. His body seemed so rigid against hers-she knew this to be the way it was with some men-before all of these people he was finding it hard. There was a place she knew of, right on the spine, just above the base of the lower back-
He threw his head back-and he did look like a god, a dying god, as he came. She thought his face was beautiful, then. As the spurt of hot fluid filled her, she moaned, and then, almost surprised at herself, cried out.
The room seemed to be spinning. It was done-the rite had been consummated. He got up from her, and she felt something like loss as not having him still against her. But that was not the way of the rite, she knew that. There were the usual shouts, and the hymns. She felt strange. It was time for her to be led away. The "elder" priestess took her hand, and she got up, shakily. Her legs were stiff, and she felt the moistness trickling down her thighs. As she let herself be led, though, she turned her head to look on Naram-Sin, and was slightly horrified with herself.
She had fallen in love with him.
*****
She pondered the disaster in her chamber, combing her hair. She had been well-attended-there had been a time when one ministered to oneself, but no, she had been bathed and reassured by her "elders" that she had done well for her first time. And now, she patiently worked the knots out of her wet hair while wrestling with a more complicated knot.
Of course, she should have seen it coming. Hadn't she fallen for the damn child? Why not fall for the man? The sensible thing to do now was return to Nippur. Absolutely. She would not let herself be tempted by the other alternative-plunge a dagger into his chest and take him on horseback out to the world beyond the borders of his kingdom. That would be delicious-but wrong. There may have been a day, some long years ago, when she would have done that. Perhaps she was getting old, or rather, older. Mature, even.
She did wonder what that would be like, though. That was where she knew best how to teach a young one. She could almost picture them chasing down the sunset. Would he seem happier, if he were not a king? (Would she not be happier, if she had him for her own?)
She heard a noise, and then turned. He had entered, silently. She had been so deep in thought, she had not heard him approach.
"My lord," she said, smiling.
"Is there nothing else you can call me, Anna?"
She rose, and searched his face. He seemed apprehensive.
"What would you have me call you?"
"You have been many things to me, Anna. I can not think of myself as your lord."
She stared. He had come here, obviously with some purpose in mind, and she would rather get to the point than puzzle over how she should refer to him. She thought, in a queer bit of humor, that he should simply be glad she didn't call him "son."
"But you are."
He grabbed her by the shoulders, then, and the grip he had on her was tight enough to hurt. She gasped, shocked by the look on his face.
"Is that what I am to you? The boy you made king?"
Had she really made such a mistake? She would do anything to set it right-she only wished she knew how. She wondered what had happened in the years that she had been gone, and what led up to his killing Manishtusu. She wished she could undo those hurts, but thought perhaps nothing would.
"No, that isn't all. I thought about returning to you, every day. I simply couldn't. I was dead-do you understand? I was dead-you saw me die. I'm here now, aren't I? Could this life have been so terrible?"
"It was," he said. He let her go, stepping back, and then turned, so that she would not see his face. "He hated me because of you. Mistrusted me, because I was your bastard. And I hated him-because of you. Because he had you killed, and because I never felt I was his son. And now, I'm not yours, either."
She put her arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder.
"I had no idea. Does it mean nothing that I thought I was doing the right thing? I had thought…" and now, she was feeling the tears, and she would be crying-she hated herself. "I thought there would be no better future than to be a prince, and I could give that to you. When I laid eyes on you, I wanted to give you everything. The world, if I could. It was the sort of thing a mother would want."
"Who is my real mother? Do I even have a father?"
"I don't know. I had found you. As Sargon claimed to have been found-in a reed basket in the river. And when I saw you, I thought-you would do great things one day."
"You told me when I was a child that my empire would outstrip that of Sharrukkin-it does. I saw to that. I fought for my King, and then raised armies when I became King, myself. Just as you hoped. Great things. And today-I've even made love to a goddess. That is what you are-isn't it?" His tone was bitter-terribly bitter.
She laughed, then. It was more than she could bear, and the laugh was one of sadness-she felt like her heart was being ripped out. "If I am a goddess, if I were a goddess today, perhaps then you are a god. I am a woman. And I'm a woman who would do anything for you. I always would. You must be a god, to have that power over me."
His arms were around her, then, and she almost felt a pang of fear. "If I were a god, I'd command you to love me."
"I do."
"No. Love me."
She pulled back to look into his eyes, and what she saw was something worse than pain. It was passion. Against every better instinct she had, she took his face between her hands and kissed him. She had never known a better way to deal with a man-other than killing him. Her hands then slipped back, entangling themselves in his long, dark, hair, and she could feel her own emotions getting the better of her. When the kiss was broken, she sighed.
"You are the god of my own heart. What else can I do, but love you?"
"Take me into your bed. Make love to me."
Of course, she could make love to him, even though they caused each other pain. And she would make love to him until he was sick of her, and then she would make her way back to Nippur where she would do no further damage. Of course she would. Of course, that would be the right thing to do.
As he lay her on the bed, she realized that she had never been particularly good at doing the right thing. As he kneaded her thighs with insistent fingers, she remembered that when she even attempted to do the right thing, it usually went terribly wrong. And when she opened her legs to take him in for the second time that day, it occurred to her that she never really had a choice in the matter. He was the king after all, and she would stay at his pleasure.
She was only glad that it was her pleasure, as well.
*****
She awoke with him in her arms and was almost stunned. She had thought it to have been a dream-surely she would not have done something so different from what she had planned. But then he stirred, and she recalled that her dreams were rarely this good. Her dreams usually were of blood, and swords, screaming horses and burning tents. This was like an oasis in the desert, or cool rain on a dry field.
"The god awakes," she said, gently. She raced her fingers down his chest and he snatched her wrist.
"You would call me that, and yet I do not even know what you are."
She looked up at the ceiling, dreading this. The curiosity would only grow into resentment-the question would only become an accusation. She knew she could not keep it from him without deceit, and she never did care for deceit, knowing herself to be far from master of it. She wished for a moment she were more like Methos-that young one had a talent for deceit, and a heart just hard enough to lie to those he loved.
"Fetch me a blade," she said. This was not the first time she had given this demonstration, only one of the few times she could remember doing this before one who was not yet, himself, Immortal. He looked at her face, confused, but left the bed, and drew the bronze dagger he had carried in his belt. He lay himself back on the bed, then handed the blade to her.
She did not take it from him, but only wrapped her fingers around his own, tightly. With a swift motion he could hardly resist, she guided his hands to plunge the dagger into her chest, and, dying, pushed him away. When she recovered, his face was aghast and his hands were covered in her blood.
"It leaves no scar," he said, slowly. "You are as you ever were."
"I am. Wash your hands, and clean the blade."
"What have I seen? How have you become this way?"
She could see he was too intelligent to be put off by an easy explanation, which was good, as she had no easy explanation for what she was. She itched, again, to take him. That would be a hard explanation. She cursed the urge, and then answered.
"This is how I was made. There is no magic to it. I can no more tell you how it happens than how the sun rises-it is simply how I am."
He raised one bloody hand to his face. "It leaves no scar." He was backing away from her, rising, almost in horror, but not without that same curiosity. In response, she also rose, the drying blood beginning to flake away from her skin. She picked her shawl up from the floor, and went to him. She grabbed his hands and began to wipe the blood away.
"I know you are not a fool," she said then, sternly. "Do not behave as one." She then wiped the streak from his face, and paused as she touched the scar. "Is that was this is-that you are marked by what you've done?"
"And you are marked by nothing."
"I have known wounds you can not imagine, and carry scars you would never see. All you have done is killed a man who wasn't your father, and gained a kingdom in return. You've also got me, for what it's worth." She dropped the cloth. Why should he be so troubled over these things? All those long years ago, when she slew her brother, she had not so much as wept for him. Her young man was too sensitive. "My brave young god," she whispered, kissing him. "Wasn't Tammuz struck by a nail, and scarred just so?"
"Ah, you persist in this game of calling me a god." She smiled, realizing the subject had been changed.
"All my lovers-my true lovers, have been gods," she laughed. "I have always been a priestess, a whore-in every land I've ever been. I've learned the names of the gods, and called my lovers after them."
"What lands have you known?" he asked, in wonder.
"Ah, Kemet, although your kingdom extends that far. Babylon. I have been to the east, and I myself am from the land to the west-Taurus. I have been to lands far from this empire-lands that have no names. But their gods have names." She then smiled. "I should call you after the name of one of these."
He laughed then, delighted. "Call me after a god of the farthest land you have known." He lay her back on the bed, and lowered himself on top of her.
She closed her eyes, trying to think. The farthest land she had known-ah, but that was the land where she and Methos met with the oracle. She could but scarce remember that evening-the murders and the fires. The pipe-whatever it contained, obscured her memory, and she did but dimly recall what she had learned. But was there not one name she could recall?
"In the farthest land I have traveled," she began. "There is one old god, that I recall. He is the god of time-I should call you that, as he was the king of the gods." She smiled, feeling his hard cock between her legs. "I should call you after him-Kronos. The beginning and the end of time, because I feel that my world begins and ends in your arms."
"Kronos…call me that, then."
She wondered why he should wish to be named for a god of the farthest place she had known-but did not dare question him. It was a good rule not to waste the breath of a man making love to her-she intended to keep that one. She tried, however, to remember more of the myth, but could, just barely. He had overthrown his father, and then made love to his mother, and then there were other things-none that she was certain of. But it was a fine name, and if he preferred it, so be it.
"Kronos, then. My young god."
It was true enough, though. Here was a new beginning, she thought, and she did not dare make the same errors she had made before. Methos-she had loved him, and made him the worst of killers, and her poor Caspian-she knew he was mad. She loved this one dearly, and would do anything to prevent it from happening again. She would not create another monster. She just wouldn't.
She promised herself that she would let him love her a little while-and then she would return to Nippur. She saw no other way.