Ark(32)



Irkalla is a lovely girl, tall and buxom, fair-skinned and delicate. Men of all ranks have begged me for her hand, but I have refused them all. She had a lover, once, but he died on the battlefield and she would take no other . . . years passed and she kept her chastity.

And now, for me, she surrenders it to a hulking brute with hard hands.

I hear it all and I weep for her. I hear him grunting in pleasure as he drives himself into her. I am forced to listen to her whimpering, trying to sound encouraging. He is hurting her, I can tell; I hear it in her voice, for the sound of pain during sex is unmistakable.

The slap of flesh against flesh echoes loudly in the silent street.

It seems to last for an eternity, and through it all Irkalla tries to be . . . convincing. I crane my neck weakly, and I see her legs around his waist, her face turns to the side, tears leaking into the dust beneath her.

Finally, he finishes, and he leaves her lying in the dirt, her skirt still shoved up past her belly.

“You were convincing enough,” he says. “You may go.”

“Will you keep silent?” Irkalla’s voice is calm, strong, and quiet.

“Yes, girl. You’ve bought my silence,” the gate captain growls. “Now go, before I change my mind and keep you for myself.”

The road is long, silent, and rough. At least out on the open road my cries of torment—physical, mental, and emotional—will not bring ruin down upon us.

I do not cry out to Elohim or Innana. I cry out to no one but the silent stars and watching moon, and to Irkalla limping next to me, sniffling, her tears running freely.

An onager and a wagon waits for us some distance from the walls of Larsa. I am settled into the wagon and covered with a blanket. Irkalla thanks the guards then climbs in next to me. Only one of them accompanies us, a gruff, taciturn, hard-bitten man, the one Irkalla had named Uresh.

Uresh clucks his tongue, his shoulders hunch as if the weight of what he has seen is too heavy even for him to bear.





7





Dust To Dust





‘“By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread, till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return.’” Genesis 3:19 ESV





Japheth remained in Uruk with the conquering armies for a few days, helping with the mop-up efforts and patrolling to restore order after the battle. And then, once some agreement had been reached between the kings regarding the fate of Uruk, the human mercenaries were paid and dismissed; thus Japheth found himself wandering back to Bad-Tibira in the company of a few other mercenaries, his coin purse heavy and his heart empty. He found a room to let, once again near the wall where rent was cheap and questions few. It was a risk returning to Bad-Tibira, he knew, but it as long as he laid low and didn’t attract the attention of the king, his presence in the city would likely remain unnoticed.

He wasn’t even sure why he’d returned, truth be told. It was home, or as near to one as he had; it was familiar, if nothing else.

He drank himself into a stupor at night, drinking until sleep claimed him. Sleep, however, didn’t stop him from dreaming of Aresia. He saw her face in his dreams, saw her broken, bloody body in nightmares, ravaged by Sin-Iddim.

Then, the dreams began recurring. He saw her with a handmaiden and a single human guard, traveling an empty road, stopping in dank, smoke-fogged inns.

He felt her presence. Every passing day brought her closer. The idea was lodged in his fevered, drunken mind until he was more than half-mad with it. She was coming, somehow.

Two weeks after the battle against Uruk, the sense of Aresia’s nearness was so strong as to drive him to restless pacing. He refused to sleep, pacing the road in front of Bad-Tibira’s gates. His eyes were locked on the road, the gate, pacing restlessly, tirelessly back and forth in front of the gate, until the guards thought him mad. And, in truth, he felt mad but couldn’t bring himself to care, so strong was the sense of Aresia’s presence.

Elohim, he prayed finally, if you bring her to me, I will turn away from the wine and the battlefield. I will serve you, Elohim, only bring her to me.

He heard no voice, but he felt a peace in his soul, a quiet reassurance. He emptied his last wineskin in the dust at his feet, filled his belly with bread and meat until the dizziness abated, and prayed the prayer again and again. Hours passed—night fell, and day came, and then the noon sun beat down on him, rivulets of sweat pouring down his face and back, and still he waited, praying to Elohim, a single word chanted to the rhythm of his pacing feet: please . . . please . . . please.

Then the crunch of wagon wheels filled the air, and the braying of an onager brought Japheth to his feet. He watched with a thudding heart as the wagon drew nearer. Heat waves shuddered and wavered in the air, obscuring the occupants until they were within a bowshot. The driver was a middle-aged Nephilim man, bearded, grizzled, heavy-shouldered. He turned in the seat and spoke to one of the two smaller, hooded figures in the back of the wagon. One of them raised a head to peer at Japheth, nodded, and slumped back down.

He dared not hope, dared not think it was really happening. It was impossible.

The wagon drew up next to him, and the driver spoke: “Are you Japheth, son of Noah?” Japheth nodded his assent. “Thank the gods we found you. Help me bring her in. She’s weak.”

Jasinda Wilder, Jack's Books