Word Fulfilled, The (27 page)

Thura raised her eyebrows. “Oh, you do, do you? Looking like that?”

Shera stifled a snort. “Yes, I’m sure she would be quite happy to receive—by the Mother Goddess, what is that smell?”

Hulalitu self-consciously slipped her rancid hand behind her back. “I must see her. Now. It’s important.”

“Oh, important is it?” Thura dipped her head in mock respect. “Well, shall I summon her for you?”

Hulalitu remained stoic. “She will want to—”

“She will want to slap you silly for this intrusion, that’s what she’ll want to do.” Thura took a step toward Hulalitu. “Who do you think you are to demand an audience—to demand anything—of us?”

Hulalitu persisted. “She—‘intrusion’? What do you mean ‘intrusion’?”

“If you must know, she already has a visitor. So you’d have to wait anyway.”

“Who is with her?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t give her name. Just an old woman—why am I even telling you this? It’s none of your business.” Thura stepped to within a pace of Hulalitu.

“Perhaps if you were to go clean yourself up, she’d be finished when you return.” Shera wrinkled her nose. “You certainly can’t go in while you look or smell like that anyway.”

Hulalitu met Thura’s glare but decided not to antagonize the two priestesses any further. There was no way to win. Besides, she had another idea. “Very well, I’ll return later.” She pivoted on her heel and walked away.

“Cleaned up, perhaps?” Shera threw after her as she rounded the corner.

“I’ll clean you up, you . . . ,” Hulalitu muttered.

She picked up her pace at the corner of the Hall of the
Ishtaritu
, then hurried to the end of the corridor and stepped into the tiny room once assigned to Ianna. The priestess stepped behind the tapestry on the back wall and nudged aside a small panel. She crouched and slipped through the portal into a narrow passageway inside the wall.

Hulalitu moved quietly along the pitch-black tunnel. She was one of only three who knew the secret passageways by heart, having discovered them early in her stay at the temple. An elder
naditu
who had taken a fancy to the young Hulalitu had told her of rumors that such hidden corridors existed. The idea of secret hideaways intrigued the inquisitive young girl, and she set out on a quest to discover if the legend was true. It only took her and two equally adventurous friends three weeks to discover the hidden panels in two of the carnal initiation chambers. The excited novices swore never to reveal their secret to anyone.

Over the next two months, whenever they could sneak away from their duties, the trio explored the dark tunnels throughout the temple. Much to their thrill, there were outlets in rooms other than just the bedchambers. It was to one of those outlets Hulalitu now made her way.

She counted twenty-five paces, slowed, and began to trace her finger along the stone wall to her left. Two more paces and her fingertips brushed the smooth surface of another panel. She nudged it on the top right corner and it slipped aside to reveal a low opening like the one through which she had entered the tunnel. Hulalitu eased herself onto all fours and squeezed through the portal. She struggled to clear the wall cavity, her waistline more robust than the last time she used it.

Hulalitu drew her legs up behind herself and rolled to her side. She rested a moment from her exertion before she rose to her feet. As expected, she found herself huddled in a narrow space between the High Priestess’s dais and the rear wall of the
Entu’s
chambers. From her hiding place, she could hear muffled voices around the corner of the platform. Although she couldn’t make out what they were saying, she recognized one of the voices as Ianna’s. It sounded strained.

Hulalitu crawled to the corner of the platform and peered around its base. She couldn’t see who was there, but the voices were clearer now. The second voice sounded familiar, but only vaguely—no, wait. It was the woman who had come to the temple to see Ianna several times since the girl arrived as an initiate. She said she was Ianna’s mother.

Hulalitu narrowed her eyes.

Thirty-five

Nineveh, the Temple of Ishtar

Fifteenth Day of Du’ûzu, The First Hour

our father decided it would be best not to tell you until he felt you were old enough to understand everything.” Hani sighed and squeezed her moist eyes shut against the weight of her heart and the burden of her secret.

The evening shadows sneaked across the floor from the corners of the High Priestess’s chamber. They slithered up the walls, where they obscured the frescoed hall behind the dull gray of twilight. Although the worst of the day’s heat had waned, the air in the room remained heavy, as though pressed down upon by another presence, one unseen. The two women sat on the lower steps and spoke in hushed tones.

The gold amulet lay in Ianna’s lap, its leather cord entwined around her slender fingers. Hani stared at the medallion but made no attempt to touch it.

“I don’t understand. You recognize this pendant. What is it, and why is it important? It’s beautiful, and obviously costly, but I don’t recognize the design.”

Hani’s lips twitched. “It is costly; you’re right about that. Invaluable, really. But not because of the gold.”

Ianna cocked her head. “Tell me—”

A soft tap at the door interrupted her. Ianna rose to her feet and whisked the heirloom behind her back.

“Enter.”

A swath of yellow light invaded the room as the door opened. Thura stood in the doorway with a torch. “Shamash sets, my High Priestess. I thought you might need light . . .”

She faltered as she spotted her High Priestess’s visitor sitting motionless on the steps of the dais.

Ianna was curt. “Very well. Light the torches and leave us.”

“Yes, High Priestess.”

Thura hurriedly touched her flame to four torches affixed by iron braces to the walls near the door. She moved to the side of the dais to light the two torches at the rear of the chamber.

Hulalitu raised her head and stared at the wall above her. One of the two unlit torches hung a scant five paces from where she hid. Thura would surely spot her. She began to scoot backward, further into the shadows between the platform and the wall. The panicked
naditu
craned her neck toward the secret portal and hoped beyond hope she could reach it before Thura lit the last torch.

She blinked at a burst of light that flooded the back corner of the chamber and shrank into the shadows. Hulalitu wriggled in the tight space, hoping the noise of her sandals against the floor would not betray her.

Thura’s muffled footsteps grew louder. Hulalitu threw another look over her shoulder. There was no way she could reach the opening in time. In desperation, she tucked herself into a ball and held her breath.

The torch appeared around the corner of the dais and illuminated Hulalitu’s hiding place in a blaze of light. She cringed and squeezed her eyes shut against the inevitable.

“That will do, Thura.” Ianna’s voice cut short the
naditu’s
steps.

Hulalitu chanced a quick look up. Thura stood a mere seven paces away, her torch poised to light the final fixture. A glance to her left would put the skulking priestess fully in her view. As though she heard Hulalitu’s mental pleas, Thura turned to her right and retraced her steps.

Shadow once more engulfed the niche. Hulalitu released a long, silent sigh.

When the door closed behind the attendant, Ianna returned to the steps. She eased herself down beside her mother and replaced the pendant on her lap.

Hani lifted her head, and she and Ianna locked gazes. Time slowed. The hiss of the torches receded into the background, and the room faded away. Only her mother remained in view. Ianna watched shadows from the flickering torchlight dance along the contours of the elder woman’s face, where it animated every careworn wrinkle and highlighted every blemish. Ianna’s breath caught short. A thought arose that had never occurred to her before. Her mother was beautiful.

The world would take no second glance at Hani. It would judge her plain, unremarkable. But in this moment, there was no purer beauty, no greater serenity than in this woman. It was more than her mother’s face, though, that caught Ianna’s attention. She peered behind her mother’s eyes, and what she saw unnerved her. Fear and love, pain and joy—a hundred other mismatched emotions wove themselves into an intricate tapestry of the woman who was her mother. What kind of life could stitch an embroidery of such contradictions?

A thousand questions crowded the back of Ianna’s mind. They chipped away at the shell around her heart until first one crack appeared, and then another.

The young High Priestess had no idea how long she remained lost in her mother’s gaze, but the treasured stillness now became a weight that pressed down on her heart and her mind. A tightness worked its way into her throat, and she struggled to swallow past it. She felt the need to say something, to get some kind of affirmation of what she sensed. Lost in her quandary, she wasn’t ready for what came next when her mother’s soft voice broke the silence.

“You should know something. My name is not Hani.”

Lll

“Your grandfather was a master craftsman, a goldsmith by trade. The landed and royalty alike sought his work not only in our homeland, but from abroad.” Her mother shifted on the stair.

Ianna folded her hands in her lap, her face intent.

“One day, many years ago, a stranger stopped by your grandfather’s house. Your father was very young, but he remembered his mother ushering his older brother and him from the house while his father spoke with the man. Your grandmother stayed outside with the boys while the men visited well into the evening. When the man finally left, your grandmother took the boys back inside and sent them straight to bed. Your father and uncle stopped at the top of the loft ladder and huddled together while they listened to their parents below. It wasn’t long before the voices grew louder, more terse, and finally broke into an argument.”

The elder woman’s eyes grew distant. “It seems the stranger had offered your grandfather a position of prominence and enough silver and gold to ensure a comfortable living for the rest of their lives.”

Ianna nodded. “That sounds very wonderful. Why an argument?”

“The position was in a foreign land, away from the home and family your grandmother loved. Your grandfather insisted it was best for the family, that it was a blessing they should not turn down. She tried to dissuade him, but he was adamant. They would leave, and that was final. Your father remembered his mother burst into tears and refused to go. The next thing he heard was a smack, then a thud on the floor.”

Ianna’s eyes narrowed.

Her mother swallowed and continued, “The boys heard the door slam and scrambled down the ladder to find their mother huddled on the floor in tears. They tried to comfort her, but she wouldn’t stop crying. Her sons sat vigil by her for the rest of the night. Their father didn’t return.

“The next day, around midday, your grandfather finally came home. He called the boys and told them to help begin with preparations to leave. He had purchased an oxcart and two animals, and they would leave with a group of travelers the next day. When they asked where they were going, he ignored them.”

Ianna jumped in. “Where did this happen? What was—”

Her mother silenced her with an upraised finger. “Their trip was a perilous one. Your grandfather knew that. As they neared their desti-nation, a band of Assyrian soldiers attacked their caravan. Several travelers were killed. Your grandmother was among those who died.”

Ianna’s eyes misted. “I thought Grandmother died in childbirth.”

Her mother blinked a tear from her own eye. “That’s what your grandfather wanted people to think. He refused to take responsibility for her death and thought the childbirth story would silence further questions.”

“What happened then?”

“The soldiers began to loot the wagons. When they came across the jeweler’s tools in your grandfather’s cart, they questioned him. Their leader recognized his name by reputation and decided to take your grandfather and the boys back to their garrison. Their commander apparently thought such a renowned artisan in his custody might make good leverage for his own advancement, so he brought them all back to Assyria. Here, in fact, to Nineveh.”

Ianna rubbed her forehead. As a child, she had learned almost nothing about her heritage. Now her family’s entire life story poured out before her, and none of it was what she expected.

Her mother touched her daughter’s forearm. “Are you all right, dear?”

Ianna started. She had not been called “dear” since she left home. The endearment sounded odd, out of place in this temple—especially in the sterile deference she was now accorded as the High Priestess. She searched her mother’s eyes. The compassion and love in them, also strangers in this place, ushered a tear onto her cheek.

She brushed it away. “Please go on.”

“Your grandfather never recovered from your grandmother’s death. Although he hid the real story from others, it ate at him over the years. He retreated slowly into himself, hardened by the guilt he tried to deny, until he was little more than a recluse. Still a brilliant goldsmith, but a broken man.”

An edge returned to Ianna’s voice. “And my father became a jeweler like his father.”

Her mother nodded. “Your father became a jeweler and his brother a potter. Before your grandfather died, he made a special gift for each of his two sons.” Her voice grew fainter. “Gold medallions that were to be passed down through their respective families. Gold medallions on which he embossed the great symbol of the life, the land, and the faith he had left behind in search of greater wealth and fame.”

“Your uncle Abim was forced into the army under King Shalmaneser. He left with the army on his first foray to the west . . . I don’t know exactly where. He never came back.” Her voice quavered. “He so loved his pottery.”

Ianna put her hand over her mother’s, which still rested on her forearm. “I never knew my uncle.”

Her mother stared at Ianna’s hand on her own, her voice now a whisper. “He was my husband.”

Hulalitu crouched behind the dais, mesmerized by the tale. She shifted and grimaced at an arc of pain that shot through her cramped leg muscles. She had no idea how long she hid but noticed the charcoal gray of her niche had given way to an inky blackness that was held at bay only by the yellow glow from the torches. Her muscles screamed to move, but she dared not chance any noise that might betray her presence. To remain still, though, was no longer an option. Her leg muscles burned, and the pain overcame her ability to concentrate on the faint conversation.

The stocky
naditu
struggled against the tight space to push herself to her knees and steadied herself against the wall. She rose to her feet and stiffened her legs. Her knee joints popped, and the sound echoed into the chamber from her niche. To her ears, it was like a clap of thunder.

The voices went still.

Ianna stared at her mother. The question reached her lips, but her breath failed to push it any farther.