Watson, Ian - Novel 16 (14 page)

 
          
Even
as Alex set out from the bridge people were boarding the vehicles, horses were
being unhitched. A chariot departed in the direction of the citadel further
west; occupants of other chariots still conversed. He started to run.

 
          
Deborah
was sitting in a chariot waiting to be pulled by a black stallion. She wore a
white sari and was intent on her companion: the man with the giant turban. That
grandee’s robes were sumptuous, glittering with gold thread.

 
          
Alex
slowed from a sprint. The meeting had to seem spontaneous. He could hardly race
up screaming Deborah’s name. But now the grandee gathered his reins.
Presumably the stallion would canter off, too, towards the Ishtar Gate. To cut
on to the westerly route Alex left the road and waded hastily through rows of
cabbages. Reins slapped rump; the chariot started to roll.

 
          
He
was still short of intercepting when the stallion trotted by. He raised a hand
in salute, assuming a look of surprise and pleasure; or so he hoped.

           
Deborah spotted Alex and favoured
him with a smile and a vague wave. She didn't ask her escort to halt the
chariot.

 
          
The
hell with that! The chariot wasn’t exactly racing along. Alex gained the road
and jogged behind, hoping to convey an impression of voluntary exercise. He let
the vehicle pull well ahead. Deborah glanced back once. As soon as the chariot
passed out of sight through the gap between outer wall and citadel, he hared
forward.

 
          
Reaching
that gap, he could see the chariot already crossing the bridge before the
Ishtar Gate. A guard blocked his way. Hastily Alex thrust the half-tablet at
the man.

 
          
‘Hang
on, Greek! This here’s a Sin Gate receipt.’

 
          
‘So?’

 
          
‘You
have to return by the same gate.’

 
          
‘I’ll
pay again!’ Alex scrabbled in his purse for another quarter-shekel, which he
thrust at the guard.

 
          
‘Oh
Shamash! Now I need to write another tablet.’

 
          
The
chariot had passed through the gate. At this rate there’d be no hope of
catching up. Alex thought of racing off; imagined a spear in his back;
despaired.

 
          
‘Forget
it! I’ll go back by Sin Gate.’ He reached for his coin, which had vanished deep
in the guard’s clenched paw.

 
          
‘You’ve
already paid me.’ The soldier was enjoying himself now.

 
          
‘I’ve
changed my mind.’

 
          
‘People
like you make our jobs a misery.’

 
          
‘Is
this how you treat foreign guests? The money doesn’t go to you. Why should
you
care?’

 
          
The
guard whistled to himself out of tune.

 
          
‘Oh,
I see. There’s a rake-off.’

 
          
‘Goes
to the upkeep of the gate. To the splendour of Ishtar, Greek!’

           
‘Where do you spend it? In her
temple? Or up on
Sin Street
?’

 
          
Reluctantly
the guard disgorged the coin from between the lips of his fingers. ‘I’ll
remember you.’

 
          
Alex
snatched his money and headed back in the direction of the temple. The previous
members of the crowd who had no chariots were now returning citywards afoot.
He passed several whose looks he didn’t care for before encountering a likely
pair: one big and fat, the other small and skinny. Bearded
Laurel
and bearded Hardy, kilted and bare to the
waist. The Mesopotamian - or hippopotamian - Hardy’s breasts wobbled as he
walked.

 
          
‘Excuse
me, sirs; please favour me with an answer?’

 
          
‘A
pleasure,’ puffed Hardy, who looked relieved to halt.

 
          
‘Can
you tell me what was happening just now at that temple?’

 
          
‘I
can, and I will. This year’s it’s Sin’s turn to give a bride to Marduk for the
sacred marriage. Sin’s priest Shazar and the bride-to-be were sacrificing on
neutral ground. Entrails were being divined, and other omens. Oil on water.
Drift of smoke.’

 
          
‘All
excellent,’ said
Laurel
tersely.

 
          
‘Was
Sin’s priest the man with the giant turban?’

 
          
A
nod.

 
          
‘The
woman in white was the bride-to-be?’

 
          
‘Just
so.’

 
          
‘What
a bride!’ exclaimed Hardy. ‘She will justly be hailed the most beauteous woman
in all of
Babylon
. She’ll deserve all her honours and gifts.
For a whole year she’ll be the radiant symbol of our city: the belle of
Babylon
- and quite right too.’

 
          
Rather
like winning a Miss World contest, thought Alex . . .

 
          
Ollie
Hardy slapped his belly so that it danced. ‘For twelve months she warms the
god’s bed with her loveliness - though vulgar eyes drink in the fullness of
that naked beauty only once, at the climax of her wedding. That’ll be something
for sore eyes and empty bellies: Belle and Shazar’s feast! Should you be so
lucky as to be invited. As to when: in one month’s time. This particular bride
isn’t yet Babylonian, though all the omens say she will be. Since King
Alexander’s coming we find nothing amiss in a newcomer as the bride of Marduk;
but first she has to be initiated in our ways, in
Babel
.’

 
          
Deborah,
the bride of Marduk? First she had gone to the
temple
of
Ishtar
; now somehow she had found a way to give
herself to the whole city ... in what was apparently a most profitable
transaction. She was going to marry the very
power
of the city - as far as the state religion went - and she
knew about the tape. ‘What happens when her year’s up?’ he asked.

 
          
‘Off
to the Underworld with her,’ said Stan Laurel. ‘Unless,’ Ollie corrected him,
‘she is with child by the god. In which case she remains till she gives birth;
then away with her. Her child grows up to be a priest or priestess.’

           
‘And when did that last happen?’
demanded Stan. ‘Not with the last five brides.’

 
          
‘Maybe
Marduk doesn’t want a brat from a wife he owes to some rival god. Maybe he
consults the moon to know when not to lie with his love.’

 
          
‘Maybe.’

 
          
‘Maybe
he finds twelve months with the same wife quite enough.’

 
          
‘Maybe.’

 
          
‘Hey,
you aren’t suggesting the bride gets
murdered
at the end of a year?’

 
          
‘That
would be sacrifice,’ said Stan, ‘not murder.’ ‘Well, sacrificed?’

           
‘Certainly not in public,’ said
Ollie. ‘She simply goes. Down to the Underworld. The lady vanishes. Expires
with joy. A new bride; and the city is renewed. Good day, Greek.’ And off he
waddled, with his Stan.

 
          
Alex
trudged back towards Sin Gate, cutting across the fields, thinking furiously.

 
          
Why
had Moriel sent him on this wild-goose chase instead of simply telling him the
facts? Why send him too late? Was it all done to tease him? So that an actual
sighting of Deborah would fuel his obsession?

 
          
Was
Deborah’s life in danger in a year’s time? Surely she knew the rules of the
game? Maybe she didn’t.

 
          
If
only Alex could rescue Deborah, as Perseus rescued Andromeda. If only he had a
winged horse to ride upon. A cassette tape (conceivably blank, in somebody
else’s possession) did not make a very adequate substitute.

 
          
Be
damned to what the hairdresser had said about arriving at his salon uninvited!
Alex decided to go there right away to remonstrate and demand some answers.

 
          
The
guard on Sin Gate admitted Alex back into
Babylon
without any further nuisances arising. He
soon left
Sin Street
and veered through the busy minor streets of the Ninnah district,
aiming for the inner city.

 
          
On
the way he passed an oil presser’s, a brewery, a slaughterhouse, then a
brick-works set amidst stacks of finished bricks, mounds of rubble, and a
sludge-hill of mud. Dirty smoke ascended from the sky-maws of the kilns. His
journey was by turns slippery, heady, bloody, sooty and dusty, then slippery
once more. It occurred to him that he must be close to
Prosperity
Canal
, the Libil-hegalla. Sure enough he soon
sighted water and laden coracles, and not long after reached the same bridge on
the Processional Way where he had paused an apparent age ago, numbed by the
sight of Babel. He crossed the Way and entered the inner city. Soon he arrived
at Moriel’s corner.

 
          
Opposite
the salon was a seal-cutter’s shop, its counter displaying blanks of rock
crystal and chalcedony. Alex lurked outside this shop for fifteen minutes,
observing the salon. A dandy gent arrived; a dandy lady left.

 
          
Then
who should drive up, chauffeured in a buggy- chariot, but Thessany! Thessany,
who was away visiting her aunt at Borsippa. Alex dashed across
Esagila Street
.

 
          
‘Hey!’

 
          
‘Oh,
it’s you.’ Pink and mauve face-paint hid any blushes. ‘Say nothing here.’

 
          
‘I’ll
say one thing. You’re supposed to be at Borsippa.’

 
          
‘Am
I? In that case I must have come back early. Let’s go upstairs and talk. I’m
rather glad to see you.’

 
          
‘Really?’

 
          
The
chauffeur was burly, russet-bearded and barechested (apart from a hirsute red
tangle). He wasn’t tattooed, nor was his scalp cropped of kinky red hair, so he
must be an independent paid servant. Maybe Thessany’s father was aware of her
delinquent whims and wouldn’t let her have a slave, who could presumably be
ordered to obey any weird commands. Leaving the servant in charge of horse and
vehicle, Thessany shooed Alex indoors and upstairs.

 
          
‘Mori!’
she called. The hairdresser poked his head out through a reed door, registering
Alex’s presence as one might greet a slice of lemon in the mouth. ‘Use the blue
room,’ he said, and ducked back. Thessany led Alex along to a chamber walled
with mirrors and turquoise tiles and equipped for hairdressing. She skipped to
occupy the throne-chair and gestured Alex to bring the footstool round in
front. Alex preferred to stand.

 
          
‘What
an intrigue this could be!’ she enthused. ‘The bride-to-be of Marduk is
involved.’

 
          
‘So
I’ve discovered, at needless cost to my feet and purse.’

 
          
‘You’ve
brought sheer delight into my life, Alex the Greek.’