Watson, Ian - Novel 16 (27 page)

           
‘Mm, sort of. You understand how
Marduk manifests himself in the chapel, do you?’

 
          
‘He’s
a
holographos
, beamed from the temple
along glass wires. A creation of future
tekhne
.’

 
          
‘And
of course we Babylonians tend to forget the origin of such things. Supposing we
ever knew about them in the first place! Look at Mama Zabala’s attitude; it’s
real magic to her. So such an image easily becomes awesome. Bold religious
effects can be arranged. Gods can suddenly put in a personal appearance,
popping out of nowhere. Okay, so a high priest embodies a god - but if the
image flashes itself at people mysteriously and inexplicably on some street
corner, that’s the veritable god. You know the role of omens in Babylon.’

 
          
‘Omens
are what you make of them,’ he said, remembering Aristander.

 
          
‘Exactly.
What people make of them. Marduk’s no great mystery to me, and even I can get
caught up in the mood. Right here in his own back yard, where he tests his
image out. Most people hardly ever see such an image. If they do, it’s powerful
stuff. You haven’t been in Babylon long: but one hears wild tales occasionally.
Gods show themselves unexpectedly, miraculously. Gods are watching and
listening. Prayers can be heard. Sometimes a god will command something: it
would be dangerous not to obey. This doesn’t happen too often.’

 
          
Alex
remembered speculating whether tiny lenses were planted all over the city,
recording events. Not only that, it seemed! Images could be projected through
those lenses.

 
          
‘Is
it safe to plot anything in this city? Is anywhere safe?’ he whispered.

 
          
‘Oh
yes! Not every wall has ears. Not every window has eyes. Else you’d need a
whole second city the same size as this one to keep an eye on us all.’

 
          
‘Would
you? What if there are artificial brains built by
tekhne
which can decide things for themselves, and which think so
fast that we can’t imagine how fast?’

 
          
‘Alex
dear, you’re betraying symptoms of what the Greeks call
para-noia.
There will only be a few glass eyes here and there.
Apart from that, we’re free as the birds are to conspire.’

 
          
‘We
can’t escape from
tekhne
, Thess; even
if we use oil lamps and worship Marduk and whip slaves.’

 
          
All
this while her palm had remained on his flesh.

           
Now she squeezed, and the nearest
whip-ridge pulsed. He gasped. Her lips brushed his ear.

           
‘Listen. The scroll is an image of
Marduk. It’s a Marduk who cries woe on his own temple. A Marduk who repents of
too much power. Apparently it’s very cleverly made - the spitting image of my
dad. That’s what I was assured for my money; and yours.’ Her fingers relaxed.
‘Put that scroll inside a certain piece of
tekhne
in his temple, during his wedding feast . . . do you see? I played in that
temple a bit when he and I first arrived, before our lives really got under
way. That piece of
tekhne
was up in
the gallery, above the altar where the bull is. Use the scroll - and he won’t
dare sacrifice a child.’

 
          
‘What
about his wedding?’

 
          
‘It’ll
be disrupted, but not cancelled. My dad isn’t going to let himself be chopped
as high priest. Oh, he can cope. His big ambition will simply be aborted.’ ‘And
your
wedding?’

           
‘I think this may cast new light on
where Mr and Mrs Muzi take up residence.’ She kissed him. Briefly her tongue
quested inside his ear, tickling him; then she drew away. ‘Tomorrow Mama Zabala
will give you something to drink to help you. Be brave; don’t flinch. It’ll be
over in a moment. There’s no avoiding it.’

 
          
Oh
God. The branding.

 
          
But
God was Marduk, and God would look in to see that his instructions had been
carried out - before his household greeted their guests, Muzi and Lord Gibil.

 
          
As
promised, once the porridge bowls were cleared away the cook gave Alex a
beakerful of some brew.

           
‘What a nuisance!’ she said in
falsely jolly vein. ‘What with such guests coming tonight, and all! Every
manner
of work to see to. Can’t have you
laid low.’

 
          
‘I
can hardly move as it is,’ Alex said truthfully.

           
‘Oh, but you must keep on the go -
like a mountain stream in winter - or else you’ll lock up, and it’ll be spring
before you’re flowing about again.’

 
          
He
drained the beaker. In the mixture he tasted strong beer, a lot of spirits, and
the tang of powerful herbs. He became giddy almost at once. He felt he was
floating. His eyes wandered, doubling his vision. His head had turned into a
cabbage, a numb vegetable. The rest of his body tingled, mildly on fire, and
his back ached worse than ever. Maybe the prophylactic was as bad as the
impending pain; it certainly wouldn’t have helped out with the whipping the day
before.

 
          
Mama
scrutinized. ‘How d’you feel?’

 
          
‘Ghastly.
Poisoned.’

 
          
‘Oh.
I do hope as it hasn’t taken hold the wrong way. Drugs mixed in drink sometimes
do.’

 
          
‘Where’s
my head? It just fell off.’

 
          
‘Why,
that’s
fine
. You’ll be right as rain
by noon.’ Presently Anshar arrived to escort Alex to his favourite bench, where
a muscular rosy-complexioned man in kilt and long leather apron waited, with
tools of his trade: portable charcoal brazier, bellows, stone jar of water,
branding iron. The stamping end of the iron was wrought as a little lion’s
head, identical to the tattoo Alex already wore.

 
          
A
silent audience had gathered. Thessany was nibbling at her lip. Alex sat, and
the smith checked the fit of the iron lion, cold. Anshar tied a rag round
Alex’s head to hide his eyes. ‘In case the brand slips, if you jerk . . .’

 
          
Anshar
gripped blind Alex tightly by the ear lobes. The pressure of knuckles caused a
noise like rumbling wind in a deep cave so that Alex hardly heard the brand
crunch into charcoal and the bellows puff.

 
          
Heat
surged at his numbed cheek. A momentary awful pang, as if a rat was savaging
him; and he smelled burned meat. It was over. Anshar released his ears. The
blindfold was whisked away. Snakes hissed as the brand plunged into the
water-jar. Mama was patting salve or mud on his cheek.

 
          
By
the evening Alex’s whip-weals bothered him more than the brand mark. He could
keep his cheek still, but not his back. Every time he moved an arm his back
stung like a hive of bees. The cabbage condition of his head had resolved into
a low-grade hangover.

 
          
He
had attended prayers to show his naked scar to Marduk’s image. Now, with salve
restored and with an early meal in his belly, he knelt servilely (though not
serving) at one side of the dining room while other servants bustled, and the
honoured guests dined with Thessany; with Thessany’s aunt as chaperone.

 
          
This
woman, Ningal-Damekin, had ridden in from her country estate that afternoon to
orchestrate arrangements for her niece’s wedding. Alex hated the look of her.
Ningal-Damekin was tall and scraggy, with an axe of a face. Her jaw jutted
assertively; her voice was a harsh if cultivated bray; she strode about the
house angularly as if she had no knees. Her complexion, ruddy from hours in the
sun, was adorned with sparkling purple and gold paint as though she was a
beauty as well as a great, if rural, lady. Or perhaps as though her face had
gangrene. Her passion was hunting foxes and other furry beasts and seeing them
torn to pieces. Obviously she had much conversational interest in common with
Muzi, hunter of larger game.

 
          
Muzi
was built like a quarterback and wore his blond hair shoulder-length and well
shampooed (that night, at least) with a rainbow-hued sweatband. Round his wrist
was a bracelet of what looked like stiff grey wire. Tor luck!’ he confided to
the aunt. ‘Elephant’s ass-hairs! Begging your pardon, Ma’am.’ Muzi’s father
was a tubby tough with a veneer of lordly courtesy; his wife was a slight,
precious, wistful sort whose bunned-up hair was silky and milk-white. She only
picked at the banquet - of suckling pig, crab- meat in little baked crusts
looking exactly like crabs, sheep’s brains, ostrich eggs, spiced bread, spotted
partridges stuffed with baby mice, and a roast peacock, its tail reconstructed
in boiled split leeks with mushrooms for the eyes. The floor had been drenched
with scent. Many lamps burned aromatically. A hired quartet of musicians
played softly on lute and flute.

 
          
Gibil
ate steadily; his son with gusto; and Ningal- Damekin greedily, though only so
as to provide an encouraging example.

 
          
Thessany,
dressed in cloth of silver for the occasion, did justice to the various dishes;
and to the wines - though she did not betray much tipsiness, unlike Muzi.

 
          
‘Hey,’
Muzi said to her, jerking a thumb. ‘Been meaning to ask. That slave over there.
What did he do, huh? Run away from a doll like you?’

 
          
‘No,
he went for a walk without permission.’

           
‘So you had him whipped and
branded?’

           
‘Naturally.’

           
‘Wow, what a lioness! Why’s he here?
He ain’t doin’ nothing.’

 
          
‘Does
he put you off your food?’

           
‘Me? Naw. Last week I saw a wild
bull elephant’s trunk lopped off with a double axe.’

 
          
‘How
unfortunate for that elephant.’

           
‘Thessany!’ exclaimed
Ningal-Damekin. ‘It must have been a bold man who did that deed.’

 
          
‘Yeah,’
agreed Muzi. ‘Let me tell you all about it.’

 
          
‘In
just a moment . . . Thessany, does that slave really have to be in the dining
room when he looks so unsightly?’

           
‘Of course. He’s my personal slave.’

 
          
Lord
Gibil winked. ‘I think the little lady’s trying to show she’s woman enough to
handle my son. No offence intended, Mistress! I admire it.’ He burped, and
recollected his lordly manner. ‘By the by,’ he drawled, ‘your repast is
exceptional! The board positively groans. Is that not so, Lady Gibil?’

 
          
‘Indeed
it is,’ said his wife. With her fork she hooked a baby mouse out from a
partridge and placed it nearby.

 
          
‘We
need have no fear of our son starving when he returns from the hunt, once the
nuptials and the moons of honey are over.’

 
          
‘Aw,
dad, do I really have to knock off hunting - ’ ‘Until conception, my son.’

           
‘That could take for ever!’

 
          
‘Muzi,
are you not a full man?’

 
          
‘He
is a lion,’ said Thessany promptly. ‘He is an elephant.’

 
          
‘Yeah,
I was gonna tell Lady Damekin here about the elephant’s trunk.’

 
          
Thessany
leaned over to address Gibil: ‘Does the arrangement that we shall live here
entirely suit you, sir?’

 
          
‘Suit
me? There are reasons, my dear.’

 
          
‘I’m
sure there are! They’ll be beyond my silly little head. But I fancy it’s cruel
to deny such an active young man his sport for very long. Wouldn’t you agree,
Aunt Damekin? Inactivity might sap his vigour; produce results contrary to
those required. His buddies might mock him; this could hamstring his virility.’
Muzi flushed. ‘Hamstring, yeah. We got on to that after we’d axed the trunk.’