The Chronicles of Atticus Wrentavius Seneca Cornelius; or The Wren King: Chapter 3

Chapter 3

“You doubt because you love truth.” -George MacDonald

I have walked the dusty lanes of this city and watched her children struggle through poverty and excess, oppression and greed, superstitious fanaticism and fear alongside scientific discoveries and triumphs in technology. I have sacrificed to her gods without belief as I whispered hopeless prayers into the heavens. One night changed everything. A few pitiless words dismantled everything I had ever tried to believe in since my insignificant birth.

-Translated from the Sumerian cuneiform found on a fragment of clay tablet (Uruk, ca. 3000 B.C.E.)

City of Uruk in Mesopotamia

A tall sunburnt girl of about seventeen years walked through the crowded and filthy streets carrying a curious leather satchel. She appeared angry and tired despite her obvious youth. She walked carelessly through the throng as she mumbled angry comments that were lost in the noise. The early morning push and shove did not seem to affect her.  She almost failed to notice someone shouting her name in greeting.

“Eira! Eira!”

Waking from her embittered reverie, she shouted back, “Oh! Hello! Hello Lizbet,” while running into an old man, who scolded her, his breath reeking of stale beer and garlic.

“So sorry,” she apologized and ran into an elderly woman, who began asking her questions.

“Oh, hello, are you that healer from Temple side?” she asked. I have been wanting to make an appointment with you. You see…”

Eira interrupted the woman, “Sorry? Oh, yes! Well, I am in training. There are other healers who are more experienced than I,” she said, wanting to get away.

“You are the one who helped Tahira a fortnight ago when she nearly died giving birth! I know you! Everyone has been talking about it! The gods favor you,” the woman whispered.

“Thank you, I mean, thank the gods! However, I am on the way, eh, to an emergency.  Pleasure to meet you! I will be returning in a few days to check on Tahira’s baby. Perhaps we shall meet then. Goodbye!”

Eira bolted through a crowd of men as they argued over the price of barley grain. More alert, she weaved in and out of smoky side streets. She nearly stumbled into a pile offal and rubbish that was illegally dumped, taking short cuts to her side of town—the much cleaner and more glamorous Temple side as the lower classes called it, on account of the two gleaming white temple ziggurats located at its center.

As she neared her home, the streets became clearer, cleaner, and more organized, unlike the noise, crowds, and pungent smells of the markets in the poorer districts. Eira covered her head with a worn woolen scarf to obscure her appearance. She looked down in obeisance while gliding past priests and priestesses, city administrators, and members of the nobility whose well-dressed servants followed behind them like tame ghosts.  She shot down an alley that led to an older part of the wall surrounding her home and approached a section of crumbling mudbrick that was hidden and neglected. Eira went straight to the damaged spot, which she could climb with ease. As she lifted herself over the crumbling wall and down the other side, the scents of an assortment of herbs greeted her from the garden tended by the kitchen maids. Feeling exhausted and filthy, she desired to get to her bedchamber and wash before anyone noticed her.

Eira stole past the garden, staying close to the wall. She approached the servants’ entrance, largely in the shadow of one of the city’s great ziggurat temples, this one dedicated to Inanna, the goddess of love and war, Uruk’s most revered deity. Though the doorway was secluded and dark this early in the morning, Eira often had the uncanny sensation that she was being watched in that shadow. Shaking it off, she slid inside. She heard anxious voices in the kitchen as servants prepared breakfast for the family of her master. Eira drifted down a long low corridor until she heard giggling and the tinkling of bells near the opening to the main hall leading out to the courtyard. Stopping, she scarcely breathed as she stared down at the glossy red flooring. She smelled the perfumed skin, hints of rockrose and myrrh lingering and mixing with scents of warm barley bread and stewed apples.

Once the sound of the tinkling bells faded, Eira emerged from her hiding place. Desire kept her normally awkward feet from straying. Almost there. She feared the daughters of her master more than she feared her master. They wouldn’t come into the servants’ quarters at least. She turned down another corridor and slid inside her room, which was little more than a storage closet.

Eira rushed to wash her face, arms, and feet, sponging herself with the water from her basin. She changed into a clean linen tunic, which was draped over one shoulder, and a kaunakes, a knee-length woolen skirt with layers of fleece arranged in a pattern like feathers. If only these feathers could help me fly, she thought. Eira was, however, grateful that she was given a linen tunic. Most servants were not able afford linen; however, her position as assistant to the great Othniel, chief asû, or physician, of the royal courts, meant that she must dress the part. The well-known doctor would not suffer the presence of a shabby assistant. This thought reminded her to clean her dusty sandals.

She checked her image in the polished copper mirror, a discard from her master’s oldest daughter. The decorative ceramic flowers were chipped and cracked, but the mirror was still functional. This reminds me that you, my dear and patient reader, may like a description of Eira so you can picture her in your mind. Eira was tall for a girl and rather thin. She possessed large eyes of lapis lazuli blue, which stared back from the copper sheen of her second-hand mirror, a rare eye color among her people. Otherwise, her appearance would be considered unremarkable. The shape of her eyes gave her a melancholy appearance, especially as she rarely smiled. Now they appeared to Eira to be fatigued and harsh. Being a slave, she wore no kohl on her eyes or pigment on her cheeks. Her skin was pale and would appear sallow from lack of sleep, but the sun made it ruddy and freckled. Her hair was brown and wavy; although, she was never seen by anyone unless her hair was pinned up.

Eira combed and braided her long brown locks, coiling them about her head in an austere braid. Her hair boasted no gold or jewels like her master’s daughters, but the sun had adorned her head with copper and gold strands in abundance. She used a single copper pin, also second-hand, to hold everything in place, laboring to appear clean, neat, and rested, which was important for the image of her master’s medical practice.

Eira then applied a pinch of precious ointment from a tiny cake of rockrose resin to her wrists, relishing its warm and woody scent, which always reminded her of something she failed to fully recall. The scent caused Eira to feel dreamy and nostalgic for a brief but lovely moment.

You may wonder how a slave may have come to be using perfume, which is a reasonable question. Eira harvested the beloved and plentiful rockrose herself from the family’s goats, who often collected the leaves and twigs in their hair as they grazed. She learned how to use rockrose by watching her master extract the calming resin for its medicinal properties. The resin was also desired for use as a base by perfume makers. Being friendly with the goatherders, Eira was allowed to comb through the goats’ hair to pick out enough of this useful shrub for herself to treat her own patients and make a little perfume on the side.

Tucking and smoothing stray hairs, she sped to the physician’s laboratory, stopped, slowed her breathing and walked in a brisk but calm manner through the door, just in time.  “Good morning, sir,” she spoke while lowering her head in the expected fashion and still trying to slow her breathing. She waited for instructions.

Eira was greeted with silence as the doctor examined a message he had received. She stood still in the humble stance of a slave, but watched everything. She noticed a small scorpion climbing on the wall but she did not move or speak until given leave. Her master finally responded with a gruff but not unkind voice, “Eira, begin preparing my things for a journey. The head asû in Nagar has requested me to present a series of lectures in little over a fortnight. “Let me see,” he mumbled to no one in particular.

Nagar! Eira stood in agitated attentiveness. Any opportunity to travel to another city was exhilarating but this was especially exciting news. Nagar was a bustling city with exotic customs that were strange and interesting. Their odd fascination with the eyes always intrigued her. They held a belief that the eyes were the seat of the soul, or an entry into it, or some such thing. Staring into someone’s eyes could be spiritually risky to the superstitious. However, those of a more philosophical inclination say that one must always be looking for truth and that truly seeing was an uncommon gift from the gods. Some even claim to see things others cannot see. Still more say that we cannot escape the watchful eyes of the gods, no matter how much we may wish to.

Eira wondered if any of these beliefs were true, or if they were just drinking too much pomegranate wine. Nevertheless, she looked forward to seeing the place for herself. Her position as the personal servant to the accomplished physician meant she would be present at the lectures and demonstrations, premium fodder for her own secret education and hopes to one day be an official asû.

However, she always remembered that slaves were not supposed to dream. How could they? The gods destined them to be slaves. Her dream should be to serve the dreams of her master. Dreaming for oneself revealed disloyalty. Disloyalty was dangerous. Nevertheless, Eira once heard that some slaves had gained favor in the sight of their masters, even being adopted and inheriting. This may be rare, of course, she thought.

Eira then remembered the discouraging truth. The doctor’s family would never allow any such thing. Eira could already hear the barely concealed insults and cruel jests of her master’s fearsome daughters. Three of them. All beautiful, talented, adored, and in possession of large dowries. Eira snapped out of her runaway thoughts when her master again spoke.

“In the morning, we depart just before dawn. We will have to stop in Sippar and then Mari. Then we take the River all the way to Nagar. Amar will also be attending.”

Amar. He was the doctor’s manservant and security. The roads could be dangerous, and reports of robbers and other mischief-makers abounded. Amar was quiet but also very large. One look at him was a deterrent for anyone with ill will. Eira never really bonded with the doctor’s servant. Speaking of eyes, she dared not look too long into his dark and forbidding eyes. They were like a starless night, black and endless. Eira did not care for those eyes at all. She shivered.

Eira sighed away the shiver. Tomorrow morning! She longed to be away from the daughters and looked forward to these trips with great anticipation. The doctor seemed a little kinder when they were away from the influence of his family. A little. Nevertheless, she would be free of the daughters and their provocative mother for at least a month or more.

Later that evening, as Eira cleaned the laboratory and prepared for the journey, she heard the daughters whispering, giggling, and tinkling out in the courtyard. She ignored them and quieted her own work so as not to draw their attention. So far as she could tell, the girls had not heard anything as, normally, this would be a good opportunity to make demands of their father’s slave and delay the completion of her work. She still needed to check on Tahira and her new baby tonight before leaving Uruk for a month.

The daughters often materialized at the worst times. It’s as if they knew her secret. Do they? Eira flushed with fear but dismissed it. She had taken great care to conceal herself in the city. Furthermore, she only worked in the poorer areas where the doctor’s daughters would never consider sullying their fine linens and perfumed feet.

Their whispers continued to assault Eira’s senses. No matter how much she tried to remove the sounds from her consciousness, they seemed to grow louder. She heard her name spoken and froze. Dramatic gasps and mumbles of “it can’t be” and “you must be mistaken, Basma.”

Eira was listening now. “What in the gods’…?”she mumbled to herselfas she tiptoed to the edge of the doorway.

“She was put out by her mother, left out for dogs,” Basma stated.

“Was she a prostitute? Was her mother a prostitute?” Enana, the youngest, whispered. The words seemed to take on a life of their own and traveled with purpose to Eira’s ears.

“Possibly, but that is not something we should speak of, Enana, retorted Mahalath, the oldest and most religious of the three.

“Or maybe her mother was a priestess,” said Basma in feigned shock.

“Don’t say such vile things,” said Mahalath.

“We’re sorry, Mahalath,” said Enana with a pout.

“Oh, psshhh, you know how religious Mahalath has become, Enana,” said Basma in her usual unimpressed manner. Basma, considered a great beauty, was only as religious as she was required to be. She enjoyed gossip almost as much a being admired for her large dark eyes, clear golden skin, and silky raven-black hair.

“How old is Eira?” asked Enana.

“Slightly older than Mahalath, so she must be at least seventeen. I can’t imagine who her mother would have been. Her appearance is clearly foreign,” said Basma.

Mahalath responded, “I don’t think we would know her mother.  She was likely a poor woman, possibly unwed, who exposed her unwanted baby. Father, in his compassion, rescued the child and made her his slave when she was old enough. Simple as that. We should end this inappropriate conversation. Basma, you should really cease your eavesdropping. It’s like stealing when you listen in on conversations into which you were not invited.”

Basma hissed more mockery in response, something about Mahalath’s new-found religiosity, but Eira could no longer hear them as they walked away to dinner. Soon, she only heard the taunting of their little bells and jewels echoing down the hall.

Eira had been taught that her parents perished in a plague. She never imagined her mother was a woman of ill repute, and worse, that she left her outside to die either by exposure or to be eaten alive by dogs. A terror overshadowed her when she realized how hateful life could be—and of the cruelty of Man.

I was never loved, after all. I was never wanted at any time in my life. Why? The gods give no satisfying answer. If they exist at all.

Eira would never voice her dangerous thoughts, of course. Her doubts remained behind her strange, sad eyes. With this new revelation, she began to crumble like the mudbrick wall she so often scaled.  A subtle movement in the courtyard caught her eye. She looked out the doorway. All she could see was the spectral white glow of the temple, watchful and waiting, under the cheerless light of the rising moon.

Illustration of Ancient Mesopotamia by https://www.rostarchitects.com