NINSHUBUR AND THE THIEF OF NIPPUR
Outside time. Across worlds. Between rivers. Two children in ancient Mesopotamia become unwitting emissaries to heaven and the underworld, as gods and humans go to war over honour, love, and destiny. This work of historical-fantasy fiction contains period morality which may unsettle some readers.
PART TWO
OF THE YOUNG THIEF AND HIS ORDEAL AT THE COPPER RIVER
CHAPTER ONE
“Wake up, child!”
The alarmed voice barrelled across the royal tent, waking its one remaining inhabitant, as the roar of the natural storm outside, sent by the god Iskur, and the thunder of battle, brought by the besieged city of Lagash, finally calmed to a dull moan.
“You may go home now, the battle is over.” Said the voice, a weak stutter noticeably present.
The young scribe of Umma sat up from his rug in the corner far from where the men of power would usually lounge. But such men were no longer to be seen. The scribe rubbed his eyes and gazed about the tent for the owner of the voice.
“Who goes there?!” The boy said, crossing his legs and wincing keenly into the torch-broken darkness.
“Your master will not be returning.” Said the voice, a shadow flickering by the seat of the absent king. “You have done good work at his side. He loved you, boy, which is known amongst the scribes of Lagash. But now you must go home to your mother!”
The scribe leaned on one arm and rested a tired head against his shoulder.
“But… where is everyone?!” The boy said, wary of the shadow stalking about the private and holy domain.
There was a pause from the shadow, which seemed to be examining tablets and treasures.
“They are all in the field, bathed in blood, awaiting their journey to the underworld. But this is no longer your concern, child.” The shadow said, before an audible rattle of objects belonging to the Lugal of Umma broke the silence. “Take what you will, and go home to your mother.”
The scribe considered this, then sighed.
“Well, I will have letters to deliver. Has the master left any for me?!” He said, slipping his white linen tunic over his head and down to his bare buttocks.
“You will deliver no more letters, child.” Said the voice. “There is no-one left to dictate them, and there is no-one left to read them.”
The young scribe scrunched his face up in confusion. As he sat there, unsure, on his beloved rug, the mysterious owner of the voice began a fire in the centre of the tent. There was a crackle as the fire happily consumed a bloodied royal standard. The scribe pretended not to notice this offensive act, then pushed himself onto his sore feat and began searching about his corner of the tent.
“My belt.” He said, worriedly. “I have lost my belt!”
There was a snap from the fire, embers from which began to make smaller fires nearby. The shadowy figure grunted to acknowledge the scribe’s complaint and the quickly spreading flames.
“Take any belt you desire, boy, no one will be coming back for the meaningless things about you. They will all soon join their owners in the underworld.” The shadow said in a haunted murmur.
The scribe’s face brightened as he rushed over to the corner usually occupied by the Lugal of Umma’s brave guard. The sureness of his direction suggested he had been dreaming of such a moment for quite some time. His hands clasped a heavily-jewelled leather belt that rested over a broken shield of Umma.
“May I have this one, whomever you are?!” The boy said, his eyes sparkling with the hope of one who has never known fortune.
“You may.” Said the shadow. “It is your final payment from your king.”
“And first.” The boy muttered, in a disgruntled fashion.
The scribe fixed the belt around his small waist and, for the first time since he had been rudely awoken, examined the shadowy figure that now stood only a few feet away. The figure was that of a stocky man in his mid-twenties, who wore the uniform of an unfamiliar army. The uniform, much to the boy’s dismay, was freshly torn and smeared with the blood of its wearer.
“The master does not accept unclean fashion within his camp.” Said the precocious scribe, taking one cautious step back, while his fingers still caressed the prized new apparel about his frame.
“There will be a new master now, child. Here,” the soldier held out his hand, which contained a small pouch with his master’s insignia embroidered upon it, “there are gobbets of silver and lapis lazuli within, take them home to your mother and hide yourself beneath her bosom!”
The scribe stepped forward and, allowing a moment of fearful hesitation to pass, pulled the pouch from the soldier’s grasp. The scribe loosened the string that bound the pouch’s opening, peering inside. There were, indeed, at least ten of the finest metal and stone gobbets gleaming back up at him.
“You have been a loyal servant.” Said the soldier. “Be sure to stay off the roads and tell your sweet mother to hide her valuables well.”
At this, the scribe’s eyes snapped back up at the soldier, who himself turned and pushed aside the mouth of the tent.
“I do have a father too, you know.” Said the scribe, with fiery indignation.
But no response came.
The strange soldier simply stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity, taking stock of the hellish vision that apparently lay before him.
“The next few days will be difficult for everyone.” Said the soldier, wiping dirt and tears from his cheek with the back of his broken hand. “So much change is coming!”
“Thank you, sir.” Said the scribe, unsurely,, tying his sandals as quickly as he could. He did not know what had transpired beyond the tend flap, or what would happen once he found his way home. All he knew was that he had to get away from this cryptic, maudlin individual who did not seem concerned by the inferno consuming the royal tent.
“Do not turn back, boy.” Said the soldier, still mesmerised by the landscape outside. “Just keep running. Run and run and run until you are in your mother’s arms!”
The scribe nodded, somewhat fruitlessly.
“Yes, sir. I will, sir.”
The scribe folded his rug and slipped it, along with the pouch of treasures, into his satchel, which he slung over his head and adjusted until it was comfortably in place. As he moved to the canvass flap at the end furthest away from the gloomy soldier, the stocky man spun around in sudden realisation.
“What is your name, child?!” He said, a look of fear in his eyes.
“Anzu.” Said the scribe, raising a hand to wave goodbye. “Why is it so important, sir?”
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Anzu. My name is Ninurta.” Said the soldier, mirroring the scribe’s friendly wave.”I must know, should I live to sing a song of our encounter and the great battle that preceded it!”
Anzu smiled and nodded respectfully as he allowed the canvass flap to drop behind him.
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