V

I am the first and the last.

I am she who is honoured,

  and she who is mocked

I am whore and holy woman.

I am wife and virgin.

I am he, the mother and the daughter.

I am the limbs of my mother.

I am the sterile woman,

  and she has many children.

I am she whose wedding is extravagant,

  and I didn't have a husband.

I am the midwife,

  and she who has not given birth.

I am the comfort of my labour pains.

I am the bride and the bridegroom,

  but it my husband who gave birth to me.

I am my father's mother,

  my husband's sister,

  and he is my child.

I am the slavewoman of him who served me;

I am she, the lord of my child.

–Adapted from The Thunder: Perfect Mind. A New Translation and Introduction. H. Taussig et al. 2010.

By the time Imyryn was of an age, little remained of the child. Her mother, her mother's mother, and her mother, so long as any of them could remember, had been ishtaru. A girl born to a courtesan in Medaea became ishtaru; a boy, castrated and given to the aghat, the imperial household guard. Should a pilipili be born, het (neither male nor female but both), implicitly sent by Inanna, would be specially dedicated to the temple as a revered kulmashitu to perform the most sacred rites of the deity on Inanna's festival days.

No pilipili had been born for ages.

Imyryn had known all this since she'd been old enough to understand what any of it meant. Now, at almost an age-and-a-half, her moons-cycle having begun more than two summers ago, she had been ishtaru ever since. Prized and disprized, free yet slave, ishtaru knew no other life, could aspire to naught. Ishtaru was their condition and vocation; therefore, not 'an' ishtaru but simply ishtaru, there to serve the populace – at least, the moderately well-off – all income accruing to the state. Ishtaru could expect a life of relative luxury in the serai, the Medaean imperial brothel, whence she may come to the attention of a customer (lest one happened to be ill-favoured by Inanna) and purchased and adopted into their family as a concubine or secondary wife. If fortunate, she may catch the notice of a noble or even the sultan and receive an 'invitation' to join his harem as a concubine or, more rarely, lesser spouse, whence life could be even more opulent. If she were unlucky...

Neither, however, would be Imyryn's fate. A darkly pretty, audacious (especially for ishtaru) young woman, though many were her patrons, Imyryn ran to the doors—

Fire consumed the city of Susa. As smoke drifted in over high walls into the serai's inner courtyard, her sisters screamed, cowered in corners, or hid, mostly naked or barely draped in filmy bee'tinoī like her, under furniture, cushions, behind hangings. Imyryn sought to flee too but found the doors to the sanctum barred from without, as usual; in naught but diaphanous negligee, she pounded on them, shouted at the omnipresent aghat on the other side; no response. Although she did not know it – had no way of knowing, as no one communicated with ishtaru – the Dhenebans had breached the gates, concluding a moons-long siege.

Screams, shouts echoed over the walls as the smoke intensified. Imyryn knew nothing of battle – indeed, knew aught of the world outside the enclave – thus did not recognise the noise. Withal, it took no special education or wisdom to comprehend the sudden wrongness of things in her sequestered world. Though she may well have tried blowing the smoke back over the walls, the girl continued to bang on the double doors with her small fists, upon gold-chased high reliefs depicting various sex acts.

Abruptly, the doors burst opened. Noise resounded all around as she was knocked into a heap of silk cushions piled against a wall under which screeched several other ishtaru. Striking a small table with her back, Imyryn toppled a golden statue of Inanna twice the size of her head, which cracked her skull. Thus, she did not see the final sack of the palace, the defilement and murder of her sisters by the Dhenebans; did not witness her own violation; knew aught else until...

Imyryn woke in pain; aches in her groin, head, mouth; pain all over. Saw only darkness; smelled only sweat, her own fear, faint smoke. Tasted blood, thirst, a man's intrusive nutfa around a piece of cloth stuffed in her mouth. Lay against something – furs or fabric – bound so tightly about her body that she felt hot, smothered; trussed, arms immobile against her sides, legs equally rigid; a large, cold object pressed hard against stomach, breasts, painful crotch. Though sensing motion, couldn't move.

Having no experience of vehicles, the sacred prostitute had no way to determine she rode in a cart, said conveyance drawn by a plodding, half-naked aghat, the sole surviving guard of the Medaean palace at Susa. Every jounce, caused by she-knew-not-what, jolted the cold object against tender flesh. Tears of fear and pain spilt.

D-Dear Inanna, Imyryn intoned in her mind, deliver your d-dedicated sister from... from this. I pr-promise ninety-nine rituals in your name... P-Please... Please deliver me... The girl cried herself to insensibility.

When next she woke, the jolting had ceased. Although Imyryn felt no more movement, pain remained, along with darkness and terror, the stifling pressure of persistent binding, suffocation. She heard muffled voices; felt some weight on her shift away. Bright light penetrated, striking her eyes seemingly far brighter than the single sun she liked to absorb lying nude, eyes closed, middays in the serai courtyard...

The serai Os-emqua, Arynna, berated her yet again for darkening her smooth, pale brown skin.

"High One," Imyryn would reply, "Utu gives us light in the sky. His sibling, Inanna, her man̂bal, his chul. We enjoy the fruits of the land of Dumuzi, and Dumuzi's flocks and herds. All the gods' gifts are good. Why would I turn away from any of them?"

Now, however, she did turn away; Utu pierced her eyes more like ninety-nine Suns.

"Here is the rest of my goods, coryphaeus," a male tenor voice intoned. "Is she not exquisite? Obliged to tie her thus, lest she give away our flight and be killed, then of little value to me – or of use to you, good masters.

"Allow me, coryphaeus, to release her, that you may partake of her beauty. But perhaps the good masters might allow me a little time, to wash and dress her appropriately? For such great ones as yourselves, surely, you would but wait a little? Yes, coryphaeus, do have a closer look..."

Imyryn had slitted her eyes enow to make out a portly round face below a ragged green turban; the man wore aught else but matching stained pantaloons as he tied back a curtain of some sort, Ere closing her eyes against the glare once more, she saw thick leather belts crossed on otherwise dusky, sweat-streaked bare chest, and madeout torso and arms sporting several fresh though none-too-serious – as far as she could tell – wounds, most bound with rags of varicoloured cloth. Finally, the hilt of a huge, curved tulwar sword protruded from a similar belt around considerable waist. The girl recognised him as aghat, one of her and her siblings' sworn protectors.

Why would he do this? It sounded as though he tried to sell her! Ishtaru were not sellable, only for hire...

Two richly dressed men, long, conical black beards fashionably netted, almost identically dressed in high, golden headdresses, white pantaloons, colourfully embroidered blouses, stooped to peer at her. They did not look Medaean. All at once, both leapt at her – at least, their heads soared into the cart, one smacking a bare ankle, the other striking her in the shoulder and rolling away behind her as their elaborate hats flew elsewhere. She screamed soundlessly through the gag as blood spouted from suddenly headless torsos, splashing across her bound near-nakedness ere both bodies collapsed out of sight.

Though she thought to vomit – and doubtless drown herself under her gag – Imyryn instead swooned into further incomprehension.

"Ah, xoxar, nine million humble apologies for such deplorable treatment. Can you ever forgive this worthless one, little sister?"

Imyryn, focusing, made out the aghat; sweaty, beardless face barely a handsbreadth from hers. "G‑yagh..." She tried to say, 'Get away', but her mouth, throat... too dry – though at least no gag.

"Here, xoxar." He held a flask of some kind to cracked lips; the sweetest water the girl had ever tasted trickled into parched mouth, down throat, nearly choking her as she gulped. Even though he invaded her personal space most rudely – it would've earned him a flogging if not worse back at the serai, had he even been able to get this close – she decided she would not tell him to go away after all.

"What..." she managed at last, voice rasping as she worked her throat and vocal cords. "Where... am I?"

"On the road, little sister."

"R-Road...? What is your... name, agh-ghat?"

"Ah, of course, little sister. My name is یک میلیون سیصد هزار بیست چهارصد و یک."

"What...?" she croaked. "What was that... again?"

"One million three hundred thousand twenty-four hundred and twenty-one, little sister."

"That is not... a name." Imyryn couldn't count, but she knew the difference between numbers and names withal.

"Correct, and not so correct, xoxar. It is the number of my creation. At least, so I am told; I find it difficult to imagine there have been that many of us." Held the flask to her lips once more. "Yet, this one has no other name."

Draining the waterskin, she demanded, "More."

"Respectfully, little sister, I would advise against it. You—"

"I said... more!" Imyryn nearly choked on her own command through dry soreness.

"I move to obey, xoxar." The aghat retrieved another leather flask from the contents of the waggon, held it for the youth.

Imyryn tried to drain that one, too; got down two or three mouthfuls, spilling most, ere spewing it all forth and passing out.

Awakening anon, she felt as though cool night had descended. No movement, albeit thirst remained along with dull hunger and painful aches all over. No longer trussed, found she could move arms and legs – though it hurt to do so, and desisted. Cold, too, although dressed – such as ishtaru were ever clad: in something resembling her filmy robe made of fine Medaean naxta, a puffy white fibre ball from Thuban woven into cloth. It felt torn and filthy; she wanted to change it. "Ag... Aghat," she mumbled. "Where—?"

"Here, little sister."

The flask relocated against cracked lips; this time she sipped.

"Where...?" she began again.

"Still on the road, little sister. Though we stop for the night. I believe toward Thuban. I trust, toward Thuban."

"You... You do not know?"

"Alas, little sister, I am ignorant of travel. This unworthy one was educated only in the arts of accounts and household management, in addition to guarding"—his words thickened a little—"his little sisters. This unworthy one only vaguely knows the direction t-to Thuban. It lies either up this road, or down the other w‑way."

That did not sound entirely helpful, nor confidence-inspiring, to the girl; they could, she deduced, well be heading in the direction opposite his intent. Though she wondered what difference it would make; why were they going where they were going? Imyryn demanded, wishing she could see the eunuch's face, "Is this an... an abduction, or a rescue?" She had to search for the former word, it being beyond her ken; though it seemed more likely the latter, she would confirm withal.

In his high voice, the aghat answered, sounding somewhat offended, partially amused, "Why, a rescue, of course, little sister. I must repeat my abject regret of your treatment, although I assure you it was absolutely necessary, that I should be able to spirit you away from... there."

She let the apology pass, asked instead, "Why Thuban, aghat?" Felt his big body shift in the darkness; she now made out they reclined in a cloth shelter of some kind – it must be a tent; she had heard of them in stories – he seated beside her whence she lay against one wall amidst some blankets and pillows. Sitting up and pulling a cover around her shoulders, she smelt the wind that ruffled the tied-back entrance flap; different, somehow, than in the city, inside her limited world of gardens and fountains; a dry freshness, like... she didn't know to what it compared, although she caught a pungent, spicy scent. Suddenly, the youth realised she was outdoors! Knew not whether to be terrified or thrilled.

Ere Imyryn could ponder or the big eunuch answer, yip-yip, yip-yip-yip! sounded from without, answered by at least ninety-nine more, surrounding them; she grabbed for the aghat, found a thick arm, felt the big body stiffen as well.

"It is only şagol, little sister. I have heard of them – like the pets some of your siblings keep. Not dangerous, though in packs..."

"Pets? Parrandagon do not yelp."

"No, little sister, not birds – dogs."

Mention of her brothers and sisters, her former life – and the sudden, terrifying cacophony that arose all around them – brought the sheltered young woman to wracking sobs. Aghat enveloped her; somewhat awkwardly patted her head, began to stroke the courtesan's normally silken, now matted, long black hair – a gesture that would certainly have meant execution in the serai...

Anon, the cries faded, wind the only sound rippling the tent.

"I am hungry, aghat," the youth complained, drying her eyes on flimsy, soiled garment. She yet trembled.

"Here, little sister." He struck one of her sinaho with something. "AEEIII! Nine million pardons, xoxar! I did not mean to... to touch... to touch your..."

Despite herself, Imyryn giggled; decided she would not have him put to death for contacting her breast. "Give it to me, aghat. And I shall have to stop calling you 'aghat' – it is no more your name than mine is ishtaru or xoxar. But yours is... preposterous. I cannot call you by a number. What is it, again?" Feeling about it the darkness, she trailed up clammy, hairless arm, followed it to the big hand which held a fruit – an anor; though the skin was inedible and it had no flesh, curiously, the seeds were succulent.

Aghat repeated his name.

"Hmph." Around a mouthful of sweet, juicy pulp, Imyryn pronounced, "Sefr it is, then."

"'One', little sister? This unworthy one's name is to be 'One'? It would seem this one has moved up in sequence, if not, perhaps, in significance..."

Sefr also had some stale and dirty-tasting bread and a hunk of what he professed to be cheese, but Imyryn decided she would not berate him for having no meat to offer, and only water, no milk, nor honey to put in the milk. She had more than a sense that her circumstances had altered, although how much her world had gone awry, she'd only begun to guess. For the nonce, she took for granted that she be the unquestioned mistress, Sefr her subservient gulom. Even though the youngster vaguely understood she owed the eunuch her life, it was only her due; she was ishtaru, he aghat. Thought no more about it as she snuggled into the big man's lap in the cramped space.

Once more, sleep commenced taking over her mind, but ere it did, Imyryn wanted to know, "Sefr, why Thuban?" She tried to ignore her filthy condition as the eunuch pulled another blanket about her small frame; she would never have gone to bed in the serai without bathing, although she sensed that Sefr must have cleaned her up some before redressing her in whatever he'd found. She even managed to ignore the eunuch's sweaty odour and sticky feel.

"Xoxar—"

"I think... you can stop calling me 'little sister', Sefr. My name is Imyryn."

"But, little... That is, I would never presume..."

"It is all right, Sefr. But call me what you like. Why... Thuban?" She was almost asleep.

"Lit—Ah, gracious Imyryn, I take you to Thuban because it is the only place – or at least the closest safe place – where a young lady of your talents and station might continue to live in peace and comfort, and serve Inanna. My little sister, my l-last little sister"—the gentle voice shook—"d-deserves no less..."

In his lap, the girl snored softly.

Imyryn's worldly education began when Utu awakened her next day. Customarily, she would stretch, use the chamberpot – which would be immediately whisked away by her near-invisible bandaka after the slave wiped her privates – then bathe in the heated baths, whence many other slaves would help her and her sisters rub scented oils into their variously hued skins. Then they'd (barely) dress ere aghat brought breakfast to the entrance and hand it to the bandaka, who fed their mistresses: Fruit, bread, soft cheese, milk of the buz... Then, mayhap stories from the Os-emqua, the old mother; a little more massage, intermingled with çinsī play with her sisters, teasing and kissing and diddling one another until customers began to arrive late in the afternoon.

Today felt different right away; she awakened to yipping. Instantly bolting upright, Imyryn found herself alone in the tent, full day illumining her surrounds. "Agha—Sefr!" she cried, panicky.

The eunuch, grinning, poked his head through the untied tent opening. "Little—Imyryn!" Teeth and whites of grey eyes shone, contrasting against dark skin, green turban. "Worry not – the salep mean us no harm. At least, not while I have... Shamshir!" His thrust his huge sword half into the tent.

The girl, remembering what he had done with it, shrieked; shrank from the weapon as though expecting him to use it on her, thus sought escape through the far cloth wall or, failing that, under cushions and covers.

Withdrawing the weapon, the eunuch exclaimed, "Nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine apologies, little sister! This unworthy one wishes only to demonstrate you are safe. Is my lit—Imyryn hungry? Come... I have breakfast."

Recovering, the girl protested, "But I must... use the palata and wash first. Where is it?"

Sefr disappeared momentarily, placed a gilded urn inside; it appeared to be made of bronze, not silver; not even a chamberpot.

"Sefr! This is... This is unacceptable. I will not make water in a vase. Bring me the palata I asked for – and quickly, before I piss myself!"

"Regretfully, that is all there is, Imyryn." Cheerful visage altered not at all. "You may otherwise seek the nearest bush. I will guard your honour. As for washing, ah, yes, well... problematical. Regretfully, water enough only for drinking. This one knows not where the next might be obtained. Happily, this one... liberated provisions from those headless butparaston who sought to harm little sister. This party's gharry is now bigger, with a varzā to pull it – thus, the need for more water. Varzā big, horned beast. Hay on the gharry is doubtless to feed the varzā – this unworthy one has heard of these things, thus it is known." Shiny, grinning black face withdrew from the entrance.

Her outrage left her speechless. Use a bush? Just... Simply absurd!

"Breakfast awaits – and the road, Imyryn!"

"But—!"

Swallowing her distaste, she used the urn as quickly as she could in the awkward confines of the tent. All at once realised she had no bandaka to wipe her. "Sefr!" she called again, squeaked as a huge hand, holding a few wisps of straw, thrust between the flap. Momentarily at a loss – never before had she to wipe her own man̂bal after urinating – she did what seemed correct; and squealed in pain! Much too scratchy on her tender pussy. "Sefr! I demand cloth to... to... I demand cloth." The hand reappeared, holding a scrap of red-splotched blue paxta. She recognised it, like as not once belonging to one of her would-be buyers' tunics; wrinkling tiny nose, hesitantly used it withal. Momentarily stumped as to what to do with it next, dropped it into the vase. Emerging into the brightness, the slight girl felt the sun's eagerness to burn through her transparent attire.

"Empty the palata, Sefr." Added, as sternly as she could, "And I must wash!" Imyryn had to admit to herself, however, that she did not feel especially threatening, cringing almost nude in the outdoors and squinting under the full smile of Utu, yet shivering despite the cruel heat.

The eunuch all but ignored her, busying himself emptying the tent and stowing its contents before dismantling it, piling all into the larger waggon appropriated from the travellers.

"Can I... Can I not... just splash my face... Please?" When Imyryn wanted something from a patron, for example jewellery, new sandals or bee'tinoī, she had only to use a certain tone – indeed, was never aware of her expression or posture; had been taught such artifices virtually from birth.

"Wellll..." the aghat drawled in falsetto, "perhaps a little, then – to splash your beautiful face only, little sister." Even a eunuch, it seemed, could not remain aloof from pretty, young ishtaru.

She hugged him – had to practically climb Sefr to do so – felt rather repulsed by the big body's slickness, odour. Alighting, Imyryn yelped, hopping from one bare foot to the other; the dusty ground amidst patchy clumps of long yellowish grass was hot, though unnoticeable until she stepped off the rug Sefr had placed before the tent entrance but which he'd now packed as well. "Sandals!" she squeaked, trying to jump back into the man's strong arms. "Where are my sandals?"

"Nine thousand apologies, Imyryn... This one does not have your sandals." Allowing the girl to cling to his back, slender arms around thick neck so she could lift small, soft feet from the burning ground, Sefr rummaged inside the whitish-felt canopied, low sided, four-wheeled waggon harnessed to the complacent ox. Held out a pair of men's felt slippers, gaudy red, sequined with lapis lazuli and embroidered in silver and gold thread. "One headless one had small feet, and I took these from him. Likely still too big, and very impractical for walking, I fear, little sister, but you need not walk. Please, put them on your dainty feet, splash your zebo face, and I shall assist you into the waggon."

Imyryn noticed the ox and vehicle; goggled, slippers dangling forgotten from fingers as she clung, striving to clamber him as if to get farther away. "Wha... What is that?"

"Ah... Here we have a varzā and gharry, lit—Imyryn. Do not fear – despite its size and fearsome horns, the ox is quite tame. The waggon is for transport – of goods and fine young ladies such as my little sister. Again, do not fear – you rode in a smaller one when I... spirited you away from the temple."

The girl kept one eye warily on the animal and the contraption as she hesitantly slid down her slave and donned makeshift footwear, cupping hands into which Sefr poured a small amount of water so she could splash her face, wet the back of her neck. It felt so good, the girl desperately wanted more; Sefr did not give in this time, however. Helping her with the slippers – indeed too large, despite the eunuch tying them on with rawhide cord – the eunuch assisted her into the waggon, showing Imyryn a small nest of cushions he'd prepared for her. The gharry otherwise roomy, save for a few crates, bolts of cloth, other objects, a quarter-size golden statue of Inanna occupied her spot; vaguely, Imyryn remembered it, rubbed the lump on the back of her head and the still-sore area of her female parts, hesitating. "Is... Is that...?"

"Yes, little sister. I could tell that Inanna saved you, and so this one saved het, brought het with us. This unworthy one was forced to... place het against you when he wretchedly tied you like a bolt of cloth, so that we might all escape together. But this one thought it important... Does little sister—Imyryn, approve? Did this one do wrong?"

On the contrary, the young courtesan thought she owed the eunuch much additional gratitude – although how, exactly, she would repay an aghat, she had no idea. Furthermore, she realised she now had debt to repay to the deity of Love, Light, and Life. The thought suddenly made her aware of her nipples, brushing against her diaphanous chemise; brought tingles to her man̂bal as she reclined in the waggon. Had she not felt so dirty, tired, hungry, she may have begun there and then with a 'dedication' of her own; it had been a while, after all, and there was no one else...

Repayment, however, as well as assuagement, would have to wait – at least until after breakfast.