CHAPTER ELEVEN - ADMINISTRATOR

Kitun strode forward into the throne room. His steps were rigid, his body stiff. The taste of wine still lingered in his mouth and the scent of perfume was imprinted in his black and gold robes. His raven-black hair was uncombed and wild, the greasy strands bearing a golden crown.

His strong brows were furrowed, mouth displeased. His eyes darted through the great chamber, seeing the many attendants already awaiting like vultures eying a meal.

Courtiers and Bureaucrats. Hyena’s with spit dripping from their snouts as they smelled the sweet miasma of rotting opportunity. The room was crammed with them, table after table filled with merchants, high-born, poets, musicians, scribes and famous citizenry.

Kitun spied the flower-dressed Heabani in a corner, a little songbird with eyes and ears open. Only a single table held a group of warriors, dust still on their robes, and they seemed as uneasy as their chief with their fellow guests.

All rose from their seats when the King entered, raising their glasses at the broad-shouldered royal. ‘Hail, Lord Kitun!’ It resounded once through the hall, before expectant eyes silently rested on the King.

He continued towards his throne, situated at the end of the room on a raised plateau. Behind the throne was a large glass panel, showing the domed temple rising in the distance. Eneduanna. The true seat of power. Kitun knew he was but an administrator for her.

Reluctantly he seated himself. The hour of begging and pleading was upon him.

The attendants were still silent, and Kitun allowed the silence to stretch out. No whining voices, just peace and quiet. Eventually he bellowed out a deep sigh from within his beard and gestured with his strong hand. ‘Proceed.’ He stated without much conviction.

A week of festivities had passed since their victorious return. Kitun had drank and whored until the days had become blurred. He had spent the time with his men, sung the songs of war and hunting in choirs of hoarse killers. He had wrestled and celebrated with simple men and women. Simple in their honesty and needs, uncomplicated in the natural respect they showed.

Now he was faced with different folk; decorated birds covered with precious cloths and gems, foreign nobles and affluent clans, all flocking together for a taste of power. They were not allowed into the Inner-city of Eneduanna so they came here; Parasitizing on his time with their fake smiles, parading themselves like horses, shaking hands with the other vultures.

A swamp filled with insects covering insects, pushing each other in the sickly tar, a sweet scent attracting ever more, exacerbated by the rotting bodies of the submerged predecessors, and a great queen in their midst.

An attendant holding a clay tablet bowed before Kitun’s throne.

‘Dear Lord, Kitun, first of his name, Grand Bull of Uruk, Punisher of Larsa. The first to request your time is Yayatum the merchant. WIll you listen to his words?’

Kitun nodded. Yayatum the hungry. His obesity was discomforting to watch, but Kitun knew Kingdoms ran on gold, and men like these had the skill of generating it.

‘Yaya-.’ Kitun stated cordially as the round merchant waggled closer. The vast hull of the merchant was wrapped in light-blue cloths and fastened with multiple belts desperately seeking to contain the great accumulated fats of the man.

‘My Lord.’ Yayatum sank to his knees, then pushed himself up again with difficulty. By now his face had taken a red hue and his tiny mouth puffed for air.

‘What is it that my ears need to hear, good Yayatum?’

Kitun tried to keep his tone friendly, though he had little stomach for merchant-talk tonight. His hands desired murder and his loins longed for a companion, yet he was forced to sit here - peaceful and docile, with no escape from the woes of the inferior.

Kitun questioningly raised a single dark eyebrow as the enormous Yayatum shuffled closer, climbing up to the raised plateau of the King. Yayatum’s blue shirt had great dark spots under his armpits. He smelled excessively of sweat, and a rancid scent wafted from his swollen skin. A sweet perfume vainly attempted to hide the stink of unwashed degeneracy.

Kitun gave a low growl as the sweating ball placed his formless fleshy hand on the armrest of his throne.

‘My lord.’ Yayatum wheezed again, leaning even closer. The merchant’s strained voice was hushed. ‘I speak of confidential matters.’

The scent of the man was dizzying, but Kitun angled his head slightly, offering his ear to the merchant.

Yayatum covered his round mouth with his hands and out came a whisper. ‘The Sapphire merchant has requested a private meeting with you. He has just returned from the western sands. He has something, I do not know what my lord, but it concerns you and only you. He did not even want the eunuch to find out.’

Yayatum ceased his whispers and moved his prodigious size backwards again. ‘My lord.’ He repeated, making a short bow.

The rest attending in the hall were intrigued, watching every movement between the two. The King himself was surprised as well, though he kept his face rigid. He resisted a glance at Heabani, sitting in the corner.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Kitun’s flat nose sucked in air. ‘Thank you, Yayatum, - for your gift and for your kind words.’

He forced a smile on his face - barely discernible under the granite-like beard - and the fat Yayatum returned to the merchant’s table, where amongst a group of extravagantly clothed traders, the man with the gem in his turban sat; The famed Sapphire, nomad of the sands, of whom the drunkards in the inns spoke a thousand tales.

The attendant with the clay tablet returned but the King ordered him to silence before he could speak. ‘Bring me wine.’

A servant hastily brought him a cup of red wine.

Kitun rose from the throne, raising his cup. ‘Let's drink to Lady war, who led us to conquer and brought us home safely.’

‘To lady war!’ The merchants, musicians and poets spoke, their attention moved just a bit from Yayatum’s whispers. As the wine yet again filled his throat, Kitun’s eyes returned to the merchant's table. Sapphire of the sands, more often than not away on travels with his caravans.

It was a reserved man, shrouded in mystery, with a slender figure. The face under the turban had a small chin, a prominent nose and a pair of silver-grey eyes. The skin under the sparkling Sapphire was bronzed dark by the dessert. What did he want to tell him, and why the secrecy?

Curiousness and caution sparked in Kitun’s fingers, unsure to ask for the man’s presence or reach for his knife.

More came to his throne, rich nobles and wealth-hoarders, each complaining over utterly trivial matters. His mind was dulled by their voices and Kitun slumped in his throne, occasionally grumbling a yes or a no.

Then there were red warriors before him, a small group of four, sand in their long hair and armed with knives. They kneeled deep and awaited their Lord’s permission to speak.

Kitun raised himself. He could listen to warriors. What news would they bring? Raids? War? He reawakened himself with eager images of burning lands and screaming women.

The King raised his bearded chin. ‘Braves, speak to me what you have to say. Then drink with your brothers.’

One of the warriors bowed his head again. ‘We come from Larsa my lord.’

‘Ah, of course.’ Kitun replied. ‘How goes Larsa?’

He had left a garrison of three hundred men in the ruins, under command of one of his trusted men; Nebakku the blind, though only blind in one eye. A good number of Larsan captive women had remained with the garrison to serve as wives.

The warrior smiled. ‘Governor Nebakku send his regards. There is only good news my lord, we have not come to bring you worry. We have hung our banners from all the towers and walls, but it is an empty city. We have taken our quarters around the great temple and at night the other wards are dark and silent save the bark of dogs fighting for the bones of their former masters. All is in order, all is secure. We have come only to say that we have carried off Eneduanna-to-the-East. That sacred Idol of the Revered that stood on Uruk’s eastern borders. The governor decided it should now stand at our far-reaches, stating Larsa is now Uruk, and we have moved the idol further east. It now stands to gaze at the green Kingdoms of Girsu and Lagash, it sees the stone land of the Elamites beyond and has her eyes fixed upon the great mountains of the east. We guard Eneduanna-to-the-East, Lord Kitun.’

‘Very well.’ Kitun said, caressing his dark beard. ‘Tell Nebakku to not be such a dumb mule and ask permission when dealing with such sacred deeds next time. He may be governor and he may have a hundred ears in his possession, but we cannot afford to see idols of our Revered one damaged or worse, stolen.’ He mulled a moment, thinking it over. ‘I will send another pack to Larsa. Guard the statue and make the right sacrifices at the feet of the idol; Eneduanna sees all. You are dismissed my braves. Spend the night, enjoy the pleasures, and leave for Larsa tomorrow.’

The travel-worn warriors bowed and left.

Kitun scraped his throat. ‘I will listen only to one more audience seeker, then you all leave my palace.’

A murmur of discontent voices in the chamber, then a handful of men rushed towards the throne. Fitted like peacocks, glittering and shiny, they discussed amongst themselves who would be allowed to speak with Kitun.

‘I must speak with the King!’ A Command sounded through the hall.

A large figured woman passed through the chambers. Her voice was deep and husky, and expectant of obedience. The priestess was an older matron, dressed in scarlet, with broad shoulders and black hair cropped at the length of her jaw. Her chin was raised and her wide mouth actively displeased, as if only barely tolerating just the presence of the other attendants, and perhaps even the King himself.

‘King.’ She stated coldly before the throne. Orange, cat-like eyes under dark brows dug into Kitun.

‘Matron Amalda...’ Kitun shifted uneasily in his throne, but he tried his best to sound forthcoming.

‘May I be the last to speak with you, King of Uruk?’ She asked with subtle insistence, though it was already clear he would.

The one called Amalda was one of the more powerful acolytes of the High-Priestess, with a strict command over the sisterhood’s military wing since Kitun was but a young warrior, and it seemed age had not made her any softer.

‘Of Course.’ Kitun conceded. ‘How can I be of service to the temple?’

Matron Amalda tossed him a slight nod. ‘In her infinite wisdom, the revered one has foreseen the need for increased capacity for war. She wants more soldiers. It is the King’s duty to collect the men for the Revered one. Empty out the orphanages from ages thirteen and higher, prepare them for blood.’ She turned a moment to the rest of the attendants. ‘Every citizen is expected to aid the coming endeavours of the Temple. Sisters will come to your door, I expect your donations to be ready when they knock. Be aware, I will personally judge your willingness to serve the Revered one...’

Matron Amalda took a step closer to Kitun’s throne. The strands of her silky short black hair swayed slightly as she inspected him.

‘Matron Ruwala has started to incite rebellion amongst the slave populations of the River Kingdoms. Scarlet sisters are active and teaching dissent to the shackled in cities far and wide. Expect increased inflows of hopeful towards our blessed city. Have regular patrols through the shanties and empty them of capable men. Promise them bread. Press gang them into servitude. Use the whip if you have to, the Revered one needs men. Will you deliver?’

Kitun scraped his throat. ‘I Will.’

She seemed content. ‘Have the hearts of thine warriors roused. Inform them every with fifty will be rewarded.’ And she left, passing the attendants tables. The rest rose silently and followed her out of the King’s hall.

Kitun remained seated, alone. Eneduanna would inevitably hurl them against the neighbouring cities. He knew, and it would come soon. The fates of many men weighed heavily upon his shoulders, a pressure so strong he could barely move from his throne. One careless mistake and a hundred men would be dragged down into the depths. A blink at the wrong moment and another dozen would be deposited in death’s storehouse. Tiny men reduced to empty husks falling down, and him alongside them.