Eight - Enedduanna’s will

Enedduanna swayed as her throne was carried through Larsa.

She graced long arm to the warriors she encountered prowling the burning streets of the city. Such a simple gesture, and they bowed deep in the dust. Fierce warriors brought low like wincing dogs.

They had left a whirlwind before her, cluttered streets filled with stolen possessions, ransacked and abandoned, flanked by broken houses with torn shutters and doors in which the occasional unmoving leg was visible in the half dark. Above the houses reigned a red glow and soot and ashes fluttered through the air like snow.

With closed eyes, she enjoyed the sounds of violence and forcefulness that echoed through the alleys. She allowed herself to be immersed in the fall of the city, her nostrils quivering with the smell of fire and smoke, feeling the rapid heartbeats of terror as her men ran about. Her skin tingled as she felt anger and lust.

Was this not what Larsa had wanted; denouncing her mercy and instead asking for her cruelty? And now it flowed, her rivers of rage and punishment, and she reveled in it.

Her labouring carriers brought the High-priestesses over blood-slippery streets to the heart of the city. The temple awaited on a wide open square, now occupied by a sea of red. The sea parted and bowed as she approached.

'Eneduanna. Eneduanna. Eneduanna.'

Her throne was brought before the white steps of the ziggurat.

Beneath her, the labourers groaned and trembled with exertion, but they managed to keep her seat even. She enjoyed their exhaustion, her throne of cast brass excessively heavy, the burden deliberately designed for the sweaty men that carried it on their shoulders and backs.

From above a dark beast of a man descended, his legs unsteady, his eyes confused. His great body was drenched in blood, his once-black beard now coagulated red. His burning eyes locked with Enedduanna he increased his pace, half stumbling and sliding down until he stood at the lowest step. ‘Most revered one…’ He said with a sigh of exhaustion. ‘I have cleared the temple of disbelievers. I have washed it clean in red.’

‘You have done well, King.’ She replied. She felt a fragment of pity for the man; madness possessed and barely recovering. But today was not the day for mercy, so she did not calm him with soft touch, instead letting him tumble about in his intoxicated mind.

‘Now pass, I wish to claim it for Inanna.’

The black-bearded King moved, then halted again. His eyes now rolled full of want, beastly eyes lingering over her breasts. His black irises had coloured orange at the edges.

‘Eneduanna…’ He spoke, trying his best to have his voice bear authority. The attempt was pitiful, Kitun’s voice a mumbling mess, stuttering as he sought to find words his mind had temporarily forgot. The King’s face reddened and his eyes bulged as he continued speaking.

‘Man has need for wife. But all the women in the world cannot compare. I, King of Uruk, see only you clearly. You shine. Will you not stand at my side, Godess?’

Enedduanna’s face turned to disgust. She saw the orange that now coloured his feverish black irises; The eyes of his mother.

‘If you were suitable, we would already have paired a long time ago...’ She rose from the throne, all her terrifying length now visible and dwarfing even the King.

Her rise was accompanied with silence.

‘Now get your feet of my steps.’ She hissed, impatient and feeling the shame of the rejected King cling to her. With downcast eyes Kitun returned to the cobbles of the earth.

Her long legs graced forward, feet landing on the lower steps of the ziggurat. Naked bronzed skin, smooth and reflective in the fires of the burning city. All eyes were fixed on her, she noticed contently. s they should be.

Enedduanna returned her gaze to the temple above and started the long climb up the stairs. Her wide hips swayed, tight cloth pressed against her skin. She delighted as she felt the eyes of thousands engaging her body. She drank their desire, elevated, ascending.

As the devoted below grew smaller she found herself alone on the stairs, wind pulling on her dress and hair.

Her climb became less dignified with every step. Taking heavy breaths, strands of long hair clinging to her face, she pulled herself up by her slender hands on the steep stairs above.

How easy it would have been to have myself carried. But she knew this ascent had to be done solitary. This temple was to be made into a house of Inanna. A house of holiness. There would be no unclean sweat covered carrier-servants here, even if her legs burned with exertion.

At the highest layer of the ziggurat rows of columns held a high enclosed temple, roof pyramidical, and within was darkness.

Braziers had fallen, spilling red glowing embers over the cold stone floor.

On her bare feet she walked inside.

Empty temple - Inanna come. Have I not given you plenty of blood and communion? Of Violence and sex? This miserable temple has stood at the border of Uruk for ages, a thorn, sharp and hard. I have pulled out the thorn Inanna. Like in Uruk, here too masses will worship us. For am I not your high-priestess? Your eyes and mouth on this world?

Her heart stirred. A faint pull on her limbs. A tiny prick behind her forehead.

I feel you, Queen of Heaven, come. She thought with closed eyes. An otherworldly sense came over her, a gentle layer, as if taking up a second skin. The feeling was soft and light; featherweighted.

In the dark abandoned confines of the temple-hall she needed no eyesight; her feet were guided. She was lead to the fallen altar of the temple, feeling as if she waded into warm water.

A tingle ran down her spine and she moaned slightly, feeling veins swell between her thighs. Her long tongue lolled out.

Where the altar stood, now fallen to the ground, she positioned herself, pressing her back against the wall. Her muscles tightened, contracting uncontrollably, turning Eneduanna rigid.

Sudden tears streamed down. With effort she was able to open her mouth, and out came a heavy, hoarse voice. Her mind raced for hymns to speak and words of praise came out. She spake, but with every prayer completed the next became more difficult.

Heat, heavy air, her tongue shaping the sacred words until the temple was pregnant with expectant energy. She opened her eyes, seeing nothing, but feeling watched nonetheless.

With long strides she surged towards the entrance of the temple, overlooking the nightly landscape of the burning city all around. The ruins glowed in the darkness, illuminated from the heavens by the shining bright star of Queen of Heaven.

One day you may be beautiful again, Larsa. Neither I nor Inanna favors the ugly. Worship and prosper.

The first streams of heat already left the temple, brushing past her suddenly tensing shoulder, fading into the cool nocturnal air.

She leaned forward to address the masses deep below. ‘The Idol!’ She demanded fiercely from her followers. I am the idol.

Drums commenced below and eight priestesses carried a statue of Inanna up the stairs. A hollow piece carved from pale marble. Sparkling glass for eyes, fine gold thread for hair, clothed in precious fabrics and jewelry.

The Idol’s face, Enedduanna noted contently, resembled hers, like she had ordered the artisans. Queen of heaven, Posses my flesh, walk the earth. Idols speak and move about.

The statue was slowly carried up, the procession enveloped in the tendril-like smoke of incense and myrrh.

‘Faster!’ She screeched. ‘Do not let this moment waste!’

It was brought up hurriedly, and over the edge of the stairs rose the head of the statue. The idol’s glass eyes stared into those of Eneduanna. She was faced with herself and for a brief moment she felt uncertain. Was this beauty? She found her features blunt and common, the sight of an average woman. A mere mortal, destined to become dirt like the others.

She shook her head. This is not about myself, my feeble feelings, my calf-like fears. ‘This all belongs to you, queen of heaven!’ she cried out loud, arms stretched wide, and she guided the idol to where she previously had stood.

Around her, the priestesses bowed down.

***

Under the rhythm of heavy drum beats another procession of priestesses started to climb the steps to the high white temple of Larsa. Hooded women in red, holding ropes that pulled lambs and conquered men bound in defeat.

When they entered they were greeted by the other priestesses. ‘Hail Eneduanna, High-Priestess of Inanna.’

‘Hail Eneduanna, Mistress of burning Larsa.’ The newcomers replied.

The priestesses gathered around the cattle like hungry lionesses.

Enedduanna stood at the end of the hall. She was naked and radiant. Heavy breasts of olive skin, wide hips. Her long legs stood together in V shape, and below her navel grew a dark triangle of bushy hair.

‘Ĝiš-tag-ga.’ She said, and the sacrifice started. Under desperate bleating and tormented screams blood started flowing down the white steps of the ziggurat. With bloody knives and red hands the priestesses dug into a captive’s chest, soft fingers pulling out his beating heart. They offered it to Enheduanna, and with glassy eyes she fed on the still pumping organ.

Around them the braziers reignited with bright flames, lighting up the blood spattered hall as the sacrifices continued, red cascading down into the burning city where the feast of fertility started.

Eneduanna’s mouth, chin, throat and hands were dripped with red; Like a predator feasting on a carcass, intensely focused and silent save the sound of gnawing teeth and ripping flesh.

Lament for Larsa

‘Oh Larsa, what has become of you.

Your towers have crumbled, your crown has been tossed to the lions.

Your just laws have been broken and discarded, where can one find Justice now?

The temple of the sun has been occupied by a tall whore.

Your men are slain, their throats cut like lambs.

The survivors are put in chains and driven like cattle to Uruk, while foreigners take your wives in your burnt homes.

Oh Larsa, that you were the first to fall, the poets will remember your fate.’