PROLOGUE
MARDUK
In Kish, capital city of Akkadia
I was mopping up after an elderly dog when the news swept through the court.
The great Sumerian hero, Gilgamesh, had been captured in battle.
Taken prisoner by King Akka himself, on the banks of the River Tigris, and brought to Kish with his hands and feet bound, slung over the back of a mule.
The Lion of Uruk was here, a prisoner in this very palace!
For some long minutes, I leaned on my mopstick, ears straining for every detail of the hero’s capture. Only when I felt royal eyes falling on me did I return, most reluctantly, to my mopping.
The dog had done its sloppy business on a mosaic of some ancient goddess. In truth, I was doing more to spread the muck over this holy scene than to in any way clean it. But I had no ambition to be good at mopping.
Two blue slippers appeared in the path of my mopstick. The king’s sister, Hedda, stood with her hands on her hips. She was a small creature, lightly made, and handsome in her blue velvet.
“I have a job for you, slave-boy,” she said. “Go find out what you can about the prisoner Gilgamesh. And then come straight back and tell us everything.”
I began to mop with some vigour around her feet. It was my firm policy never to do anything for anyone unless either threatened or bribed. “I must clean up after your dog,” I said.
Hedda stepped back to protect her slippers. “At least find out if he is going to live.” She gave me her most playful smile. “Marduk, I will pay you in figs.”
“Oh, very well,” I said.
* * *
Mopstick in one hand, sloshing bucket in the other, I made my way, circuitously, to the palace kitchens. It was my intention to slip through the bakery and out into the palace gardens, where I was sure to run into friends.
But as I stepped into the gloom of the bread-proving room, Biluda, the king’s ancient steward, loomed up before me in his kingfisher-blue robes.
“Where in all of Akkadia have you been, Marduk? I have sent out three messages for you.”
I held out my filthy mopstick and quarter-filled bucket. “I was clearing up dog mess in the ladies’ quarters, sir. As you ordered me to.”
Biluda dismissed my story with a wave of one crooked hand. “You have heard the news, I presume?”
“I have been working.”
“Of that I am fairly doubtful. However. We have a Sumerian prince here as our prisoner and I would like you to take him some necessaries.”
I set down my bucket. “I did hear he was dying.”
“Not presently,” he said. “Although he is somewhat dented.”
Biluda pointed one long, bony finger at a glass and a large clay jug. “You will take these to the captive.”
I leaned on my mopstick. “Why?”
“Marduk, you are a slave, not a prince of this household. I have told you to take these two things to the captive, so take these two things to the captive.”
“You are a slave, I am a slave. Why not go yourself?”
Biluda smoothed down his long, grey beard, and lowered his voice. “He likes pretty boys, that is what they say. Perhaps he will say something interesting to you if you take him his water.”
“And what sort of interesting thing might he say?”
Biluda clawed out his fingers, as if about to strangle me. “Men forget themselves when someone takes their fancy. You would not know that, being so high-minde
