3.
The Bull could not write, but he knew the Archer could read, so he paid a scribe on the street corner to write a letter, then paid a boy to go give it to the Archer.
The Bull went to the more seedy part of town, by the Euphrates, at the docks where men worked daily. Scorpio was one of those workers, yet his trade was in human flesh. He was a slave dealer.
Women from the smaller temple of Ishtar approached the Bull, but he did not want anything to do with them. None were as beautiful as the women from Erishkigal or Ishtar’s White Temple in the northern part of the city.
After the fifth “I will service you in the great Lady’s name,” he was ready to abandon finding Scorpio in his store. Instead, he turned down an alley and bumped head-long into a man, who dropped his big basket of tools.
The first thing the Bull noticed was his hair, long and golden like the sands. It was pulled back into a tail. The man looked up at him, and his eyes were blue like the Euphrates, deep and dark. He cast his eyes down and started picking up the tools.
“I am sorry, master,” the man said.
He had very light yellow hair on his body, so light that the only reason the Bull could tell it was there was by the shadow it cast on his skin. He wore the sheepskin skirts and barefoot like most slaves. He also wore a necklace of gold, with a half-sheckel threaded through it.
Bull didn’t move to help. “Who owns you?”
“Master Ilkar,” he said, still not looking up.
“Look at me.”
The man looked up while he was on his knees. “Tell Master Ilkar that I will give him twenty sheckels of silver for you.”
“Master?”
“Are you going to him?”
“No.”
“Go to him.”
The man bowed and finished gathering the tools, then walked through the alley to the rear of a wheelwright’s. The cornsilk-haired man walked up to another man who was busy putting spokes on a wheel. Master Ilkar paused. “The Bull of Erishkigal,” he said, and offered a small bow. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I want to buy your slave.”
Master Ilkar examined the gold-haired man. “He is a simpleton from a far-away land. He doesn’t even know our language or customs.”
“Was he taken in war?”
“Yes, and he’s worthless to you as a slave.”
“In that case, twenty sheckles will suffice for him.”
“Twenty!” Ilkar examined him again. He said loudly to the man, “Go with this man now!” Ilkar approached the Bull who counted out twenty sheckels from his pouch. Ilkar removed the necklace around the man’s neck and shoved the man toward the Bull.
“Do you have a name, slave?” the Bull asked as they went outside the wheelwright’s shop.
“Name,” he repeated, and then said, “Yes, name is,” He spat out a word that Bull didn’t know.
“What does it mean?”
The man repeated the question, “What does it mean?”
“Mean. A different word. Our word in our language.”
“I don’t understand.”
The Bull had an idea he was going to hear that phrase a lot.
“Come with me,” the Bull said, and pulled the man by the arm to follow him to Scorpio’s den.
The man was screaming at a group of men when The Bull walked in. “…and what do you think I’m going to get for a pregnant bitch? Nothing, I tell you!”
“They know it works,” said another man with a sneer and a chuckle.
Scorpio glared, “No, twit, they know you have been fucking with the merchandise. Did you deflower all of them?”
“Just the pretty ones.”
“You’re an idiot, you know that?”
“I’m a what?”
The two men got in each other’s space. “An idiot. You heard me.”
A third man stepped between them. “Scorpion, Kilsen, let’s not be hasty.”
“Come on, then, if you have a problem with me calling you an idiot.” Kilsen glared at Scorpio, who merely grinned and turned his back on Kilsen. “Don’t get on my bad side, Kilsen.”
“Indeed,” said the Bull, walking into the room, the slave in tow. “Do not get on his bad side.”
“Gun,” said Kilsen, slightly awestruck. If the Bull said that even the Scorpion was to not be trifled with, then seriously there must be something to that.
“You’ve gotten them pregnant, you raise them,” said the Scorpion. “I’m not buying defective merchandise.”
The man grumbled and growled, and threw keys on the table. Then he stormed off, shoving by the flaxen-haired slave. The man bowed and kept close to Bull. Bull touched his arm and pulled him close.
“Interesting color for a slave. He’s sunburned.”
“Huras,” Bull said, suddenly coming up with a name. Bull pointed to the slave’s chest. “Huras.”
The slave said, pointing to himself, “Huras.”
“Yes.”
The Scorpion laughed. “Burnt Gold. I never thought you were so creative.”
The Bull turned to the Scorpion. “I didn’t come here to be insulted.”
“No, I wasn’t insulting you. I was merely amazed. You usually leave the creativity to others.” The Scorpion picked up the keys. “Four cages. Not bad for what I paid for them.”
“What if they are pregnant?”
“I get two for the price of one.” The Scorpion started to go outside. “Was there something else?”
“We’re meeting tonight. In the food shop with the lion on it.”
“Leo is setting up this meeting?”
“We need direction.”
The Scorpion bit his tongue. “I understand.”
“We haven’t done our quest since – “
“I know!” the Scorpion snapped. “Don’t think that I don’t know!”
“We must do it soon.”
“I know that too.” The Scorpion stared at Huras, who stared right back. “You have a tough slave here, Gun. What did you buy him for, anyway?”
The Bull had no answer to that. It was a feeling. A want. A need.
“He’s different,” the Bull said.
“If you wanted someone exotic, I had a few of the pale skins last week.”
“Then you must have sold this one to Master Ilkar, the blacksmith.”
He shrugged. “I might have.” Scorpion grabbed the man by the face, and forced him to open his mouth, like one would do a horse. “He has most of his teeth, which is a benefit.”