Chapter 36

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Yar’an saw that the two priestesses were still hesitating, uncertain which of them should lift the thin veil. Through its pearl-studded, snow-white radiance, however, one could vaguely make out the long, lean figure lying within.

He had not spoken a word. He scarcely seemed to have moved at all. Yet even in stillness he possessed an austere, inviolable presence, and was clearly far less manageable than King Menfuisu, who had been drugged and strung up like a captive.

This only made Yar’an more delighted. With a grand sweep of his hand, he announced excitedly, “I want the most exquisite, most ravishing, boldest, and most extraordinary woman of all. Whoever she is, today she shall win the favor of Prince Izmir!”

The instant he finished speaking, a delicate string of golden bells, as though stirred by the wind, rang throughout the hall. Yar’an looked up and saw only a shadowy figure. She drifted toward them like a dark cloud, yet moved with a lightness that was anything but oppressive. A long veil concealed her from head to foot, revealing only fleeting glimpses of honey-colored skin as she walked.

The black gauze trailed sinuously across the floor. With a sudden tremor of her waist in time with the drums, a curve flashed into view more beautiful than amber wine poured from a silver flask. Yar’an stared, entranced, and abruptly shoved aside the maid who was pouring his wine. At the crisp crash of the overturned vessel, every eye in the hall turned toward the black figure at its center.

Ishtar, goddess of war and love, Queen of Heaven, source of the earth’s fertility, daughter of the moon god Nanna. Her beauty could enthrall gods and demons alike, yet it could not save her beloved Tammuz from death. For the sake of the man she loved, she dared to enter the realm of her elder sister, Ereshkigal, Queen of the Underworld. Seven gates stood along the road between Heaven and the Underworld, and at each one Ishtar had to surrender another portion of her divine power. By the time she reached the realm of the dead, she had lost all seven: imagination, or dreams; reason; passion; ecstasy, encompassing love and wonder; innate courage; divinely bestowed compassion; and gifted knowledge, or gnosis. She stood there naked, like an ordinary corpse.

When the world lost its goddess of love, all living things withered, and desolation spread across the earth. Only under pressure from the chief god did the Underworld allow the goddess to awaken and, at his command, grant Ishtar the Water of Life. Ishtar sprinkled it over her lover, and thus completed that incomparable and moving love story.

In Babylon, where the goddess Ishtar was worshiped, there once lived a princess named Salome, a woman of unparalleled beauty and graceful form. Unafraid of her stepfather’s lustful tyranny, she willfully demanded that she be allowed to perform a dance as magnificent as the goddess Ishtar’s, a dance dedicated to her beloved, in exchange for the fulfillment of a wish.

She danced the Seven Veils, a hymn to Ishtar’s love that bewitched every soul who watched it. Yet her wish was not to save the man she loved. Instead, she demanded the head of a man who did not love her, and at last obtained the kiss for which she had long yearned.

Inanna, too, had come to save someone—but not her beloved. She had come to save her own destiny.

Her waist swayed like a flame upon a candelabrum, while her arms moved like honey flowing through the fertile Two Rivers. The golden bells around her ankles chimed brightly with the rhythm, and amid the shifting light and shadow she seemed so light that she might rise into the air.

Inanna extended her right hand and shaped it into a lotus. She raised the other, and from her fingertips flowed black gauze dark as midnight.

Suddenly the drums stopped. With one sharp motion, she tore away the black veil. The men seated at her feet lunged forward as though the veil itself were the exquisite dancer, desperate to seize it and pull it into their arms.

Yar’an’s breath caught as well, followed by a pang of frustration. Beneath the black veil lay another, this one of vivid purple gauze. The hand formed like a lotus slowly opened. Its fingers curled inward, then unfurled once more, all five spreading wide like a flower at the instant of bloom. The hand, like the blossom, seemed almost human in its expressiveness, proclaiming the joy of unfolding.

Even Saru, accompanying her on the instruments, gradually slowed the music. The vivid purple veil slipped down little by little. A man who had been watching without blinking hurried forward and carefully caught it. Beneath it was yet another veil, this one indigo.

How many layers of veils were there? And what sort of person could twist and turn so freely beneath all those burdens, as though boneless, yet incomparably supple? Beneath the fabric, every movement was visible: the clear sway of her body, the lifting of her arms, the raising of her legs, her spins—even the slightest shrug of her shoulders escaped no one’s notice. The indigo veil was like a sea in which dark currents surged beneath the surface.

Another veil drifted from Inanna’s body. Then the dull green fabric made her dance like a leaf, while the orange-yellow veil evoked warm, fragrant, honeyed sweetness. Each layer removed grew thinner, gradually winding around her body like a serpent as she turned.

Only two veils remained. Beneath the fiery red gauze, one could see the diamonds set in her navel, finer than those of Bethado, and the pearls around her fair wrists, worthy of Levi. She danced sinuously in the luxurious, decadent palace of Assyria, as graceful as a Damascus rose and as lively as a gazelle upon Mount Ararat.

Then she suddenly began running around the circle formed by the spectators. She held the red veil in her hands, and the men, consumed by desire, all reached for her. Only one lucky man managed to snatch a fragment of crimson splendor from the lively butterfly.

At last, a tall and pale figure remained in the center of the hall, like a lily blooming in a place of drunken luxury. Yar’an could now see her face. Every living creature was spellbound by her, yet her features held no expression. Even the moon favored her form. Her delicate body was a gift from Heaven. Through the final white veil, one could see eyes outlined in lapis blue, lips red as blood, and golden leaves adorning her forehead and gathering up her black hair. Yet one could not see her gaze, nor glimpse her heart.

Only when the final veil was lifted would the whole truth be revealed.

Yar’an began to breathe rapidly. Yes—this was exactly it: sacred yet licentious, half-virtuous and half-depraved, enough to stir a man’s heart until he no longer knew what to do with himself.

He wanted to drag up the woman at his feet and use her, but that useless old hen had already choked unconscious on the chicken leg in her mouth.

Yar’an could not remember how long it had been since he had been so consumed by lust. He hauled over an Elamite girl who had been waiting for his favor. Without even pausing to remove the golden chain, he forced open her mouth, seized her chin, and thrust himself deeply inside. His eyes remained fixed on Inanna as he indulged in obscene fantasies amid that strange and magnificent dance.

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Inanna was breathing heavily, but she refused to look away. Even though Yar’an’s gaze made it blatantly clear that the poor girl beneath him was merely her substitute, Inanna would not retreat. She would become the victor over every woman in the hall tonight—and then rescue that accursed prince.

It had to be an illusion, but the scent of aphrodisiac incense in the palace seemed to grow ever stronger. Everyone was intoxicated, breathing rapidly, waiting for the final veil to fall as Inanna slowly raised her hand. Beneath the gauze, her eyes were cool yet irresistibly seductive, filled with an almost supernatural allure. It was as though the chilled wine in every cup had turned to flame; no matter how deeply they drank, no amount could quench the scorching fire within them.

The only way to put out that fire was to make this woman their own. That was what every man was thinking.

Inanna twisted her body with increasing sensuality. Then, very slowly, she performed a kicking movement. Her left foot remained planted as a pivot, while her right calf tensed. As she raised her leg, it traced a magnificent arc almost level with her shoulder. The motion rendered the final snow-white veil useless, and everyone saw the strange, desire-provoking bindings that compressed and restrained her breasts, the white upper curves forced together, and the tiny scrap of cloth no larger than a palm that barely covered her most intimate place.

Then she paused.

Her foot began to tremble slowly, and the bells around her ankle started to ring—one, then two, then three—until their music grew ever louder and sweeter, all the bells joining together in the perfect sound of the completed dance.

The entire hall erupted in cheers and applause. Within the uproar was undisguised lust, but also sincere admiration for her extraordinary dancing and control.

The two Babylonian priestesses were so overcome that they fell to their knees and began devoutly singing an ancient hymn passed down from antiquity:

“To the land from which none return,
The realm of Ereshkigal,
Ishtar, daughter of the moon,
Resolved to journey there.

The gatekeeper came forth
And opened the gate for her:
‘The palace of the land from which none return
Will rejoice at your arrival.’

When he opened the first gate and let her enter,
He took the great crown from her head.

Then he removed her earrings, necklace,
Breast ornament, girdle, bracelets, and undergarments.

When Ishtar descended into the land from which none return,
The bull no longer mounted the cow,
The stallion no longer impregnated the mare,
And in the marketplace men no longer made virgins with child.

Namtar came forth,
Sprinkled Ishtar with the Water of Life,
And led her away.

As for Tammuz, her youthful beloved,
He washed him with pure water,
Anointed him with fragrant oil,
Clothed him in scarlet,
And made him play his jade flute.”

Inanna had conquered every man who had fallen before her. No man could resist a body more alluring than nakedness itself—not even Yar’an could deny that the woman before him was the most exquisite, most ravishing, boldest, and most extraordinary woman of the evening.

Yet he was unwilling to concede defeat.

“Woman, remove your final veil!”

Inanna knew that Yar’an might not honor his promise after all. But the higher a person’s station, the more tightly he was often bound by his word. Calmly, she raised her bare arm and lifted away the white veil that fell to her ankles. With a deft turn of her hand, she wrapped it around herself, then deliberately angled her body slightly aside, unwilling to meet Yar’an’s brazen stare.

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Yar’an glanced toward the tent, where Izmir had changed from lying down to sitting upright. Privately mocking the prince for proving that even a saint could be tempted, Yar’an became even more unwilling to let the matter go.

He pulled the Elamite girl from beneath him and shoved the sobbing, tear-streaked beauty into Shalu’s arms. Then he straightened the hem of his clothing, descended the steps, and said maliciously, “The dance was excellent. No one has any objections. But what about the song? If you cannot sing well, I cannot hand someone like you over to my important guest, Izmir.”

Yar’an chuckled.

“A woman who sings well is also skilled with her mouth. She can not only make you happy, but give you pleasure in other ways as well.”

Then he looked at Inanna with cruel intent.

“If you sing badly and fail to satisfy everyone, I will pull out your tongue. Since your mouth will have become useless, the only thing left worth looking at will be your body.”

Inanna watched the curtain sway gently. She could not tell whether it was the night breeze or the restless emotions of the person inside. Through the narrow opening, she could not see the prince and received no hint from him.

If she sang, she would expose her own lie, and the prince would surely settle accounts with her afterward. If she refused, Yar’an would cut out her tongue at once. In the short term, that would be the greater loss.

There was hardly anything to deliberate over. But how could she possibly sing a song from this era of the ancient Near East?

She turned back desperately to Saru, who was serving as the musician.

To her surprise, Saru had already snatched the six-stringed Bethado lute from the two country girls and begun playing a rustic mountain melody that Inanna had heard often enough in recent days to know by heart.

Inanna did not know what the song meant. Its rhythm was lively, however, and its pronunciation simple. She had memorized it long ago. With no other choice, she followed Saru’s accompaniment and began to sing.

Her rural accent, flowing through the lavish and decadent banquet, seemed like a clear stream suddenly running through poisoned waters. Because she had remained silent for so long, her voice was slightly hoarse, yet it still carried the tender freshness of a young girl. The effect was entirely unexpected.

Yes—far too unexpected.

Inanna’s limbs were bare, her entire body rubbed with a highly alluring honey-colored dye prepared by Saru from boiled grass juice. The white veil wrapped around her body like a bath towel, making her appear both innocent and wanton.

Accompanied by her song, Yar’an’s breathing immediately quickened. When Inanna sang the astonishingly obscene lyrics in a light, joyous voice, wholly unaware of their effect, Yar’an’s arousal became painfully hard.

But he was not the only one.

Inanna’s dance had bewitched everyone, and her voice pierced the sensitive waists and bellies of the men just as deeply. Inside the tent, the man’s face burned with fury. Yet the flames were directed not only at Inanna, but at himself as well.

Author’s Note:

In the blurb beneath the story, Mother Darling paired Nana with a song. I listen to it every day while writing. If anyone is interested, try playing it while reading. By the way, can anyone guess what song Nana sang? Three great laughs! That is why the prince could not bring himself to lose his temper...

It is hard to imagine that Oscar Wilde, who wrote The Happy Prince, could also write such an alluring and decadent subject. Is that what makes a genius, after all?

My ability only reaches this level of description. Master, I am sorry I have failed you...

Nana performed the most orthodox form of the Dance of the Seven Veils. The seven layers covered her from head to foot. The legend comes from Ishtar, and it also fits my implicit characterization of her. At the same time, the dance requires considerable skill. This is not a special cheat, because Nana’s mother was also a winner in life. I will introduce her later.

Since it is difficult to find material on the opera, everyone may watch an adapted version instead, complete with background information. Follow the link across time:

And now, a recommendation for a friend’s story set along the Nile. It is adorable and charming, pairing Isis with the High Priest Imhotep. Since Nana’s hen is incapable of laying more than two eggs a day, I am using my friend’s work to make up the number. Everyone, go and carve it up...

The Legendary Ishtar [Daughter of the Nile], Chapter 36 — Full Text Available for Free Reading — Chapter 36 Update Complete!

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