"There is no time," he groaned.

"Then we'll make time," she said, her voice low and throaty.

Boring isn't the word for it, Kenneth Hollard thought.

The Islander officers were just behind the Arnsteins; they were behind a rank of King Shuriash's relatives; behind Hollard and the others were dignitaries, officials, priests, and God-knew-what. In the great courtyard of E-sag-ila, the Temple that Raises Its Head, the Palace of Heaven and Earth, the Seat of Kingship. It was impressive, in its way, although not as much as the ziggurat that raised its head across the street to the north-E-temen-an-ki, the Temple Foundation of Heaven and Earth, soaring in seven steps three hundred and twenty feet into the darkening evening sky. A great staircase ascended the southern side, and from there ramps spiraled around each square step, up to the blue-enameled shrine at the top. There, he'd heard, was a table of gold and a large bed… and a woman known as the Bride of Marduk.

He glanced ahead. King Shagarakti-Shuriash would play the part of Marduk later in the festivities, enacting the Sacred Marriage that brought fertility to the land. Lucky bastard, he thought-it had been a long time…

Right now the king was pacing forward, looking like an image himself in crown and robes, the mace of sovereignty in his hands. He was reciting a hymn to Marduk, seemingly a verse for every step across the huge stone-paved courtyard toward the temple gates.

Like parts of the king's palace, the Temple of Marduk had artificial palm trees before the towering sixty-foot gates. Unlike the ones in the palace, these were of solid silver and leafed with gold. The cedarwood of the gates was covered in silver as well, and the walls themselves were colored brick and bone-white gypsum. Within, the sheshgallu, the high priest, would have risen before dawn to cleanse himself with Tigris water and then spent all day before the image of the god, reciting from the Enuma Elish, the epic depicted on the gates.

Out here, the acres of courtyard were crowded with an orderly throng. Great banks of kalu-ritual singers-broke into choral song every time the king's recitation stopped, amid the tinkle and rattle of cistrum and cimbalomlike instruments. Incense smoked into the sky from censers of golden fretwork swung by the priests.

It was all stately beyond words; the problem was that with chants, songs, ritual gestures, it was going to take the rest of the afternoon to reach the temple, at which point the ceremony would actually begin. The dignitaries honored with an invitation had to go at the same pace. Colonel Hollard glanced aside at the crowd filling the open spaces of the courtyard and shivered slightly. Their faces were rapt, open, an abandonment of self beyond anything he could imagine.

Eventually they crossed the temenos, the sacred enclosure. The gates swung wide, and Kenneth Hollard missed his stride. Jesus!

Most of these Babylonian buildings were dim-lit inside; it made the bigger ones impressive, in a mysterious, smoky way. Esagila wasn't. The inside of the great hall glowed, light caught and reflected back and forth by the gold leaf that covered walls and the giant beams of the ceiling, sparkling from emerald and nacre and lapis. Hollard blinked, stunned for an instant. Then they were through the hall and into the sanctum itself, only the king and his most trusted guests there as witnesses. Hollard's eyes went up and up, past the man-high golden footstool, past the colossal foot and robe, to the golden, bearded face of the god that seemed to hover beneath the lofty roof, full-lipped and beak-nosed, the embodiment of power, telling all beholders to make peace with their mortality.

He shook himself mentally. Come off it, that's just a statue. Just a goddam big solid-gold statue. No wonder the locals find it impressive, though.

King Shuriash halted before the image of the god, one hand before his face and the other raised. The elderly sheshgallu came forward in his archaic wrap and relieved him of the symbols of his sovereignty- the tall crown of gold and jewels, the mace, the circle, all placed on a smaller chair before Marduk's. Then the high priest took him by the ear and made as if to force him to his knees. As a man rather than a king, Shuriash prostrated himself before Marduk and then rose only to his knees to proclaim:

I did not sin,

Lord of the countries.

did not destroy Babylon;

I did not command its overthrow.

The temple Esagila,

I did not forsake its rites.

I did not rain blows upon the weak,

I did not humiliate the lowly.

I was vigilant for the kingdom.

Hollard found himself nodding. Shuriash actually meant it; for a monarch of the ancient Orient, he really was a pretty good sort. The priest slapped him sharply on both cheeks as the rite required, until tears came to his eyes; the king went on his belly once more, and then was lifted up, the high priest intoning:

Have no fear;

The God Bel-Marduk will listen to your prayer

He will magnify your lordship

He will exalt your kingship

The God Bel-Marduk will bless you forever;

He will destroy your adversary;

He will fell your enemy.

One by one, the symbols he had laid down were returned to Shuriash. The chorus of singing priests burst out again, and within the confines of the temple their song was a wave of pure sound.

Hollard glanced aside at Raupasha, watching the intent sparkle of her dark-gray eyes. She was wearing what Doreen had dreamed up as the new Mitannian national costume, an open jacket of crimson silk embroidered with dragons in gold thread over a long, simple gown of indigo blue set with bullion medallions along the hem.

Looks damn fine, he thought. She's filled out a little with proper food and exercise. Down boy!

Then her eyes went wide, and her hand darted inside the jacket. Time seemed to slow as the slim hand came out with the bulk of a brand-new.40 Python in it, pointing ahead… toward King Shuriash. Toward his undefended back, bare to the allies he trusted.

Jesus, she's gone nuts! he thought. His hand lifted-and halted.

Instead, he pivoted himself, his own right hand clawing at the holster on his waist. The shot was not far from his ear, deafeningly loud. There were screams, cries of anger and rage; Shuriash was pivoting, features slack with amazement as he saw the priest leaping toward him with upraised knife. Raupasha's shot clipped a fingernail's width of skin from the man's nose. The priest's face was twisted in an ecstasy of hatred, amok with fanaticism. The wound snapped his head around for an instant, and slowed his rush.

"Die, blasphemer!" he screamed.

Prince Kashtiliash's actions had the smooth economy of an expert. His sword slashed out and up, through the assassin's wrist. The priest did shriek then, although Kenneth couldn't tell if it was with pain or frustration. The sound cut off… literally, as the prince's second stroke chopped halfway through his neck.

Then the two Hollards, the prince, and some of the nobles were crowding around Shuriash, weapons poised and eyes glaring, putting their bodies between him and any further danger, while priests and onlookers scattered in terror. Hollard noticed that one of the few exceptions was Ian Arnstein, who'd seized his wife in a crouching hug that put his body between her and danger. Time froze, for long instants. The priest-assassin gave a final bubbling rattle, kicked heels, voided, then died. His blood flowed out impossibly red in the light of the shrine, creeping around the feet of those surrounding the king.

"Let me by," Shuriash snapped.

Reluctantly, his protectors spread apart, moving outward to make their circle wider. Shuriash looked down at the priest.

"My thanks," he said to Kashtiliash, and nudged the body. "But it would have been good to ask this one questions-hard questions, in a hard way."