My father is a wealthy merchant whose caravans travel from Ur to Sippar. My mother, his principal wife, is a child of the chief priestess of Inanna in Lagash, conceived by the gods during the temple rites when grandmother was a harmitu. His second wife is a daughter of the chief minister of the high king in Uruk.

With such status, my family has enough influence to hold my initiation into womanhood at Eanna, the great temple of Inanna in Uruk itself. Never mind that I’d rather perform the three-day rite at my grandmother’s temple, at home in Lagash—where my service as a harmitu initiate might be purchased by our neighbor Nergal, or maybe even the priest Hashur. By someone who knows me, who would be kind and ensure my first time doesn’t hurt. But my desires don’t matter here—I am only a daughter. If my mothers had helped me, there’s a chance my father would have changed his mind, but they agree with his goals. Only select daughters of important families have their adulthood rites at Eanna, and they wish to be seen as important.

So that is why I, Amarsin, daughter of Mattaki of Lagash, ride through the great eastern gate of Uruk in an ox cart with a wobbly wheel.

Despite the protests of my handmaiden, Ninshul, I peek through the curtains at the city gate as we pass through it. It is twice as wide as the main gate in Lagash, with twice as many soldiers guarding it. I saw it before, of course, when I rode with my father’s caravan, as a little girl. I’m not a little girl any more—I am almost a woman, and cannot ride an ox astride as I once did.

I obey Ninshul’s twitterings, despite the stifling heat of closed curtains, and don’t peep at the traffic as we wobble our slow way to Eanna—not even as we pass the high king’s palace. After a few stops and starts, we arrive at a side courtyard and finally get out. I stretch as modestly as possible while the guard tasked with my safe arrival talks with a steward. Another cart is being unloaded of jars of barley and sacks of dates. After a quick farewell I, along with Ninshul and a servant carrying my modest baggage, am ushered through a gateway into the temple complex.

The hallway is less hot than the noon sun. We are led to a shaded courtyard with a small fish-pond, which is even less hot, almost cool. Two girls my age wait here, with two servants each. One, a soft, pretty lass only a few finger-widths taller than I, introduces herself as Anarenuz, the daughter of the head scribe of the temple of Enlil. The other girl, a classic beauty wearing a costly blue tunic, sniffs and ignores my arrival.

I ask Anarenuz, “Will we be here long?”

Her smile brings out a pair of dimples. “The priestess said she’s waiting for one more, and that must be you.”

As if speaking of the woman summoned her, a senior priestess enters the courtyard, accompanied by a handful of servants and lesser priests.

She is a tall woman, skin somewhat pale but otherwise well-formed, with the stately presence of one who’s been touched by the gods. She wears a touch of eyeshadow of ground lapis lazuli, and mica sparkles on her cheeks. Her loops of braided hair are coiffed in the style of a naditu, one rank below the high priestess, with every braid tied off by a golden bell—she tinkles with every move of her head, and her bracelets jangle with every move of her arms. Her embroidered tunic goes over only one shoulder, and has golden tassels on the lower hem. In short, she is glorious, as one of Inanna’s own should be.

One of her servants gestures to us girls, to line up before her.

“Greetings in the name of Morning Inanna.” Her melodious voice is low for a woman.

“Greetings to you, priestess,” we three intone.

“I am Naditu Shamhat. I will guide you during your time as harmitu, and you will answer to me in all things. Are we clear?”

“Yes, priestess,” I say, and the other two echo me. Mama Lillan grew up in a temple, and made sure I know what deference is due to each level of priest and priestess.

“Before you are initiated, I must confirm a few things. First, tell me your name and family.”

We reply in turn, the sniffy girl first. She is Uanna, the daughter of the king’s minister in charge of canals, here in Uruk—an important position, to be sure, but he works for my grandfather. I decide to not mention that just yet.

Not even when she sneers at my merchant parentage and distant home.

Shamhat nods. “A few more details concerning your qualifications. Have you seen your fourteen birthday?”

Anarenuz and I say, “Yes, priestess,” followed by Uanna. Shamhat scowls at her, and she bobs her head in apology.

“Have you had your monthly courses at least three times?”

“Yes, priestess.” In chorus this time.

“Has a man’s member ever rested in your chamber?”

“No, priestess.” Uanna snaps out her answer, resenting the implication that she might not be a virgin.

Shamhat is unimpressed. “I am glad to hear this. I must, however, check your hymen, each of you, just to be sure.”

Uanna squawks like a duck escaping a water snake, and I wonder what she is trying to hide. The inspection is nothing unexpected—all sacred virgins must prove their status. But then I realize Shamhat means to check us here and now, in front of each other and our servants.

Some, yes, might find that immodest. Disconcerting, even.

Shamhat makes Anarenuz lift up the skirt of her tunic, and then sit down on a stool with her legs spread. Her soft face darkens with embarrassment as she does, though the gateway to her chamber is as pretty as any I’ve seen. Her membrane is intact.

Uanna is next, despite her protests and livid face, almost as dark as a chicken liver. Shamhat is ready to have two attendants, both nearly as large as an ox and no doubt nearly as strong, hold the girl, but Uanna finally submits. Her hymen is also intact, and there is nothing obvious about her gateway or chamber that needed to be hidden.

The way she straightens her tunic is so like a hen settling her feathers after nearly being trampled, I cannot hold back my snicker. The look she gives me, if it could be collected in a bowl, could be used to poison granary rats.

Then it is my turn. I already know I’ve nothing to be ashamed of. Won’t we display ourselves on the temple steps, during all three days of our rite? Hasn’t the priestess been forthright, and all business? I hold up my tunic and sit, legs apart.

Even though Shamhat is all business, inspecting wares to be hawked, I’m still pleased by the attention. Not pleased enough for juices to flow from my channel, but if she’d stayed between my legs a few heartbeats more, it could have happened.

She stands with a slight frown. “Your hymen is slightly torn.”

Uanna gloats like a mongoose with a snake in its mouth.

“When younger, I rode oxen with the caravans. Gazualum of Lagash has checked it, and is certain that no one has entered my chamber and that I will bleed as any other virgin.”

Ninshul steps forward with the clay message tablet from Gazualum the healer-priest, but Shamhat waves it off. “It looks fine. It is well you are so forthright.”

“Yes, priestess.”

So all of Mama Sandana’s worries were for nothing. I almost wish her here to witness this. Almost.

I’ll just have to settle for Uanna looking like she’s just bitten a green plum.

We are shown to our sleeping quarters and meet two harmitu initiates, Madala and Kirashi, who arrived a few days before and still await their first rites, plus five more, now women, awaiting their second or third day. Then we are taken to a bathing room to wash—a real bath first, then a ritual cleansing, including a dot of sesame oil on our foreheads. Temple servants dry our hair and rebraid it into loops—in the harmitu style, not like Shamhat’s. Uanna and I both use silver bells, but Anarenuz’s are bronze. They jingle just as nicely as mine, regardless.

Thus prepared, Shamhat and a fat priest whose name I don’t catch initiate us as harmitus.

It’s real. Soon, a few days hence, I will stand on the temple steps, a maiden harmitu, and a man will pay a donation to the goddess to have me. To take me. To change me from a girl into a woman. To make me an adult in the sight of all who would witness. I all but shiver as I bow in acknowledgment.

A few days, yes, but when?

During a small mid-afternoon snack of figs and barley bread, Shamhat asks us new harmitus about our monthly courses. Here at Eanna, three harmitu initiates perform the rite each day—one maiden on her first day of the rite, one on her second day, and one on her third—and she needs to plan carefully. Anarenuz just finished bleeding a few days ago. Uanna, predictably, again protests the indignity, then finally admits that her courses are not yet regular—that her last was thirty-four days ago. She seems ashamed of this, as if it’s unusual for a girl’s first courses to be untethered from the moon’s cycle.

Mine are regular, however, and I proudly answer, “My bleeding began on the seventh of the month, as it did the three times before.”

Shamhat looks at me a moment, then nods. “Then three days hence will be your first day.”

Today is the eighteenth of the month—three days, it’ll be the twenty-first, halfway through my cycle. The day that, according to Mama Lillan, many priestesses believe a woman is most likely to get with child.

Not all harmitus become pregnant by the gods, especially not initiates during their first time. But it could happen to me. I shiver at the thought, but all I do is bow my head. “Yes, priestess.”

Shamhat decrees that tomorrow Uanna shall have her first rite, because her courses might start soon, then Madala, who’s been waiting the longest, the day after. Kirashi and then Anarenuz will follow me in turn. Uanna is, predictably, inordinately pleased to be first.

Shamhat then gathers all ten harmitu initiates, and leads us through the rituals and prayers of the rite—instruction for those who are new, the daily review for those already here. I expect it to be a review for me as well, but some of the prayers are different from how we say them in Lagash, and I’m glad I pay attention.

Over our dinner of barley lamb, mashed chickpeas with flatbread, sweet dates, and beer strained finely enough it never clogs my straw, Uanna and Madala loudly speculate about what sort man might purchase their first rites. Some of the other harmitus offer commentary, but as a stranger to Uruk, I stay silent. Two captains, one of the palace guards and one of the army, are both deemed possible and swoon-worthy. A certain head scribe of the king is considered likely, based on his habits of taking maiden harmitus, but not desirable.

“Fat and greasy,” Madala declares.

“What about the high king or his wild brother?” Anarenuz asks hesitantly.

Uanna rolls her eyes. “Unlikely. He takes a harmitu maybe once a month—and why would he, when the high priestess shares her bed with him? His last time was a bare quarter-moon ago,” and when Madala is about to correct her, she adds, “Maybe a half-month.”

“I’ve heard,” Kirashi said, “he prefers the senior harmitus.”

“Hmph!” Uanna sniffs. Then to Anarenuz, “In your dreams.”

It’s a nice dream, however unlikely. Though honestly, I don’t really care which man takes me in the rite, so long as he is gentle and takes me on the temple steps. That the rite of womanhood is public, witnessed by all, is something I’ve obsessed over, the past few years.

A few times a month, ever since my courses began, I have watched the rite at our temple of Inanna in Lagash. Watched as a harmitu offers herself as stand-in for the goddess, watched a man pay his donation to become the stand-in for the sacred king—watched as they joined in front of the temple. Watched as, sometimes, a harmitu enjoyed her patron’s attention enough to climax before us all.

Obsessed, and dreamed about. It is like a knife whetted over and over.

That evening, after we prepare for sleep, I slip into Anarenuz’s sleeping chamber, next to mine. She smiles tentatively at me in the flickering rushlight.

“Amarsin, what is it?”

In her undyed cotton shift, she looks even more delectable. But a girl as innocent as she is, or at least seems, a direct approach will not work well. Instead, I say, “I’m ... nervous.”

Which is true enough.

She swallows, and nods. “Me, too.”

“Will you hold me?” I whisper. As if I’m the one needing reassurance.

She steps forward and folds me in her arms. I embrace her in turn. So nice—so soft. It takes but a short while for soft caresses to turn our whispers into soft kisses—and then to turn those into more passionate ones—to turn caresses into strokes into rubbing. I push her back on the bed, and bend over her. “Sweet Ana,” I whisper as I work my hand under her shift, stroking her thigh up to her mound.

She opens her legs to me, and I reward her with a kiss and two fingers up and down her slit. She gasps in my mouth and shivers against my hand. Oh sweetness, how soft and pliant in my hands, like wax already warmed by working it.

I take her, bring her to climax, once, twice, three times. This is safe—she shudders silently when she crests. I have her bring me to climax, twice with her hand, and then once with her mouth. That third time, I cannot kiss her to keep quiet and instead bite my wrist, but not so hard the marks won’t fade by morning.

Holding her beneath me as she writhes with desire, yes, this is good. It takes the edge off the blade within me.

I don’t want to leave her and she protests when I do, but we both know I cannot stay and be discovered. As I slip through the darkness into my bed, I imagine taking her in our courtyard, before the eyes of the other harmitus, before the priests and priestesses and servants. A delicious thought—so tasty, that despite being sated only moments before, I have to bring myself off in my own bed, with my hands, before I can sleep.

In the morning, Anarenuz blushes but gives nothing away, and even compliantly sits beside me as we break our fast.

It takes the temple servants almost half the morning to ready Uanna for the rite, much less than the other two harmitu initiates. I have to admit, it’s time well-spent: she looks glorious. She wears a linen kilt of blinding whiteness that’s sheer enough to see the dark hair of her mound, sandals of soft gilded leather, and nothing else. Well, no other clothing. The lapis lazuli eyeshadow sparkles, as if mixed with powdered mica, and her eyes are lined with darkest kohl. Mica is dusted across her cheeks, down her neck and chest and her breasts—her magnificent breasts, full and firm, nipples pointing forward and just a little up, towards the eyes of any man standing before her. Or, yes, any girl. If I didn’t know she was meaner than a jackal bitch, I’d want to taste those teats.

Well, I want to anyway. But I never would.

Of today’s special rites on the front steps of Eanna—the more pedestrian rites with the permanent harmitus take place at two of the temple’s side entrances—Uanna’s is first. This will be followed by the rites of two more harmitu initiates, their second and third days, and then a half-dozen senior harmitu, those with such status that men will pay more to perform the rite with them. I watch with Shamhat, Anarenuz, and a few more harmitus, from a level area to the side, a few ox-lengths away, that’s shaded by the temple wall.

When Uanna emerges from the temple into the sunlight, her breasts glittering, I nearly gasp. If anyone here is a vessel of the goddess, surely it would be her.

The horns blare and the great drum booms, and the priest announces the start of the rite. A handful of the assembled men compete to be Uanna’s partner, and the donation agreed to is higher than any I’ve seen in Lagash.

The winning man, who wears the topknot of a soldier and the fine kilt of a captain, takes Uanna’s hand and leads her to the padded matting, decorated with grain-stalks and flowers. He lays her down, kneels between her legs, and after quickly reciting the ritual, he takes her without preparation. I wince as she cries out, and it takes him more than a dozen thrusts to work his member inside her dry channel. By the time he does, she is crying silently. In less than the time it takes to plow a furrow, he spends himself and stands with a snarling face. Although he has the option of continuing the rite in one of the private temple rooms set aside for this, instead he stalks off down the steps.

The priest inspects her discarded kilt—it is bloody enough I can see the red even from our vantage—and intones the prayers that complete the rite. Then a lesser priest leads Uanna, naked and sobbing, over to us. Her makeup is tear-streaked and her inner thighs blood- and semen-stained. To my surprise, Shamhat embraces her, offering consolation.

“My first time was just as harsh,” she whispers, loud enough Anarenuz and I can hear. “It will be better next time.”

Uanna nods on her shoulder. I hate the jackal bitch, but even so, I wouldn’t wish such an experience as hers on anyone, not even an Elamite raider.

Shamhat hands Uanna off to two temple servants and turns to Anarenuz and I. “Yours won’t be so bad—usually, it is much better.”

Anarenuz nods, but seems unconvinced. I nod confidently, despite my misgivings, and say, “I know, priestess.” At her sharp look, I have to add, “I’ve watched the rites in Lagash. Only once has it been ... like that.”

Shamhat gives me a steady look, and then nods.

The rite of the next harmitu initiate is starting, Dagrim’s second time. She is joyous—her first time clearly had been better. I point this out to Anarenuz. Going by her shy smile, I think she believes me. Or maybe it’s just memories of last night.

This time, after taking her in the rite on the steps, the man who stands in for the god leads her into a private room. The same happens with the third harmitu initiate, Henbur. After that, Anarenuz wants to go inside, but I stay to watch the next harmitu, a senior.

I’m glad I do—she is not made up with the same glory as Uanna, but from the way she walks, her expression, she looks more like the goddess than Uanna did. When her man comes to her, he feels something of this and tries to use the same solemnity as the god as he joins her. It sends shivers down my spine, being this close to something divine.

It also gives me much to think about. I have a new desire for my partner in the rite, beyond being gentle on the open temple steps—that he and I touch the divinity of the god and goddess we represent. It’s a foolish desire—how often have I seen it happen?

But I still desire it.

When I meet Uanna for the first time that afternoon, I say, “Greetings, priestess.”

She stops to stare at me for a couple heartbeats. She starts to speak, then stops. I wonder whether this is the first time someone with her rank has addressed her as a woman instead of a girl. Finally, she says, “Greetings to you.” Then with a nod that’s almost civil, she continues on.

Her civility lasts until halfway through dinner.

Us four maiden harmitus listen to her hushed description of what it felt like, having a hymen ripped by a sword without her scabbard ready to receive it, and I notice that she’s particularly speaking to Madala—who will have her first time tomorrow. Trying to frighten her, which would only make a bad time worse. Relaxed, even if not aroused, is better, safer.

Bitch.

I speak up. “But not all rites today went badly—Dagrim, Henbur, how were yours?” bringing them into our conversation.

Both indeed had reassuring things to say, and later I catch Madala giving me an odd look—but when I return her gaze, she bobs her head in what I take is thanks. Uanna, though, hates my guts for downplaying her horror. Later I catch her sneering to Kirashi about an incompetant ox-drover from “halfway to the Zagros Mountains.”

Once again, I bide my time and hold my tongue. But I won’t be respectful again.

That night, once all are asleep, or at least quiet, I visit Anarenuz again. She makes a token protest when I completely remove her shift, but none at all when I press her beneath me. Her round breasts are even softer than I dreamed, softer than grandfather’s pillow stuffed with the smallest breast-feathers of several ducks. Her box tastes sweet, and her climaxes even sweeter.

With last night’s practice, her fingers and tongue are better at bringing me to climax. This time, when she goes down on me, I bite on her shift, twisted into a thick rope, to keep me quiet—this allows me to let myself go in my climaxes.

The moon is about to rise when I finally leave my sweet little lover. I stifle a brief desire to take her home with me. Though—to have her with me in Lagash? Taking her openly into my sleeping chamber? Loving her in my father’s house? Or in our neighbor Nergal’s? Using her on the temple steps as if we were man and harmitu?

It takes me two times with my hands to fall asleep, after those daydreams.

When we break our fast in the morning, we learn Uanna is still sore enough, her second time is delayed a day. This is normal, but Shamhat hopes to rush through her three days before her courses come. I do not know whether I wish her time as a harmitu initiate be drawn out as long as possible or that she be forced to perform while still in pain.

I say nothing of this to Anarenuz, however.

While we wait for today’s harmitus to prepare, we play spindles with the other initiates. I remind myself not to try my hardest—here, now, the game is just a pastime. We all have fun, even the losers.

As Madala heads to the temple door for her first time, I step before her. She stops, looks at me suspiciously.

I bow slightly, as to one slightly more senior. “May you touch something of the goddess within you.”

She says nothing aloud, but her look all but shouts her puzzlement.

“You stand in for Inanna, in this rite,” I explain. “The more of her you bring to it, the better it will be.”

After a moment, Madala acknowledges me with a nod and sweeps past me. Her carriage is more like a rich family’s daughter than a goddess, however. Well, I tried.

I am not sure I like the look Shamhat gives me, when I join her on the watching platform.

Whether or not my advice has helped, Madala’s maiden rite is better than Uanna’s. Her man is also a soldier, a captain of the city guards, and while she doesn’t climax with him, he likes her enough to continue in a private room. He leaves during the third rite after hers.

When I see Madala later, she looks relieved. She says nothing to me, but when Uanna tells a joke about a cowardly soldier from Lagash, she doesn’t laugh—and doesn’t otherwise join her in being bitchy about me.

That night, I want to visit my dear Anarenuz again, but Ninshul and Ulushin, a temple servant of the harmitus and her new crony, are determined to stay with me, to reassure me, on this night before my first time. Any other night, I might have enjoyed the attention. Instead, I finally chase them out of my sleeping compartment and ask for privacy. It is the best I can do, in the circumstances. It takes a long time to set aside memories of Uanna’s rite.

My sleep is restless with dreams, but I cannot recall any details when I wake.

The morning of my first rite as a harmitu initiate, Ulushin is the only temple servant to help prepare me, and she is late—I’m already done with my ritual cleansing. She is apologetic, but explains that as Uanna began her preparations, her courses started, and the fuss she’s raising has left all the harmitus short-staffed.

“That’s fine—Mama Lillan was raised in the temple and we know what to do,” I say with a nod to Ninshul.

My handmaiden smiles. “As my mistress says. I’ll braid her hair—you handle the cosmetics.”

Ulushin is initially dubious, but watching Ninshul’s deft hands at work convinces her it’s worth seeing what she can do. Together, they do very well in the time they have.

I don’t care—I may not shimmer with as much gold or mica as Uanna or Madala, but I’ve been learning from Shamhat and the senior harmitus. When I walk out on the temple porch, I carry myself not as a rich daughter showing off, but as the goddess herself deigning to appear before mere humans.

I pause at the top step in the sunlight and look down at my audience. My bare, glittering breasts may not be as bountiful or firm as Uanna’s, but they are as divine as my gaze. More than one man stares, mouth open. That’s right, mortals—be filled with awe.

I meet the gazes of the more impressed as I slowly step down the stairs—I know their spacing, their risers, and never look down for my footing. I give my hips just enough sway to jingle my kilt’s golden tassels, and when I arrive at the landing where the priest awaits, I shake out my jangling hair, and turn around slowly, looking at my petitioners.

There is no one here I am not above. Every single mortal is watching me, gazing at my nearly nude form. Wanting me—me! My heart soars into the sky—nothing can touch it.

Or so I think.

A man, followed by a few guards, strides across the plaza. A tall man with reddish hair in a soldier’s top-knot and a sword on his belt, striding as if he were a god crossing the world.

My heart returns to earth. I recognize him, of course. The high king, Gilgamesh, called The Great. He has visited restive Lagash, uneasy under the rule of Uruk, three times in the last three years. I saw him twice. Those times were at a distance, though, and now he approaches the temple steps.

My heart trembles. As the priest begins the ritual, I remind myself, I am divine.

My troubled heart replies, And so is he.

No matter, I return, for then we are well matched.

My heart rejoices at the thought.

The high king stops at the foot of the stairway—even he cannot step on it till my price is agreed on. He looks up at me, and I meet his gaze. I am divine. I lift my chin slightly—and with a smile, he nods, an acknowledgement of an equal.

The moment the priest finishes his question, the king calls out, “I’ll have her—three talents.”

A good but not exceptional price for the front steps of Eanna—but no man dares to outbid him. After three heartbeats, the priest agrees. The king hands his sword-belt to one guard while the other arranges payment of his donation.

Then with steady steps, eyes never looking away from me, Gilgamesh climbs towards me. He is a tall man, and I am not a tall woman—his eyes are level with mine two stairs from the landing.

Just before he reaches the top, I think to swallow—wetting my throat so I can speak clearly. “Greetings in the name of Morning Inanna, O my god.”

His deep voice carries clearly to the far corners of the plaza. “Greetings to you, O my goddess.”

He unpins his tunic at both shoulders, and it slips down his muscled body to the floor—and the bronze pins softly tunk when they land on the baked brick floor. A man, a most magnificent naked man, stands before me. I have little close experience with male members, but his seems larger than most. I remind myself what both my mothers told me, that if a baby can fit in a woman’s channel so can any member. The heat of my desire overcomes my fears.

With hands that almost tremble, I undo the knot of my kilt, and in a moment I match him, standing naked to his gaze. To the gaze of our audience.

The king seems to appreciate what he sees—his member swells even more, throbbing with each heartbeat.

At the same moment, he and I, we lift our hands, and he takes mine. His fingers are calloused from holding a sword but otherwise smooth. He leads me to the padded matting. There, he has me stand, before the foot, in full view of the audience, with him before me.

He caresses my cheek with gentleness—calloused fingers leave traces of heat on my skin. Down my neck and shoulders—first my arms, then my sides, then the sides of my breasts. With each stroke, more heat kindles. And when he finally circles my nipples, sparks snap within me like undried tamarisk wood in a fire.

He bends down to kiss me where my neck meets my shoulder. More sparks, and I shudder with each pop. He pinches a nipple—left, then right, then left. The sparks come one after the other, and I moan in my throat. A finger traces my hip, down the side of my delta and between my legs, sliding over my slick lips. The sparks join together into flames, and I climax so hard my knees almost buckle.

I feel more than hear his chuckle, with his lips against the hollow of my collar.

Laughing? —at me? He has been in control this whole time, and while he is a glory almost until a god, am I not all but divine myself? I remember how I came down the steps, remember that feeling, and wrap it around me again.

Legs stable again, I grip the back of his neck and guide his head up to where I can kiss him.

I may not have kissed a man before, but I have kissed more girls and women than I can count on one hand. I know how to give and take, in a kiss. And here, now, as a goddess visiting the plain between the Two Rivers, I take. This mortal, this Gilgamesh, he is mine—and I let him know it.