| The Benevolent Tax Collector A Story of Ancient Sumeria by James W. Bell © 2001 |
| It was the high priest himself who came to summon Dilat-Shamash. “Father,” Dilat asked, “what have I done wrong?” “My son,” Dan-Inanna said, “that is for the goddess to say. Bring your tax records. Quickly.” He tapped his staff on the limestone floor. “The goddess awaits.” Dilat grabbed the basket of clay tablets that were his tax records and tossed in a couple of damp tablets and a reed stylus. “I’m ready, Father,” he said. “Then, come.” Dan-Inanna led the way down the temple’s great hall to the throne room. There, on a throne of lapis-lazuli set against the far wall, sat the goddess Inanna. Both men bowed before her, their foreheads touching the stone floor. Inanna dipped her fingers in a bowl that rested on a tripod by the throne and flicked glitter high into the air. It sparkled, incensing and cleansing the air as it wafted down. “Welcome,” she said. “You may rise and address me.” “Most Glorious One,” said Dan-Inanna, “I’ve brought Dilat-Shamash as you commanded. He has his records with him.” “Well done, my Ensi. You may leave. The accounting is a thing between my collector and myself.” “As you wish, Holy One.” The high priest bowed and left. The goddess turned and focused her dark eyes on Dilat. To him, she was the epiphany of beauty, hair as black as raven wings, skin as white as alabaster. Her lips were red and lush like the ripe pomegranate. She sat on her lofty throne clothed in bleached linen, pure as the snow of the mountainlands. “Dilat-Shamash,” Inanna said, “I assessed Arali for grain worth twenty talents of silver as taxes and appointed you to collect it. This is how you were charged, were you not?” Dilat consulted a tablet from the basket. “Yes, Holy One. I show your assessment for Arali as grain worth twenty talents of silver.” “Yet, the grain you brought in is worth only twelve talents, four minas and twelve shekels. What happened, Dilat-Shamash? Did you not know the price of grain? Could you not measure it? Or did you forget how much Arali was assessed?” “My goddess,” Dilat answered, “it was none of those.” “Then - ?” Inanna raised an eyebrow. “A thousand pardons, Holy One, but there was nothing left to collect in all Arali.” Dilat saw a glint appear in Inanna’s eyes. “Nothing? Not a grain of wheat left in all of Arali? Or a grain of barley?” “Glorious One, there was some, but precious little. The people of Arali have to eat. And some grain must be saved for next year’s seed. There wasn’t even sufficient for that.” Inanna twisted on the throne, her body canting forward towards him. “So you, a mortal, dare to judge sufficiency?” Dilat shrank back. “It’s that I did not wish to strip the people of Arali of their last vestiges of sustenance.” “Quiet!” Inanna exclaimed. She rose to her feet. “You must learn, Dilat-Shamash, that it is I who am sustenance to my people. They pay taxes in grain which I deposit in my warehouse. If they’re hungry, they have only to come to my warehouse and ask. If they’re short of seed, they have only to come to my warehouse and ask. It is I who am sustenance for my people. Do you understand, Dilat-Shamash?” Dilat bowed. “Yes, Holy One, now that you’ve explained.” “Then go back to Arali. Collect the full twenty talent’s worth of grain as I commanded you in the first place.” “But, Holy One. I do not want to put the people to shame by turning their jars upside down and emptying them.” “Careful, Dilat-Shamash. Your words approach blasphemy. And your attitude is beginning to resemble that of those mortals who go about calling themselves traders.” “I speak only of my people,” Dilat said. “Your people?” Inanna screamed. She dipped her fingers deep in the bowl and flicked glitter into the air again. This time, it sizzled and smoked as it sank scorched to the floor. “The Arali are not your people! They are mine! You, Dilat-Shamash, are a mere mortal, nothing more than a tax collector.” “Holy One, please. There was a drought in Arali. Crops failed. It’s been a hard year for those farming there.” “Do you think the gods were not aware of how it is in Arali?” “The gods could have - ” Dilat stopped abruptly. “Yes?” Inanna said. “What could the gods have done?” Dilat continued in a weak voice. “A thousand pardons, Holy One,” he mumbled. “The gods could have shown mercy. They could have driven rain clouds over Arali—and broken the drought.” Inanna’s eyes smoldered. “I see, mortal. Now you are setting yourself up to judge the actions of gods.” “But – ” “Enough!” The goddess raised her right hand high in the air and swung it down swiftly. SMACK! An invisible hand struck Dilat-Shamash. His body crumpled under the blow and fell to the limestone floor where it laid motionless. Inanna picked up a mallet and sounded the gong behind the tripod. Dan-Inanna appeared at the door. “Yes, Holy One?” “Take away this oaf of a tax collector and revive him,” Inanna instructed her high priest. “And, when he comes to, tell him to go back to Arali. Tell him not to return from Arali until he has collected the balance of taxes due.” “It shall be as you say, Glorious One,” Dan-Inanna said. He snapped his fingers and two acolytes appeared to drag away Dilat-Shamash’s body. Then, with a bow, the high priest departed, closing the doors of the throne room behind him. * * * Dilat-Shamash stirred and groaned. “Easy, you fool,” Dan-Inanna cautioned him. “You’ve been struck down by the goddess herself. No easy blow. You’ll need rest before you leave.” “Leave?” Dilat moaned. “You’re going back to Arali. The goddess wants you to finish the collection of taxes. She says don’t come back from Arali until you have collected the full balance due.” “But,” Dilat wailed, “seizing their grain will leave the cupboards of my people bare and their seed bins empty. They will be forced to come to Uruk and beg food from the temple warehouse.” Dan-Inanna nodded. “Yes, that is what the goddess wants.” Dilat looked up into the face of the high priest, searching for an answer. “But, Father,” he asked, “why?” “My son, you must understand it is a lonely thing to be a goddess. Especially Inanna. She is the youngest of the gods. Except for Enki, her grandfather, no deity has ever given her help. She has had to carve her own way to power. Alone, she’s made Uruk the Marketplace of the Land. Now, at the pinnacle of her powers, she finds herself alone. She craves affection.” “Affection? Father, did you say affection?” “Yes, my son,” Dan-Inanna nodded. “Affection. Love. She gets none from the other gods. They are too jealous of each other. So, she seeks it from humans, mortals like yourself. “After you collect the grain for taxes, those in Arali will be left with little or nothing. In desperation, they will have to go to the goddess’s warehouse in Uruk and, when they receive grain, they will be overcome by an immense feeling of relief. Over time, this sense of relief will grow into affection. Ultimately, the people of Arali will become dependent on Inanna and come to love her as they love their own mothers.” “Father, I can scarce believe what you’re telling me. It sounds like some form of trickery.” “Not so, my son. With human mortals loose upon the Earth, what else can be done? The goddess is training her people to come to her so she can succor them.” “After I first despoil them,” Dilat said bitterly. Dan-Inanna nodded. “That’s the way it is, my son. When you’re ready to go back to Arali, you’ll find your donkeys tethered outside in the temple stable, waiting for you.” * * * Zilsha looked Dilat-Shamash straight in the eye. “If you take this grain, sir,” the old woman said, “my husband and I will starve. You will have sentenced us to starve to death.” “Nonsense,” Dilat replied. “You have only to go to the temple warehouse in Uruk and ask for grain. The acolytes there will give you all you need.” “And how will we get to Uruk?” the old woman asked. “I can hardly walk and my husband’s been bed-ridden these past two years. Please, sir,” she begged with rheumy eyes, “show mercy.” Dilat looked at the lone jar of barley. The few grains in it were worth less than a mina. He tried to force himself to reach out, seize it and take it away—but couldn’t. Instead, he took out his own moneybag. “Don’t worry,” he told Zilsha, “I’ll pay the tax out of my own purse.” He took out a damp tablet and recorded payment. Then, as he walked out to his donkeys, he turned and said to the old woman, “Your taxes are paid.” “Bless you,” she called after him. * * * On his return to Uruk, Dilat-Shamash stopped at the city gate where he tethered his donkeys and went into a tavern. “A pitcher of beer!” he ordered from the tavern keeper as he set down his basket of tablets and seated himself on a bench. A stranger on the bench moved to make more room for him. “You’re a tax collector, aren’t you?” he asked. “Is it so obvious?” Dilat asked in return. “I despise you people.” The tavern keeper brought Dilat the jar of beer and a hollow reed for a straw. He set jar on the floor in front of him. “Right now,” Dilat told the stranger, “I’m not too happy with myself.” “Oh? Has plundering started to trouble your conscience?” “It’s been a hard year for the people of Arali. Drought. There are some like an old woman named Zilsha who lives with her bed-ridden husband.” The stranger nodded. “Yes, I know them.” “They owed taxes but their crop failed. I couldn’t bring myself to take their last jar of grain. Instead, I paid their taxes from my own purse.” “Commendable,” the stranger said. “But, if you’ve been so soft hearted, have you any money of your own left?” “Very little,” Dilat said. He let out a long sigh. “Now, it’s my wife and children who will face hunger and have to beg food from the temple warehouse this winter. Our neighbors will ask, ‘What has that Dilat-Shamash done with all the money he earned as tax collector?’ I feel I have sentenced my own wife and children to shame.” The stranger nodded. “Indeed, you have.” “But ... ” Dilat’s voice caught, “I could do nothing else!” “Don’t protest to me,” the stranger said. “Take your protest to the cause of your problem. To Inanna.” “I did.” Dilat pointed to his bruised forehead. “She used magic to strike me down. I dare not protest again.” The stranger nodded. “I understand. The goddess is headstrong and overbearing. Have you thought of leaving Uruk?” “And leave my wife and children behind?” “We could help them escape with you.” “We?” Dilat asked. “We traders,” the stranger said. “I’m a trader. Our association, the Karum, has a house at the north end of the quay. If you want to escape with your family, bring them there. We can get you and your family out. No one would ever know.” “It sounds like treason.” “How? No harm’s done to your city. Or your goddess. We only seek freedom for ourselves and for other humans like us. As thinking creatures, we traders assert the right to determine our own destinies.” “Enough,” Dilat said. “You’re confusing me with talk like that. Go away. Please, I don’t want to hear any more.” “Very well,” the stranger said, “if you wish.” He rose, paid the tavern keeper for his beer. “Goodbye,” he said and left. Dilat-Shamash shook his head. He had seated himself beside a trader. Without knowing. It had been an accident. Pure chance! He wasn’t to blame. He hadn’t even known the stranger. He certainly hadn’t known the stranger was a trader. He was well aware the goddess didn’t like traders. He could understand why. The stranger seemed to be against all things holy. He wanted to do just as he pleased, even determine his own destiny. Imagine. But, then, the stranger did seem to have a feeling of compassion for the impoverished in Arali. Dilat thrust the growing doubt from his mind. He downed the last of his beer and paid for it. He had taxes to turn in, the full balance due. He wanted to finish his mission, fulfill his task and prove to the goddess that he was the good and faithful servant a mortal was supposed to be. Surely, Inanna would recognize that, wouldn’t she? The End |