a partial schedule. palace log. 536 bc. my dr experience.
wake up before the sun finishes stretching. the sky's barely light, pinkish and soft, kind of like clay left too long in the river. you hear the servants whispering about fish rot, and temple gossip, and someone's daughter who hasn't bled yet. a priest is already sweeping the steps somewhere with a palm broom.
you lie still, listening, sheets half-kicked off, the stone under you holding last night's heat. your girl, lilu, arrives with water and a strip of date cake. she says it's your favourite. it isn't, it's just whatever was left from yesterday, but you smile anyway. she tucks your hair behind your ear.
she opens the shutters. the sky yawns wider. you sit up slow. someone left lilies in a clay jar by the window, still fragrant, barely wilted. there's a streak of something red on the handle. not blood. probably dye. you don't ask.
you're bathed in the courtyard, sun warming the edge of the pool. rose oil in the water. your skin smells nice. someone hums a song from the lower quarter and it gets stuck in your head.
you don't believe in the gods but you mouth the morning blessing out of habit. just in case. the oil slicks on the surface of the bath akin to a skin. you watch it swirl when they pour a bucket over your shoulders. one of the younger girls hands you a lotus petal. you press it flat and let it drift.
they dress you in linen light enough to float. gold cuffs, obsidian ring, sandals you don't lace yourself. your hair's done in twists that took an hour. you catch your reflection in the water basin and don't hate it. that's rare. that's enough. lilu holds up a polished bronze mirror. you squint. one eyebrow's off. she fixes it without a word.
breakfast is barley bread still warm, a soft white cheese, olives, figs. everything tastes like sun. you eat with your fingers. lilu laughs when you reach for a second fig. someone brings sugared almonds in a tiny bronze bowl. you don't love them but you eat three out of politeness. you send the rest to the kitchen boys.
the temple stairs are warm when you sit. vendors shout over each other, selling beads, fish, dyed cloth, half-truths. one claims his donkey can sense omens. another offers you a bird's heart for protection. someone has little carved lions for sale. you buy two. you wear the blue-glazed beads right away. they click softly when you move.
midmorning is too hot. you slip into the archives, where it's cool and shadowed. you pick up a clay tablet on sea trade and pretend to read it. someone brings honey-water. someone else says there was a fight near the canal. another scribe mutters something about a debt gone wrong and a missing bracelet. it's always something.
you draw nonsense on a wax board until your tutor arrives. he asks if you know the word for fortress in susian. you don't, but you make one up. he smiles as if it's a real answer. you both know it isn't, but no one cares. he reads from a scroll about northern stars and lost cities. although you like the names more than the facts.
lunch is melon, grapes, tiny flat cakes with sesame. they stick to your fingers. you drink something fermented and fizzy. it makes you giddy. your cousin joins. she has opinions about court girls and what they're wearing now. you nod a lot. she likes to hear herself talk. her nails are painted in crushed saffron. she touches your wrist when she laughs.
afternoon's for appearances. you walk the length of the palace gardens, which are actually quite serene today. the palms are trimmed, the flowers are opened wide. you stop to smell one and get yellow pollen on your nose. you leave it there.
children run past chasing a hoop made from willow. one trips. you help him up.
a boy from tyre plays the lyre. badly. you clap anyway. it's not about the sound, more so the gesture. someone gifts you a dyed scarf shaped like river waves. you tie it around your arm. you start to like it. the gardener waves at you from the other side of the courtyard. you wave back.
evening comes with incense smoke and lazy wind. your cousin returns. this time she brings a real rumour. something about a priest, a lockbox, and a missing girl. you say, "oh?" and nothing else. she keeps talking. the sun slides behind the ziggurat and the sky goes purple at the edges.
dinner is roasted lamb, onions, lentils, wine. you eat too much. someone plays the flute and nails it this time. someone tells a joke about the king's advisor and a sacred goose. you don't get it.
when they undress you, you're too full to move. they oil your back with lavender and brush your hair until it shines. you ask for mint leaves under your pillow. they bring them.
you lie in the courtyard under the stars, which are finally visible. one shoots across the sky. you make a wish, like a child. you won't tell anyone. that's how it works. the stone floor is still warm. someone drapes a thin cloth over you. you leave your arm out.
you sleep before the chanting starts. finally. it's not a deep sleep, but it's yours.
just maybe with different earrings. maybe with more laughing. maybe with pomegranate juice instead of wine.
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