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The dust rose in visible swirls as people walked through it, fine cloth trailing. Men wore their next-best robes, not quite suitable for major parties, but certainly good enough for local ones. They were here to worship, after all. The women wore their most eye-catching draperies, almost without exception. They were the altars, and must be clothed in finery.
A man with very blond hair entered; his hair was unusually short, suggesting he was a warrior. He spoke softly to the old woman who was stirring the pottage for that evening in a large cauldron over the courtyard fire, touching her gently on the shoulder, then offering her a piece of hard, white, sheep’s-milk cheese. Had any been paying attention, they might have noticed she stood a little straighter afterwards, but who would bother?
The blond warrior went to the first cubicle and tapped on the door jamb. When he was invited to enter, he flung back the curtain to allow light and air inside. He knelt down next to the obviously-ill woman who lay on the pallet there, struggling to draw breath, and touched her on the shoulder as well. Immediately she began to breathe more easily. He lifted his head and looked round for someone to bring water, but then rose himself and walked to the well. As he reached for the leathern bucket, someone was there before him; quite tall, long fingers, clothed all in black, but with a carmine curl visible at the brow. Those hands took up the bucket, let it down, fetched it back up, and unhooked it for him, all without looking at him. The blond man sucked in a breath, but said nothing. The person in black moved away and began chopping some herbs, tossing them into a small pot on the edge of the fire.
All afternoon, the blond man came and went, tending the temple women. When one of them required some minor cutting to deal with an infected wound (some stupid men just could not understand that these women were not common prostitutes but dedicated priestesses, and did not treat them well, though those men were rarely permitted to return), he looked up and around for another pair of hands, only to see the tall one in black already at his elbow, with a clay bowl of water and a small flask of wine with herbs and honey, for treating the wound after cleansing.
“Crowley? What are you doing here?” he asked, softly, while his deft hands moved and cut and cauterized and cleaned, always with the other’s hands ready to assist.
“Working, of course. Same ‘s you.”
“But—I thought they only used women here.”
“Oh?” Crowley looked him in the face for the first time, then drew his?—her?—veil over their face, and suddenly, though they were unchanged, the body moved as gracefully as a doe deer, as if they were dancing, and became unmistakably a woman’s, as it had been a man’s the moment before. “I do what’s needed, when needed. Most men don’t need to mount anyway ‘nless they want an heir; they’re just as happy with a mouth or somethin’. Even the old lady who cooks and washes takes a man or two at need; one older one always asks for her special. No teeth, see, and no danger of bein’ laughed at, like they’re afraid a young woman might.”
Aziraphale thought for a moment. Then: “I had intended to offer worship in the usual way, as they might not want me to return if I spat upon their idea of the Divine. But---might I ask for you?”
“If you have a silver siglos, yes,” the demon answered. Together they finished tending the women, and also opening an infected wound in the foot of one of the temple eunuchs, cleaning and binding it when finished. Then Crowley stood, stretching to their full and surprising height. “No time like the present, Angel.”
Aziraphale was guided to a tiny cubicle, and was grateful to note that the bedlinen appeared to have been laundered within living memory, the floor was swept, and the pair of clay beakers beside the small flask of wine did not retain any marks of other mouths upon them. “Sit down, Angel. Or lie down. Here, snuggle up; I don’t make a bad pillow.”
The angel did as he was bidden, then sat back up and poured them both a cup of the oversweet wine from the clay flask. Crowley accepted it with a nod of thanks. Aziraphale felt a trifle awkward, but the invitation to use Crowley’s chest as a pillow had not been rescinded, so he took it. “Truthfully,” he said, “Do you wish to minister as they do here? Or are you merely a tempter?”
“Up to you, Angel, it’s your siglos. I know, though, how much you could do for your side here; sex isn’t just for the body, you know. And while my side knows some of what I do here, they don’t know all of it, and the lust they approve of.”
Aziraphale stammered a bit. “I suppose. But working here isn’t ALL you do, is it? Why would you be troubling to save these women? Not the same reason as mine, I should think.”
“Angel, you shouldn’t think; it gets us both into trouble. Look here. I try not to see into the time that is to come very much; only confuses things, but sometimes it’s needed. This place, these women, they’re IMPORTANT. Sestra, her with the serious hawk-nose; one who runs the place even if she lets the priest think he does? Doesn’t put up with much nonsense, but makes sure everyone HAS food, even if she doesn’t cook it, and won’t let men come back if they damage the women. That one’ll have a late-in-life daughter, who’ll grow, and have her own children, and they’ll have kids, and eventually one of them’ll be named Khadija bint Khuwaylid, the businesswoman, first and favourite wife of an important prophet, name of Muhammed.”
The angel was listening intently, trying to remember all of the women.
“That little one there, Shoshanna—she’ll have several children because one of her worshipers will eventually take her as third wife. Her sisterwives will value her in the household, and ask her to teach ‘em the secrets of holding a man in the inner room, and’ll teach her to weave. One of her many-generations-granddaughters’ll be named Miriam and be born in Magdala; they’ll call her the Magdalene; and another, further along, will be named Aisha bint Abi Bakr, orphan and another wife of Muhammed the prophet. The one whose foot you mended, Zipporah? Her granddaughter’ll be named Ruth, the Moabite. Wait, I think that’s before the others. Anyway, the second priestess, As, so tall ‘n proud? Her line leads to Esther, the clever one. Husband Xerxes gets credit, but it’ll be mostly her. The pale one, with light brown hair, Anahita? She’ll have a daughter leads to Artunis, the woman who’s gonna command armies under Darius I. And the one had the laceration you stitched up, down where it takes a pounding? Varda—you’ll see her many-times-daughter again, wearing a blue mantle, and giving birth in one of those caves they use for stabling. Name of Maryam. ‘And her children will call her blessed.’ We’ll see both Marys again, ‘fore we’re through.”
Aziraphale nodded, solemnly, and lay back against Crowley. They finished their wine, and slept the night in each other’s arms, and whether they worshiped as the others who came there did or not, they never told anyone else.