by T. K. Thorne
“Sidilk of the Hurrians.”
“What do you say, Sidilk of the Hurrians?”
Though bound, he shoves out his chin. “I slew your clansmen in battle, but we had no intent of it. We would have taken only four camels and turned the rest back. Because of this boy—you lost men.”
Only a twitch of cheek beneath Yassib’s left eye gives notice of any reaction. “And this boy’s father?”
A shrug. “He fought over a few items. He was not desert people.”
A flush crawls through my body. There is more talk around me, but I hear nothing. It is as the buzz of distant bees. My eyes lock on the raider’s, and his cannot escape mine. He knows I am his death, here before this council or in the arms of night, should they leave him tied or should he sleep. If they give him his life and ask for his honor in exchange for being untied, he will search me out in my sleep … if he is wise.
Yassib’s raised hand tells me they are finished with the discussion. “Because Adir is of this tribe, so is his family. It is not a matter of a tribesman killing a city dweller, but a family matter.” He points at me. “Blood right is yours.”
The world hazes at the edges, and I realize I am on my feet, my knife in my hand. Nothing exists except the bond between me and the man who stole my father from me. Without direction, my feet move me toward him until I stand close enough to share his breath. His beard is black and closely cropped; a small oval mark stains the skin below his left eye. He has not moved, but a pulse beats in his throat. His chin is the height of my nose, so I look up and he down, but we are together, alone. His life is mine.
As though from a long distance, I hear, “Adir!” and realize Mika has been shouting my name over and over. Slowly, I turn my head, to find him held between Kerit and another man. I feel myself take a breath and wonder vaguely if it is the first one I have drawn since Yassib granted me blood right.
When he realizes I see him, Mika shouts, “Adir, this man knows Raph’s fate.”
I stare at him.
“Raph’s life inside your hands,” he says, his mouth shaping each word precisely.
My eyes fall to my hand where I hold my father’s knife. A shaft of sunlight flares off the bronze blade; a kindred spirit, it blazes with the same fire that burns inside me.
Inside my head the meaningless words spin: Life. Raph. Raph’s life.
I raise my blade to the raider’s neck where the blood pulses beneath the sun-browned skin, stilling my hand’s tremble against that throb. My gaze lifts to his, and I pull words heavy as boulders from a deep crevasse. “Ransom then,” I say. “But for knowledge.”
The briefest of nods from him.
“Where is the man you took when you stole the cedar box wrapped in black hide?”
Considering me, Sildik’s tongue edges his mouth.
“Where is he?” I press the blade against his neck. Skin dimples with the pressure.
A word emerges from his lips, but no more follow, as though the rest are wedged in his throat.
Disoriented, I watch his knees slowly buckle and a tiny crimson pearl well from his left nostril. Only when he pitches forward do I understand. Protruding from his back, like trees planted in his flesh, are two ibex-antler hilts.
Chiram’s thick arms are still thrust before him in the follow-through to the throw. He drops them to his sides, his mouth grim. “Zakiti’s slayer does not get to choose life.”
I turn back to the man at my feet.
Somehow Mika is at my side. “Did he speak?”
I am empty, dry as a wadi in summer’s heart.
“Adir, for the sake of my brother!”
“A word.” My voice cracks. “Only one.”
“What word, Adir?”
“Babylon.”
PART
II
BABYLONIA, 1748 BCE
CHAPTER
28
Marduk [god of Babylon] considered and began to speak to the gods assembled in his presence. This is what he said. “In the former time you inhabited the void above, the abyss, but I have made Earth as the mirror of Heaven, I have consolidated the soil for the foundations, and there I will build my city, my beloved home.… It shall be BABYLON.
—Babylonian hymn
YASSIB WARNED THAT TO CROSS the desert to Babylon in summer would be death, but the journey would be much swifter in winter than following the King’s Road and safer from those who might hurt us. We heard rumors of men in chariots along the King’s Road, searching for a tall man with flame hair, so we stayed with Yassib’s tribe in the highland valleys until the weather turned. In gratitude for his hospitality, I gave him the black stallion as a gift. The horse has a great heart, and Yassib and his clan will treasure him.
I left them with a mixture of regret and relief. Although I was treated with esteem and acceptance, fear of making a misstep was a constant companion. It tore my heart, however, to leave Shem, who forgot he was supposed to ignore me and embraced me as a sister. He came with Yassib to the edge of their territory to pass us into the hands of another tribe.
Our caravan would never have attempted to cross the eastern desert, but Yassib assured us it was possible with the right guides. Our course was not straight, as we traveled from watering hole to watering hole, places we would never have found on our own. Thus, we made our way across the desert—a long journey of dirt, sand, heat, and thirst, but much shorter than the normal caravan route that would have taken us north and then curved in a frown’s arc to the east.
Chiram gave up trying to get me back to Abram and Sarai, but insisted on traveling with us. His presence was good for one reason: He had brought my little donkey, Philot. I was happy to know Philot had found his way back to Lot’s tents when I lost him at the wadi. He is ever patient, and when there was not enough grass for him in the deep desert, he drank camel’s milk for sustenance. Still, he is very thin when we reach the mud huts and irrigated fields that surround Babylon. Aside from Chiram, who seems amazingly unaffected, we all are.
NEVER HAVE I been so glad to see a sight as I am the walls of Babylon. The glazed slab-brick gates were not here when I visited as a child and are only partially completed, but it is clear they will be a wonder. Across the rich shades of blue, golden bulls, dragons, and lions march. When we pass, I cannot resist putting out my hand to touch the glazed surface and marvel at the craftsmanship that has managed to raise the images, as if catching them just emerging from the smooth brick to claim their birthright as the gods and goddesses of Babylon.
The gates of the city are open the morning we finally arrive. We do not enter as beggars. Yassib gave us gifts of value, beautiful weavings that would bring good prices here, and Chiram brought a veritable treasure of silver with him, my inheritance from my father, although he insists on “holding” most of it for me. Metals of any kind are greatly valued here, as they must be imported.
It is an odd feeling to walk a city again, particularly this one. The streets run true as spears, crossed at regular intervals by equally straight ones. To our left, the River Euphrates flanks the road, its shore lined with date palms that grow with their feet in the water. To our right, tall, windowless walls of baked brown brick rise far above even Mika’s head. The towering ziggurat and temple cast deep, welcome shadows along the streets.
People of all ranks—landowners, merchants, commoners, and slaves—fight for rights of way. Enticing rows of goods fill blankets laid next to the walls—great baskets heaped with grains or fish; dyed cloth and rugs; items of bronze, silver, even gold; bags of salt; hanging meat; pottery and jewelry. The fragrance of fresh and dried herbs, cooking meats, and spices mingle in the air, thankfully masking the underlying smells that belong to all cities. Every block contains altars and shrines to the gods—which one is for which god would require a lifetime of study.
Sounds jumble into a cacophony of voices; lyres and cymbals of street musicians; the bleating of sheep, bray of donkeys and squeal of pigs—all punctuated by the cries of vendors. There is lit
tle room on the narrow dirt streets off the main way. Men with carts pulled by small donkeys or large dogs shout at blockages ahead, but must wait with the rest of us to push through. Nami presses against my leg. Philot’s long ears flip back and forth.
I understand. I have become accustomed to the silences of the desert, breached by the lone screech of a hawk or morning hoot of an owl, or by the soft spit of sand sent by the wind to brush against a tent. After the generous expanse of open sky and land, this cluster of sensations is smothering. Even Mika, who rarely shows emotion, seems unsettled. People are no different from animals in most ways. A swish of a donkey’s tail can be meant to chase a fly, or it can be a warning, depending on the context. So the brush of a hand to the nose or the pulling of a beard or shifting of weight can be for a man. My father taught me that these things speak truer of a man’s mind than his tongue.
Mika, though he has tried to disguise himself with a hooded robe and walks bent over a staff like an old man, carries tension in his shoulders, and his gaze scans the path before us. Some of the men in the great city are almost as tall—men with bold noses who wear pointed or carefully curled beards. And then there are smaller black-haired people—Sumerians, my father called them.
Among the diversity of peoples, Hurrian and Hittite merchants pass, rousing no rancor, despite tensions between them in the lands to the west. Desert nomads also stride unchallenged—warriors who prey on farmers outside the city, but here exchange their goods for items brought from the ends of the earth. Trade is the great peacemaker—more of my father’s words proven before my eyes.
Most of the traders who come to Babylon camp outside her gates, but we are wealthy, at least for the moment, and Mika insists we purchase the use of rooms in a modest house. While we crossed the desert, he perfected his skill with the language and speaks now as well as I. Still, by unspoken agreement, I negotiated for the house. The less he is noticed, the better. With a generous offer of silver, its owners are more than pleased to go live with cousins and promise to have their slaves bring us water, a daily breakfast, and an evening meal. Stone is not easily found here. Like the houses of Sodom, these dwellings are made of bricks and sealed with pitch. In this land, the tarry substance oozes up through the ground in pools and is said to be of a finer quality than that found in the Dead Sea. Like that of every other house, our doorframe is painted a fiery red to ward off demons.
At my insistence, we bring Philot inside. I do not trust leaving him tethered at our door. People of the city are ruled by law, not tribal honor, which means their integrity is based on the odds of being caught.
Inside the small central courtyard, we shed our burdens. The flat roof, buttressed by cedar and packed mud, is loosely covered with palm fronds, creating shade and a relief from the heat. Nami, who has learned to take rest where she can, sinks to the floor at my feet, her tongue panting in an effort to cool herself. I follow her, weariness a weight in my bones that belies the hollowness of my belly. Like the animals of the desert, I have learned to survive on small amounts of food.
Without a word exchanged, we extinguish the clay lamps that have filled the house with the scent of sesame oil, lay out our pallets, and sleep through the night.
Sometime before dawn, Nami alerts me with a low growl. Visible in the soft moonlight that filters through the overhead palms, a man enters, carrying a large clay jar. He freezes as Nami rises to her feet, and I place a hand on her to let her know I see him. The man is slender and wears simple, rough clothing. His step is soft. Neither Mika nor Chiram has wakened.
Slowly, he raises the jar. This gesture is for me, to show his purpose, though his gaze is fixed on Nami. I nod, noting the slash of a brand on his upper arm that marks him a slave. He lowers his burden just inside the courtyard where we sleep and leaves as silently as he entered. Nami’s attention stays on the door and after a short time, the man returns with a tray of food, which he leaves by the door, backing out to keep Nami in his sight.
After a moment, Nami lies down again at my side. Any of the dogs on the street would have gone to gobble the food, but Nami has more manners than most people I have encountered. I drift back to sleep, knowing she will keep watch for us, and that breakfast will be where it was left come the morning.
DISORIENTED, I WAKE to small patterns of sunlight through the courtyard roof. Beside me, Nami does not move her head, which still rests on her forepaws, but her eyes follow me. I put my hand between her shoulders, stirring a layer of dust.
“We need a bath, Nami.”
She gives my nose a solemn lick.
I snort. “That’s a start, at least.”
First, however, I share with her a portion of the flatbread, cheese, and dates the slave has left for us. I throw the pits and Philot’s dung out onto the alley street. The dogs will graze on edible waste, and slaves are already working to cover the rest with a layer of clay and straw. This explains why the street level is above the entrance to the house. Eventually, they will have to add more steps inside to climb to the level of the street.
Mika stirs, but then settles back into sleep, and I risk the luxury of the bathing room where the slave left fresh water. The floor and lower parts of the wall are baked brick covered with a finely ground stone mixed with pitch. All is angled to slope to the center of the room, where the water can drain off in small runnels of glazed tiles.
I strip and dip water from a small bowl to pour over myself, using a scraper to slough away dead skin, and then rinse again. It feels wonderful. Then I confront the problem of my clothes. Preferring to be clean over being dry, I wash the undergarments and put them back on wet. They will dry soon enough in the heat. I will buy another outer robe so I can clean this one.
Mika is waiting with impatience when I emerge, and tends at once to his own ablutions. I am surprised he did not join me in the bath, but perhaps his customs are different. It is a good thing, as my secret would not have remained so. Chiram shows no interest in cleanliness. I imagine he has emptied his water against a wall outside. Having already breakfasted, I take Nami for a walk.
It is just before dawn, and a light mist gliding in from the river hazes the city, which lies silent as a hunting leopard. Few people are out. It is too early for the children to be at the tablet houses studying with scribes. A few merchants are setting up their goods. Dogs scavenge through garbage, giving Nami quick assessing looks and then ignoring her when they determine she is not competition. The quiet is welcome.
I learn quickly to seek the inner walkways, the nicest being alongside the Euphrates River, which cuts through the city. The streets that run along the outer wall are choked with the stench of those who have used them as Chiram did, and other unpleasant smells that the dogs apparently perceive as delightful perfume.
Since we are out, I decide to refresh my memory of the city’s layout. It has been many summers since I was here. Abram often told us the story of his father’s disillusionment with Babylon, how King Hammurabi stole a millennium of knowledge and culture from Abram’s home city of Ur. But I have always been intrigued with the laws of Babylon’s previous king. I remember my father taking me to see the great black stone edifice that stood near the Temple of Marduk, the chief god of Babylon.
I let memory guide my feet in that direction, toward the city’s heart. Nami, more relaxed and herself in the early morning quiet, briefly investigates a small pile of refuse and then trots back to my side. I love the airy grace of her gait. She moves as though she is only partially bound to the earth, especially when she stretches out to chase prey or just to run for pleasure. She too is a daughter of the wind.
Dawn paints the eastern-facing buildings a lambent coral. I glance here and there, taken by admiration of one site and then another—until I stop before the seven-tiered House of the Gods that rises like a mountain above me, engulfing the street and opposite buildings in its shadow. The brick walls stretch farther along each edge than I can throw a stone, and as high up. I put my hands on Nami’s head and make her l
ook up at the ziggurat. “It is named Linking Earth and Heaven,” I tell her.
She is unimpressed.
We proceed just a bit further to Marduk’s temple and there, just as I remembered, is the black stone, incised with writing. The angular marks are codes that govern the land. Despite my distrust of their power, I am awed in the presence of this stone.
“Can you read it?”
The voice at my back startles me. A woman has approached so quietly even Nami did not alert me, perhaps because she is absorbed smelling beneath the tail of a dog in the nearest alley. I turn to see a woman almost my height, the quality of her robes declaring her a noble. A scarf draped low over her head hides her forehead and hair, but her eyes are a clear gray settled in a nest of fine lines. I cannot tell if age or the sun’s chisel has etched them.
“Only a little,” I say, surprised at the sadness in my voice. Suddenly, I miss the mornings sitting with Ishmael in Sarai’s tent, learning the history and heritage of our tribe. I miss the sound of her voice instructing us in the long litany of stories. I miss snitching an extra date from the bowl and making Ishmael laugh with a whispered-aside prediction that our grandchildren’s heads will split with all they will have to know.
The woman’s eyes travel my face and down my body. Instinctively, I increase the hunch of my shoulders. In the past moons, I have had to tie the bindings across my breasts tighter and tighter. Her eyes burn through me as though she can see my deception. If she does, she does not speak it, but lifts her hand to the black stone. “What words can you read of this one?”
I follow her hand, noticing the stains of age on them and relaxing a bit that she will not tear from me what I have sought to hide all my life. Have I been boy so long, I fear being who I truly am? The beats of my heart slow, and I turn to study the words, my teeth chewing on my lower lip in concentration. It was not Sarai who taught us the written word, but Abram, who had been a scribe in Ur.