The red clay bricks grew close enough to touch now, and she saw Abram coming toward her. He caught the donkey’s bridle and pulled it to a stop. He leaned in but did not touch her.
“I have found us rooms to rent from a caravan merchant who is rarely at home. Father can rest there, and you can take care of him as a good daughter would.” His pointed look sent a stab of fear through her. “As my sister has already done so well.”
She swallowed, her senses grown suddenly dull, but not so faded that she did not miss his meaning. The look in his eye told her clearly what she had expected anywhere but here. Harran was a city like Ur, not a powerful kingdom whose kings held no regard for their subjects. Surely a man’s wife was safe in his keeping here, despite her beauty.
Abram fell into step at her side, his hand slowly guiding the donkey. “A city whose god was conceived through the ruin of his mother breeds a people of suspect morality, dear one. I cannot risk it.”
“Everyone knows Nannar was born of Enlil’s love for Ninlil. We have heard these stories since our youth. We had no fear of such things in Ur. Harran is Ur’s sister city. Why should it be any different?”
“Everyone in Ur believes that tale is one of love, yes. Not so in Harran. Here, the god Enlil forced Ninlil, who in turn birthed Sin. When a man forces a woman, there is no love bond there.”
Abram stopped the donkey again and gave Sarai a look. They had reached the gate, and he would speak no more of this with her now. Perhaps in the seclusion of the house he had secured, he would further explain himself. But it would not be said in the intimacy of the dark at his side. He would not risk sharing her bed here. Any hope she had possessed of making a home, of resting at length in this place and re-creating what they’d had in Ur, was gone.
Abram stepped around her to the guard’s side. “The woman is my sister and nursemaid to our father.”
The guard lifted a brow even as his eyes roamed her features, what little he could discern from her disheveled, dusty, veiled appearance. She lowered her head, her submission to Abram an outward obedience, knowing it was what he expected to keep her safe. She should be grateful. He was only doing what was best for both of them. But her grip tightened around the leather reins in a vain attempt to curb her rising anger, to squelch the poisoned seeds of bitterness settling in her heart.
5
Abram jabbed his walking stick onto the hard-packed earth of the overcrowded and confining streets of Harran’s marketplace. He passed a baker’s stall, his stomach rumbling with the mixed scents of yeast and cinnamon and honey, knowing that if he had any sense, he should take some to Sarai as a peace offering. He paused a moment to glance into the stall, but was in no mood to wait behind three cackling women with small children hanging onto their skirts.
He hurried on. Children scampered out of his way, his stick making an added thwack to every step but doing little to release his mounting aggravation. How was he supposed to care for his father and obey his God at the same time if his father was too frail to continue on? Why hadn’t the man stayed behind with Nahor? Hadn’t Adonai told Abram to leave his father’s household?
Guilt filled him. He came to an abrupt stop and lifted his gaze to the cloudy sky. Am I doing the wrong thing? He’d told the elders they planned to stay and live among the people for as long as it took until his father was well enough to travel. Their open acceptance should have warmed him, but mingled among the hospitality was a hint of greed, and Abram knew that these people would not accept his beliefs in Adonai Elohim. He almost told the truth about his marriage to Sarai, but decided they could live secretly as man and wife without the whole city having to know. She would remain his father’s daughter in their eyes. It was safer this way.
He blinked against the sun as it spilled from behind a cloud. His heart calmed, listening for some response, some relief from the guilt he now bore, but it found none. When he looked again at his surroundings, he recognized the house where they were staying, the place that had already become too familiar. Sarai stood in the courtyard talking over the brick wall with a neighbor, her friendly demeanor and beautiful smile dispelling his foul mood. At his approach, she turned, her smile fading behind a careful mask. She dipped her head, then walked swiftly toward him and kissed his cheek.
“Brother,” she said, her voice void of emotion, her mood obviously unchanged. “I trust your day was productive.”
He looked down at her, his heart constricting. Despite the head covering, her thin veil revealed a full mouth and dark blue eyes full of longing. He stifled a groan and turned her toward the house, his hand at the small of her back, gently urging her forward. “How is Father?” He glanced at the neighbor and nodded his greeting. The woman’s sharp eye worried him. The last thing he needed was a meddlesome gossip living beside them. Perhaps he could find a house closer to the city wall, a larger home, further from nosy neighbors.
“He seems better since we have settled, though I fear he is still too weak to travel, my lord.” She turned to face him the moment he closed the door. “What did the elders say?”
He placed a finger over her mouth to still her questions, then took her hand and tugged her toward his private quarters, shutting the door behind them. He closed the shutters over the windows, and the heat quickly rose in the stifling room.
“I trust you do not say much to our inquisitive neighbor?”
Sarai removed her veil, shaking the combs from her hair. “Of course not. I asked her for a recipe for lamb curry. I smelled it cooking in her courtyard the other day and she let me taste it. I wanted to make it for you.” She stepped closer and placed a hand on his chest, her soft fingers making his blood pump hot and fierce.
He released his grip on the walking stick and took her into his arms. She leaned into him, and he bent his head until his lips claimed hers. Her lips were honey and cinnamon, her love filling the longing ache in his heart.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered against her hair, pulling her down beside him on his bed. “But the time for secrecy has not passed.” His kiss silenced her response.
She rested against his chest, her even breathing a greater comfort than he could have thought possible. How had he denied her so long? And yet even amid the question, the fear of losing her returned.
“You did not tell the elders the truth about us, did you?” She rolled onto her side and rose up on one elbow, piercing him with those dark, seductive eyes.
He shook his head, feeling as though he had somehow failed her.
“What happens if Adonai sends His promised seed and produces this long-awaited child in me? What will they think of us then, my lord? We cannot live a lie forever.”
“We should not live a lie at all.” But what else was he to do? “I don’t plan for us to stay here that long.”
“So we are leaving then?” She sat up, her long, dark hair falling far beneath her shoulders, its thick tresses framing her beautiful face. Her expression clouded. “We cannot force Father to continue.”
“He should have stayed in Ur.” Silence followed Abram’s comment. “I could send for Nahor to come and get him, to take him home to Ur.”
“I cannot leave him with Milcah. She never cared for him as I do. He would die too soon, and I would never know it.” She glanced beyond him, her eyes filming, and his heart ached with her pain.
He drew her into his arms again, his sigh palpable. “Of course not.” He rubbed her back, enjoying the feel of her head against his heart. “When the promised seed grows within you, I will tell the elders the truth. Until then, we will keep our love quiet between us.”
She placed a hand over her middle, her own sigh deep yet quiet, as though willing the promise to come this moment yet certain it wouldn’t. Surely it was possible . . . surely soon.
But when she rose to dress and looked down at him still resting among the cushions, he wondered whether El Echad would bless them now amid the lie they were living.
Sarai waited in the courtyard outside of Lot’s home f
or Melah to fasten the clasp of her robe while her servant tied the leather sandals to her feet. Lila stood in the street just beyond the gate with Sarai’s two ever-watchful male slaves. Lot’s voice came from inside the house, his tone angry, but his words were indistinguishable. She looked toward the wooden door at the sound of footsteps and moved to the side as he burst into the courtyard with barely a glance at his wife. He nodded toward Sarai, stopping abruptly.
“I did not see you there, Aunt.” He smoothed his hands along the sides of his robe as though suddenly uncertain what to do or how to act. “Is there something you need?”
She shook her head, her gaze skipping to Melah’s, catching the soft glint of tears on her lashes. Had they fought? But of course they had. She looked back at Lot, clearing her throat. “I came to accompany Melah to market. The Akitu Festival is next week, and I thought to purchase some spices and games for the children so we might have a quiet celebration in its stead.” Abram would never allow them to participate in the worship of foreign gods, but planning an alternative seemed like a good way to keep her father distracted and the household servants and their children at peace.
“The festival. Of course. I had almost forgotten.” Though by the slight scowl along his brow, Sarai wondered if he spoke the truth. “I will leave you two to your plans then.” He offered her a curt nod, not even a hint of his once-charming smile poking at the edges of his close-cropped beard. He strode through the courtyard into the street, turned a corner, and disappeared from sight.
Did Lot plan to allow his household to participate in the gaiety, to watch the act of sacred marriage or pretend the moon god had died and somehow come to life again? She knew too well the horrors of the sacrifice that accompanied the festival, of life lost because of such beliefs. Their brother Haran had lost his son to such a sacrifice in the years before Sarai was old enough to understand its significance. She shuddered at the thought.
“Are you ready?” Melah appeared at her side, her face barely a handbreadth from Sarai’s.
Sarai took a step back. “I’m ready.” She pointed toward the gate, allowing Melah to move ahead of her. They maneuvered the crowded streets, and Sarai could not help but note the festive atmosphere already present, as though the people were anxious to start the celebration. Men whistled as they passed, and as they stepped beneath the merchants’ tents, smiles greeted them.
“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” Sarai fingered a miniature table with its accompanying stool, bed, and doll, then snuck a glance at Melah. “Why was Lot so upset?”
Melah stood close, her hand grazing a selection of tiny animals—sheep, goats, birds, bears, and lions. “Kammani would love these.” She picked up a lamb and turned it over. The wooden craftsmanship was superb, down to the fine lines depicting the wool.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.” Sarai chose several tops and balls and small ships for the boys, along with some dolls and furniture for the girls. She enjoyed spoiling the children of her servants. It didn’t quite fill the void of her empty arms, but the temporary joy it brought to the children and parents alike helped.
“We argued about the festival. He doesn’t want me to go.” She lifted her chin, a defiant gleam in her eyes. “But we’ve been here a year, and we missed it last time. I told him I was going whether he liked it or not.” She met Sarai’s gaze, her own challenging. “And I don’t want to hear any lectures against the evils of watching the parade or listening to the stories of the gods. If it isn’t real, there’s no harm. And if it is, then it’s good to keep the gods happy.”
Sarai’s stomach tightened and a shiver worked through her, as it always did whenever she and Melah got into a discussion about the gods. “I won’t argue with you, Melah. Obviously Lot already tried that.” She stepped toward the merchant with her purchases, exchanged a few words to barter the price, paid the man, then followed Melah to the next tent. She was in no mood to argue with Melah today, and by her tone, there would be no reasoning with her anyway.
“What are we looking for here?” Sarai glanced around the black goat’s-hair walls, where multicolored tapestries hung with pictures of erotic art. Tables were spread with amulets and idols of gods she had seen in Ur all her life. She turned to leave, but Melah caught her arm.
“I need an amulet to keep the demons from stealing my baby.” She laid a hand over the place where a child would lay.
“Kammani is to have a brother or sister?” Sarai could not stop the swift pang of jealousy, but she smoothed her expression and stuffed the pain away. She smiled. “How wonderful for you.”
Melah lost her defiant look, her gaze suddenly troubled. She moved to one of the tables holding various stone pendants strung with leather strings to wear about the neck. “If the gods are kind to me. You know how many I have lost.” Melah had miscarried several children before Kammani’s birth.
“That one is the demon Pazuzu and is perfect for counteracting the evil of Lamashtu against you or your unborn child.” The female merchant looked at Melah, taking in her appearance as if trying to judge what to think of her.
Melah picked up the amulet and held it to her chest. “I will take it.”
The merchant gave Melah a semi-toothless smile, waiting while Melah fished the coins from her pouch. She accepted them and placed them in the pocket of her heavy leather girdle, then turned her attention to Sarai. “Can I interest you in such an amulet? I have all kinds—those for women with child, women who are sick with child, and even women who are barren and cannot bear a child.” At her last words, she pointed to a leather strand with twenty-one small stones draped down the sides. “I’ve heard testimonies that this one really works.” She gave Sarai a pointed stare. Could the woman read her thoughts?
Sarai stepped closer, looking down at the gleaming black stones, wondering what possible power such a thing could have to procure a child.
“It’s not a bad idea, Sarai,” Melah said at her side, their shoulders touching. “What can it hurt?”
The necklace was appealing. Would Abram recognize it as an amulet? It almost looked like the jewels she often wore, especially during festive occasions. But Melah’s attitude stopped her.
“We better go.” She looked at the merchant. “Thank you.” Before Melah or the woman could respond, Sarai hurried from the tent, breathing deeper when she saw Lila and her guards standing close by.
“Why did you rush out like that?” Melah touched her arm, and Sarai took a step back, suddenly wanting to go home. But she had not purchased the spices yet or found the honeyed treats she hoped to secure.
“I have more important things to shop for than stone trinkets that will do nothing except be a weight around my neck.” She glanced at Lila to follow her and hurried on to find the stall of spices.
“You’re wasting a lot of good opportunities,” Melah called after her. “You don’t have to worship it. Just give it a try.”
Sarai ducked into the tent, knowing Melah would follow and probably try to push the point, but Sarai had no intention of letting her. She did not need to tempt the fragile trust she had in Abram’s God to keep His promise to them. If she listened too long to her niece, she would plunge headlong into despair and darkness.
She dare not risk it.
6
Palm trees lined the brick streets in the main section of Harran, leading a parade of people toward the city’s temples. Carts carrying the image of Nannar-Sin, pulled by fattened oxen, were decorated with elaborate designs, while priests in grotesque face masks and wild costumes walked behind. Painted women in colorful garments danced, skirts swirling around the costumed priests, while guards flanked them before and behind, all leading the crowd toward the imposing ziggurat temple of Sin.
Melah stood on tiptoe, straining to see above the heads of other men and women, her heart beating with the pace of the drum. Terah, Lot’s grandfather, stood at her side, clutching her arm in a grip far stronger than he’d exhibited in previous weeks.
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bsp; “We should have found a roof to stand on to look down upon the parade.” Terah’s voice rasped like dried parchment. He cleared his throat. “We won’t be able to see the king with the priestess from here.”
“Abram would be glad we can see so little.” Melah glanced at Terah, but his look told her he did not care whether his son was troubled by his choice to be here. Even Lot had acquiesced, allowing her to come once Terah insisted he would accompany her.
“Abram is too concerned with pleasing only his unseen God, my daughter.” He patted her arm, motioning for her to follow him behind the crowds to the street beyond. “He does not realize the significance of the New Year’s Feast. How will the gods shine upon the city or bless the ground with fertility if we do not please them? The grieving and contrition are important, to be sure, but the feasting and rejoicing matter too. What is one without the other?”
They maneuvered around donkeys tied to parked carts, and Melah lifted her robes to avoid a pile of dung in the dirt path. Terah’s walking stick struck the uneven ground, and his breathing grew labored. He paused to catch his breath.
“Perhaps we should go back, Sabba. We do not need a better view.” If Terah fell ill while in her care, Sarai would never forgive her. Not that she cared what Sarai thought. Sarai agreed with Lot, and Lot could learn a thing or two from his grandfather. What harm was there in watching a celebration?
“I’m fine.” Terah stopped to take a few deep breaths, then continued on. They turned at the next street to the sound of trumpets and marching feet.
“The king is heading to the temple, Sabba. We must hurry!” Melah helped him climb the rest of the steps, then begged and pushed and prodded until a young woman finally took pity on Terah and allowed them a place to squeeze in beside her near the parapet. The ziggurat stood directly across from them, the steps clearly visible. Melah stood mesmerized, her heart beating faster as she watched the handsome king climb the steps to the temple doors, where the beautiful priestess stood waiting for him.
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