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  “The news?” she asked, frowning.

  “Oh . . . Didn’t you know? True, our father only found out about it yesterday. Our almighty sovereign has named you to be his sacred spouse in the Sublime Bedchamber when seedtime next comes around.”

  The shock of it took Sarai’s breath away. Emboldened, Kiddin stepped forward and placed the necklace in his sister’s hands.

  “Don’t be surprised,” he said, in a low but excited voice. “We’d been expecting this choice for a long time. Who could lay greater claim to such an honor? There is no priestess in all the temples of Ur, Eridu, or even Larsa who has been free of the bridal blood for as long as you. Seven years! Not to mention your beauty . . . Never before has Inanna been so present in a priestess, or so powerful. Now that war is looming, who better than you to replace the Lady of War in the king’s sacred bed?”

  Sarai wanted to free her hands, but Kiddin would not let go of them.

  “You are doing our house an enormous honor. My one wish is to become your equal. Once you have been united with him, the mighty Shu-Sin will entrust me with one of his four armies. Rightly so. Thanks to your blessing this morning, I shall fight like a lion as soon as battle begins. Think, sister, how important our family will soon be in Ur! You, the Priestess of the Sublime Bedchamber, and I the Bull of War.”

  “We haven’t reached that point yet,” Sarai replied, coldly. “There’s nothing certain about the king’s choice. Don’t trust rumors. In the temple, words spread like flies!”

  “Oh, no! You can be quite certain of what I’m telling you. But that isn’t the reason I’m here. I’ve come to inform you that my father desires your presence in our house. He has refurbished our temple to make it worthy of the Sacred Handmaid of the Blood, and he wishes you to make the first offerings to the new statues of our ancestors.”

  Sarai hesitated. Kiddin was aware of it.

  “If you refused,” he went on, effortlessly resuming his old tone, which had lost all trace of tenderness or humility, “nobody would understand. Since you started living in the temple, I can’t recall you setting foot in our house more than three times. If you didn’t come to salute our ancestors, it would be an insult to the living and the dead.”

  A FEW days later, Sarai entered Ichbi Sum-Usur’s house with an escort of handmaids, including Sililli. The whole household had gathered in the courtyard. Behind her father and brother stood her aunts, uncles, and cousins, as well as the handmaids, gardeners, and slaves. The family wore ceremonial togas with tasseled and embroidered hems, and had put on their wigs and jewelry.

  Kiddin was right, Sarai thought, as she advanced across the petal-strewn mats and rugs. It was so long since she had last been here that she barely recognized the place. Ichbi Sum-Usur had had the communal rooms surrounding the courtyard decorated with massive columns, on which the sunlight formed geometric shadows. On all of them, there were splendid bas-reliefs of glazed brick, carved with scenes from the lives of the gods. The colors, the forms, the subtlety of the contours were remarkable: It was as though the Lords of Heaven were about to leap into the courtyard, as alive as humans.

  Ichbi Sum-Usur, too, had a new solidity about him. At the waist, his toga bulged with rolls of flesh, and the jowls of his face ended in a self-satisfied double chin. His natural hair was covered with a heavy, oiled wig. His joy at seeing his beloved daughter again was sincere. Gently, with a new deference, he bowed to her, offering his palms to heaven, in a mark of respect she had only ever seen him grant the most powerful. His eyes dimmed with emotion.

  “Sacred Handmaid of the Blood, welcome to my house. May Enlil, Ea, and the Lady of the Moon be thanked.”

  While their father was speaking, Kiddin bowed deeply, as did the rest of the household. As a sign of his new rank, he wore the symbolic ax of the king’s officers in his belt. When he straightened up again, a smile as white as salt in the sun shone through his dark beard.

  Sarai approached her father. She took his hands in hers, brought them to her forehead, and bowed in her turn.

  “My father! Here I am only Sarai, your daughter. You used to call me ‘my beloved daughter.’”

  She was unable to continue. Abruptly tearing his hands from hers, Ichbi Sum-Usur stepped back. “No, no, Sacred Handmaid! That cannot be! Now Ea is your only father and Inanna your sweet mother. I, Ichbi Sum-Usur, am merely the humble mortal who led you into this life so that they could choose you.”

  Sarai opened her mouth to protest.

  “My father is right!” Kiddin said, forestalling her, in a voice loud enough to be heard by everybody. “The daughter and sister we knew died six years ago, during those days when she slept with a sleep that was not human and Ishtar revealed to her the Heaven of the Lords. The woman who opened her eyes again is forever our beloved Sacred Handmaid of the Blood. To call her otherwise would be to offend the Lords of Heaven.”

  Sarai felt a coldness in her chest, a coldness as icy as a winter wind. She was on the point of reminding Kiddin of the words he himself had used when he had come to ask an audience of her in the giparù, words he was now forbidding everyone to use: “Sarai,” “my sister,” “my very dear sister.”

  But she remained silent. Kiddin may not have been sincere, but the same could not be said of her father or the others, who were looking at her with intense respect—respect and fear.

  Yes, for them she was the Goddess of War made flesh! The capricious girl, the rebel who needed constant supervision, had disappeared. The gods had chosen her. The sadness of it seized her by the throat. She had never felt so alone in her life.

  With resignation, she did what was expected of her until the sun reached the zenith. The temple was newly decorated; altars of precious wood had been set up and strewn with petals, ready to welcome new statues of the ancestors. She uttered prayers, sang the praises of the dead, burned perfumes, gave and received offerings. She did all with a mechanical indifference that passed for the usual detachment of a priestess accustomed to such ceremonies. From time to time, she sensed how pleased her father and the household were, and she forced herself to find a kind of satisfaction in that.

  When at last the sun was at its zenith, they returned to the great courtyard, where tables and cushions had been arranged for a banquet. Tradition demanded that all the members of the family had to sit down to a meal to which the statues of the ancestors would be invited, like relatives returning from a long journey. Until they had taken their places among the living and been served large portions of the richest dishes, nobody would be allowed to drink or touch any of the food.

  Everyone sat down according to their rank. Handmaids placed a seat for Sarai in the center of a small dais, between Ichbi Sum-Usur and the aunts. As soon as she was seated, a strange stillness seized everyone. Nobody said a word. The house froze, as if it was populated by statues. The only sign of life came from the birds flying overhead and casting strong shadows.

  A shiver ran down Sarai’s neck and her shoulders. Discreetly, she clenched her fists to stop her fingers from trembling. She felt fear in the small of her back, like a wave of pain.

  Suddenly, she no longer saw the tense faces of her relatives sitting at the banquet tables, but instead another dais that had been set up on this very spot, one day long ago. She no longer heard the heavy silence as they waited for the ancestors, but rather, the din of wedding chants. At her feet, she saw a basin of scented water. She saw herself standing naked before her father and the man who wanted her as his wife, and felt once again the contact of the oily water on her skin as she slipped into it with despair in her heart.

  It was so long ago! So long since she had last thought of all that! So long since she had dreamed of a mar.Tu who would come and take her far away from Ur through the power of a single kiss!

  A long creaking, like a moan, made her jump. The great door of the house was finally opening. Freshly painted and resplendent, Ichbi Sum-Usur’s five ancestors appeared, carried on cane palanquins.

  They crouched lif
e-size on purple, black, and white cushions. Their curly wigs swayed on their shoulders, and their togas were perfectly pleated. Their severe faces were wrinkled with age and their ivory and lapis lazuli eyes seemed to pierce the souls of the living as surely as arrows. Each of them held in one hand a golden sheaf of barley or corn; in the other, a sickle or some writing tablets.

  These were statues of rare perfection. Murmurs of approval were heard in the courtyard. The stillness suddenly broke, and the assembly raised their arms and broke into a fervent chant.

  O Fathers of our fathers,

  Seed of the damp earth,

  Sperm of our destinies,

  O beloved fathers . . .

  Ichbi Sum-Usur and Kiddin stood up and held out their hands. Their faces were red, and their eyes shone. The slaves moved the palanquins close to the dais and carefully placed the statues between the perfume burners. Standing behind them, Sarai recognized his face.

  IT all happened so slowly, it was as if the laws of nature had been suspended. In reality, it took but a fleeting moment.

  Two men entered the courtyard, a few steps behind the ancestors. When the statues were put down, they both came to a halt. One of them was old, the other in the full flower of his youth. They were wearing the thick gray linen robes of the mar.Tu, which was what had attracted Sarai’s attention. The older one had a wrinkled face and hands made white by kneading clay. Their postures were reverential, even slightly anxious. The younger one stood stiffly and frowned as he peered about him more in surprise than in admiration. His eyes took in the sun-drenched bas-reliefs, then turned to the dais. Luminous brown eyes, that came to rest on Kiddin and on Ichbi Sum-Usur. It was him.

  It seemed as though he did not dare to meet her gaze; admiring only her toga, her figure. She did not realize that she was slowly moving forward on the dais. A voice inside her repeated: “It’s him, I know it’s him.”

  He had grown taller, his shoulders broader, his neck thicker. His mouth was framed by a finely curled beard, slightly glossy in the sun. The voice inside her said, “I recognize his lips, it really is him.”

  He raised his eyes to hers, intrigued, not recognizing her, yet unable to turn his gaze from her.

  The voice inside her repeated: “These are his lips. They haven’t changed, and I’ll never forget them. But how will he possibly be able to recognize me?”

  The chants and the music became a painful din. She felt as if she were calling out above the noise: “Abram! Abram! Abram, I’m Sarai . . .”

  He gave a start. The old man looked at him anxiously.

  A hand closed over Sarai’s arm.

  “What are you doing?”

  Kiddin pulled her back roughly. She realized that she had been standing right at the edge of the dais. Her feet were almost touching one of the statues. From the courtyard, faces turned toward her in alarm.

  She continued to stare at Abram. She detected a smile on his lips. He had recognized her. She was sure of it.

  “What’s gotten into you?” Kiddin said, angrily.

  Ichbi Sum-Usur intervened. “How dare you lay a hand on the Sacred Handmaid, my son?”

  “Who are those two mar.Tu in the courtyard?” Kiddin asked, ignoring his father’s question. “What are they doing here?”

  “It’s the potter and his son, who made the statues. They did such a good job that I gave them permission to accompany our ancestors to the temple.”

  Sarai was barely listening. Perhaps she hadn’t even spoken Abram’s name out loud. And yet, she was sure that he had heard it.

  “I want them out of the courtyard!” Kiddin ordered, pointing to the strangers.

  “Son!”

  “Do what I ask of you, Father. I want these mar.Tu out of our house at once!”

  Abram understood Kiddin’s gesture. He seized his father’s arm and pulled him toward the door. As they were about to disappear, Sarai spoke his name in a loud, clear voice: “Abram.”

  This time, Kiddin and Ichbi Sum-Usur heard her. But her father, carried away by the power of the ceremony, the chanting, and the music, was already holding out to his daughter the first platters of offerings.

  Before she took them, Sarai looked at Kiddin, who was still shaking with rage.

  “Don’t you ever dare raise your hand to me again, son of Ichbi Sum-Usur,” she said, in a calm voice, “or the bull’s blood could well become your own.”

  SILILLI, as plaintive as if the roof of the temple had fallen on her shoulders, was spouting her usual nonsense: “You’re mad, Kiddin will never forgive you for this insult . . . The mar.Tu is back and already the trouble is starting . . . I thought you had changed, I thought you had forgotten! Why haven’t the gods taken these memories from you?”

  None of what had happened in the courtyard of Ichbi Sum-Usur’s house had escaped her. But she had managed to keep silent until they had returned to the temple. It was only when Sarai had asked for her help that the torrent of complaints and terrors had poured out.

  Patiently, Sarai took her hands, and, without raising her voice, repeated her request: that Sililli go to the tents of the mar.Tu and thank Terah the potter for the beauty of the statues. “Tell him I apologize for Kiddin’s roughness and the way he insulted them. Tell him that to make amends, I, the Sacred Handmaid of the Blood, invite his son Abram to share my dawn meal, the day after tomorrow.”

  Sililli rolled her eyes. “You can’t ask him to come here! It’s blasphemy to bring a mar.Tu here! It will be a blemish on the temple! What will happen if the others find out? I know: The high priestess will tell the king. And that will be the end of it; he won’t want you in the Sublime Bedchamber anymore.”

  “Stop this nonsense and use your brain!” Sarai said, exasperated. “It’s quite normal for a potter to come to the temple. They’re always coming here to bring their work.”

  “But not here, in the giparù. Not to share a meal with a priestess. Kiddin’s right, you’re leading us straight to disaster.” Sarai moved away, her face as hard and arrogant as if she were facing the bull. “All right. I’ll manage without you.”

  With a gesture, she ordered Sililli to leave her. But Sililli did not move. With her plump fingers, she wiped the tears that were forming on her eyelids.

  “What are you going to say to your mar.Tu?” she asked, in a weary, tremulous, and barely audible voice. “That no blood has flowed between your thighs for six years? Even the mar.Tu want women with fertile wombs.”

  Sarai went red, as if Sililli had slapped her. But the handmaid had no intention of keeping silent.

  “Haven’t you understood yet? You are the Sacred Handmaid of the Blood. And that is what you will remain. Here, you’re respected and envied. The warriors love you because they hope that, thanks to you, they won’t be wounded in battle. But outside this temple, Sarai, you’re nothing but a woman with a barren womb.”

  “You have no right to talk to me like that.”

  “I have every right,” Sililli said, her face distorted with sorrow. “It was I who kept silent for you all these years. It was I who burned the witch’s herbs. The gods have already forgiven you once. Don’t demand too much of them.”

  Sarai’s anger faded as abruptly as it had come. In a long-forgotten impulse, she crouched by Sililli, embraced her, and rested her head on her shoulder.

  “All I ask is to see and hear him once,” she whispered. “Just once. To know if he, too, has thought about me all these years.”

  “And then?” Sililli asked.

  “Then everything will be as it was before.”

  SARAI did not think he would come. Sililli had not brought back any reply to her message.

  “He looked at me as if I was a crazy old woman. Which means that he at least is sensible. He simply waited for me to leave. His father thanked me, and that was it.”

  It was agreed that Sililli would wait for him at dusk by the door in the outer wall, behind the giparù, a narrow door normally used by those bringing in animals, carts laden with grai
n, and all the supplies needed for the offerings. In the early hours of the morning, nobody would notice a mar.Tu among the busy crowd of servants and slaves.

  During the night, with Sililli’s reluctant help, Sarai had discreetly arranged lamps, cushions, and trays of food in one of the small rooms where spare togas and finery were stored in preparation for the great seedtime ceremony. It was reached through a narrow corridor within the huge wall surrounding the giparù, which only the handmaids used. Once Abram had arrived, Sililli would have to stand in the corridor, keeping guard.

  But now, as she waited in silence between these narrow walls, Sarai began to have her doubts. She had to admit that Sililli was right about many things. Cruel truths that she tried to ignore, as you try to ignore an intense but incurable pain.

  But just as she had been convinced as a young girl that a kiss from Abram would purify her for the rest of her married life, so now, too, she hoped for a kind of miracle from their meeting.

  Not that she had lied to Sililli. It might be true that all she wanted was to know that during all these years, he, too, had not forgotten her.

  But what if he didn’t come?

  She dismissed the question. She had to be patient. Time was passing very slowly, and outside the sun had barely risen.

  THE shuffling of sandals made her jump. There he was, standing in the flickering light of the oil lamps.

  There was a brief moment of embarrassment. Then he bowed ceremoniously. His first words were to apologize for not knowing how a Sacred Handmaid of the Blood in the temple of Ishtar ought to be addressed. His voice had not changed. He still had his mar.Tu accent.

  “With a lot of respect and even more fear,” she replied.

  They both laughed. A laugh such as Sarai had not had for a long time, a laugh like cool water, which dispelled some of their awkwardness.

  They sat down on the cushions, with a low table between them. Apart from his bushy hair and beard, he had hardly changed. His mouth was still just as beautiful, just as perfect. His cheekbones were perhaps more prominent. It was the face of a determined man who had already confronted trials in his life.