Sarah: A Novel Read online

  “Haran!” Abram protested. “We don’t have time to listen to your mockery. Will you follow me, Sarai?”

  “Follow you? But . . .”

  “Will you be my wife? Live with me in the tents of the mar.Tu? Abandon the luxury of the temple, your gods, and your power?”

  “And face our father’s bad temper,” Haran could not help adding. “He’s terrified at the idea of his eldest son marrying the daughter of a lord.”

  Abram nodded, nervously. “Haran is telling the truth. You may not be welcome among us at first.”

  “But when they see how beautiful you are,” Haran said, giving a kind of bow, “then they’ll be like me. They’ll know why Abram is so stubborn, and they’ll envy him his happiness.”

  Sarai was barely listening, bombarded as she was by all the contradictory thoughts that had been tormenting her for these past few days. Everything came together: her fear of committing a sacrilege, her pure joy at hearing Abram’s proposal, her torment at being unable to reveal her secret she could not reveal.

  “Abram . . .”

  “Quiet, someone’s coming!” Haran breathed.

  A man was advancing quickly across the courtyard, with a spear in one hand, a torch in the other, a leather cape flapping against his legs and a helmet shining on his forehead.

  “He saw us!” Abram growled.

  “You two hide,” Sarai whispered. “It’s only a guard. I’ll order him out of the courtyard.”

  But no sooner had she approached than Sarai saw the gold leaves on the helmet. The officer lowered the torch slightly, lighting his face.

  “Kiddin!”

  “Yes, Sacred Handmaid. I’m the one who’s been guarding the doors of the giparù for the past three nights. I knew when you looked at the mar.Tu the other day that wouldn’t be the end of it. How could I ever have believed that you’d changed? Does a single day go by that demons don’t stir in your heart?”

  “I don’t have to listen to your insults, son of Ichbi Sum-Usur. You’re no longer my brother, remember. And you have no business here.”

  Kiddin laughed arrogantly. “What are you going to do, Sacred Handmaid? Call the guards to help you? The priests? Do you want to show them who you’ve introduced into the temple, even into the sacred courtyard of the high priestess?”

  “Calm down, officer,” Haran said, behind Sarai’s back. “We’re leaving. In a moment, we’ll vanish into the night and nobody will know we were here. There’s no point disturbing all these good people’s sleep.”

  As if by magic, a long stick had appeared in his hand. As for Abram, he was clasping a long leather whip to his thigh. Calmly, he approached Sarai, ignoring Kiddin as if he did not exist.

  “Have you decided, Sarai?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Yes. I was only waiting for you to give the word. I’ll follow you as far as you want me.”

  “Oh, so that’s it!” Kiddin said. “While the enemies of Ur approach the city, the Sacred Handmaid of the Blood betrays Ishtar! How dare you?” Eyes bulging with rage, Kiddin lifted his spear. “I’m going to kill the three of you. Your blood will purify this courtyard you’ve tarnished—”

  He raised his right arm, aiming the spear at Abram’s chest. Haran leaped forward and brought his stick down on the shaft of the spear. Abram pulled Sarai out of the way. With his left hand, Kiddin threw his torch at Haran’s chest. Haran parried the blow with his stick.

  With a growl of joy, Kiddin twirled his spear. The heavy shaft hit Haran in the ribs, forcing him down on one knee. At that very moment, Sarai saw Abram lift his right arm and the tongue of leather unfurl in the darkness. It all seemed to happen at once. As the glittering bronze spear tore Haran’s flesh, the whip whistled and cracked, and Kiddin lifted his hands to his face. Haran and Kiddin cried out simultaneously. Haran’s tunic was red, and blood ran down between Kiddin’s fingers.

  Abram rushed to lift his brother. The wound on his chest was black and as big as a hand.

  “It isn’t deep,” Haran groaned. “I’ll be all right.”

  Kiddin was on his knees, breathing harshly. With his right hand, he was trying to reach his spear. Sarai kicked it away. The whip had torn Kiddin’s face from top to bottom, taking away both eye and eyelid. Sarai felt neither compassion nor satisfaction.

  “There’s no point in dying for me, son of Ichbi Sum-Usur,” she said, in a hard voice. “Die for your gods, your city, and your lineage. I haven’t been one of you for a long time.”

  Behind her, Abram was tearing the top of his tunic to make a bandage for Haran’s wound. Kiddin got to his feet, his beard red with blood, his good eye wide with hatred. Sarai thought fleetingly of the eyes of the bulls before which she had danced.

  “Listen to me,” she said, raising her hand. “I’m going to give you a more important gift than my death and those of the mar.Tu. The Gutis are setting a trap for you. They aren’t going to arrive from the east, where Shu-Sin’s troops are stationed, but on Huhnur boats that will reach the lower city tomorrow. Go and warn the lords. You can show your wound with pride: It was the price you paid to bring them the news. You’ll be a hero. And if you’re brave enough, you’ll save the city.”

  Without stopping to listen to Kiddin’s curses, Sarai led Abram and Haran to the entrance of the narrow corridor that went around the inside of the giparù.

  “Let’s hurry. We’ve made enough noise to wake the temple.”

  The light of a lamp suddenly pierced the darkness.

  “Sarai!” Sililli whispered. “What are you doing? And who are—”

  She broke off, mouth open wide, when she saw Abram and Haran, his chest wrapped in a red cloth. “Great Ea!” she exclaimed.

  Sarai gently put her fingers on her mouth. “I’m leaving, Sililli. I’m leaving with Abram. I’m leaving the temple and the city. I’m marrying Abram the mar.Tu.”

  Sililli pushed away Sarai’s hand. Her mouth was quivering. For once, she was speechless.

  “Quick,” Abram said. “We must get through the south gate before the guards stop us.”

  “And before I can’t run anymore,” Haran breathed.

  “You leave, you get married . . .” Sililli said, in an almost childlike voice. “But what about me? What’s to become of me? Have you even thought about that? Their anger will fall on me!”

  Sarai stroked Sililli’s cheek tenderly. “Come with me.”

  “But make up your mind quickly,” Abram said.

  Sililli hesitated, looking at him as if she had never seen him before. Then her gaze rested on Haran’s chest, where the blood was now oozing through the material.

  “To live in a mar.Tu camp!” she sighed. “O Almighty Ea, protect me!”

  “Be careful,” Haran said, with a grin. “It’s quite likely Ea won’t be able to do anything for you in a mar.Tu camp.”

  “Oh, I’m sure of that!” Sililli replied. “But you, my boy, would do better to save your breath and your blood if you want to get out of here.” She turned to Sarai and Abram. “Run to the small door. I’ll go and get some linen and some herbs to make a better bandage once we’re out of the temple.”

  THEY left Ur, hidden among the cargo on a boat. Abram had paid the oarsmen handsomely. After going upstream for about ten ùs, they were let off on the opposite bank. There, a light wagon with slatted sides of bulrushes and matting, drawn by two mules, was waiting for them.

  As soon as possible, Abram left the Nippur road, to avoid the royal checkpoints. Harnessed in turn, the mules followed the tracks of the herds, which they knew well. They did not stop to rest. Occasionally, Abram and Sarai got down off the wagon to lighten the load, and walked together hand in hand, without a word.

  It seemed to Sarai that her nuptials were beginning. They had not yet kissed, but she did not dare do anything to provoke a kiss. It would come in good time.

  She recalled their encounter on the banks of the Euphrates, when Abram had taken her hand, led her to the shelter of the dune, and lit a fire. She remembered his m
ocking words.

  “It isn’t every day that the daughters of the lords of Ur get lost in the bulrushes by the river. I could take you to my father’s tent. But he’d think I was bringing him a bride, and my brothers would be jealous.”

  Now it was finally happening: Abram was taking her to his father’s tent. Tomorrow he would be her husband. The interrupted night of their encounter could finally resume.

  IT was the middle of the following day when they arrived at the encampment.

  Terah’s tribe had grown so large that the array of tents was like a small city.

  At first, they paid less attention to Sarai than to Haran. Sililli’s herbs and care had limited his fever, though not his pain. When his wound had been anointed, and he had drunk some spiced wine to help him sleep, he pointed at Sarai, who had been standing in the background.

  “This is my brother Abram’s wife,” he said, with a wan smile. “Let us rejoice at his stubbornness. We, the shepherds without a city, should feel honored, not because she was born among the lords of Ur, but because of her beauty and her courage. Believe me, her presence here among us is a promise of better things to come.”

  Sarai bowed her head at the compliment. Abram’s eyes misted over with gratitude to his brother.

  She only fully realized how fine Haran’s words had been when Abram took her to see Terah. Up close, he looked older than he had in the courtyard of Ichbi Sum-Usur’s house. His eyes were bright and cold, and his thin lips accentuated the hardness of his expression. Despite his wrinkles and his graying hair and beard, he exuded a sense of power, before which even Abram bowed his head.

  He looked at Sarai without any tenderness. It was quite obvious that the beauty and courage of the woman chosen by his son had little effect on him. He let the silence linger longer than necessary.

  “My son has decided it would be you,” he finally said. “It isn’t customary for the daughter of a lord to mix her blood with ours, but I shall respect Abram’s wishes. Among us, everyone is free to make his own choices just as he is responsible for the consequences of his mistakes. Accept our welcome.”

  Without any further effort to be friendly, he entered his tent.

  Sarai bit her lips.

  “Don’t be angry at my father,” Abram said in a low voice. “He likes only what he knows. He’ll change his mind when he gets to know you better.”

  Abram was wrong. It wasn’t Terah’s bad humor that had suddenly brought a chill to Sarai’s happiness, but the thought of the blood that the old mar.Tu feared to see mixed with his own. In truth, her womb contained not the least drop of the life-giving substance. She felt less able now than ever to reveal her secret. Could Abram’s love possibly have the power to take away the barrenness within her?

  Abram led her to the women’s tent, accompanied by laughing children. The young women inspected Sarai, unable to hide their curiosity or, in some cases, their jealousy. But the older ones welcomed her with open arms. One of them, a tiny woman with fine, smooth skin despite her age, dragged Sarai to the great mothers’ tent. The others followed.

  For the first time, Sarai discovered the warm light filtering through the canvas, the sweet smell of skins and rugs that covered the ground, the painted wooden chests, the jewels hanging from the tent posts.

  The old woman opened one of the chests and took out a length of fine linen fabric with openwork stitching, embroidered with colored wools and encrusted with slivers of silver. Approaching Sarai, she held out the cloth with a smile.

  “Welcome, Sarai, Abram’s betrothed. My name is Tsilla. Abram’s mother died a long time ago and when necessary I’ve taken her place. Among us, bride and bridegrrom wed with less ceremony than where you come from. We eat lamb outside the bridegroom’s tent, we drink beer and wine and listen to flute music and sometimes a few songs of good omen. The bride wears a simple robe and this shawl, which covers her whole body. It’s an old shawl, and a precious one: It has covered more than a hundred women. It has heard their sighs and their fears, their joys and their disappointments. We women call it the Shawl of Life.”

  She fell silent. All around, the women were observing Sarai with a mixture of friendliness and severity that reminded her of the faces of the young handmaids as she prepared to confront the bull. She smiled, and her eyes shone with happiness. Tsilla nodded her head and smiled back at her.

  “That’s good,” she said, approvingly. “You must wear the Shawl of Life with those eyes! When you are in the tent, alone with your bridegroom, before he lifts the Shawl, you have only one thing to do. You must turn around him, at arm’s length, three times in one direction and three times in the other. For the rest, Abram will teach you . . .”

  The women chuckled, and the chuckles grew until everyone in the tent was laughing loudly, including Sarai.

  IT happened just as Tsilla had said.

  Sarai entered the tent covered with the Shawl of Life. Her heart was in her mouth. Through the loose stitches, in the light of the lamps, she could see Abram’s face, full of desire.

  Her thighs and belly painful with her own desire, she turned around him, three times in one direction and three times in the other. Then she stopped. In spite of the laughter and the flute music outside, she could hear Abram’s breathing.

  He approached and spoke her name. “Sarai, my beloved.”

  He came closer still and placed a kiss on her lips, through the shawl. Sarai began to tremble.

  Abram took the hem of the shawl and lifted it. She did not move. They looked at each other while his hand rose to Sarai’s temple and his fingers slid down her cheek to the back of her neck. She stopped trembling. He smiled.

  He slid her dress off her, and she was naked. He moved back as though he were afraid to touch her. A moan came from his mouth. His tunic fell all at once, and he, too, was naked, his penis erect.

  Sarai raised her hand to place his fingers on the smooth skin at the base of the neck. The blood was throbbing so rapidly there that her fingers trembled. Abram was panting, shivering under her caress. Sarai felt her own sexual organs beating lightly against her womb. Then her knees gave way. Abram lay down with her on the rugs, his lips on hers, sharing the same breath, the same moan of happiness. And sharing the kiss that would at last protect her to the end of her days.

  Sarai’s Tears

  Terah’s tribe followed the Euphrates downstream along the route used for trade with the northern barbarians. They advanced slowly so that the herds could graze regularly without becoming exhausted. Every night, Sarai and Abram shared a joy as bright as starlight. Sarai submitted to the privations and obligations of mar.Tu life with an ease that astonished even Terah. In less than one season, the girl who had been the daughter of a lord of Ur and the Sacred Handmaid of Ishtar, surrounded by slaves and servants ready to pander to her slightest whim, eating only what other hands had prepared for her, had abandoned her golden-hemmed togas, sumptuous jewels, and makeup, and opulent hairstyles without slightest regret. As naturally as if she had been born in a camp, she wore a modest tunic, plaited a braid of red-and-blue wool in her hair, and slept in a tent. She learned to grind cereals, cook meat, bake bread, and make beer. The only thing she carried over from her former life was the skill she had acquired from her aunts for carding, spinning, and dyeing wool, which won her the admiration of the other women in the encampment.

  They left the kingdom of Akkad and Sumer, with its rich, powerful cities where the mar.Tu were despised. As they approached the mountains to the north, they passed merchants coming from Ur. Sarai learned that Kiddin had died defending the walls of the city from the Gutis. She spared hardly a thought for her father, Ichbi Sum-Usur, who had dreamed of his son’s glory, though she did think about the streets of Ur and the house where she had spent her childhood, now perhaps overrun by the barbarians. But her sadness did not last. Her childhood seemed distant, and Abram was watching over her now, protecting her.

  She saw snow for the first time, discovered how real cold felt and what it was l
ike to spend whole days under sheepskins, forgetting the ice outside by making love with Abram until she was bathed in sweat. Abram did not seem surprised that his seed had not made his wife’s belly round, nor did he show any impatience to have a child. There was nothing to mar the happiness they felt on waking each dawn lying side by side.

  The misfortune happened suddenly, one gray, icy afternoon. Despite his father’s warnings, Haran had decided to take a shortcut by fording a river at a hazardous spot. His wife, Havila, and their son Lot were on a wagon laden with heavy baskets of grain. The cold was so intense that the stones protruding from the water were covered with ice. As they crossed, the wheels slipped on a rock and became trapped in a hole. The wagon was sturdy, but it could not withstand the strength of the current and began to come apart. The terrified mules struggled in vain to free themselves from the backbreaking weight. Lot and his mother screamed with terror. Haran and Abram dived into the water.

  Abram, his face blue with cold, managed to grab hold of Lot’s hand. A human chain was formed to pull them out of the water. But a splinter from one of the broken wheels reopened the wound Haran had received from Kiddin during their fight in the great temple. Trying but failing to pull Havila out from under the overturned wagon, Haran was swept away by the raging current, his blood draining from him as he went.

  They had to walk for two days along the river before they recovered his body. That evening, the funeral rites were observed for Haran and Havila. When the weeping and chanting finally stopped, Terah and Abram asked Sarai to take care of Lot as if he was her son.

  It was after this tragedy that Tsilla started to worry about the fact that Sarai’s belly was not getting any bigger, and that Sarai was never seen washing linen soiled with her menstrual blood. In order to allay suspicion, Sililli stole the blood of animals during slaughter and stained Sarai’s sheets with it. She made heaps of offerings to her gods in secret, fetched herbs, and suggested various remedies to Sarai: circling trees on the nights when there was a full moon, anointing her thighs with pollen, eating snake, sleeping with a purse full of bull’s sperm. Not a moon went by without Sililli coming up with some new solution. But Sarai soon refused to have anything more to do with such pointless magic, as much through revulsion as through fear of being discovered by Tsilla or one of the other women.