Sarah: A Novel Page 9

  Alone with Sarai’s thin, motionless body, Sililli was more than ever confirmed in her opinion. How was it possible to sleep with two women screaming by your side? No sleep could be as deep as that.

  With a terrible sense of foreboding, she decided to give Sarai another wash. In the middle of changing the bed, she came across the five little packets of dried leaves.

  Evil herbs, the kind the kassaptus made! White and cracked from being left for a long time in boiled water!

  “Great Ea! O Great Ea, protect us!”

  Now she knew why Sarai had been gone from the house a whole day. Egime could shut her eyes to the truth as much as she liked. Sarai was definitely not asleep.

  But she might as well be dead.

  BY the next day, Sarai had still not opened her eyes and everyone was of Sililli’s opinion: She was not asleep.

  But Sililli, her skin gray and her eyes red from lack of sleep, kept her secret deep inside her. With her own hands, she had burned the packets, destroying the last traces of the sacrilege. She was sure Ichbi Sum-Usur would prefer to go to his tomb unaware that his daughter had obtained herbs from a witch. She was strong enough to bury Sarai’s secret so deep in her heart that she managed to perform her daily purifications and her interminable petitions to Inanna with almost as much faith and purity as before.

  Not that she had any better idea than anyone else how to bring Sarai back to the land of the living. While Ichbi Sum-Usur was spending a fortune on offerings to all the gods and goddesses who could care for the welfare of the family, Sililli did her best to keep Sarai from dying of hunger and thirst before the work of the underworld could be undone.

  She made a gruel of barley and peach water and, with infinite patience, spooned it into Sarai’s mouth. Sometimes, with a jolt that was like a hiccup, her throat would take it in. More often than not, though, it would stay there until Sililli pulled it out with her fingers.

  Egime, watching from the threshold of the bedchamber, could not help admonishing her to use just the peach water. “You’re going to end up choking her with that gruel of yours! What’s the point in feeding someone who’s asleep?”

  “To let them dream,” Sililli replied, unswayed.

  When evening fell, Ichbi Sum-Usur entered Sarai’s bedchamber with the soothsayer who had performed the oracle before she was due to get married.

  The barù was told in detail how Sarai had fallen unconscious. As best she could, Sililli described her cries and her sufferings. The barù questioned her about the days and hours that had preceded that terrible moment. Sililli did not tell the truth, but she was not too afraid about misleading the barù. After all, the soothsayer had his own ways to distinguish true from false; that was his task, that was what he was paid for.

  The soothsayer had his instruments—the hearths, the cedarwood shavings, the oils, the lamps, the finely written clay tablets, the sheep’s livers, hearts, and lungs—brought into Sarai’s bedchamber and arranged on wicker tables at the foot of her bed. Then he asked to be left alone and for the door to be closed.

  Late that night, he appeared suddenly on the threshold of the brightly lit chamber, waking those who were waiting on the terrace. Sarai’s father let out a cry that terrified the women. The barù raised his hands to calm them.

  “Ichbi Sum-Usur’s daughter has her eyes open,” he declared, and there was a touch of surprise in his voice. “She’s no longer asleep.”

  Sililli was the first to rush to her. The soothsayer was right. Sarai had even sat up in bed, trembling like a leaf. She recognized Sililli, smiled vaguely, and fell back again.

  Sililli caught her hands, begging almighty Ea not to let her say anything in her confused state that might compromise her.

  “What happened to me?” was all Sarai asked.

  Sililli hugged her and whispered in her ear that she knew everything, that the most important thing was to keep silent.

  “I’ve said it before and the examination confirms it,” the barù said. “The daughter of Ichbi Sum-Usur pleases Ishtar. The Lady of War is asking for her. The daughter of Ichbi Sum-Usur is made for the temple. She will have to renounce the bridal blood, or she will die.”

  The Sacred Handmaid

  There were about a hundred of them, standing in four rows in the great courtyard of the temple. A hundred young men in leather capes and leather helmets, with spears and shields in their hands. In the darkness before the dawn, the gold borders on their helmets, the insignia of the officers, were invisible, as were their faces. Around them huge statues stood guard, statues of Enki and Ea, of Dumuzi, the god who died and rose again, ancestor of all the Almighty Ancestors of Ur, and, glowing in the dark, the gold statue of Ishtar, the Lady of War.

  There they stood, motionless. They had been waiting for this moment since twilight.

  One by one, the naphtha fires that illuminated the walls and staircases of the ziggurat were extinguished. For a brief instant, the night returned, made up of stars and the milk of the gods. Then the sky gradually grew brighter, and the light of day obliterated the stars. The gold borders on the young officers’ helmets began to shine. Their eyes shone, too, with a pained stillness.

  Up above them, the sacred columns, lapis lazuli slabs, bronze corbels, and silver reliefs of the Sublime Bedchamber captured the first rays of the sun.

  A sigh quivered in the air. The noise of horns and drums rang out. On the platform of the temple, the singers of Ishtar, dressed in purple togas, launched into their prayer:

  O illustrious lady,

  Star of the warlike clamor,

  Queen of all inhabited places, you who open your immense arms of light . . .

  With deep-throated fervor, the young officers joined in the chant:

  You who set brother against brother,

  You who make the gods waver, who terrify the living by your mere appearance,

  Grant us your grace,

  O shepherdess of the multitudes . . .

  The great doors of the temple opened, and two wagons entered the courtyard, each pulled by a team of four horses. Between the wagons, a dozen soldiers held a bull at bay with their lowered spears. An agate-and-crystal wig rested between the bull’s horns, and its flanks were covered with a rug embellished with brass rings and bronze and ivory beads.

  Slowly, as the sun descended the Staircase of Heaven, the wagons and the bull took up position before the warriors.

  It was then that she appeared, up on the sacred platform.

  She was unrecognizable in a diadem surmounted by three golden flowers with carnelian hearts, a white toga gathered at the waist by a gold belt in the shape of intertwined ears of barley, which underlined the beauty of her figure, and an impressive necklace of turquoise pearls and gold and bronze balls. Kiddin recognized her from the way she walked.

  He was there, in the very front row of the young officers. And it was definitely her, as astonishingly beautiful as he had heard she was: Sarai, the Sacred Handmaid of the Blood!

  Without realizing it, he beat his spear against his shield, and a hundred hands imitated him. Startled by the noise, the bull bellowed.

  Sarai advanced between the singers and the priests. Her steps seemed to be supported less by the platform than by the muffled beating of the spears. Her hands held in front of her, palms out, she took up the chant that poured from their ardent throats:

  O Star of the warlike clamor,

  Celestial light that blazes against our enemies,

  O quick-tempered Ishtar, ruin of the arrogant!

  A prayer of flesh and blood attempting to shake the heavens. The sun, in its eternal motion, reached the dense foliage that encircled the middle of the ziggurat.

  Kiddin tried to catch his sister’s eye. But between the thick lines of kohl, Sarai’s gaze remained fixed, her pupils dark and distant. As he looked at this woman who was almost a stranger, Kiddin could not help briefly recalling the image of the rebellious, destructive girl who had brought their house close to disaster.

&nbs
p; Seven or eight years had passed since the time his sister had nearly died, years that had sculpted her figure and her face until they were perfect. With her finely drawn lips, reddened now with amber, her high cheekbones, her strong shoulders, she had the authority, the passion, the heavenly remoteness of Ishtar herself.

  At last the sun reached the lower steps of the Staircase of Heaven, and Sarai raised her arms.

  Instantly, there was silence. The priests stopped their drumming and the handmaids their chanting. The warriors no longer smote their shields, and their throats were stilled. They watched, agog, as Sarai’s toga slipped from her right shoulder, baring a breast as luminous as the orb of the moon.

  The bull lifted its head in surprise, making its finery rattle, and rolled its bulging eyes, as if the better to see the priestess in her white toga as she glided to the edge of the platform. Like the warriors, he shuddered when the Sacred Handmaid of Blood launched into her petition:

  I invoke you, O almighty princess Ishtar,

  You whom I serve night and day,

  Listen to the request of your chosen daughter,

  Listen to the petition of one whose blood you held back,

  Show mercy to the warriors of your son Shu-Sin . . .

  Sarai turned her back on the bull and the warriors, and faced the golden gaze of the statue of Ishtar. Like mirrors, the golden flowers of her diadem blazed in the sun.

  You who straddle the great Powers,

  You who reduce shields to dust,

  Show grace to these warriors who have waited for you to wake,

  Keep their bodies free from wounds,

  The tears of death and the shame of defeat.

  Her prayer came to an abrupt halt. Time stood still. The silence weighed on the warriors, as heavily as the shadow of the ziggurat had weighed on them during the night.

  Slowly, Sarai’s body began to sway.

  The drums began to beat.

  A muffled drumbeat accompanied each step the priestess took, giving rhythm to her dance and accentuating the undulation of her hips.

  The warriors beat their spears against the shields, and cried, “Ilulama! Ilulama!”

  Step by step, still dancing, the Sacred Handmaid descended toward the beast. The bull lowered its muzzle and pointed its horns at her. Sarai continued to advance, hips swaying to the swell of the drums and the cries of the warriors.

  The bull clawed the ground, bellowed, and retreated, panting. Kiddin’s voice shook. Sarai writhed in front of the bull, her gold belt glittering in its pupils. Kiddin’s fist teased on his spear. Sarai clapped her hands. Simultaneously, ten spears sank into the bull’s neck. The blood spurted, spattering the young officers. Sarai spoke the final words:

  O my sovereign,

  You who hold the sacred sleeve,

  With your foaming mouth

  Drink the blood of the angry bull, eat his raging heart

  And support their fight . . .

  “I DON’T like you going so close to the horns,” Sililli muttered; it was clear from her voice that this was one of her bad days. “It isn’t necessary. I know: I asked the priests. They all said the same thing: ‘The Sacred Handmaid of the Blood can stay on the platform while the bull is being killed.’”

  Sililli had followed the ceremony in silence, but now, as she unfastened the clasps of Sarai’s toga, she gave vent to her anxiety.

  “There’s no risk,” Sarai replied. “My Sovereign protects me.”

  Sililli pulled a face. “One of these days you may have to deal with a bull who’s fiercer than the others. One thrust, and it’ll cut you in two.”

  “Why would Ishtar allow that to happen? No priestess in this temple is more devoted to her than I am. I’ve counted: Since the war with the Gutis resumed, I’ve offered blood eighty-seven times for the officers.”

  “Oh, I know! I know you’re good at arithmetic, as you are at so many other things! It makes no difference. You’re going closer and closer to the bulls. They don’t like it, and neither do I.”

  “Well, I like it!” Sarai laughed, taking off the last of her clothes. Her pale skin was glistening with sweat; with her fingertips, she wiped a few drops from between her breasts. “If I didn’t, it’d be boring. And all these handsome warriors wouldn’t be so eager.”

  With a mockingly lascivious swivel of her hips, she stepped into the scented bath. Predicting more disasters, Sililli went over to the statue of Inanna that sat enthroned in the center of the vast room and put the golden diadem, the necklace, the belt, and the toga on it.

  They were in one of the countless chambers of the giparù, the huge residence of the priestesses of Inanna, which stood within the sacred walls of the temple, next to the ziggurat. The walls of the chamber were hung with rugs; daylight entered through great arched windows, and aromatic incense was burning. Pure water gurgled through a succession of basins covered with glazed bricks. It was a place where the Sacred Handmaids would sometimes gather to purify themselves, or where King Shu-Sin’s sister, the High Priestess of Inanna, would invite one or other of them to join her for a peaceful chat and a rest from the long prayers. But whenever Sarai faced the bull and offered its blood to the warriors, she had the privilege of purifying herself alone.

  She closed her eyes and abandoned herself voluptuously to the water, which was only slightly warmer than body heat. The argument with Sililli was not a new one. With the years, Sililli had not only grown fatter and slower. Her temperament had changed, too, and she was constantly worrying about the very things that made Sarai feel strong and powerful. After all, what did the most respected Sacred Handmaid of the Blood in the whole temple have to fear?

  “There’s no reason for you to worry about me, Sililli,” Sarai said, in a calm voice.

  She heard sandaled feet shuffling across the brick floor, and Sililli’s fingers, softened by the scented ointment, closed on her shoulders and began their delectable massage.

  “You know perfectly well there are always reasons to worry,” Sililli grumbled. “And besides, there are other things I don’t like about the way you dance.”

  “Please don’t spoil the best moment of the day.”

  “Is it really necessary for you to show your breasts to these hot-headed young men? Do you think they’re indifferent to the sight? You’re beautiful enough to inflame them fully clothed! There’s no need to arouse them before they’ve even left for the war.”

  Sarai had no time to reply. The bronze bell at the entrance of the room chimed, and two young handmaids appeared and bowed.

  “Sacred Handmaid,” they said, in perfect unison, “an officer who is also a lord wishes to speak with you. He received your blessing this morning and wants to thank you.”

  “You see,” Sililli muttered, sourly.

  “Who is he?”

  “The eldest son of Lord Ichbi Sum-Usur.”

  Sililli’s fingers tightened on Sarai’s shoulders.

  “Kiddin?” Sarai said, her eyes wide with surprise. “Was he there this morning? Well, let him wait in the little courtyard, if he has the patience. I’ll join him when I’m ready.”

  HE was standing in the middle of the courtyard, without his spear or his shield, but still wearing his cape and his gold-festooned helmet. He had his back to her, watching the handmaids arranging the innumerable dishes for the meal of the idols on palanquins of bulrushes in front of the kitchens. It had been a very long time since brother and sister had been face-to-face. His shoulders were broader. Sarai was sure he had become a formidable and promising warrior. He turned to greet her, and beneath the abundant hair and beard, his face and smile were as she had always known them. Kiddin bowed, with all the respect of which he was capable.

  “May Ea be gracious to you, Sacred Handmaid.”

  Without awaiting her greeting in return, he launched immediately into a flowery speech, telling her how strongly he had felt the presence of Ishtar, thanks to the invocation of the Sacred Handmaid of the Blood, and how protected and encouraged he had
felt—he, who would soon be leading the soldiers of Ur against the invaders from the mountains.

  “And all of us who were present this morning will carry in our memories your courage before the bull. If we were to weaken in battle, we have only to remember you. Just as you defied the bull’s horns, so we shall defy the swords of our enemies.”

  Sarai smiled. Kiddin—proud, haughty, handsome Kiddin, who cared as much for his body as his rank—was making a huge effort to please her and even, in his way, to appear humble.

  “Good day, brother,” she replied, her tone distant rather than affectionate. “I’m pleased that the invocation was of benefit to you.”

  “It was, Sacred Handmaid, be sure of that.”

  Kiddin rose to his full height and looked Sarai up and down. There was nothing humble in his gaze. Nothing brotherly, either. It was the kind of look that made Sililli’s hackles rise. The look of a young animal, inflamed by Sarai’s beauty and heavy with desire.

  Kiddin put his hand inside his leather cape and took out a necklace of gold beads, carnelians, and silver rings.

  “Accept this gift. May it enhance your beauty, the greatest my eyes have ever contemplated.”

  Sarai laughed, so loudly that the handmaids turned their heads. “Gratitude, soft words, a necklace . . . I can’t believe my eyes or my ears! What’s happening to you, Kiddin? Has the prospect of battle sweetened your character, dear brother?”

  “We aren’t children anymore!” Kiddin retorted, curling his lips. “The time for squabbling is over. You have been enhancing our father’s name in this temple for many moons now, and I am grateful to you. I may have been unfair toward you in the past. Who could ever have guessed that your whims were ruled by the hand of Inanna? You’re right, though: I have a duty to be humble before you. My words and my gift are sincere. And my pride is great: Like everyone in our house, I’ve heard the news, Sacred Handmaid of the Blood.”

  Once again, he bowed respectfully, holding his hand out for Sarai to take the necklace, which she had still not touched.