Sarah: Women of Genesis: 1 (Women of Genesis (Forge)) Read online

  “Marry him? What city is he king of?”

  “Not king of any one city. He says that the Ba’al of one city is only a statue that reminds us of the true Lord, who has a true name known only to a few, written in signs known to none outside the lineage of the true priesthood.”

  Qira could not resist throwing some of Father’s own teachings back in his face. “‘It’s an arrogant man who says that the worship of others is false, and only his own is true.’”

  Father shook his head. “Daughter, theirs is the lineage of Utnapishtim, who rode above the flood. What is the royalty of a mere city, compared to him who is priest to all the world?”

  “If they don’t live in a city, how are they any better than the wandering Amorites?”

  “The Amorites are barbarians who raid from the desert and destroy what they cannot conquer. As we know to our sorrow.”

  “What cities has this Terah conquered?”

  “He is no Amorite, that is my point, Qira. There is no need for him to conquer cities, when he is the chief priest of God in the world!”

  “Father,” said Qira, “with all respect, I must still point out to you that a beggar could say the things this man said to you, and it doesn’t make him a king unless there are people somewhere who obey him.”

  Father’s face turned red then, and Qira realized that in denigrating this Terah, she had said the unspeakable thing: She had denied that a king without a city could truly be a king. “I did not mean . . .” But there was no way she could put a good face on what she had said.

  “Very well,” said Father. “Let me speak no more of priests and kings. Let me speak of money. A real prince, to marry you, would demand a dowry, and we have no dowry for you, living as we do on the gifts of my brother, king of Ur-of-the-North. While this Terah is rich in herds, and promises me a very sizeable bride-price for you.”

  “Everyone knows the Amorites trade in slaves,” said Qira savagely, “but I never thought you would sell your own daughter to one.”

  “As a slave,” said Father coldly, “you wouldn’t be worth two shoats, since you do no work and have no skills.”

  “Should I callus my fingers with spinning, like a common woman?”

  “Your sister is not ashamed.”

  “Sarai is born to be a temple servant. I am born to be consort to a king!”

  “And I was born to rule a great city,” said Father. “We don’t always live the life we were born for. Would you rather marry some tradesman who will put you in the house behind his shop and trot you out to show his visitors that he has married royalty?”

  “Once you decide that my shame can be purchased for money, what difference does it make?”

  At once she saw that she had goaded Father too far. “Your tongue is enough to drive a man to beat a woman!” shouted Father. But he quickly got control of himself. “If I marry you to Terah’s grandson Lot, you will be the wife of a wealthy man with a claim to an ancient priestly lineage. No one will say you married down.”

  “Yes they will,” she murmured.

  “Despite the fame of your beauty and the majesty of my rank,” said Faither dryly, “there has been no queue at our door of ruling princes begging for your royal company.”

  Qira burst into tears. “I will not live in a tent!”

  “Is that all?” said Father. “I’ll make that a condition of the wedding—that you never have to live in a tent. But this is the best marriage I will ever be able to arrange for you.”

  Qira was no fool. She might be bitterly disappointed, but she knew that Father would not lie about such a thing. “I will do my duty,” she said miserably.

  And so it was that she consented to this miserable wedding, wrecking all her hopes, discarding all her dreams.

  Ever since then, she had wondered: What god was it who hated her so much?

  Still, for days at a time she had been able to forget what lay in her future. Desert men were unreliable. They changed their minds. They broke their word. Or perhaps her future husband died in battle and would never come for her. Or starved to death out in the deep desert where not even grass could grow. She had all sorts of hopeful fantasies like that.

  But now the filthy uncle was here, and Father insisted on parading her forth as if he were selling a milk cow.

  “Wear the scarlet,” Father said.

  Her most precious gown. Well, she would not wear it, not for the mere uncle. What did desert men know of scarlets and other bright and precious colors? Everything was the yellow of grass and sand to them, everything smelled of the hair and dung of animals, and the only music that they knew was mooing and bleating. Scarlet would be wasted on him. If Father was unhappy that she disobeyed, what would he do? Beat her with a stick in front of the uncle? Father could insist on the marriage, but she would show her independence where she could. Qira was not one for submissive obedience, and Father had better remember it.

  So it was her blue and brown woollen dress that she pulled on over her linen shift, only one step up from what a tradesman’s wife might wear.

  “Qira, what are you doing?”

  Sarai stood in the door of her room, looking stricken.

  “Showing proper respect to my uncle-to-be,” said Qira, feigning innocence.

  “You mustn’t,” said Sarai.

  “He’s a desert man—what will he know?”

  “He will know,” said Sarai. “He’s not what you think. He doesn’t talk like an Amorite—his speech is as pure as ours, the speech of Ur the Great. And he’s a man of refined senses, I know it—he’ll understand what you mean by this coarse dress.”

  “It is a dress belonging to the daughter of a king,” said Qira. “All my clothing is far above his station.” Why she was bothering to argue with a ten-year-old was beyond her, anyway.

  Sarai stood in the doorway, contemplating her.

  “Yes, after all, I think you’re right,” said Sarai.

  Since Sarai never changed her mind easily, Qira grew suspicious. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s good to begin your marriage with honesty, not pretending,” said Sarai. “With this dress you’ll show him that you’re the daughter of a fallen, beggarly house that lives on the gifts of another king. The royal scarlet would be nothing but a sham.”

  “I hate you,” said Qira. “Asherah may never forgive Father for giving him such a nasty daughter.”

  “You don’t hate me,” said Sarai. “You love me because I remind you to do what you already know that you should.”

  “I don’t like doing what I should.”

  “Neither do I,” said Sarai. “But we both do what we must.”

  Qira burst into tears and embraced her sister, who also wept. But as they clung to each other, Sarai spoke softly. “If your bridegroom is like his uncle, you’ll not be cursed by this marriage, you’ll be blessed. The uncle is a handsome man, and he speaks like one who is born to rule.” She told Qira all about Abram, saying several times that since this was only the uncle, the husband was bound to be even better.

  But Qira saw the truth behind the words, and she was astonished. “You’ve fallen in love with the uncle!” she said.

  Sarai looked startled, then embarrassed. “I like him,” said Sarai.

  “I know all about such ‘liking,’” said Qira. “You’re all set to keep him in your dreams, I know it from the way you talk!”

  “The servant of Asherah has only such dreams as the goddess might send.”

  “You aren’t bound over to Asherah’s service yet.”

  “I’ll help you put on the scarlet dress,” said Sarai.

  “You know I’m right. That’s why you change the subject.”

  “I know that the uncle is waiting, and Father is impatient to show you off to him.”

  “Ten years old, but you have a woman’s heart.”

  “It would do me no good to love him,” said Sarai. “You know that if one who is intended for Asherah should turn away and marry a man, the goddess will never give her
children as long as she lives.”

  “So I’ve heard,” said Qira. “They say such things to keep temple-bound girls from wishing for a wedding. But who knows if it is true?”

  “I don’t intend to find out,” said Sarai.

  “And yet you will dream.” Qira began to hum and sing a wordless melody as she held out the voluminous skirt of the scarlet dress and turned and turned.

  Sarai could not help laughing. “You are such a foolish child,” she said.

  “The ten-year-old says this to her almost-married sister?”

  “You’re a dreamer,” said Sarai. “So you think everyone dreams.”

  “You’re telling me you don’t? I won’t believe it.”

  “I’m a very practical person,” said Sarai. “I keep my hands busy with work. I keep my thoughts on what my hands are doing.”

  “And you speak nonsense all day long.”

  “Come now,” said Sarai. “Father’s waiting.”

  “Down to earth,” said Qira. “Practical. Handy. What a sturdy wife you’d make for a desert man.”

  “Don’t say any such thing in front of him,” said Sarai, suddenly angry. “Don’t you dare shame me like a little child who has no feelings!”

  “But you are a little child,” Qira teased. “And you just said that you had no feelings for this desert uncle.”

  The fury in Sarai’s face would have been frightening, if she were not so small. “If you mock me in front of him I will never forgive you!”

  “I do what I want,” said Qira, and she flounced on out of the room, Sarai scampering furiously at her heels.

  * * *

  Sarai knew that Qira would do it, and she also knew that getting mad at Qira would only make it worse, but it’s not like you could stop being angry; it just filled you up and you couldn’t think about anything else until you either used up the anger or something else happened to take your mind off it. And Sarai meant what she had said. It was silly of her to care what this desert man thought of her, but she did care, and even though she knew he was only teasing when he spoke of returning someday to marry her, she could not bear the idea of being made ridiculous in his eyes. For he alone of all adults had treated her, not as some sacred godbound object to be reverenced, and not as some little toy human to be petted and chuckled at and then ignored or sent away, but rather as a person worth talking to.

  And if he teased her a little, it was flirtatious and not condescending. He didn’t tell her what she looked like or ask her what her favorite toy or game might be. He didn’t talk about her hair or comment on how adult she sounded when she talked, as if children should talk a separate language. Instead he talked to her. And if Qira spoiled that by reducing her to a child in his eyes, then she would see what it was like to lose a sister. There would be nothing between them from then on. They would be like strangers forever. Sarai’s memory was very long.

  When they got to the courtyard, however, Father and Abram were not alone. A new visitor had arrived, a man in strange clothing that Sarai recognized as Egyptian—white linens, with more of his body showing than a man would usually let other people see. The Egyptians who visited Ur-of-the-North were like that, flaunting their disdain for local customs. Their clothing was the only true clothing, their language the only true language, their gods the only true gods. Others had to learn their language to do business with them, though in truth Father had told her once that the Egyptians only pretended not to understand the accented Akkadian speech used here, so that others would speak freely in front of them, thinking their secrets would be safe. That was why Father made a habit of speaking the ancient holy language of Sumeria in front of Egyptians, even though few in this city but the priests could speak it fluently.

  Who was this Egyptian?

  “Suwertu, these are my daughters, the princess Qira and the godchosen Sarai.”

  Even as she knelt before the visitors, Sarai remembered that Suwertu was the name of the priest of Pharaoh who dwelt here in Ur-of-the-North. He was not actually born Egyptian. He had been a priest of Elkenah until the day he won his appointment as the priest of Pharaoh for this region. Father said he spoke Egyptian with a woeful accent. Officially he merely ministered to the religious needs of Egyptian traders and travelers. In fact, though, he watched over the interests of Pharaoh in the land of the upper Euphrates. These days all the cities of the region had ties to Egypt almost as strong as those of Byblos, which some said was practically an Egyptian city.

  “Is he a spy, then?” Sarai once asked Father.

  “Something between a spy, a teacher, and an overseer,” Father had answered. “He tells Pharaoh who his friends and enemies are, so that gifts and influence can be used wisely. He encourages the local people to learn Egyptian ways and even give respect to the Egyptian gods. And if there are signs ofUr-of-the-North getting out of line, he will crack the whip.”

  “What whip can he crack, so far from Egypt?”

  “The Amorites have broken up all the trade routes that used to make this city prosper. You can no longer be sure of carrying goods from here to Ashur or Akkad, to Ur-of-the-South or anywhere beyond the Tarsus. And as for Canaan, the cities of that land are empty, and the people hide in caves for fear of the raids of the Amorites. The only trade that remains strong is between Byblos and Egypt, for that is done by sea, where the Amorites cannot go. So Ur must trade with Byblos if it is to prosper. And if Egypt should tell the king of Byblos that Ur-of-the-North is not a friend to Egypt, will our traders have any part of this trade? That is the whip. It has cracked more than once. There are those who act as if Egypt ruled here. They go to Suwertu to learn the Egyptian language, to worship Egyptian gods, to become Egyptians as best they can.” Father said this with disgust, as if becoming Egyptian were as foolish as trying to become a lion or an elephant.

  And here was this same Suwertu, in the courtyard of their home. What was his business? And why today, of all days, when Abram had come to deliver the bride-price in preparation for the wedding?

  Despite the presence of the Egyptian, Sarai could see that Qira only had eyes for Abram, and Abram frankly stared at Qira in return. Qira was no doubt trying to guess whether Lot was going to be as handsome as Abram—or was she noticing only the dirt of traveling that still clung to him here and there? And Abram was probably judging what kind of wife Qira would make, and whether his father Terah had chosen well.

  But Sarai knew that having Suwertu here had to mean something, and it was unlikely to be coincidence that he was here at this exact moment. For some reason Egypt was taking interest in the marriage of a daughter of the ancient house of Ur with the heir to this priestly family from the desert. Which meant that Terah’s claims must have substance—or at least enough substance to kindle Suwertu’s interest.

  At first the conversation was mere chat—talking about Qira’s charms as if she didn’t understand plain speech, telling stories about things that went wrong at weddings in the past, commenting on the bride-price and how Father was going to dispose of such flocks when he had no shepherds among his servants.

  Finally, though, Sarai’s close attention was rewarded, as she heard Suwertu turn to the subject that must have brought him here. “I wondered, though, that a man of such wisdom as yourself, O King, would give such honor to an obscure family of Amorites, no matter how many cattle they brought to your house.”

  Sarai noticed how Abram, rather than growing angry at this insult—a veiled accusation that his father was a liar—merely seemed to relax further onto his bench, paying, if anything, less attention to the conversation.

  “A king is a priest before he is a king,” said Father, as he had so often said before.

  “But not all who call themselves priests have any claim to speak for God,” said Suwertu.

  “There are many gods and many priests,” said Father.

  “There are many names for gods,” said Suwertu. “But we all know that the great god whom the people of this land call merely Ba’al, ‘the Lord,’ is th
e same as Osiris, the god who dies and is brought back to life by his son Horus with the help of the goddess Isis.”

  “I know little of Egyptian names for the gods,” said Father. Sarai could see his wariness increase even as he kept his tone of voice mild. “Terah knows the secret name of Ba’al. And his priesthood comes from Utnapishtim, who rode above the flood, upheld by the hand of the Lord.”

  “But how can he be the rightful possessor of this priesthood, when this can be claimed only by Pharaoh?”

  At once the air in the room seemed to crackle as if a thunderstorm were about to strike.

  Abram’s eyes were fully closed.

  “I have never heard such a claim made by a priest of Pharaoh before,” said Father.