Part I: The Call
Chapter 1 A Gift
It was the dawn of civilization, an age of fear. Fear of the gods, fear of the sword. It was also an age of hope, for the gods made men not to suffer, but to survive. The year was 2286 BCE.
Ninlil, a girl in her teens, emerged from the door of her uncle’s pottery shop and stepped onto the sandy street of the city of Ur on the banks of the Euphrates. She strode across to the other side of the shop, inverted a pitcher, dusted off the bottom, and sat on it. Uncle Mashda, the proprietor, had gone to the rear to feed his donkeys, leaving her in charge of pots and mugs, casks and cups, jars and jugs—all stoneware, all for sale.
The city was abuzz at the early hour. On the other side of the road in front, customers were assembling at the city market gate. The road was still empty. Ninlil watched the crowd for a while and closed her eyes, raising her face to the morning sun. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Then she saw the man.
She spotted the handsome fellow passing through the crowd and crossing the road, the only person on the move, heading straight towards her. His head was bare, with black locks dancing on his shoulders. He was clean-shaven, and he wore no shoes. Cradling an object in both hands, he strode with ease over the gravelly terrain and stopped a few feet before her. Ninlil looked around for her uncle.
“Silim. Are you the potter’s niece who works at the temple?” the man asked in a deep voice and with a foreign accent.
“Yes, of course. Silim,” Ninlil greeted back with a smile. The word was Akkadian, meaning “peace be with you,” and was fashionable now among the Sumerian youth.
“Milady, they call me Beshi.” With a thud, the stranger set down the pitcher he was carrying.
Ninlil rose. The object stood nearly to her waist. The man had the physique of a worker, but his hands were not coarse like those of a laborer. She noticed his leather belt held by a big bronze buckle. He bowed deeply, folding his arm across the chest, his hand reaching for his shoulder.
“My master sent this present to be handed over to the high priestess at the temple.”
Ninlil’s back stiffened. She was surprised at the formal way she was being addressed. She was not even eighteen. Never before had she been greeted and treated like a lady. So much respect just because she was an employee of the temple?
“Do you mean High Priestess Enheduanna?” she snapped, raising her chin.
“Yes, milady.”
The stranger had introduced himself but not mentioned any other names.
She tried to adopt a deep tone. “Who is your master? Who sent this pitcher?”
He said, “Just tell the priestess, ‘Aqqi.’ We will be leaving tomorrow with the caravan.”
He took three steps back and, after another bow, swiveled on his heels. Free of burden, he hurried away, leaping like a youth over one of the numerous potholes in the road.
Brushing aside a tress from her forehead, Ninlil looked out again for her uncle. The customers might come up at any moment. She wanted to be relieved of the role of a shopkeeper, for she was not good at haggling, much less bartering wares for all kinds of goods they would offer in exchange, even milk, eggs, and livestock. This was not her business. She worked the whole week in the temple, doing all kinds of jobs involving the kitchen. On this day, she would be procuring groceries at the market, some six to ten items she had memorized. She would also carry clay tablets for the priestess to write hymns and prayers. For this purpose, she was allowed to stay away from the temple one day a week.
This was also a special day for her to be with Enmerkar, her uncle’s assistant. He was away to pick up some articles to repair the potter’s wheel. He would be back any moment now, and they could continue with their plans for their wedding. She hoped her uncle could afford a celebration.
As of now, there was no noise. Pretty soon, livestock, like sheep and goats, would be driven to the market. The event would be announced by dust rising all over and the din of the animals, but as of now, the only sign of activity was the distant hammering of the bronzesmith far down the road: bang, bang, bang, and after a pause, again, bang, bang, and so it would go on for hours.
“Who was that, Nillina?” her uncle Mashda called out from the rear. He came around the corner, a diminutive figure, middle-aged and with a stoop. Ninlil had been named after the goddess of the air. He was the only person who fondly called her Nillina, the other name for the same goddess.
She explained the encounter with the stranger, pointing out the pitcher. Mashda hurried over to this newcomer to his hoard and bent down to scrutinize it. As the most senior potter in town, it was natural for him to examine this item not of his creation. He knelt before it and tilted it to look at its base. He shook his head.
“Nothing there.”
Ninlil knew what he meant. A potter put his emblem on that spot to claim his authorship. Mashda would have put his trademark, a pentagram. She stood there, watching her uncle, who was stroking the surface of the pitcher with his fingertips. Then, as if inspired, he stroked his chin. She found it amusing the way he peered at each side of the object as if it were a statue. He had a deep frown and kept rubbing his chin all the while; she could not tell whether it was an expression of disapproval or appreciation. He was applying all his senses for the evaluation, for he even knocked on it and turned his head to listen to the clang. Would he also sniff at it and lick it?
“Quite a few designs are Akkadian, with some script in between. Of course, I cannot read those symbols.” He pointed to the cuneiform inscriptions. “But I find such scribble not the least artistic. The symbols look like ‘the prints of chicken claws on mud,’ as they say.” He shook his head.
“Hmmm. Otherwise, it’s well done,” he added as he stretched himself and laid his hand on the small of his back.
“Good craftsmanship,” was his final verdict, accompanied by a grimace as he patted his spine. “Don’t try to move it. It’ll be quite heavy. When Enmerkar comes, he’ll bring it indoors. You can take it to the priestess tomorrow. Our best donkey, Asu, can carry it.”
“Yes, of course,” Ninlil replied.
“I wonder what all this is about,” he murmured. “I have never seen a pitcher like this. The priestess ought to know. None of our business.”
***
Head Priestess Enheduanna was at prayer. As usual, she had gone up a terraced structure to greet the morning star, symbolizing goddess Inanna. It was common knowledge among the personnel that the priestess had developed her own method of prayer she called “prayer in motion” to keep the mind and body intact; while praying, she would bend and stretch her body, kneeling every now and then and even doing some push-ups, all with her eyes closed.
She took a deep breath, raising her arms until her hands were pointing to the sky. After the long ritual, she would descend from the ziggurat back to earth to attend to the mundane matters of the day.
Damkina was standing at the foot of the ziggurat, waiting for her superior. As her right hand and also a factotum looking after all odd jobs connected with the temple complex, Damkina hardly had time left for a break, least of all for plain waiting, except in situations like this. She had to pass on something important to the priestess. Instead of fretting, she had accepted this as an inevitable break.
At long last, she saw the priestess sprinting down the stairs of the terrace. Her elegant figure was backlit by the rising sun. Damkina could only discern her silhouette, but judging from her pace, High Priestess Enheduanna—when out of earshot, referred to as “Hedu” by the personnel—appeared to be in her usual high spirits. Quite tall for a Sumerian, she moved with a sporty gait, supported by the lanky grace of her figure. She was clad in a simple cream-colored tunic and a blue headband to hold back her hair from falling on her shoulders.
Damkina moved towards her. “Excuse me, madam, I am sorry to disturb you so early after your prayers.”
“Never mind.” Enheduana was slightly out of breath. “The day has begun. What is the matter?” she asked with a smile in her usual tone, pleasant but always sounding urgent, sonorous but not somnolent, a wake-up call, never a lullaby. She looked at Damkina’s hands, which held a clay tablet.
“Your scribe gave this to me a while ago,” Damkina said, stretching out her hand. “He said you had asked for a list of the woolen products we have ready for export.”
Hedu picked up the tablet and inspected it. “Yes, of course. That is important. Thank you.”
The temple had other activities besides worship and religious festivities. It had in its possession one-third of the farmland outside the city walls, as well as a large number of textile looms for woolen products meant to be shipped abroad, with the river as the outlet.
Damkina did not leave. She stood there, biting her lip, and added, “Will you allow a comment on my part, please?”
“Go ahead.” Hedu smiled, waving the tablet.
“With all respect, madam, let me air my views. At times, I wonder if the administration is becoming overwhelmed beyond our capacity. We, at the temple, are attending to so many activities.”
“By tradition, we have to be in charge of all these activities,” Enheduanna said. “We cannot shun them. A city has evolved with the temple. Aside from worship and pleasing the gods, attending to cultivation and harvesting of our farms, the storage of food, and the production of woolen products are major functions of the temple.”
“We could leave some of these activities to the city corporation to attend to,” Damkina replied, not convinced.
Hedu laughed. It was not meant to mock or belittle Damkina’s views. With a toss of her head, she indicated her scorn was directed elsewhere. “It would be a boon if the city authorities attended to their present duties and remedied the worldly worries of the citizens. They are neglecting housing, streets, sewage, and security. They have their duties, and we have ours. It is good if our mutual responsibility towards the public is separated and there is no conflict. It is for the public good.”
“I understand.”
“Cheer up, Damkina. We can manage all the problems posed to us. We need no assistance from outside if that is what you mean.”
Damkina cleared her throat. “But we also have to attend to our duty of spiritual guidance.”
“Quite right. That is our prime vocation. For sure, there is enough evil in the world, enough misery. As individuals, devotees may even need help. But we cannot deal with the life of each and every one. We can only attend to our duties in the temple with rituals to please the gods to benefit mankind as a whole, and thereby all the devotees wherever they are. Those who come to the temple can follow our example and pray here, and they should also do so at home.”
“Yes, of course.”
This was also a special day for her to be with Enmerkar, her uncle’s assistant. He was away to pick up some articles to repair the potter’s wheel. He would be back any moment now, and they could continue with their plans for their wedding. She hoped her uncle could afford a celebration.
Enmerkar had been at the market near the city gate, making purchases for the potter, but he’d had no luck in procuring an article for his own use which he had been seeking for a long while: a glue made from fish bladders for a bow he was developing. On the way back to the pottery shop, he wanted to try his luck again at the city market.
Near the entrance, two lads had been loading baskets, casks, and barrels onto a rickety cart. The heap was not properly balanced and began swaying. Enmerkar was about to call out to them when the cart’s axle gave in, and the cart tilted backward in one jerk. He saw a girl of about ten passing the cart from behind. Then the load came tumbling down. Amid the noise, the girl let out a cry and disappeared beneath the cascading objects. A man nearby was quick to dive under to save her. Enmerkar ran up to the scene; the last piece fell off from the cart. Under the objects strewn all around, he saw the girl’s hand. He seized it and pulled her out through a narrow gap. She jumped up, unhurt, but was too scared to utter a word.
He shouted to her, “Run, run!”
The stench of putrid vegetables reeked in the humid air. There was a sound under the heap from the man still entrapped. Enmerkar jumped over a mound of debris, sprinted to the other side, and spotted him. He pushed away two barrels and made a way out for the man. With Enmerkar’s help, the man managed to crawl out. He had shielded the girl with his body and saved her from getting crushed.
The rescuer rose slowly, brushing off the dust and waste from his clothes. He stumbled a bit and then steadied himself and adjusted his belt, which was adorned with a huge buckle. He had scratches and bruises but was otherwise unhurt. In the meantime, a crowd had gathered. The lads had been joined by passers-by, and there was a debate going on. No one there had thought of helping out the victims.
“Are you okay, man?” Enmerkar asked.
“Sure. Where is the kid?” the man asked, looking around.
“Don’t worry, she is well off. She ran away. You saved her.”
The man adjusted his belt and cleared his throat. “I owe you a lot, man.”
“It’s okay. I did nothing.” Enmerkar was surprised by this man’s politeness.
“Maybe one day, we’ll meet again,” the man said, “and I can pay you back. For now, fare you well, my friend.”
To his left, Enmerkar saw the girl in the arms of a woman in tears. The crowd was dissipating. When he looked back, the man was gone.
