Twilight in Babylon (3 page)

The vision of the god with the golden eyes faded in her mind. She talked to herself, nonsense words, like a child’s. These words comforted her, but had no meaning. “Mimi. Home. Love. Chef. Tu. God.” Her tongue didn’t fit around them easily, and they had no meaning, but they made her feel good. The gods hadn’t found her yet; and she was still the only one left.

Baaing woke her in the night; a sheep, as lost as she was. She called to it, then heard another. They ran out of the marshes toward the tree where she stayed. Behind them she saw eyes that glowed with hunger and teeth that were bared. She scampered down the trunk and swung out at the predators with her oar. She made contact, and they ran crying into the night. “It’s okay,” she told the trembling sheep. “You’re safe. You’re found.” They cuddled next to her, against the palm tree, and she slept warmly for the first time.

When she woke in the day, it was there.

“That must be Dilmun,” she said to the sheep. Far to the south, an island rose up. Part of it was red. She gathered her belongings, herded the sheep, and walked faster. All day long the red island hovered on the edge of the world. By night it had grown.

So had her flock. Now she walked with seven sheep, two lambs, and a gamboling goat. No sign of other humans yet, but the sheep were glad for her company. She sang to them and spoke her nonsense words, and they bleated happily as they grazed.

Dilmun got larger.

The river was almost completely in its bed now, and she saw irrigation channels and canals cut through the greening fields. Winter barley; in its second irrigation. For barley to grow as big as the gods allowed, it must have four irrigations. On the last, it would add another tenth of its size. The river hadn’t overflowed here; the humans, if there were any left, would not starve.

Her flock continued to grow; she watched over them during the night from her perch in a tree. In the dawn, from her high roost, she saw Dilmun. It must be Dilmun, for nothing else could be so beautiful. Green fields surrounded it, and trees, tall like date palms, but with different leaves, grew in neat rows. As though it were a giant vegetable garden.

The island, with a tall center in blocks of blue and green and red and yellow, rose up into the sky. Little white boxes and blocks clustered around it, like a peafowl with her chicks. The girl crawled down the palm tree, washed the mud off her face and hands, tied the cloth around her womanhood, then folded up the animal skin and balanced it on her head.

With the knife slipped into her waist sash, she walked down to Dilmun, the oar her goad. Common grazing fields stretched out from the gate to the city. The walls were taller than palm trees, and painted blue and yellow. The rest was left the ocher color of clay. She’d never seen anything so impressive, never imagined it. It was no wonder Ziusudra lived here. The gods visited here. After the sheep had fed she looked for a toll taker, for she was sure there would be a charge. Water wasn’t free. But she didn’t see one. Squaring her shoulders and straightening the parcel on her head, she marched her flock to the open gate set within a deep, shadowy archway.

“Welcome to Ur, welcome, welcome,” a man cried from the shade. “You must be a survivor of the flood. Come in, come in. It’s dry here, safe.”

She had never seen a man such as he was, in the clothes he wore! His beard was long and white, and his head was covered in a gold basket. White cloth, finer than any felt or wool she’d ever seen, edged with gold, draped over his shoulder and around his chest. His eyes were big and black, his teeth white. When he breathed in her face, it was sweet-smelling—like the breath of the Harrapan. “Welcome to Ur,” he said to her. “Welcome, female. You are a wealthy one. How do the gods call you?”

A few other people stepped closer around her, and she crouched, ready to run. The sheep bleated and jostled, the goat nipped at the bearded one’s sash, but he pushed him away. “It’s safe, female.”

“Ningal, she has a sore on her head,” someone behind her said.

She put her hand to where the mud and blood had dried on her head, the sore.

“Does it hurt?” the bearded man asked.

“Do you need to sell your sheep?”

“Let’s have a look,” someone else said, and pulled at her animal skin.

She spun on them with a hiss. The sheep scattered.

“A wild thing.”

She called the sheep to her, beckoned the goat away from the arched gate.

“Be at peace. She’s obviously from the hills.”

“The plain,” she said, walking back to them. Her words were the same as theirs.

“You are from the plain? Shinar?”

“Shinar! Yes, in truth. My village.”

“Flooded out.”

“How did you survive?”

“Were there other survivors?”

“What is your name?”

“Where was your village?”

They surrounded her, with long beards and basket hats. All men, whose words were the same as hers, but whose voices sounded harsh and demanding.

“Dilmun,” she said.

They fell silent. “What did you say?” one of them asked. His cloak was white like the others, but where theirs were gold, his was red. He was younger, too, probably not older than… than… she couldn’t remember. None of it made sense.

“Dilmun. I go to Dilmun.”

“You aren’t Harrapan, girl.”

“How do you know Dilmun?”

“She must have some knowledge, if she knows the name of Paradise.”

She was dizzy; they were spinning around her like black birds. Cawing and flapping their wings. She couldn’t follow their words anymore.

“Step back, gentlemen, she’s about to faint.” The white-bearded man offered her his hand, and she grabbed it, tried to be still.

“Do you need some water?” he asked. “Does your flock?”

“Yes.”

“She was in a flood. I expect she’s had plenty of water,” someone said with a laugh.

“The dead animals,” she said. “They made the water poisoned.”

“Kalam, take her flock to the well over there. You, female, come with me.”

She turned to look at the man, the one with the red-edged cloak, who stood in the middle of her sheep. Their wondering brown eyes followed her. “It’s well,” she said to them. “Go drink.”

They chased after Kalam into the green grazing grounds, and the bearded man took her arm and led her beneath the arch and into the place he called Ur. “Have a seat,” he said, showing her a low stoop. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

A minute. Sixty seconds make a minute, sixty minutes make an hour, twenty-four hours make a day, but no, here twelve double hours made a day.
The girl put her hand to her head, shaky again.

She sat. Nothing here was made of reeds. It was all hard, the ruddy color of mud, but hard. And very tall, buildings reaching up at least as high as trees. People rushed to and fro, as if traders had come to sell their wares. Animals, goats and sheep, dogs and onagers, walked through the streets. Children rode on their backs, played in the alleyways, and dashed everywhere. People rested against the walls, eating their meals and working on their fleeces. Tents were pitched against every building.

The noise. The smell. She fought the desire to run, but it rose in her throat and threatened to choke her. So many people.

“Here you go,” the bearded man said, handing her a cup of water. It wasn’t a clay cup, nor was it the color of her bangles or the god’s eyes. It was a warmer color, like the clay. “It’s made of copper,” he said. “Drink up.”

“Ningal,” one of the other men said to him.

“Silence, she can afford it,” he said, and brought her another cup. The water was cool, and she drank many cups of it, until her stomach was tight.

“Now how do you feel?” he asked.

“Fine,” she said, nodding.

“Do you want something to eat?”

It had been a day or so since her last meal, and she was hungry. She nodded again.

“I tell you what. Wait for me here, can you do that?”

She nodded. “Then what?”

He chuckled. “Then I will come and get you, and we will go eat. I have some people who will be very interested in all you have to say. We haven’t seen anyone from the plain since the flood. You may be the only survivor.”

“The only one,” she said. “I’m alone.”

“You’re not alone, you’re here in Ur. Thirty thousand humans call Ur their home. About ten thousand too many, but that can’t be helped. Know you aren’t alone. However,” he said, “before you can go anywhere, you’ll need a bath and some clothes.”

People watched them from everywhere. Windows, doorways, market stalls. Not rudely, but in the course of their day. Most were washed, most had clean clothes and looked fed.

She tugged the edge of her cloth skirt down a little.

“But wait here, I’ll be back.”

“What about my flock?”

He hesitated, then called someone. A man with a bald head, who had green-circled eyes and wore a plucked felt skirt, dodged through the crowd to get to them. “Anything to buy? To sell?” he asked them.

“Do you want to sell your sheep?” the bearded man asked her.

The sheep were her family. Along the way she had named them: Mimi, Moma, Dadi, Kami, Blackie, Franci—silly names, but they made her heart happy. “No. I want to keep them.”

“Then perhaps you should consider leasing?” the bald man said.

She looked from the bearded man to the bald man. “Explain please?”

“You leave your sheep at the common grounds,” he said, “the commonwealth watches over them, feeds them, and in payment gets a percentage of either the wool or their flesh, depending on what you use them for. All the joys of ownership, none of the pain.”

“Should you change your mind and want to sell,” the bearded man said, “the commonwealth can be your mediator in that transaction, too.”

She looked down at the clay piece before him. “Good. I will lease them.”

“Excellent! How many are we talking about?”

She gave him the details, their names, what they liked to eat, how they would try to be sneaky.

With the end of a reed, he made markings for her words. “There is a mark for sheep,” he said, pointing to one set of lines. “You have one goat”—he made a mark—”four lambs”—he marked again—”and eight full-grown sheep. Truth?” He drew his marks carefully from the top to the bottom of the slab, moving from right to left. He had to raise the heel of his hand so as not to smear the marks, which made his whole arm stick out like a wing.

“You made only one mark for the lambs and the sheep, and one mark for the goat,” she said.

“Good eyes. But these marks,” he said, moving the reed again, adding marks, “these tell me you have eight sheep and four lambs. Because I wrote goat only once, I know it’s only one goat.”

“I’ll be back,” the bearded man said, patting her on the shoulder.

“Do you have a seal?” the bald man asked.

An image, a memory? of a wet creature, blue-black and barking, appeared in her head, then vanished. She blinked, confused. “No.”

“Can you make a sign for your name?”

She looked at the reed he handed her, then scratched on the damp clay.

“Interesting,” the man said, then copied the tally of her animals on a smaller piece of clay and had her sign it again.

“Now what are you doing?” she asked.

He folded a piece of clay over the first piece and covered it completely. He made some scratches on it and had her make her sign a third time. “Today is the sixteenth day of the Hired Man’s moon, which I wrote here. You are this sign, I am this sign. This will be filed in the Office of Records. When you want to get your sheep back from the commonwealth, bring your piece of clay. We’ll match the two, then go get your sheep.”

“How will you know which ones are mine?”

His gaze was sharp. “If the sheep themselves aren’t marked, I suggest you find some way to identify them. The commonwealth is not responsible for any loss or damage due to mistaken ownership.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I will.”

The bald man hurried back through the archway, and she looked around. The buildings gave shade to the streets, which were wide and straight. Trees and flowers bloomed everywhere. People with felted skirts moved back and forth, men with important cloaks and basket hats, women with market baskets and swinging hoop earrings, girls with bangles, and boys with blocks of clay. Everyone was going somewhere. And people were leaning against every surface, resting in every shadow and talking. Loud and soft, laughter and shouting, pleading, and threatening. Everyone was making noise, making smells, taking up space.

Thirty thousand. What did it mean? There were more humans here than all the sheep in all the villages she could even think of, or imagine. Were all of these humans together, thirty thousand? Her hand crept to her throat and she felt her blood pounding through her neck.
Think about a million,
she thought.
Now that’s a lot of humans. What could be a million?
Her head ached again.

“Make way for the judge. Justice Eli coming through!”

She turned to look. A man carrying a fan of feathers waved at the people walking. Behind him, on an onager, was a long-faced old one, and behind him many clean-faced boys with blocks of clay. The people were pushed out of the way, shouting and crying and protesting, as the man moved through them like water over rocks.

“Coming through! Justice on its way!” His entourage walked a little way farther, then past a large, black stone and beneath another brick arch.

She was still staring after them when the bearded man touched her on the shoulder. “Catching a little of the local color, I see. Well come on, female. We have many things to do today. Kalam,” he said to the man who followed them. “Make a list. It will take a while to prepare her to meet the
lugal.
Have the copper tub readied, a hairdresser and makeup artisan waiting, and send someone to the women’s atelier.”

“The one by the harbor, sir?”

“No, I think the one by the Temple of Sin is much better. Send a collection. And the lapidary? Where is he?”

“Working at the north entrance today.”

“Fetch some ear things, whatever they are called.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What time is my next appointment?”