Abraham and Sarah (5 page)

Abram didn’t answer but calmly helped Terah to his feet and stood holding his arm to steady him. Terah looked at his son with pride. Even in the midst of this emergency Abram was dressed in every aspect like the Sumerian dignitaries. His robe had as many fringes as theirs, and he wore it as they did—fastened on one shoulder with his right arm bare.

When Abram spoke, he was calm, and his voice rang with decided authority. “We’ll have to leave immediately. I have the mules ready. The women and our men are waiting for us outside the city.”

“But how will we go? How can we leave?” Nahor was terrified. “It won’t be safe to leave now.”

Abram helped Terah mount the mule he’d brought as he said, “Terah knows the plan. We’ll have to go to our grazing land up the river where I have put in supplies. We have to hurry or it will be too late.”

“The gates will be closed,” Nahor said as his teeth chattered in fear.

“You’re right. We have to hurry,” Abram said, not bothering to remind Nahor that he had urged him to leave a fortnight ago.

On every side people were screaming in panic and pushing their way through the narrow streets looking for children and family. Others, still curious, were crowded onto the rooftops or clustered on the steps leading to the top of the wall. The smell and feel of terror were everywhere.

“Where’s Haran?” Abram shouted over the din as he was about to get on his own mule.

“He went to the market square to hear the news.” Nahor’s eyes were wide with fright, and his hands trembled as he tried to steady the mule.

“The market? Are you sure?” Abram’s voice registered alarm.

Terah nodded. “It was the news. He wanted to hear the news.”

Abram hesitated only a moment. He had to think fast. He couldn’t
leave without his brother, and yet to delay could mean they wouldn’t be able to get out. “Nahor,” he said, “you’ll have to take our father and be in charge. I’m going to look for Haran.”

Terah reached out toward his favorite son, and Nahor opened his mouth to object. But Abram gave both mules a sharp tap that sent them lunging in the direction of the western gate.

The streets were so crowded with people running, screaming, and carrying small children or household treasures that Abram couldn’t ride. He had to walk.

He headed out of the Karem, the familiar section of warehouses along the river, and plunged into the narrow lanes that wove in and out among the older, poorer houses. He came at last to the western gate. Already the soldiers were trying to close it but were finding it impossible. Too many people were pushing, elbowing, and shouting as they tried to get in to where they hoped to find safety. Abram breathed a sigh of relief. Nahor and his father would have been able to escape, and he hoped they were well on their way out of danger.

As he elbowed his way through the crowds, he came at last to the market. A veritable riot was in progress. Awnings were pulled down; storage bins gaped open; the baker’s oven held only dying coals; the potter’s wheel was still. People fought over every morsel of food, and Abram realized they were at last preparing frantically for a long siege.

He climbed up on a low wall and looked around. If Haran were in the market, he should be able to see him. Instead he saw one of the cheese makers named Urim. “Have you seen Haran?” he shouted over the uproar but was drowned out by another blast of the trumpets from the ziggurat. They sounded wild and discordant, a warning that the walls were about to be breached.

Abram fought his way through the crowd but found that Urim had disappeared. He felt himself carried along helplessly with the force of the crowd down the main street toward the walled-in temple area. He realized the people were fleeing to the one place they thought was secure, Nanna’s temple and holy mountain. He also realized that was the first place the Elamites would ravage if they could. To conquer the holy mountain and take the king and the image of Nanna captive would be to win the city with very little effort.

Glancing around, Abram spotted Urim again. He was shouting to him from the rooftop of one of the houses that overlooked the great gate leading into the temple area. While Abram struggled to hear, he found himself suddenly
pulled out of the crowd and pushed halfway up the steps leading to the roof. The noise was deafening, and he could only nod his thanks.

From his new vantage point he could see and hear everything. It was no longer the sound of their own trumpets that rent the air. It was the crude, eerie blast of Elamite rams’ horns. The strident wail was ominous and penetrating. It seemed to rush at the frantic people from all directions. Then above the wailing of the horns came the bloodcurdling shout of victory. It was as he had feared. The Elamites had breached the walls and were inside the city.

Immediately people pushed and struggled to reverse their direction. They had come face to face with Elamites, who advanced with poised spears ready to strike.

In wave after wave they came, their bare feet stomping on the hard-packed earth while here and there standards were raised to show the moving horde where next to attack. Most frightening was the inhuman sound of their hoarse voices thundering their victory chant.

With surprising swiftness they had raised their standard above the bronze gates to the temple area, and the barbaric hordes plunged onto the holy ground of temples, palaces, and ziggurat with no regard for its sanctity.

Abram stood and watched in amazement as the rough Elamite tribesmen swarmed over the ziggurat. They quickly climbed the steps that led to the first level, then on they rushed to the next until they had climbed the one hundred steps to the holy shrine at the top. They started tearing off the wooden doors covered with heavy gold and inlaid with agate and lapis lazuli. They snatched up the golden vessels, spilled the priceless incense and spices, smashed the delicate instruments for observing the stars, and fought over the ornate robes of the priests.

A gasp of horror went through the crowd as jubilant, strutting trumpeters, followed by a band of taunting standard bearers, advanced in front of three men carrying the sacred image of Nanna. Divested of royal robes, the god now looked like a plump, somewhat dumpy carving of cypress wood.

Though Abram had long recognized the idols for what they were, even he was astounded. How was it possible that the great Nanna, who was believed to be the all-powerful god of divination, decider of human fate, controller of the moon with its growing and shrinking, could be so unceremoniously hustled out the gate by young beardless vandals? It was an unthinkable affront to all that the citizens of Ur held dear.

Amid ribald jokes and obscene antics, one of the captains dragged Ibbi-Suen, the exalted king of Ur and greater Sumer, out to stand before the mob. He was blindfolded and in chains, tormented and spat upon.

Abram had seen enough. While the attention was focused on the events at the gate, he could move quickly to find Haran. He turned and thanked the cheese maker, then made his way down the steps. He dodged in and out among the fleeing people, pushing his way along the wall until he reached a small door. Some instinct told him that he would find Haran within the temple area. There Haran had studied the stars as did Abram, and he had enjoyed talking to the learned dignitaries of the various temples and palaces.

Once inside, Abram sought shelter behind a freestanding pillar in the great open courtyard. He noticed with surprise that only a few Elamites guarded the palace, the courtrooms, and the entire temple area. Here and there he could see some of their brigands pulling down walls or hurrying off with golden urns, brass lamps, and jars of oil and incense.

Most of the fierce-visaged Elamites had swarmed out to wreak destruction on the private homes of Ur. They had bigger things in mind than to bother themselves with one unarmed man. However, Abram intended to be careful. With a quick, cautious look around, he headed for the ornate temple at the foot of the ziggurat. Haran was most likely to have fled there with his friends.

The god was supposed to descend to this temple from time to time, and it was here the people usually came to worship. Abram stood just inside the gate and viewed the carnage in the open courtyard. Men lay everywhere, sprawled just as the Elamite swordsmen had left them. Their faces were still streaked with ashes of contrition and their clothes were rent in penance. The whole city had rapidly become a boiling cauldron of disaster.

Inside the temple it was dark and ominously empty. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw a fearful sight. The alabaster and diorite idols that used to sit on ledges around the wall had been pushed off and smashed. The rare jewels that had been eyes or ornamental decorations had been stolen. These were the idols that had been donated by various merchants because they were too busy to come often to the temple.

The niche where the god used to stand gaped open with its embroidered curtain torn. Everything of value had been carried off. And Haran was nowhere to be seen.

At the temple of the goddesses Ningal and Inanna, where Sarai had endured her ordeal, Abram saw that the high priestess of Inanna lay where she had fallen on the broad steps. She was stripped of jewelry, wig, embroidered slippers, and ornate girdle. Blood still ran from where she had been stabbed, and her eyes stared—glazed and wide with alarm—up into the glare of the afternoon sun. Lying near her were the women known as devotees of the temple, servants of the goddess and sellers of their charms as a sacrifice to the goddess.

He edged past the carnage and went inside. The idol was gone, but before the niche lay the high priestess of Ningal. She was no longer a creature of fearful power and control. The hair with the curling snakeskins had been a wig, which she now clutched in one hand as though she had been ready to put it on. Her clothes had been ripped and torn so that her aged body was exposed. Her bald head still spurted blood. The eyes were open and staring with a look of terror that belied her supposed strength.

Abram could hardly believe this wasted fragment of a woman could ever have presented such a terrifying visage. How could her curses have seemed so frightening? The odor here was rank, and he had to cover his nose as he hurried back out into the sunlight.

Just to one side of the door, piled one on top of the other like sacks of grain, were the eunuchs. Only one young man lay apart from the rest at the base of the worn steps. Abram fell back, shielding his eyes from the fearful sight. He recognized the boy; he had known his father. It was the same youth who during the spring festival had danced in such ecstasy before the statue of the goddess that when handed the sacrificial knife, he had castrated himself. The crowd had roared its approval while the father had been held in disgrace for turning pale and vomiting.

Abram turned away. Haran wasn’t to be found there either. In a frenzy of fear he approached the Dublal-makh, the great double gate that opened onto the large courtyard surrounding the ziggurat. Cautiously he crossed the Sacred Way and began to climb the stairs. For the first time he felt there was something depressing about the two lower terraces being stained black with bitumen and the third a dull red. The shrine at the top was of blue brick that on clear days blended in with the color of the sky.

He had to dodge back and forth to avoid stepping on the naked bodies of the priests who had been killed and robbed of their fine garments. He was seized by a growing apprehension that he would never find his brother alive.
If indeed Haran had sought refuge in the temple area, there was almost no chance of his having escaped. Abram quickened his climb, reaching the first level just as some Elamites appeared along the parapet.

Before he could slip into one of the small rooms, they saw him. A fierce-looking little man drew his sword and rushed at him. There was no time to think. Instinctively Abram grabbed the man’s upraised arm and with a tremendous wrench twisted the sword out of his hand. It fell clattering to the tiles, and both men tussled and struggled to reclaim it.

Abram saw that the rest of the men were loaded down with treasures they had taken from the storeroom and were not willing to join in the fight. They rushed past and down the steps, leaving Abram and the Elamite to fight it out. With one swift lunge Abram recovered the sword and whirled around just in time to see the Elamite preparing to spring at him. He raised the sword in both hands and brought it down with all of his might. He had never before wielded a sword. He had been a merchant, not a mercenary. He had never known the sound of metal cleaving a man’s skull or the feel of a sword cutting into soft flesh.

For a moment Abram was stunned. The enemy had been stopped in midair with the grimace of hate still on his face and his lips still moving with inaudible curses.

The thrust had swung Abram off balance, and as he regained his footing, still clutching the embedded sword, he felt a wave of euphoria. That was quickly followed by revulsion as he saw the sweaty upturned face leering at him, mouth open, displaying malodorous rotting teeth.

With a great effort he pulled the sword loose and stared at the blood dripping from the tip. He had to wipe it off. To be rid of the ugly man’s blood was, he hoped, to be rid of the memory of his face and the surge of fear he had felt when the man lunged at him.

With a grimace of disgust he reached down for a loose end of the man’s tunic, and with slow deliberation he wiped off the sword. He must keep the sword. He might need it again. He cringed at the realization that the handle was still warm and damp with the other man’s sweat.

As he moved along the high terrace, he realized how fortunate he was to be alive. The soldiers had killed everyone they encountered.

He went from one prone body to another. Here a young man had fallen carrying a scroll. There an old man had flung up his hands in horror as he was
run through with a javelin. Over and over again Abram was thankful to find that Haran was not among the fallen ones.

Finally he came to the back terrace where he saw a terrible sight. A man, faintly familiar, dressed much as Haran would have dressed, had been stabbed in the back as he looked down over the wall into the courtyard below. With great foreboding and dread, Abram approached the still figure. Even before he turned the body over, he knew it was Haran.