Angels at the Gate

by T. K. Thorne

  We leave the oasis too soon for me and head south, following the line of cliffs, banded in colors of spice, that rise to our right. On our left, the Dead Sea gleams in the harsh sunlight, its depths ending abruptly in green shallows as clear as dragonfly wings. We camp in caves set into the cliff walls. Father knows the ones that hoard fresh water in their hidden recesses.

  In the days that follow, we cross the broad, flat valley that wraps the southern end of the Dead Sea. The cliffs we leave behind are now hazed, and the eastern bluffs rise before us. Beyond their heights, toward the rising sun, stretches a desert and beyond it, the great cities of Babylon and Ur. Of course, no one is foolish enough to travel straight across the desert. The caravan route to Babylon and Ur lies along the Kings’ Road, following the great, verdant arch that begins in Egypt and ends in Babylonia. But this day, we go to Sodom for a load of pitch and salt to carry to Egypt.

  We come at last to Lot’s southern pastures. Fed by fresh waters from the east, this land is said to be as lush as the region tipping Egypt’s great river. As an experienced traveler, I say this is not so. Still, it is rich grazing and dotted with yellow, white, and red flowers eager to take advantage of spring rains.

  We set up tents for our return. The caravan will stay here. We take only what we need for the short journey to Sodom. As much as I want Nami with me, I decide to leave her at the tents, because I do not know how welcome she will be at Lot’s house. Besides, wild dogs—eaters of rats and garbage—roam city streets, and I do not want her mixing with them or getting into fights with a pack.

  Danel agrees to make certain Nami has food and water and a chance to relieve herself. I do not like trusting him, but we have talked more on the journey from Abram’s tents than we have my entire life, and he is my best choice.

  “I will return, Nami,” I tell her, but I have to tie her, as much as it pains me. She strains against the camel-hair rope as we leave. It is the first time she has not been at my side since her pups died, even when she belonged to Chiram. So far, I have not mentioned her change in status to my father, and I do not think Chiram has thought to, either. Why stir trouble into a pot already salted?

  We travel along the southern shore of the Dead Sea. When Sodom looms before us, I can also see Gomorrah in the distance. Lot has a house inside the city gates of Sodom. He insists that we be his guests. As we approach the main gate, we are careful to stay on the path. To our right are the charnel houses and shaft tombs of the dead. To the left, between us and the sea, pools of bitumen dot the rocky landscape. The stones glare white in the sunlight, a stark contrast to the black pitch they cup. Some call this the land of Mot, the underworld god.

  “Here is where King Bera fell, in the wars before your birth,” Lot instructs, as though I am a child bereft of any learning.

  I wrinkle my nose. I hope Bera died of a sword and did not drown in the slimy pits. It seems an unworthy death for a king trying to defend his people.

  We enter through the main gate. Two towers built on stone and wood foundations flank the gate and loom above us. The area just inside spreads out around a central well into a large open square, known as the Gate. All along the city’s wall, merchants sell wares, livestock, and food. Men and women crowd the area, as eager for the exchange of gossip as for the purchase and sale of goods.

  Roads radiate from the Gate, like spokes of a wheel, where the sellers of finer goods have more permanent structures or even houses for their merchandise. People, mostly of Canaan, fill the streets. I note some wearing the garb of Hittites and a couple of Hurrians, men of the Horse Tribes. Not long ago, Egyptians ruled here, but I see no sign of them now. My father says they are busy with their own problems, but that does not mean they will not turn their attention again to Canaan.

  Sodom prepares for the Spring Rites. Gold and red flowers adorn the women’s hair, and red ribbons gaily decorate slender asherah poles honoring the goddess.

  Many eyes turn to Mika and Raph, who are noticeable even in this crowd. I am busy watching the women who are busy watching Raph.

  Mika seems lost in his own thoughts. Raph bends to pluck a handful of dates from a basket set between the owner’s brown legs. The man looks up to protest, but as his gaze continues up, he seems to think better of it and waves his hand, as if it were his idea to offer dates to Raph, and in fact, Raph should help himself to more.

  Raph tosses him a small nugget of copper, more than fair compensation for a handful of dates, and turns to Lot. “Abram claims Asherah is El’s consort, but these people speak of a Baal?”

  I had not thought him interested in talk around us. From this, I tuck away the knowledge that he hears, even when he appears not to be listening.

  “Asherah is El’s wife,” Lot says, “but these people wrongly believe that she is Baal’s wife.”

  I am happy not to have to understand the intricate politics and pairings of the gods. Gods do what they wish. Should a son take his mother as wife in our human world, it would be considered an abomination. Sister and brother, of course, are another matter and almost common among royalty. Sarai and Abram are half-siblings. Still, the ways of Sodom are not the ways of my tribe.

  As if in agreement, a small brown dog, stinking of offal, barks at us from an alley. Aside from Lot, we are all strangers here.

  MY COUSIN’S HOME in the city is opulent, with several rooms. He is a wealthy, influential man, thanks in large part to Abram’s generosity. Of course, Sodom is not Ur or Babylon, and it has not mastered the art of plumbing. The smells offend my nose, though I must endure them without the agonized facial expressions of my youth. Otherwise I risk my father’s pinch and a lecture. The hot wind shifts, making me thankful for the loose outer robe that offers protection from the burning sun.

  Mika and Raph must duck their heads to enter Lot’s house. “The area just inside the doorway is called the little gate,” I say, wishing to impress them with my knowledge. Perhaps they will realize I can be of more help than just as an interpreter, and they will decide to stay with us. At least, that is the dream in my head.

  Lot’s wife, Hurriya, waddles to the front room to meet us, her arms spread as wide as her hips. “Be welcome!” She is light-skinned and plump, her face rosy with sweat.

  Behind her are two women bearing bowls of water. They are introduced to Mika and Raph as daughters of Lot and Hurriya. I met them on a previous visit, but they paid little attention to me, and I had no particular interest in them. Lot has another daughter who lives elsewhere in the city with her own family.

  “Not yet married,” Hurriya says pointedly of her daughters, as she pours water from a pitcher into a bowl, making certain Raph and Mika hear. We sit on benches made of the same white limestone as the walls, and the daughters wash Mika and Raph’s feet, as is the custom for honored travelers and guests. I am last, as the youngest, and have to wash my own feet. Also, I get the dirty water.

  Hurriya, however, comes to me. “Be welcome to our house, son of Zakiti,” she says. She reaches down, taking my chin and cheek in one big hand and tilts my head. “Hmm,” she mutters, “a good thing such a flaw resides on a boy’s face and not a girl’s. A nose like that would take a flock of goats to buy a husband!”

  She laughs. Lot and his daughters smile. My father does not, nor do the honored guests. Raph looks confused, and I have never seen Mika smile at anything. I am surprised at the sting of her words. Father has told me the knot on the bridge of my nose is barely noticeable and that I will be a beautiful woman. Does Hurriya suspect something and wish to put her own daughters in a better light?

  Hurriya directs us to the interior courtyard where we sit on fine rugs. The floor in the other parts of the area—the domain of the chickens that wander freely about—is covered with fresh reeds. Hurriya leaves the door open to encourage a breeze, and my gaze finds a window at the far end of the room through which I can see the salt formations at the water’s edge and, beyond them, the sparkling surface of the sea itself. I remember my father’s warning whe
n I was old enough to want to wade into it.

  “Don’t taste it,” he said.

  Of course, I immediately did. It burned my mouth, and though I tried to hide my tears, my father laughed, knowing exactly what I would do. Then he pointed to one of the small, irregular white spires along the shore and quoted. “All her tears came to naught, leaving only a pillar of salt.” It was a saying I had heard all my life, but I was amazed to see the pillars of salt. What giant lady had wept so many tears to leave the dazzling white crystallized lumps, encrusted stones and salt towers, some as large as I? The wonder of it dried my own tears from the bitter bite of the water.

  “Did she cry into the water and make it so bitter?” I had asked.

  “My apologies,” Hurriya says, pouring hot tea from a copper vessel and pulling my attention back into the present. “There is no use in polishing copper when the sea belches pitch.”

  “What mean you?” Mika asks.

  “The Dead Sea releases … pungent odors.”

  “Mot’s farts,” Lot says.

  I laugh, but Hurriya looks annoyed.

  “A story told of pitch from sea?” Mika, normally quiet, has expressed curiosity about everything since entering Sodom. Instead of answering, Hurriya looks to her husband to explain, while she putters about seeing to our meal and comfort, assisted by a small young woman with skin the color of cinnamon. A slave brand marks her upper arm. She is not named and does not speak.

  “A true story you were told,” Lot says. “Pitch from the pits is used for mortar and waterproofing and such, but the sea produces a finer quality and more of it. The people of Egypt use it in the preparation of the dead.”

  Mika raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

  “I don’t know all the details. They wrap the bodies in linen. A secret mixture containing pitch preserves the cloth and what lies within it. Of course, only the wealthy can afford such an elaborate procedure. Abram says it is better to return to the dust from which we were made.”

  “How do harvest it from sea?” Mika asks.

  “It rises to the surface and floats, then the boatmen gather it. We often have unwelcome warning of this event through our noses.” He scrunches his face.

  I am still pondering why anyone lives here. Men will put up with anything for wealth, I decide. Not all the pitch in the world could replace a clean wind on my face.

  “And the copper—” Hurriya reminds him.

  “Ah yes.” Lot shrugs. “Everything tarnishes. No point in cleaning it—the green always returns. We normally stay away during this time, but I wanted to show you my home.”

  More, show off his home.

  We settle on the rugs, my mind as much taken with the quality of their weave as the heady smells of roasting lamb, heavily spiced with turmeric and cumin. The aroma intoxicates. Chiram is much stingier with his seasonings, as they are imported and costly.

  The younger daughter, who is several years older than I, presents the first platter, just as a dark shape bounds through the open doorway. Hurriya cries out in fright. The chickens squawk and flap, and Raph leaps to his feet, drawing a knife hidden in his robe. I had thought him unarmed, because most men wear their knives proudly displayed in their front sash.

  Waving her tail in tired pleasure, Nami trots to my side and collapses, panting. She knows she belongs to me, or I to her, and she was apparently not to be left behind, as evidenced by the piece of chewed strap dangling from her neck.

  Everyone has frozen, except Mika, who chooses a date that interests him and lifts it to his mouth. Hurriya sputters, unable to form words for her thoughts. Her daughters cling to each other, as if Nami might decide they looked tastier than the dates. She is a large dog.

  My father’s brows rise, and he looks at me.

  Raph’s shoulders settle, and he slides the knife back into its hiding place with a laugh. “I thinking wolf found us!”

  My father leans toward me. “What is this about, Adir? Why is Chiram’s dog here?”

  My first thought is to ask him why he is asking me why Chiram’s dog is here, but I swallow and decide truth is better served than a clever retort.

  “She is my dog, Father,” I say as humbly as I can, casting my gaze at his feet.

  A stolen glance reveals he is not impressed with my humility. “Your dog?”

  I nod, my fingers playing with the edge of my robe. Nami’s timing could not have been worse. As if she feels my attention on her, she lifts her head briefly and looks up at me, still panting, her mouth gaped in a pleased-at-myself smile, and I wonder at my initial assessment of her sense of humor. Does she know she is getting me into trouble?

  “Yes, Father. My dog.”

  “How could that be?” he demands.

  “I … bought her.”

  He scowls. The others sit in silence, unwilling to intervene. “With what?”

  “A goat.” I hate that my voice is small, but I also hate displeasing my father. I want him to be proud of me, but I seem to always be mangling that possibility.

  He sits back and takes a swallow of his tea. I glance again at his face, and hope sparks. Is the corner of his lip twitching?

  “And how did you obtain a goat, Adir?” he says without looking at me.

  My gaze flicks to Raph, who makes no attempt to hide his amusement. Mika chews the date thoughtfully, his face, as usual, unreadable.

  “I earned it, sir, instructing the messengers of El how to speak the southern dialect of Akkadian.”

  “This is true,” Raph offers. “He did earn the goat.”

  Father considers him and seems about to say something before changing his mind. I remember how furious he was to find me in their tent. Perhaps we will not have to enumerate how many visits I made, and he will assume the time he found me was the last.

  “It would please us if you let the creature stay,” Mika says, stunning me.

  Hurriya sputters again. “In my house? A dog—?”

  But Lot holds a flat hand in her direction, cutting off her protests as quickly as Father’s slicing gesture halts further discussion of an issue with me. “If it pleases El’s messenger, it pleases me—” He glares at his wife before adding, “—and those of my house.”

  She stiffens, but makes no further objection. The household is under the wife’s dominion, but a matter of guests takes precedence.

  With a dip of his head, Father acknowledges Lot’s graciousness. “My apologies for the disruption caused by my son.”

  Lot beams, looking to Mika for his approval, but the northman, in his usual manner, retreats to his inner self. He has no allegiance to social niceties.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Sodom’s sins were pride, gluttony, and laziness, while the poor and needy suffered outside her door.

  —Ezekiel 16:49

  WE SPEND THE NIGHT WITH Lot’s household. The following day, Chiram comes into the city and speaks with my father, who calls me to him. “Adir, the caravan requires my presence. I will return there with Chiram and will arrange for the pitch in exchange for our wine and oil as I leave, but scout the market here to see if there is anything else worth taking with us. I will send for you soon.” He gives me two small bags. One, I know has only a small finger ring or two of silver for my belt. The other has more, and I hide it in a fold of my robe.

  Proud to be entrusted to the task, I nod. “I will, Father.”

  He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I will tell Danel that your dog is with you.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  That afternoon I take Nami with me to scout the goods for sale along the gravel-and-sand streets of Sodom. Perhaps it is the flowers in the women’s hair or the ribbons, but soon I become inured to the city stench.

  Although I have worked with Nami to teach her the rudiments of herding, I wish to learn how to communicate better with her. There is no question in my mind she has received some training. Desert tribes raise such dogs with great care as companions and hunters. I just do not know her signals or th
e words she knows. I was delighted to find slapping my thigh brings her to my side … most of the time. She is alert to everything, but stays beside me if I signal her thus, unless a creature needing chasing dashes by. Then she has as much trouble with obedience as I. But, otherwise, if I stand still, she stands beside me, and if I walk or even run, she matches my pace with delight. The faster we go, the happier she is.

  I suppose we make a sight together, the lanky boy and attached desert dog. Several of the street vendors nod and wave at us, in a good mood because of the flux of people—and thus business—arriving for the Spring Rites. One even slips me a treat, a meat stick, which I share with Nami. With great care, she takes the offered morsels from my sticky fingers.

  Then I begin my duty to find bargains for trade. The cloth vendors are my favorite stops. Although I do not have skill with weaving, I know a fine work from a sloppy one and can tell where almost any cloth originates from the texture, dyes, and knotting.

  I eye the ruins of several buildings that have partially collapsed and wonder what caused such, and why they are not repaired. Sodom is not a sophisticated city, not like Ur or Babylon or the Egyptian port cities where rare items are to be found—ingots of gold, tin, or even cobalt blue glass, tortoiseshell jewelry, and elephant or hippopotamus ivory. I love the port cities—the smell of the sea and exotic spices. Here in Sodom, the displays are mostly locally grown food, weapons and pottery, although there is one vendor who has a few pieces of nice ebony from Egypt. Since we are headed there, I am not tempted. The main source of wealth for Sodom is the pitch which we are prepared to transport. Pitch, as Lot explained to Mika and Raph, is harvested from the sea where the water cools it into a gooey mass, but it also oozes up through the ground. The primary hazard of night travel from the city is not predators, but the likelihood of stumbling into a pit of pitch or one of the old grave-shafts, if you do not stay to the paths.

  I stop to watch a potter folding the edges of what is to be a small oil pot, admiring his skill. I do not have such a skill, though I have a good eye for what is well made, be it pottery, metal, or weavings.