Ishtar

by Deborah Biancotti

  I knew that Ishtar was not frightened of the threat of a mortal man. But she liked that he made it.

  “Feed your men. Rest them. I will look after mine.”

  Ishtar sought advice from her father, the moongod, on how to manage the stillborn army. “They are beyond your powers now. All you are is the creator. They will march until their feet are worn to nubs. They will fight until they have nothing but a head and torso. Then they will bite into the enemy’s thigh and sink their teeth in; to remove them, you will have to cut them out.”

  “Why did I create them?” Ishtar berated herself. She could show weakness with her father. I had seen her weak before. I stood beside her, hoping to give her strength, but she flicked her arm at me as if I were a fly she barely noticed.

  “You thought you could control them. You thought you could control war. But blood-lust is all engulfing.”

  “This is about land, not blood.”

  “All war is blood-lust, daughter. Each death becomes part of the next.”

  “They were supposed to fight on my side. Defend Sumer.”

  “They are on no one’s side. They fight simply because they want to.”

  “I was not the one to create them. It was Gula who revived them.”

  “And now you have learnt never to trust another god.”

  Ishtar said, “I am the heart of the battle. The arm of the warriors.” After her conversation with her father, she ordered bodies and logs lain across the river, telling her army, “You won’t get your feet wet.”

  On the other side, the enemy waited, lulled into a false sense of security by the army’s long pause on the opposite bank.

  Gilgamesh and Ishtar spoke quietly to their armies, asking for stealth. They spoke of the evil enemy, the cruelties, how a loss would spell the end of the world as they knew it. Ishtar’s army didn’t care. They had decided en masse that they would cross the water, and for them the time for talking had passed.

  Taken by surprise, man by man the enemy were run through, throats bitten, hearts ripped out. Just the touch of one of those stillborn soldiers was enough to turn the blood grey. When it spilled, it sat sluggish and dusty, attracting the flies.

  The stillborns suffered some wounds but they shrugged off the loss of a limb as if it were an interesting itch. They knew that before long, new limbs would grow.

  Our army, our living army, followed afterwards, finishing off the enemy. There was little joy in it for them and they knew they were not covered in glory.

  They raped at will to place their seed. Was there ever a conquering army who did not do this? But at least those women were spared rape by the stillborns. Imagine that seed; it would destroy the womb for future children. I shuddered to watch them. They didn’t defecate or urinate and they showed no interest in the women or the children, even those naked, tied spreadeagled, even those wet with blood and open for penetration.

  This was not the first and would not be the last time a river ran with blood. This time though, the colour of it was enough to send nightmares to your grandchildren; grey.

  We washerwomen walked the battlefield, collecting discarded, filthy clothing. Nothing went to waste. Ishtar and the armies marched ahead, leaving us to the smell of death, the awful debris left behind.

  I saw limbs and other pieces of flesh, but these we left behind. I did not want to think about some of those pieces, the ones chopped off the stillborns, wriggling, pasty and slick.

  The stillborn army moved amongst us, collecting their body parts. I didn’t like to think what they would do with them. The stillborn washerwomen moved slowly, but the strength in them was enormous. They washed without water, simply squeezing the garment until the dirt dripped out, as dry as the Underworld.

  That army marched almost without rest, pausing only when they reached a town or village to devour like a plague of locusts. Only the rats were left behind. The people were used to going hungry, but this took them to death.

  There was sustenance in a rat, but much sickness as well.

  In the path of war, as always, lay suffering women and children. Starving villages. In these places they had to make hard decisions. Some harvested the cereal when still green, and this grain, this abaḫšinnu, was used for bread that made the stomach ache. Harvesting early damaged the crops for the next year. Were we so hungry that we would eat the roots, thus ensuring starvation for generations to come?

  Since humans rose from Gula’s mud-stained hands, people have starved meal after meal in order to ensure food for the future. The army was starving. They made porridge from the pods of the thorn bush. But many plants were already lost to drought and what was left was soon depleted.

  It was only when the watermelons ripened on the vine that the hunger abated. Then there was fruit to eat, the juice cooling and quenching, the sweetness bringing smiles.

  Even the stillborn can smile. When they did, that was the beginning of the end of the war. But Ishtar felt great tenderness for the war dead, great pity. After one battle she touched a thousand foreheads. She had been to the Underworld, so she knew what awfulness awaited them.

  Afterwards, she took her army to some caves she favoured and knew they would wait until she called them again.

  ****

  Gilgamesh buried a document in the foundations of Ishtar’s greatest temple. He said, “Words will last forever. No one will have to guess at your name.”

  Ishtar was bored by records and rolled her eyes. “I want bodies in there. That’s how I’ll be remembered.”

  Gilgamesh insisted, though. “There have been enough sacrifices in war, don’t you think?”

  For Ishtar, there was never enough sacrifice. As grateful as she may feel for the dead, as filled with pity for the loss, there was never enough.

  Gilgamesh was very keen on inscriptions and documents. He would have them carved on stone or metal, on marble, on gems and on bronze plates, but mostly on clay.

  Preparing the clay to write on was an art in itself. First it had to be ground to powder, then mixed with water and moulded into tablet shape. Slightly curved. Once it was dried in the sun, it could be inscribed upon. Ishtar thought it a waste of time.

  What a mess that clay created! It clogged the water and made our washing difficult.

  Gilgamesh ordered a five-year count of our busy city, because he liked to know what he owned. Forty thousand people, or a number close to that. But people distrusted being counted. It did his reputation little good.

  Gilgamesh lived in a mud-brick tower, so he saw the great sprawl when he looked out of the skin-covered windows. People didn’t like his tower. The hunters and gatherers in particular hated it; they had paid for it in trade taxes. It stood tall, reaching for the gods, and with its many rooms, its lavish decorations, it was built with great skill and cunning.

  The moment Ishtar’s new temple was built, people came to feed the gods dishes of honey, rolled sweets, balls of savoury, and dishes of hommos. They wanted blessings.

  Ishtar was annoyed. “Does no one feed me out of pure love? Do they all want my blessing? Or a boon?”

  The sangaresses bowed their heads. “We are here because we love you, Ishtar. We want nothing but to be allowed to love you.”

  Ishtar chose to believe her priestesses, but she would test them along the way.

  Gilgamesh came more often than he openly admitted. In disguise. He watched Ishtar, the great goddess of war who had helped him to a great but costly victory. He was grateful to her, entranced, so smitten he forgot how she treated her lovers when she tired of them.

  “You are so regal,” Gilgamesh said, and Ishtar and I knew that meant he finally adored her, as all men should. “You make all the demons vanish with your smile.”

  “My sister lost her virginity to a demon,” Ishtar said, though I knew of no sister-loving demon. I sensed a trick, and it made me smile. She was clever, my goddess. She could have anything.

  Ishtar closed her eyes as if it was a difficult memory. But her lips had swollen, redde
ned, and her cheeks were heated. Gilgamesh could not help but move closer to her.

  “My sister and I caused our father some heartache when we were young. Even a god is not immune from difficult children. She was the leader; I was very accommodating then.

  “Our father had selected a husband for her: kind, old, wealthy. None of that mattered, of course, because love can come regardless. But we heard from his own washerwoman that he was endowed with a weapon the size of a little finger, and that it did not get hard, ever, ever, ever. We also heard that he did not believe in touching women tenderly with tongue or digits, and so my sister was faced with a lifetime of frustration.”

  Washing Ishtar’s underthings in soft water under the window, I listened proudly. Thank the washerwoman for that information! We know everything!

  Ishtar said, “She did not know how to express this to our father, because you do not talk about such things. Our mother did not talk of it. She gave us to believe it was her duty, that lovemaking was something to be endured. But we had heard her in their chamber, and her cries were not those of disgust.

  “My sister and I discussed this; that our mother was a sexual being, and perhaps she could understand. She was known for her gentleness throughout Sumer. She listened as my sister spoke, fumbling, then took her into her arms and tried to comfort her. ‘All men can be taught certain techniques,’ she said. ‘Once they realise how much pleasure they will receive from your pleasure.’

  “Our mother surprised us in this way, and my sister went into the marriage with some hope.

  “A demon will always know, though. A demon can sniff out uncertainty and considers it his duty to take the virginity of a woman like this. Perhaps to spoil her for the sad, dull lovemaking which will follow; who knows?

  “On my sister’s wedding night, we did not have a guard. Her new husband did not have young friends; his were too old to sit on the floor. So my sister laid waiting for him on a nest of a thousand pillows, her hair spread like silk around her, her body oiled, eyes closed. She thought of the goatherd she saw every morning, with his torn pants revealing muscular legs, his broad, bare chest, his sweat, and his dark, lustful eyes.

  “The demon sniffed her out. He appeared at the end of her bed, slim, muscular, his weapon hard like a club, reaching up stiffly to his stomach. He smiled at her; no demon wants to take an unwilling woman, as part of their pleasure is in the acquiescence. He touched her toe, stroked it with his forefinger, then drew his finger up her leg, so softly she thought it was a gust of wind. She did not want to open her eyes and ruin the picture she had, but the smell of him was so different, so unexpected, she had to look.

  “Using his thumbs, he stroked her thigh, her breasts, her shoulders, as if he were moving the flesh into a position he liked. She gasped, but already her breathing was too quick for her to speak. She knew what he must be. But the smell; of perfume dripped onto hot sand, of sweat — the sweetest, freshest sweat, was too much. He glowed. He kissed her and it was like eating a date dipped in honey. She was not sure if she breathed, but she must have.”

  Gilgamesh was torn, I could tell. He wanted Ishtar so powerfully, but my goddess could always spin a tale.

  “He clutched his fingers into the hair between her legs, combing it, tugging it, then he sank his thumbs inside her, spread her apart and bent his head to drink her juices. This is what she had imagined, exactly what she had dreamed, and she could not help the shudder which shook her whole body.

  “Meanwhile, her husband? The demon had sorted him out, sent him terrible stomach pains which had him crouched over the waste hole in agony. He would need to bathe well before coming to my sister, he knew that much at least.

  “My sister reached for the demon, wanting to feel his weapon. It was smooth, hard, silken. He held her chin and raised his eyebrows. Demons need an invitation; that is something we don’t usually tell you men. They will not enter without an invitation.

  “‘Please,’ she said. ‘It’s time.’

  “There was no pain. He was a gentle demon and he moved to fit her perfectly, so wondrously. ‘Remember this,’ he said, the only words he spoke. ‘Remember this.’

  “She would, too. Every night when her husband came to her, she would remember the demon and then she could manage to be a good wife.”

  Gilgamesh and Ishtar enjoyed each other greatly that night.

  Gilgamesh was weak for Ishtar and weak for death, too. He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t a god, why he wouldn’t live forever.

  Ishtar said, “Only Adapa refused immorality. When offered the bread of life, he didn’t take it.”

  “He thought it was the bread of death, didn’t he? And he was obeying the command of his patron, Ea. He made a mistake. I would not refuse.”

  Yet Gilgamesh failed when he had his chance. He found the bread of life, but set it down for a moment. A snake took it; slithered away with immortality, just like that. This is why, like Tammuz, the snake will shed its skin every year.

  Gilgamesh came back, not only having failed at grasping his chance at immortality, but with both ears bright red and deaf with infection. We ground the thorn bush to powder and applied this to his ears (our nurse did, at least. But I washed the bandages), and he was cured of the deafness if not of mortality. Ishtar comforted him, held him in his fury and sorrow, but later, to me, she confessed relief.

  “To spend eternity with him is too much to ask. He should know that and know my choices.”

  “Your choices?” I asked quietly.

  “I made the choice to house my army in the caves. That was a good choice.”

  “What else could you have chosen?”

  “Immortality for Gilgamesh or for you,” she said. I knew she joked but she took my rough, damaged hand. “I would choose you, Ninlil.”

  This was the first time she had used my name. She could only be telling the truth.

  “I could have chosen to house them in the Underworld, but I don’t want to be beholden. Especially not to her.”

  I will go down to the cedar forest...the jungle...I will open it.

  ~ Epic of Gilgamesh

  That is why Gilgamesh began his great adventures. Out of punishment, atonement. Anger at his own failure. He went into the Giant Hugeness, the King’s Forest, Ababu, with his friend, Enkidu, for wood to build Ishtar a house. Did he think to domesticate her? Did Enkidu suggest this to keep her trapped? Ha! A house the size of a city, with all the magic and attractions, all the food and drink, all the lovers and things to watch and running water, and all those things he imagined would not keep her there.

  For this he needed wood. This is the real reason he entered the forest. The Ababu.

  The forest was off limits to ordinary people. By mimicking actions of gods, Gilgamesh hoped to become one. Enkidu, too. Those two men, seeking what they could not have. Even the death of the Bull of Heaven could not grant them this desire.

  It was all to no avail, anyway. Enkidu died, and on his own deathbed, Gilgamesh shook with fear. “I don’t want to go to the Underworld.”

  “I’ll be there, my love,” Ishtar said. “I will come to visit you.”

  Of course, this was what he was scared of. Her very great power, that she could come and go in the Underworld as she pleased. He was scared that she could come to him whenever she chose, but that he did not have the freedom to get away.

  Those who said that Gilgamesh never succumbed to Ishtar’s charms were wrong. He had known she would tire of him. And so Gilgamesh sat in the Underworld, proof that there was a union. Ishtar knew he would be waiting for her.

  Time passed, and the world changed before another king was born whom Ishtar could love again. Whom she could make great.

  SARGON: 2270 BCE

  THE WASHERWOMAN SHAMIRAN

  It is the men who are remembered in history. Women are found as consorts and in cults.

  ~ The Washerwoman Shamiran

  I am not emotional like my ancestresses. I use my knowledge to record history, not my pl
ace in it. To tell the real story. Before me they remembered invention, adventure.

  I remember truth.

  Ishtar met Sargon when he was very young. A child. The cities all around were ever-watchful. She kept close by as he grew, waited until he was old enough.

  It was said Sargon was found drifting in a reed boat when he was a newborn. That a gardener adopted him, and that he was born in the land where herbs grow. Not all believed this; some thought he was the son of a simple farmer, with no king-like inheritances. Ishtar knew she would want him as a lover from the moment her eyes clasped on him, and that without her, he would not wage war as he should. She kept close by as he grew, waiting.

  He was not difficult to seduce. She dressed simply so as not to frighten him, drab robes clinging to her. She was covered with a light sheen of sweat. She had always sweated a lot. If I hadn’t rinsed her clothes out well they would have rotted. Her skin beneath glistened as if covered with fine sand.

  He didn’t have a hope of resistance.

  For the wedding of Sargon and Ishtar, the boats lined up for weeks in the docks. Most sailors like to use the Euphrates, with its lower banks and less violent floods. Life must be different along the Tigris, rough and fast as an arrow.

  They brought apples and cucumbers. They brought red carnelian to stop blood, should Ishtar fall pregnant or Sargon be injured at war. They brought lapis lazuli, the stone with which men dot their beards, twisted into dozens of tendrils, in order to seduce. I liked a man with a twisted beard. A beardless chin meant a lack of potency. Male slaves had shaved chins or beards too short to be twisted. Shaving an enemy’s beard shamed him.

  Men were funny about their beards. Grow another one! It didn’t matter how new the beard was, as long as there was one.

  There were female slaves on the ships as well, and I thought perhaps they were the strongest people aboard.