by Jean Echenoz
Once on site, Herodotus collects information. He would like to know in particular how the inhabitants went about constructing such a monumental city. First off, they explain to him, they dug ditches and then shaped and baked the earth into bricks. And that’s how they began, by building the walls of Babylon: layers of bricks cemented with bitumen and separated at every thirtieth course by lattices of woven reeds. The reeds aren’t a problem, they can be found just about everywhere; as for the bitumen, no need to look far for that: eight days’ journey on foot from the city, the Is, a small affluent of the Euphrates, spits out gobs of it at its source.
As much an explorer as he is a historian, Herodotus also assures us that the city’s ramparts are so wide that a four-horse chariot may pass along the top. There again we’re not much enlightened, however, for Ctesias of Cnidus—physician to the king of Persia, whose court spends several months a year in Babylon—claims for his part that two chariots can pass each other there without any difficulty. Strabo will say the same thing, but Diodorus of Sicily cites several authors who estimate that as many as six of these quadrigae could travel abreast there. Such increasing extravagance cannot be taken seriously anymore, so again, let’s move on. In any case, these outer ramparts designed to enclose the city, to absolutely armor-plate it, are backed up by other high walls, just as solid but a little less wide.
At the heart of one of the two sectors of Babylon is the palace of the king; at the heart of the other is a temple devoted to the principal deity and above which a tower supports another tower surmounted by a third tower and so on, up to eight towers girdled by a spiral ramp rising to an oratory furnished with a golden table and a bed. No one spends the night in this bed except, Herodotus is solemnly assured, the principal deity himself in the company of a local woman, but these hearsay stories—the explorer doesn’t believe a word of them. As for the great temple of this god, we won’t dwell on the tons of gold in its furnishings (throne, pedestal, statues) and the tons of incense burned every year for his festival and the two altars for animal sacrifice—one for young animals, another for older ones—and the huge quantities of offerings given by private individuals: forty liters of wine, fifty liters of flour, forty ewes, every day.
Let’s keep going, for it’s easy to imagine that Herodotus is exaggerating again about these offerings, unless, having acquired only the barest rudiments of Akkadian, he has not clearly understood what was explained to him during his stay in Babylon. As it happens, these offerings appear on the contrary rather meager when compared to the daily menu prepared, not far away and during the same period, for other local gods (648 liters of barley and spelt for the making of bread, cakes, and pancakes; 648 liters of choice dates, premium dates, dried figs, and raisins; 21 fine barley-fed sheep, 4 milk-fed superlative sheep, 25 ordinary sheep, 2 oxen, 1 suckling calf, 8 lambs, 20 turtledoves, 3 geese, 5 superlative ducks fed on poultry mash, 2 ordinary ducks, 3 duck eggs, and 3 ostrich eggs, all of this washed down with 216 liters of beer and wine) and therefore served, every day, in the temples of Uruk, a city 125 miles to the southeast of Babylon and likewise built on the shores of the Euphrates.
Swift, wide, and deep, the Euphrates cuts Babylon into two sectors in which the straight thoroughfares, running parallel or perpendicular to the river’s course on a grid layout, are bordered by houses of three or four stories, the roofs of which, in a country unused to rain, are not made of hard materials. Within the city, the Euphrates flows between high walls and all streets leading to the river gain access to the embankments through portals of the same bronze from which the great city gates were cast. Impetuous as well, capricious, subject to worrying floods, the Euphrates had posed a few problems for Babylon that Herodotus asserts were solved by the two queens Semiramis and Nitocris, one after the other. As for these queens, to begin with, although the reign of Semiramis is a familiar story, one cannot say the same for Nitocris, whose existence is much hazier, even though she is the one in the libretto of Handel’s Belshazzar who urges the more historically secure Balthazar to consult the prophet Daniel. There also appears to have been a phenomenon peculiar to Babylonian royalty: the queens were said to be the ones who, in male dress, wielded power, controlled construction, and waged war, while a number of effeminate and lazy kings preferred lives of indolence and debauchery, Sardanapalus being the model of this genre.
In any case, as the story goes, first the pugnacious and construction-minded Semiramis had great embankments built on the plain near Babylon to control the flooding of the Euphrates. Later, Nitocris built dikes to make the straight-flowing Euphrates more tortuous—sinuous enough to wind three times past the same village—in order to slow down its waters, confine them to the riverbed, and thus prevent flooding in the countryside. Then Nitocris had a vast artificial lake dug upstream of the city to absorb any overflow from the Euphrates. By chance—or not at all by chance—this lake and these river bends play a defensive role: they complicate the job for neighboring peoples suspected of taking too close an interest in Babylon by prolonging their spies’ journeys down the Euphrates, forcing them to take several detours at the end of which they must emerge, exposed to all eyes, upon the lake.
This supposed queen Nitocris, whom Herodotus is perhaps confusing with the wife of Nebuchadnezzar—or even with Nebuchadnezzar himself—took advantage of these projects to also simplify traffic in the city. Since the riverbanks were unstable, folks had to cross from one half of the city to the other by boat, which wasn’t always so convenient. So while the queen was diverting the Euphrates to fill up the new lake, thus drying up the riverbed dividing Babylon for a while, she set to work there. She lined the Euphrates’s banks within the city and the landing places at the river gates with baked bricks to make the comings and goings of the citizens much easier.
After this, eagerly continuing her urban improvements, Nitocris joined the two halves of the city with a bridge more than a hundred yards long made of stone blocks bound together with clamps of iron and lead—stone blocks she’d had cut during the digging of the lake and brought down from the north, for there is nothing of a mineral nature around Babylon but clay, sand, and mud. Once this work was done, the Euphrates was released into its former bed and the citizens pronounced themselves delighted with this new bridge, of which, for safety’s sake, only the piers were made of stone. Again, for safety, square wooden platforms were laid out across these piers during the day and then removed at night so that nocturnal prowlers from the newer western sector could not steal from people asleep in the eastern neighborhoods.
After the Euphrates resumed flowing, river traffic returned to the city. Well, in Babylon, the boats are really unlike any others and they amaze Herodotus, who has never seen the like. And in fact they are round, with neither stem nor stern, and covered all in leather. Constructed in the north, where there are trees, once their framework has been woven of willow branches, sheathed in skins, and those then stuffed with straw, they are launched to float at the mercy of the river. Their main cargo is jars of wine, accompanied by a donkey and two men with paddles standing upright to steer the boat. These boats being of various sizes, Herodotus claims that the largest can carry up to thirteen tons, which seems like a lot. Only another kind of boat, a raft floated by large buoys, can bear such a weight, but the explorer doesn’t mention this craft in his notes, in his zeal, perhaps, to astonish his readers with his report of round boats. And when these reach Babylon, the men sell the wine, the straw, the willow wood, and then load the skins on the donkey and walk back home to start all over again.
They doubtless have no trouble selling their wood, for there don’t seem to be many trees at all around the city: not the slightest olive or fig tree, not one vine. Only the palm abounds, growing everywhere and serving for everything, providing Babylonians with bread, wine, vinegar, honey, and flour, not forgetting its dates, its heart, and its use in the fabrication of clothing, furniture, pillars, and posts—which explains the Persian song, mentioned by Strabo, celebrating the 360 us
es of the palm.
Beyond the plain stretches the sterile desert, dotted with some sort of aromatic bushes and devoid even of the palm but inhabited by all sorts of wild animals one may venture to hunt. Although that isn’t so easy: a wild ass, for example, the meat of which is not unlike a more delicate venison, runs faster than a horse, and hunters must chase it in relays to have a hope of bagging one. The too-fleet ostrich is uncatchable, aided in its escape by its wings, which it uses as sails. The bustard is more accessible, for its flight is short and the bird is soon fatigued, but the taste of its flesh is well worth the hunter’s own fatigue. (Information furnished by Xenophon, a fellow less given to anecdotes than Herodotus but also less entertaining.)
On the other hand, throughout the alluvial plain surrounding the city and even within its precincts, the soil is wonderfully fertile. Although it rarely rains in this region, the system of irrigation invented by the Babylonians permits a considerable production of cereal crops: barley, several kinds of wheat, and other grains. Herodotus doesn’t hesitate to claim that the soil produces up to three hundred times what is sown. He exaggerates, as usual: he knows we know he does that, so, persuaded in advance that no one will believe him, he doesn’t bother mentioning just how high the sesame or millet stalks can grow. And it’s true that he’s been caught, now and then, embellishing certain things: Plutarch figured it would take several books to inventory his lies whereas Aulus Gellius coldly dismisses him as a pathological liar.
But Herodotus doesn’t give a damn, coming and going in the meantime, walking about in the streets of the city and its environs, looking all around, gathering information, trying in his clumsy Akkadian to talk with the people he meets, among whom is Tritantaichmes, the satrap of Babylon at the time of his visit, who speaks to Herodotus in particular about the administration of the city. One tries to imagine the explorer taking in this information, inscribing it in his memory before transferring it to papyrus or marking it on clay tablets rectoverso, as the Babylonians do, who keep them as is or, to be on the safe side when the information is important, have them baked.
It is perhaps this Tritantaichmes himself, moreover, whom Herodotus takes as a model to describe the attire of Babylonian men: heavily perfumed, they are shod in the Boeotian style, wear a tunic of linen under another of wool, a light white cloak, a tall headdress like a miter on their long hair, and carry a staff topped with a carved apple, rose, lily, eagle, or some other ornament. And nothing prevents us, either, from imagining this man, dressed in this fashion, deep in discussion with the explorer while having a little beer that one drinks with a straw, as everyone knows they do in Babylon whenever they can and even, eventually—a terra-cotta relief attests to this, preserved in the Musée du Louvre—while having sex.
Speaking of which, there is one Babylonian custom the explorer views with a most critical eye: the requirement that every woman go to a temple to prostitute herself. True, she must perform this duty only once in her life and can then go home, but this system still displeases Herodotus. It displeases him all the more in that it isn’t fair: there’s a double standard, because while pretty women can swiftly acquit themselves of this task and go on home, this isn’t at all the case for the ugly ones, who have a lot of trouble finding a taker and must remain in the temple, sometimes for several years, until they complete their mission. And that Herodotus doesn’t like.
He entirely endorses, on the contrary, another institution perfected in Babylon and which concerns marriageable girls. Now this system—he thinks it’s perfect. The girls are brought to a marketplace, he explains, to be auctioned off, the prettiest first and then the others in descending order of loveliness, on condition that the buyer marry the one he acquires—with the guarantee that he can return her if they don’t get along, and in this case get his money back. Thanks to the funds obtained by the sale of the beauties, handsome dowries are bestowed on the homely ones who are then auctioned off to general satisfaction. It seems, however, that this custom is falling into disuse, which Herodotus thinks is a shame—but it’s not impossible that he simply witnessed an ordinary slave auction and didn’t understand one iota of it.
The only problem with him is he sometimes goes too quickly, so that certain developments, certain details vital to the understanding of his story occasionally go missing. And although he may feel these details are of minor interest, he is certainly nowhere near imagining that out of all the contemporary accounts of a trip to Babylon, only his will remain in the history of the world. Were he to imagine this, he might perhaps try at times to be a little more precise, unless, faced with such a perspective, appalled by such a heavy responsibility, he might prefer to drop the whole thing.
TWENTY WOMEN IN THE JARDIN DU LUXEMBOURG, CLOCKWISE
SAINT BATHILDE, QUEEN OF France, holds in her left hand a manuscript entitled Abolitio servitutis and grasps the left edge of her mantle with her right hand. Coiffure: two braids pinned up in the back. Jewelry: a cross pendant. Expression: determined.
Berthe or Bertrade, queen of France, holds a scepter in her right hand and a damaged statuette of a seated man in the palm of her left hand. Coiffure: two very long double braids. Jewelry: nothing to report. Expression: resolute.
Queen Mathilde, duchess of Normandy, holds a scepter ornamented with fleurs-de-lis in her right hand and with her left grasps the hilt of a sword resting point down on the ground. Coiffure: two braids pinned up in the back. Jewelry: nothing to report. Expression: confident.
Saint Geneviève, patron saint of Paris, crosses her arms at her waist. Her right hand holds a small parchment; the left one grasps the right side of her mantle. Coiffure: two very long asymmetrical braids. Jewelry: a medal pendant. Expression: thoughtful.
Mary Stuart, queen of France, holds a book in her left hand—which is missing two fingers—and in her right she grasps that side of her mantle. Coiffure: curly medium-length hair framing her face. Jewelry: a necklace. Expression: nostalgic.
Jeanne d’Albret, queen of Navarre, holds a stylet in her right hand and a rolled parchment in her left. Coiffure: short curly hair. Jewelry: nothing to report. Expression: inspired. Presence of large breasts.
Clémence Isaure, whose right hand lies on what looks like an armrest and whose left shoulder leans back against a tree trunk, stands with one hip cocked and her raised left hand holding an unidentified object attached to a cord wrapped around her wrist. Coiffure: hair parted down the middle. Jewelry: a two-strand cross pendant necklace. Expression: lost in thought.
Anne Marie Louise d’Orléans, duchess of Montpensier, holds a pair of gloves and a beribboned baton of office in her right hand and graciously extends the left one, allowing a fold of her gown to hang draped over her forearm. Coiffure: hair in ringlets down to her shoulders. Jewelry: nothing to report. Expression: indifferent.
Louise de Savoie, regent of France, points toward the ground with the broken index finger of her right hand, which holds an equally damaged oblong object, and with her left hand slightly raises a fold of her gown. Coiffure: hair pulled back beneath a long head scarf. Jewelry: nothing to report. Expression: imperious.
Marguerite d’Anjou, queen of England, also points the index finger—intact—of her right hand toward the ground, her left arm holding close a child who hugs her, standing on his tiptoes. Coiffure: invisible beneath a complicated headdress. Jewelry: nothing to report. Expression: proud but careworn.
Laure de Noves, whose forearms are crossed over her abdomen, holds a folded paper in her right hand and the left side of her mantle in her left. Coiffure: short, frizzy curls. Jewelry: a necklace. Expression: resigned.
Marie de Médicis, queen of France, holds a scepter in her left hand and dangles a handkerchief from her right. Coiffure: curly hair puffing out at the temples. Jewelry: nothing to report. Expression: less than amiable.
Marguerite d’Angoulême, queen of Navarre, her left forearm slanting up across her bust, tips her left index finger back just beyond the point of her chin, while the right arm
resting along her waist droops at the hand holding a daisy bouquet of four marguerites. Coiffure: short, frizzy curls. Jewelry: a two-strand necklace. Expression: pleasant but affected.
Valentine de Milan, duchess of Orléans, grasps a fold of her gown with her right hand while the left one holds a hefty volume bound with metal fittings, the title of which is partly hidden by her wrist. Coiffure: medium-length hair. Jewelry: nothing to report. Expression: dubitative.
Anne de Beaujeu, regent of France, crosses her arms at her waist, her left hand supporting her right forearm, her right hand prone. Coiffure: invisible beneath the small cap under her crown. Jewelry: nothing to report. Expression: aloof without arrogance.
Blanche de Castille, queen of France, holds in her right hand a long baton leaning against her shoulder; pressed against her waist, her left hand contains a damaged and therefore unidentifiable small object. Coiffure: invisible beneath a crown and head scarf. Jewelry: nothing to report. Expression: distant but dignified.
Anne d’Autriche, queen of France, lets her arms hang by her sides, holding a scepter in her left hand and, partly unrolled in the right one, a parchment bearing the drawing of a building. Coiffure: shoulder-length curly hair gathered into a chignon. Jewelry: nothing to report. Expression: good-natured, a touch bewildered. Presence of large breasts.
Anne de Bretagne, queen of France, holds up both sides of her mantle with her left hand and in her right holds a set of tasseled cords at shoulder height. Coiffure: invisible beneath the small cap under her crown. Jewelry: nothing to report. Expression: stubborn.
Marguerite de Provence, queen of France, whose arms hang slackly over her abdomen, grasps large folds of her mantle in her crossed hands. Coiffure: hair parted down the middle framing her face. Jewelry: a cross pendant. Expression: patient.
