But outside the temple, when you see a sunrise, taste the warmth of fresh bread, inhale the fragrance of the breeze from the sea; look at your child – do you feel Astarte’s presence then?
“I feel something, but it is not what I feel in the Temple. Perhaps what I feel is just the life force itself.”
Which is greater?
“The life force.”
And Baal? Is he a god of life or of death.
Clearly, he was a god of death. Bethena shuddered, remembering the sacrifice of her first born son. Because she had conceived as a temple maiden and was unmarried, there was no question that her son would be sacrificed to Baal-Malek at the next harvest festival.
Bethena had gone back to the country after her month in the temple. Amah and Melka had accompanied her. As her belly grew full, she ate and relaxed and gave herself over to life growing within her. The days passed in a gentle haze of sleeping, chatting and long slow walks beneath the dry blue skies. Then, a month before the baby came, Atrim, her Sire and her son’s Sire, the great over-king sent for her. Melka went back to Hazor with the messenger and explained Bethena’s condition to the king and begged his leave to attend him after the child was born. Atrim agreed.
The baby was a marvelous red-headed boy! A lucky child. Bethena nursed him herself. He was a sweet, good natured child, with big solemn black eyes. As they prepared to bring him to the city, the dread that she had been feeling throughout her pregnancy, threatened to overwhelm Bethena. She could no longer deny that he was to be sacrificed to Baal. That she had borne this sweet child to honor the god was one thing, but to have him be murdered before her eyes?
Melka tried to console Bethena, reminding her that this was the sacrifice of her first born male, for the good of the community and after this, all her sons would live; and surely, she would have many sons. Atrim would see to that. The festival and sacrifice were ten weeks hence, why not enjoy the child ‘till that time?
Atrim, though married, had taken Bethena as a concubine and came often to her suite of rooms in the palace. He too, tried to sooth her, and Bethena, though deeply troubled and oblivious to the royal attention and lavish surroundings, had done her best to do what was expected of her.
Now was the moment of truth, the day of the Festival. Bethena had barely slept and when Amah awakened her, she had cramps in her calves and an ache in her head she thought would split her skull open. She could not keep any food down, but rushed to be with her son. She held him and cooed and rocked him in her arms, sobbing and would not be comforted. Melka tried to apply make-up, but Bethena laughed at the absurd idea.
“You are royalty. Your sacrifice carries more weight. You must look the part,” Melka said.
Again the absurdity of the idea of her sacrifice being any more important or meaningful than any mother’s, twisted Bethena’s mouth into a humorless smile. Surely if this god she was giving her first born to was truly all powerful, he would only give life, not take it. He is a god of death, not of life! She knew it and the insight settled her.
“You have a position to maintain,” Melka said.
Bethena’s eyes burned into Melka’s. “You know all about that, of course, don’t you, Melka?”
“I have had only girl children,” Melka said, softly and looked away.
“I know that. But you know all about making other sacrifices to maintain your position. Love and friendship – mine, for example.”
“I have always been loyal to you, Bethena!”
“A strange loyalty, Melka. Strange, indeed.” Bethena’s eyes were moist from her tears but she stared haughtily ahead, her heart cold and steady. “Apply the kohl and rouge, then. I shall maintain our position.”
Silent crowds lined the twisting streets, hung from the balconies and craned dangerously from the roofs as Bethena walked, cradling her son, beneath a royal indigo canopy borne by four male slaves. Melka and Amah walked a few paces behind her. Bethena walked the two hundred cubits from the palace to the Festival alter, looking straight ahead, feeling nothing. The smell of burning human flesh already adrift on the air. It was a distinctive, sweetish aroma, quite different from lamb or fish. Other women had gone before her. Later she found that thirty-seven women had given their sons to the god that day. She was to be the last.
As she entered the square, a sigh rose from the multitude. Atrim sat on a raised dais made of grey stone slabs with eyes that saw, but looked through her. How many of his children had he already sacrificed in this way? Indeed, she herself had been to the Festival sacrifices every year of her life in the city, and until this day, never experienced the pain of the mothers and the empty futility of the deed.
Sharing the platform with Atrim, was the god. He stood fifteen feet tall, wide mouth gaping, fire roaring in his wide belly; out-stretched arms tilting down to receive his beloveds and propel them into the flames. Four priests stood, naked, but for white linen loin cloths and gleaming gold bejeweled wrist and head bands, two on either side of the idol.
As Bethena reached the base of the platform, the two, to her right descended the ramp to meet her. One was carrying a chalice of drugged wine, the other took the child from her and held him up. The multitude cheered enthusiastically. They gave Bethena’s son a drink, rocked him, gently, then ascended the ramp. Bethena followed. The two priests already on the platform led her to a place near the King where she stood and watched. They gave the boy another drink, lifted him again for the crowd and took their places before the great god Baal. The one holding the child aloft maintained his position while the others prostrated themselves at the god’s massive feet.
Then, it was done. The priest lowered the child, took a step forward, laid the baby on the outstretched downward tilting arms and the child rolled into Baal’s flaming belly. Bethena never once looked away but did choke a moment later when the wind wafted the scent of her son’s burning flesh in her direction.
Two years later, Bethena had borne Atrim her second son, Sisera.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
Chapter Three, Part 1
Chapter Three
A slave came to light the torches. Bethena tried to pull herself from the memories and focus on her son. He had not been her first born. Her first born had been sacrificed to Baal. She went to the table and poured wine into a beautifully wrought silver goblet, added water and drank deeply. In a moment, warmth suffused her chest. Downstairs, she heard the slaves preparing the evening meal.
Melka, two years older and wise in the ways of the city, temple and palace had watched over her in the weeks and months that followed. Bethena drank again. It had been good with Melka. Later, in the days following her initiation, a few men had come to her and she’d learned to please and enjoy them in Astarte’s name, but it had never been as good as that first time with Melka. Melka knew all the men allowed to visit the inner-most court of Astarte’s Temple. She had lain with them herself. Four of them, all of the royal household had lain with Bethena. Atrim, father of Jabin, had been with Bethena most often; Melka counted 17 times. When Bethena conceived, Melka told her she was sure it was Atrim’s seed that had quickened in her.
Had Atrim, the over-king of all the Canaanite city-states, known she was his daughter? At the time, Bethena had been shocked by the idea, now, as she seated herself in the stiff-backed throne-like chair, she realized it had been an honor to be impregnated by her own father. After all, Baal and Astarte had been brother and sister, as had been Toth and Isis. It was the exception for the great mass of everyday people. But for the great ones, it was the rule.
They were at the very pinnacle of civilization, the intersection of the human and divine; far above the many others swarming in the streets around her suite in the palace. Bethena sighed, nodded knowingly and clapped her hands. Immediately, a handsome young male slave appeared and bowed deeply before her.
“Bring me a footstool and a table.”
“Yes, Mistress.” The slave obeyed, bowed low, and backed from her presence.
Bethena could have simply moved the furniture herself, but she hadn’t wanted to. Awash in the glow of power as she contemplated her divine heritage, Bethena had wanted to be waited on. She could even have made the slave be her footstool. He would have eagerly complied, she had used him as furniture before, but she was not in the mood tonight.
She admired the workmanship of the finely wrought silver on her goblet. It was a scene depicting an olive grove and oil press. We have a higher standard to adhere to, she thought. It is our mission to keep and extend civilization; to honor our God and his Goddess consort; to protect them from the ravages of the desert nomads and their One God.
What could they know of God? They had no temples, lived in tents, had no iron. While we have beautiful temples, fleets of trading vessels, caravans that travel to Cathay and the Indies and a system of justice sophisticated law resting on the will of the gods and on the divine power they have given to our priests and great ones.
The Haibrus were barbarians, nomads, threatening the roots of civilization. Bethena was proud of her general son’s service to her half brother the King. Together, they were waging a relentless war of attrition against the nomad invaders, the desert aliens and jealous god who challenged their way of life and the greatness of the gods.
Yet there were alternatives to force and violence and the Haibrus were not so stiff-necked and un-educatable as every one said. The handsome slave, for instance. He was a Haibru but under her tutelage had taken well enough to the worship of Astarte. Now he basked in his service to Bethena and devoted himself fully to her needs and pleasure, because she was of royal blood and a priestess of Astarte and to serve and worship her, was to serve and worship the Goddess.
But until they were tamed and trained, the Haibrus were fierce. Bethena feared for the life of her son and the lives of the brave Canaanites who fought with them. But it seemed that they had no alternative, no choice but to make war. Hadn’t they tried to live in peace? Generations ago, when the Haibrus had first come among them, the Canaanites had welcomed them; encouraged them to camp beside their cities, water at their wells, live in the city walls, even join them in worshiping Baal and Astarte in their beautiful temples. They were tolerant of the Haibru god. And what had happened?
Bethena shifted in her chair, removed her feet from the footstool and returned them to the floor. Some, quite a few at first, had adapted to the life of the city and gloried in the sensual worship of Baal and Astarte, though, Bethena swallowed hard, the sacrifice of the first born male had been hard for them. Still, many of the Haibrus became as their Canaanite neighbors.
But their One God - One God - Bethena laughed aloud, how silly, grew jealous of Baal and Astarte and caused his more zealous worshippers to attack those that had fallen away; and forcibly return them to His worship, or kill them. Now there was little commerce between the worshipers of the One God and those of Baal and Astarte. In places they tolerated one another, but for the most part, they lived in separate enclaves.
Bethena stood and paced. Shadows from the torches danced along the frescoed walls. Even this we tolerated, she thought. But they breed like locusts. Now there are so many of them they are pressing our most fertile territories in the Jezreel and in Samaria. It was only a matter of when Sisera would fight the great battle to rid their land of these vermin.
Vermin, Bethena, isn’t that a bit strong?
Lately, whenever she worked herself into a frenzy of hate, another voice, softer, deeply serene and gentle, came to her. It was something from her life before the initiation in the Temple of Astarte, a voice that sounded the way she remembered feeling when she was eleven wandering bare foot in the lush fields and playing with the lambs. Bethena stopped pacing and stood still, listening.
Aren’t they human, as you are? Do they not long for love, as you do; and worry for their sons and daughters? She nodded and felt suddenly drained. Walking back to the chair, she sat heavily.
“But are we – Jabin, Sisera and myself closer to the gods? Are we not the special and divine children of Baal and Astarte, with a mission ordained by them?’
Do you really believe Baal and Astarte are gods? Do you feel their presence?
“In the Temple, when I bow down before them. When we have the services to them, the rituals music, dancing; when I inhale the sacred incense…” Her eyes closed and she touched a hand to her genitals. “Yes. I feel them, then.”
A slave came to light the torches. Bethena tried to pull herself from the memories and focus on her son. He had not been her first born. Her first born had been sacrificed to Baal. She went to the table and poured wine into a beautifully wrought silver goblet, added water and drank deeply. In a moment, warmth suffused her chest. Downstairs, she heard the slaves preparing the evening meal.
Melka, two years older and wise in the ways of the city, temple and palace had watched over her in the weeks and months that followed. Bethena drank again. It had been good with Melka. Later, in the days following her initiation, a few men had come to her and she’d learned to please and enjoy them in Astarte’s name, but it had never been as good as that first time with Melka. Melka knew all the men allowed to visit the inner-most court of Astarte’s Temple. She had lain with them herself. Four of them, all of the royal household had lain with Bethena. Atrim, father of Jabin, had been with Bethena most often; Melka counted 17 times. When Bethena conceived, Melka told her she was sure it was Atrim’s seed that had quickened in her.
Had Atrim, the over-king of all the Canaanite city-states, known she was his daughter? At the time, Bethena had been shocked by the idea, now, as she seated herself in the stiff-backed throne-like chair, she realized it had been an honor to be impregnated by her own father. After all, Baal and Astarte had been brother and sister, as had been Toth and Isis. It was the exception for the great mass of everyday people. But for the great ones, it was the rule.
They were at the very pinnacle of civilization, the intersection of the human and divine; far above the many others swarming in the streets around her suite in the palace. Bethena sighed, nodded knowingly and clapped her hands. Immediately, a handsome young male slave appeared and bowed deeply before her.
“Bring me a footstool and a table.”
“Yes, Mistress.” The slave obeyed, bowed low, and backed from her presence.
Bethena could have simply moved the furniture herself, but she hadn’t wanted to. Awash in the glow of power as she contemplated her divine heritage, Bethena had wanted to be waited on. She could even have made the slave be her footstool. He would have eagerly complied, she had used him as furniture before, but she was not in the mood tonight.
She admired the workmanship of the finely wrought silver on her goblet. It was a scene depicting an olive grove and oil press. We have a higher standard to adhere to, she thought. It is our mission to keep and extend civilization; to honor our God and his Goddess consort; to protect them from the ravages of the desert nomads and their One God.
What could they know of God? They had no temples, lived in tents, had no iron. While we have beautiful temples, fleets of trading vessels, caravans that travel to Cathay and the Indies and a system of justice sophisticated law resting on the will of the gods and on the divine power they have given to our priests and great ones.
The Haibrus were barbarians, nomads, threatening the roots of civilization. Bethena was proud of her general son’s service to her half brother the King. Together, they were waging a relentless war of attrition against the nomad invaders, the desert aliens and jealous god who challenged their way of life and the greatness of the gods.
Yet there were alternatives to force and violence and the Haibrus were not so stiff-necked and un-educatable as every one said. The handsome slave, for instance. He was a Haibru but under her tutelage had taken well enough to the worship of Astarte. Now he basked in his service to Bethena and devoted himself fully to her needs and pleasure, because she was of royal blood and a priestess of Astarte and to serve and worship her, was to serve and worship the Goddess.
But until they were tamed and trained, the Haibrus were fierce. Bethena feared for the life of her son and the lives of the brave Canaanites who fought with them. But it seemed that they had no alternative, no choice but to make war. Hadn’t they tried to live in peace? Generations ago, when the Haibrus had first come among them, the Canaanites had welcomed them; encouraged them to camp beside their cities, water at their wells, live in the city walls, even join them in worshiping Baal and Astarte in their beautiful temples. They were tolerant of the Haibru god. And what had happened?
Bethena shifted in her chair, removed her feet from the footstool and returned them to the floor. Some, quite a few at first, had adapted to the life of the city and gloried in the sensual worship of Baal and Astarte, though, Bethena swallowed hard, the sacrifice of the first born male had been hard for them. Still, many of the Haibrus became as their Canaanite neighbors.
But their One God - One God - Bethena laughed aloud, how silly, grew jealous of Baal and Astarte and caused his more zealous worshippers to attack those that had fallen away; and forcibly return them to His worship, or kill them. Now there was little commerce between the worshipers of the One God and those of Baal and Astarte. In places they tolerated one another, but for the most part, they lived in separate enclaves.
Bethena stood and paced. Shadows from the torches danced along the frescoed walls. Even this we tolerated, she thought. But they breed like locusts. Now there are so many of them they are pressing our most fertile territories in the Jezreel and in Samaria. It was only a matter of when Sisera would fight the great battle to rid their land of these vermin.
Vermin, Bethena, isn’t that a bit strong?
Lately, whenever she worked herself into a frenzy of hate, another voice, softer, deeply serene and gentle, came to her. It was something from her life before the initiation in the Temple of Astarte, a voice that sounded the way she remembered feeling when she was eleven wandering bare foot in the lush fields and playing with the lambs. Bethena stopped pacing and stood still, listening.
Aren’t they human, as you are? Do they not long for love, as you do; and worry for their sons and daughters? She nodded and felt suddenly drained. Walking back to the chair, she sat heavily.
“But are we – Jabin, Sisera and myself closer to the gods? Are we not the special and divine children of Baal and Astarte, with a mission ordained by them?’
Do you really believe Baal and Astarte are gods? Do you feel their presence?
“In the Temple, when I bow down before them. When we have the services to them, the rituals music, dancing; when I inhale the sacred incense…” Her eyes closed and she touched a hand to her genitals. “Yes. I feel them, then.”
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