Chapter Three, Part 3

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.”
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.