The Temple of Ashtart

Amaal paused at the entrance to the temple and peered into the atrium, but she didn’t dare go inside, afraid that she might offend someone by her presence or, worse yet, unknowingly upset the goddess. But then she remembered that Gader had said she would be welcomed, so she stepped into the softly lit space. Up close, the Star of Ashtart looked like a big baby bundled in a smooth, stone blanket. Amaal had just started wondering how much it weighed when a temple maiden appeared from the darkened hallway. Amaal had seen her among the dancers at the morning rehearsal. She moved like a swan, with long, slender arms that floated in the air as though she might lift off and fly away.

            “Good afternoon. How may I help you?” the dancer asked in a gentle voice.

            “I’m not sure,” Amaal replied. “Gader said I should see the temple.”

            The maiden smiled. “Gader sent you? Well, then, you are most welcome!”

            “Thank you!”

            “I recognize you,” the dancer said. “You’re the girl with the silver flute.”

            “Yes, I’m Amaal,” she replied, turning to show the instrument hanging across her back, “and you’re one of the dancers.”

            The temple maiden extended her hand and bowed in dramatic reply. “I’m Noam. Come, take off your sandals, step into the foot bath—the towel is there—and then I’ll show you around the temple.”

            Amaal did as she was asked. The marble floor felt cool beneath her feet, and every squeak echoed down the hallway. They came to a chamber, and Amaal started to enter, but Noam held up a hand at the doorway. “Best to look from here,” she said.

            In the far corner of the chamber, on a block of marble, stood an alabaster statue of a nude woman, back-lit by a row of oil lamps. Above her smooth hips and narrow waist, one of her hands cupped a breast, while the other reached out, beckoning the observer to step closer. She wore a gold choker, gold hoop earrings, and gold bangles and ankle cuffs, all perfectly proportioned to her doll-like size. Dark kohl encircled her eyes, each of which held a ruby gemstone that flickered in the lamplight and made her look entranced and alive. On her head she wore a crown—the horns of a crescent moon piercing upward.

            Amaal whispered, “Ashtart?”

            Noam nodded reverently.

            Amaal was captivated. She imagined the actual, life-size goddess, carrying the black star tucked under her arm, her red eyes flashing across the night sky.

            Noam added a chunk of incense to the censer at the doorway. “Look,” she said. The smoke rose in a thin tendril to the rafters. “The Goddess is pleased with your visit. Come, there’s more to see.”

            The hallway took them deeper into the temple where they entered a large room, brightly lit and packed to the rafters with the most astonishing collection of objects.

            “The Chamber of Gifts,” Noam said.

            Amaal’s eyes widened at the sight.

            “These are all gifts for the goddess?” Amaal asked.

            “Created in prayer and meditation,” Noam replied.

            Amaal looked at the offerings—carved olivewood trays, finely tooled leather bags, painted tea glasses, and so many handwoven baskets that their stacked towers nearly touched the ceiling. The rafters were hung with colorful banners and mobiles made from sea shells and tiny brass bells. Handwoven rugs lay in mounds on the floor. She wondered if the women of Tyre did all of their daily work in prayerful meditation. Maybe they just prayed all the time. It occurred to her that she, too, should leave something.

            “But…I have nothing to give, only my flute, and I need it for the wedding ceremony.”

            “Many women just chant or pray. Some sing.”

            “Do you think I could play a tune for her?”

            “I don’t see why not. It’s a kind of gift.”

            Amaal took out her flute, fit the pieces together, and raised it to her lips. She looked around the room, overwhelmed by the abundance of offerings made by the city’s mothers, grandmothers, and daughters. She played one note for the blue eggs in a ceramic nest, another for the monkey in the tree-of-life banner, one for a dish of silver hair combs, another for a cloth doll sewn in the image of Ashtart. The random sequence held no musical meaning, but the notes echoed softly and, in Amaal’s mind at least, gave voice to the women’s prayers. As for a memory of her own mother, Amaal didn’t think to conjure one, and none came to mind. Nor did she ask a blessing for herself. She just let a final note go.

            Noam nodded approvingly.

            They continued into the depths of the temple to a ceremonial hall that could easily have held a hundred people. At the far end stood a throne, its two ferocious stone lions standing guard on either side. If the goddess could pluck a star from the sky and carry it to the temple, perhaps, Amaal reasoned, she could appear on the throne.

            “Does the goddess sit there?”

            “No, not the Goddess, the Priestess,” Noam said. “But we haven’t had a temple priestess since Pumayyaton became king. He wields power over the temple.”

            “Oh, I see.”

            “But,” she added excitedly, “Tomorrow, Princess Elishat will become our High Priestess when she marries Acerbas. The throne will be hers and the feminine wisdom will be restored.”

            Amaal looked at the throne and remembered what the old nursemaid in the garden had said. Here was the actual seat of power, the place from where the Princess would challenge her brother’s authority. An uneasy feeling came over her, like the first roll of thunder before a storm.

            “Come,” Noam said, leaving the throne room, “You should see the sacred baths.”

            They entered a large room, the innermost sanctuary of the temple. Sunlight streamed in through the high, stained-glass windows and cast muted colors on the walls. Around a large, central bathing pool, several dozen women, naked as the day they were born, lay on the deck, while others floated peacefully in the water. Temple servants—slaves and daughters of slaves—rubbed the women with sea sponges and massaged them with perfumed oils. Amaal recognized one woman in particular who stood under the flow of water from a dolphin’s head spout. It was Princess Elishat.

            Without her gown and robes, the Princess looked like any ordinary young woman: petite with womanly curves, her long hair falling in dark, shiny waves over her shoulders. She appeared calm on the day before her wedding, a very different princess than the one Amaal had seen storming across the market square. She stepped out of the pool, allowed her servants to wrap her in a blue-and-white robe, and reclined on a chaise. She looked across the pool directly at Amaal who, not knowing what else to do, gave a little bow.

            “Ah,” the Princess called out across the water, “the girl with the silver flute. You needn’t be so formal here.”

            Taking notice of Amaal’s uncanny resemblance to the Princess, the other women began to whisper among themselves. The Princess held up a hand to quiet them.

            “What is your name?” she asked.

            “Amaal.”

            “And who is your father, Amaal?”

            “My father, I—I don’t know. I came in with the caravan.”

            “I see…well, a person’s character is more important than her lineage, don’t you agree?”

            Amaal nodded politely.

            “Won’t you play for us?”

            Amaal swallowed hard. “Why, yes, of course.”

            “What an honor,” Noam whispered.

            “But what shall I play?” Amaal asked Noam quietly. Her hands trembled as she opened the flute case.

            “You can play what you played in the Chamber of Gifts.”

            Amaal thought quickly as she pieced together the flute. “Is it okay if I play something different?”

            “Of course,” Noam said. “You play and I’ll dance. The Princess will like that.”

            Amaal was grateful that Noam would distract some of the attention from her. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves and allow the weakness in her arms to pass. It didn’t work. She raised the flute to her lips, pressed her toes against the cool stone floor and tapped out an irregular beat. She forced her fingers to rise and fall over the sound holes, but without a steady breath to bring them to life, all that emerged was a worried sigh. The caged birds stopped singing and cocked their heads. Amaal felt the heat of embarrassment rising up her neck. Her mouth went dry. She stopped and took the flute from her lips.

            “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m just so nervous.”

            “Amaal!” the Princess called out.

            Amaal prepared to be dismissed.

            “You are among friends! Why, look, even the songbirds are listening! Besides, nobody knows how to play that thing except for you. I’m curious to hear what it can do.”

            A temple servant brought a glass of tea. Amaal moistened her lips and started once again. She sent her two favorite starting notes floating across the bathing pool followed by her signature trill. The random assortment that followed could hardly be called a tune, but the bathing hall’s favorable acoustics enhanced the dreamy vibe. The maidens in fleshy repose around the pool remained politely attentive. Amaal dared to glance at the Princess who, despite the absence of any discernable tempo or rhythm, gently tapped her hand on the arm of her lounge chair. Noam floated through an impromptu dance. For the moment, at least, no one held a thought for the cares of tomorrow. Amaal let the last note linger and lowered her flute. The Princess nodded her approval and everyone around the pool returned as if on cue to their leisure.

            Amaal bowed slightly, relieved that it was over, and packed up her flute. Noam led her to the front of the temple where Uru was waiting on the bottom step.

            “But…why didn’t she come in?” Amaal asked.

            Noam looked embarrassed. “Imperfection is forbidden in the temple,” she said reluctantly.

            Amaal couldn’t believe that a goddess who celebrated women would exclude a girl like Uru. She guessed the king had something to do with it, but she thought it best not to ask. Hannu’s unflattering portrayal of the king was starting to sound not so far-fetched. She wished Noam luck in the ceremony, and the dancer assured her the goddess would bless their performances.

            Amaal and Uru started for home. Preparations for the wedding continued in full swing. At every house along the way, women brushed the cobwebs from the shutters and threw buckets of water onto the ceramic tiles in the courtyards to reveal their colorful geometric designs. The gods would be nearing Tyre to witness the ceremony, and they should be pleased with what they saw. The little children, excited beyond belief, were being kept busy doing a hundred little chores—tying posies of jasmine flowers, setting the sandals straight on the steps, picking up bruised fruit under the trees in the yard—and they were happy to do it. Even the loathsome job of toting water was accomplished without complaint. At the royal stables, the girls stopped to watch the coachmen practice their whip-cracking skills while their wives and daughters decorated the harnesses with colorful ribbons and bronze bells. The horses stomped their hooves and shook their heads. Even they sensed that something special was about to happen.

            The whole city smelled irresistibly delicious. In their open-air kitchens, quick-fingered cooks picked through lentils, removing the stones and stems. They chopped garlic and onion and set pots of lamb seasoned with thyme and rosemary over the fire to simmer. They mashed olives and chickpeas and eggplant and stored them in ceramic jars to gather flavor overnight. Every household prepared enough to feed the whole neighborhood.

            It could not be denied, though, that the smallest cloud crossing the sun was viewed with concern. Everyone understood the danger involved in the marriage of Acerbas and Elishat. Amaal, on the other hand, was gripped by a more immediate problem. Uru pushed open the squeaky blue door, and Amaal stepped into the shady courtyard, realizing that she had completely forgotten the Hymn to Ashtart.

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