Reunion in the Marketplace

Amaal allowed herself to be swept along with the caravan as they danced through the narrow streets. Their bleating horns and heart-stopping drums woke the babies and old folks from their afternoon naps. Women came to the doorways to see what all the noise was about. Their children squeezed past them and joined the flow. Men stood up from their work, and, when they saw who had arrived, pulled off their leather aprons, wiped the sweat from their brows, and pointed the caravan to the marketplace—the heart of the city.

The travelers entered the enormous square and released their children to run with the local kids. Up and down the steps and around the pillars they tore, stopping to compare dangling milk teeth and show off their skinny muscles. Townsfolk brought water for the goats and donkeys and poured mint tea, strong and sweet, for the new arrivals whom they grasped in firm embraces and kissed on the cheeks, right, left, right, like long-lost family, which some, in fact, were. The welcoming party filled one end of the huge central market, and the music never stopped.

Escaping the flurry of handshakes and laughter, Amaal climbed the steps of a nearby public building. From the top step she had a bird’s eye view of the bustling marketplace. There were hundreds of tables and booths, and they all held something for sale: fresh-caught fish in shiny silver stacks, bunches of dried herbs hanging upside down, seeds and nuts and spices on copper plates in perfectly peaked mounds. Where there was no table, a blanket was laid out on the ground to display the goods. Here and there, smoke rose from charcoal grills and incense burners. Vendors bellowed for shoppers to sample their melons and peaches and cucumbers. One woman sat calmly in her booth, untroubled by the string of dried figs that looked exactly like a cobra rising out of its basket, twisting up the post, and draping menacingly across the beam above her head. Throughout the market, buyers and sellers haggled over freshness, ripeness, weights and prices, their negotiations brief, loud, and completely public.

Amaal watched a caravan merchant clear a space and unroll a stunning, hand-woven rug. In no time, a curious crowd gathered to finger the edges of the exotic merchandise. Where was it from? Who made it? What dyes were used? The merchant answered their questions but added, reluctantly, that the rug was not for sale. Amaal guessed at his scheme. He knew his admirers would go home and dream about the rug and return later, insisting that he sell it to them. Then he would say he already had a buyer who had offered to pay a good price. Then they would offer him more, and he would say he had to check with the other guy, and so on until he earned top shekel for transporting the rug halfway around the world.

A trio of local boys were standing in front of a traveler who held two thin, lacquered sticks between his fingers. They were, he explained, the utensils with which people ate their food in the Middle Kingdom, many moons to the east. The boys shook their heads. Eating with sticks! Never! The traveler held half a pomegranate in one hand and with the chopsticks popped several shiny, red seeds into his mouth. The boys stared in amazement. The traveler picked up a seed and held it over their heads. The boys opened their mouths, elbowing one another like hungry baby birds. He deposited a seed with each of the fledglings, all of whom chewed their miniscule treats with gusto. The traveler clicked the sticks enticingly…did the boys want to buy a pair? They shook their heads, admitting that they had no silver and nothing to trade. He shrugged and turned away to sell his wares elsewhere while the three boys went off to spread the news about the amazing Middle Kingdom sticks.

In a shady corner of the market, Amaal watched an audience gather around a man with a winged sun embroidered on the chest of his belted tunic. He had bet the crowd that he could escape any knot. At his direction, they put a shekel on the ground at his feet, his reward if he succeeded. Under the watchful eye of the crowd, a volunteer inspected the rope and bound the man’s wrists behind his back until everyone agreed that escape was impossible. The man turned so that his hands were hidden in the corner. He told the audience to count backwards from sixty. Not too fast, he said. They did, and when they reached three, two, one, he was still writhing and struggling, or so it seemed. The onlookers scoffed at him, mocking his false claims, but just as they were about to turn away, the man brought his hands out from behind his back. In one, he held the rope, neatly coiled, and in the other, incredibly, the shekel that had last been seen on the ground at his feet. The crowd howled with delight.

Amid the applause, someone shouted, “What is your name?”

The escape artist, mistakenly thinking he had been asked how he had accomplished the impossible task, pointed to his sun-winged heart and replied, “vohu manah,” which, in his language, meant “good mind.”

“Where are you from?”

“I come from the east.”

“Beyond the mountains?”

“Beyond and beyond!” he replied.

The people wandered off discussing the ways Vohu Manah from Beyond and Beyond could possibly have done it, while the escape artist pocketed his shekel and walked off to find another audience.

A girl came up the steps carrying a water jug in one hand and a dish of dates in the other. She stopped in front of Amaal and poured out a thin stream of water. Amaal quickly rinsed her hands, and in doing so, noticed that the girl wore purple gloves. Strange, Amaal thought, that anyone should be wearing gloves on such warm afternoon.

“Thank you,” she said, shaking the water off her hands.

But the girl said nothing. She only held out the dish of dates. Amaal took one, and, at the girl’s insistence, another. The girl’s muted expression seemed markedly out of place amid the city’s otherwise cheery welcome. She turned and walked down the steps, disappearing into the boisterous crowd from which she had come. Amaal ignored the snub and savored the creamy sweetness of the dates as she cast an eye over the elegant homes that surrounded the marketplace. Mounds of pink, orange, and red flowers gushed over their balconies. At the far end of the marketplace stood an enormous temple. Two pillars guarded the front, one glimmering gold, and the other emerald green.

“Welcome to Tyre!”

Amaal flinched at the sudden, high-pitched squeak coming from the man who stood directly at her shoulder. His conical cap stood like a beacon on the top of his head. Beneath it, his ears stuck out like jug handles. His whole body twitched with excitement as he spoke.

“I see you’re admiring the Temple of Melqart!”

“M-Melqart?”

The man pointed to the temple with the shimmering pillars. “Melqart! Patron of Tyre! He oversees the whole city—especially the market. When the Melqart seals the deal, it cannot be undone!”

Amaal opened her mouth to speak, but the man’s outpouring continued.

“The temple boasts an enormous treasure! Well, it did until…” His voice trailed off and he quickly changed the subject. “And you, traveler, what is your name?”

“I’m Amaal.”

“Welcome, Amaal,” he said, touching his chest and bowing slightly, “I’m Gader. They call me ‘Keeper of the Flame,’ though, as you can see, I hold no lamp, no fire, no light.” Pointing to his head, he added with a wink, “It’s all up here.”

“Pleased to meet you, Gader.” She wanted to say more, but Gader could not contain his wordy welcome.

“Regarding the temple, you should know that only Tyrian men are permitted to enter. No foreigners, no women, and no pigs!” Amaal thought he was only joking, but his curled nose told her he was serious. “However, you would be welcomed in the Temple of Ashtart.” He pointed to an elegant building at the side of the marketplace. “Surely you know of Ashtart.”

Amaal shook her head.

“Well, then, you must come from very far away, indeed. Ashtart guides our women: their courage, their affection, their wisdom. You, dear child, may enter there, and I recommend you do. There is much to be learned from the maidens who keep the sacred temple.”

Unlike the Temple of Melqart, the Temple of Ashtart had no doors. Amaal could see into its light-filled atrium. At the center was a large, black stone.

Gader followed her gaze and explained, “The star of Ashtart, brought here by the Goddess herself to consecrate the temple many years ago.”

“Is it really a star?”

“Why, yes, if our astronomers are to be believed.”

“But how did she take it out of the sky?”

“She is a goddess, my dear girl. She rules the night sky. The stars and planets are hers. She can do with them as she pleases just as you can pluck an orange from a tree and do with it as you wish.”

“But…how did she carry it here?”

Gader chuckled. “The goddess isn’t bothered by such limitations. She has the power to make anything happen—so long as she doesn’t annoy the other gods, I suppose.”

A movement on the temple’s rooftop caught Amaal’s eye. “What are those people doing up there?”

“Ah, the sky watchers! They are waiting for Ashtart to reveal the new moon so we can start to prepare for the wedding.”

“What wedding?”

“Why, child, the wedding you and your fellow entertainers have come here for! The royal weddin—”

            A bloodcurdling shriek cut through the conversation. The celebration in the marketplace stopped abruptly, and every head turned in the direction of the commotion just in time to hear the crash of something big—an urn, perhaps—from inside one of the grand buildings. A man’s thunderous shout drowned out the woman’s shrieks. Amaal gave Gader a worried glance, but he remained unflustered. “That,” he said, slowly shaking his head, “is the royal palace.”

            The woman’s voice came closer, her words better understood. “It is MY TURN, scoundrel! And I swear on our father’s memory, I SHALL HAVE THE THRONE!”

            The palace doors swung suddenly open. The guards leapt out of the way, and a dark-haired woman burst through the doorway. The crowd stood on tiptoe to catch a glimpse. From her perch on the top step, Amaal could see perfectly. Gader sighed ruefully, “Our Princess…Elishat.”

            The Princess stormed down the palace steps and across the market with a forced expression of dignity though the flush of anger still burned on her cheeks. Her robes billowed with the rush of the wind, and a crescent-shaped turquoise pendant bounced wildly upon her breast. From what Amaal could see, one particular feature stood out. The eyes of the princess were a rare, sea green, a color exactly like Amaal’s own.

            The royal minions walked close behind, bumping, shoving, and failing in their effort to look dignified. Behind the herd, two gentlemen in royal robes followed in quiet conversation until one of them, an older man with grandfatherly flecks of grey in his hair and beard, happened to notice Amaal standing at the top of the steps. She returned a polite smile, but it seemed to her that he was sizing her up. He looked intently at her face, her hair, her whole body from head to toe, as though he were taking a measure of her height and size. Amaal’s smile disappeared until the gentleman touched his hand to his chest and made a slight bow as if to apologize for the intrusion. As he walked away, though, he summoned an assistant, a young man, shirtless, in a military shendyt skirt, with gold arm bands, and a dagger tucked into his waist. The young soldier scanned the crowd until his gaze, too, settled on Amaal at the top of the steps. The wave of unease returned as she wondered why they would be talking about her. This time there was no polite gesture. The men continued on their way, deep in conversation. When she turned to ask Gader about them, he had already gone. The nagging feeling of discomfort lingered long after the princess disappeared into the building at the far side of the market.

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