The Royal Wedding Day

The long, strident blast of a ram’s horn woke the city with a powerful jolt. A second horn joined in and they bellowed relentlessly like a pair of rutting rams high on the rampart walls. The family bathed, dressed, and ate a light breakfast because, as Manu said, there would be mountains of food after the wedding. Amaal went into the bedroom to practice the Hymn to Ashtart one last time before the ceremony. She hummed the melody, still fresh in her mind, and was surprised to find the flute case open, and her flute, gone.

            “Hannu,” she called out, “were you playing my flute?”

            “No, why?”

             Her heart sank as she flashed back to the garden. Could the thief have tracked her all the way to Uru’s house? She shuddered at the thought. She had been secretly wishing for an excuse to avoid performing, but now that she could get through the tune without making a mistake, the thought of not being able to play felt much worse. With the royal wedding less than two hours away, she went into the kitchen and held out the empty case.

            “I left it on the bench under the window last night, and…”

            “I know exactly who took it!” Sappir said, tearing off her apron. “That flat-nosed little trouble maker who’s been lurking around here lately. I chased him away yesterday trying to steal melons from the garden. He probably heard you playing last night and reached in through the window while we were sleeping. You kids go ahead, and don’t you worry, Amaal, I’ll get your flute back. I know his mother—and his grandmother!” She stomped out of the house with a scowl on her face and a paring knife in her hand.

            Amaal and Hannu headed for the temple. The Tyrians were streaming into the market carrying baskets and pots and platters of food—more than everyone could eat in a week. The market square itself had been transformed. Sprays of orange and pink and red flowers had tripled in size overnight. Lovebirds in gilded cages had been set out on the ledges to signify eternal happiness for the bride and groom. Amaal noticed none of it. Her only thought was to find Gader and tell him about the missing flute.

            “Not to worry,” he said calmly, “the gods will take care of it in their own way.”

            Amaal did not share his optimism. She took her seat among the musicians, wiped the perspiration from her forehead, and scanned the crowd. The city elders processed onto the dais in front of the Temple of Melqart and sat on benches behind two magnificent thrones fit for a king and queen. An excited hum of conversation filled the air as the elders took their places, but there was no sign of Sappir.

            Finally, the ram’s horns ceased. The crowd stopped their chatter and faced the dais to watch an elderly man shuffling across the stage, clutching a bundle close to his chest. His assistants, one at each elbow, guided his unsteady steps. Beneath his conical hat, tufts of white hair fell to his shoulders like soft lamb’s wool, contrasting sharply with his smooth, ebony black skin. He stopped at the center of the dais, looked to the sky, muttered something inaudible, and, in a flash, threw the bundle into the air. The crowd gasped, but in the next moment a wild fluttering revealed a pair of pure white doves. The birds rose above the market, circled once, and flew away to the west, bright white against the azure sky.

            The man reached upward, his arms like twigs of ebony heartwood, and, in a voice as thin as an old rag, declared, “I see the house of Mattan—its doors flung wide open!”

            His words were repeated back through the crowd, prompting a muffled groan. The people of Tyre had witnessed the palace doors flung wide open many times—in fits of rage.

            “I see a time in the future…when our troubles have subsided…our city undivided.”

            The better news calmed the crowd. Still, some grumbled. Did he mean to say that the feuding siblings would come to an agreement, or would one destroy the other, bringing an unholy peace? The old man’s voice intensified under the spell of his vision. He spoke as though each phrase carried the weight of a whole chapter.

            “I see…an enormous web…spanning the Great Sea from east to west…and the spiders…why, they are not spiders at all…they are sailing ships…crossing the water…bringing enormous wealth into the hands of Mattan’s issue!”

            The wealthy merchants grasped their lucky scarabs at the optimistic omen. All the more reason to perfect the art of the middleman.

            “With the blessing of the gods, Mattan’s progeny will possess riches beyond measure. Our triumph will be celebrated for a thousand years!”

            Someone in the crowd shouted, “Two thousand years!”

            The elder held up three bony fingers and called back, “Three thousand years!”

            The crowd roared with delight. King Pumayyaton rose to his feet in the royal box, grinning from ear to ear, waving his lance over the crowd, practically demanding praise for a promise yet unfulfilled. His subjects indulged him with light applause.

            Hannu leaned over to Amaal. “Look at Pumayyaton the Hyena. He forgets that his sister is also ‘the issue of Mattan.’ With any luck, she’ll end up with all the glory—and all the riches.”

            A thunderous drumroll at the far end of the square gave the signal for the ceremony to begin. Two acolytes, each carrying a jewel-encrusted wedding chalice, led the procession down the long central aisle. They were followed by members of the extended royal family. Behind them came a parade of guests from foreign lands dressed in cheetah pelts and snake skins and peacock feathers. Some bowed deeply to Pumayyaton when they passed his throne; others barely nodded. The long line of temple priests came in carrying incense burners and clanging metal sistrums. If the gods hadn’t heard that there was a royal wedding underway, the ear-shattering clamor of the metal shakers would alert them to the news. Next came an army of archers, bows slung across their backs, quivers full of sleek arrows.

            Out of the incense smoke, high above the sea of archers, broad-shouldered Acerbas appeared as from a heavenly cloud, driving his horse-drawn chariot. With his conical crown, his perfectly crimped beard, his aquiline nose, and his shimmering, sky-blue robe, no one would have been blamed for mistaking him for a god. He rode slowly down the long central aisle while the crowd pressed closer, raised their hands as if to touch his greatness, and chanted: “Ba’al Sur! Ba’al Sur! Ba’al Sur!” At the front of the temple, he pulled to a stop and proceeded to the dais without the slightest gesture of acknowledgement to the King. There he stood heroically in front of the groom’s throne, his eyes fixed on the far end of the marketplace.

            Amaal watched the procession with trepidation. Every minute brought her one step closer to a disastrous Hymn to Ashtart. And still Sappir was nowhere to be seen.

            A flock of frenzied, whining gourd pipers rushed into the square to announce the arrival of the bride. All the bleating sheep in Canaan could not have made more noise. Many in the crowd covered their ears as the pipers squealed down the central aisle. Behind them came a row of temple maidens whose appearance had the exact opposite effect. In flowing pink and green robes, with their faces covered in ghostly white make-up and their eyes encircled in dark kohl, the temple maidens’ other-worldly expression hushed the crowd.

            A sigh of adoration swept the crowd at the far end of the market square. All heads turned to watch the entrance of the bride on a golden palanquin carried on the shoulders of eight male servants. Princess Elishat sat aloft, white-faced, red-lipped, wearing a high conical hat glittering with jewels. Her eyes were fixed on the horizon, as if she were oblivious to the throng of adoring Tyrians surrounding her. Her deep violet-blue wedding gown was woven with alternating silver threads that shimmered like mercury in the sunlight.

            “Uru’s cloth!” Hannu said proudly.

            “Beautiful!” Amaal said as she scanned the square for Sappir.

            The palanquin moved slowly down the aisle. Elishat’s people bowed deeply and turned to one another as she passed, whispering passionately.

            “A star from Heaven!”

            “Daughter of the Goddess!”

            “Robed in sunlight!”

            Many wept, some at her stunning beauty, others for the uncertain future of the House of Mattan.

            The palanquin stopped in front of the dais and Elishat, with help from her attendants, stepped down and walked slowly up the steps to the bridal throne. Amaal watched each element of the ceremony—the sacred chants, the priestly offerings, Noam’s well-executed dance of earth and sky. Next would be the exchange of gifts and then, the coronation. Amaal felt a tug on her sleeve. It was Sappir, looking as though she had run a race. She pressed the flute into Amaal’s lap and disappeared into the crowd. Amaal looked down at the instrument that had evidently spent the night in the dirt. She quickly fed the cleaning cloth though the pipes, wiped the lip plate, assembled the three parts, and tested the action. One speck of debris lodged in a finger pad could ruin everything. She wouldn’t know for sure until she started to play. She wiped the palms of her hands on her tunic and hoped the gods would, as Gader had promised, take care of the rest.

            Gader signaled to Amaal. The moment had come for the coronation of the bride and groom, the part of the ritual that would consecrate their union in the eyes of the gods and elevate Elishat to the position of High Priestess. A hush fell over the crowd. Amaal set the flute against her lip and positioned her fingers. Gader pointed to her to begin. She took a deep breath and played the starting note. Her flute did not fail her. The first tone echoed across the marketplace. Much to her relief, the attention of the crowd was on the bride and groom whose conical hats were being removed and replaced with exquisite gold crowns. Amaal found all of the notes in proper sequence and, as directed, began the hymn over again. She wanted to watch the coronation, but she kept her eye on Gader. The third and fourth times through were no easier. Each required her attention to every note. Several minutes and many repetitions later, Gader signaled with a closed fist that Amaal should bring the hymn to an end just as Acerbas took Elishat’s hand and the two were wed.

            The crowd exploded in celebration. Trumpeters hidden atop the city walls blasted a fanfare. People cheered and whistled and threw rose petals fluttering into the air. The musicians marched the bride and groom to the banquet table where they sat, their golden crowns gleaming in the sunlight and their shoulders covered in rose petals. Amaal wiped the perspiration from her forehead and packed her flute into its case. Gader caught her eye and nodded his approval. Amaal smiled in return. For the moment, she could not recall a single note of the hymn, but she felt grateful that it had all gone well.

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