“Protect him each day as you cross the sky,
At twilight may your radiant bride entrust him
To the valiant stars, the watchmen of the night.”
-Ninsun’s prayer
1800 B.C., in the Land of Sumer, Between the Two Life-giving Rivers, the Tigress and the Euphrates, that pour down from the Sacred Mountains of The Creator to water the gardens of the Priest King
Jacam, son of Jacob, son of Jacam, etcetera, had toiled all week tilling the fields behind his oxen and plough, the both of them yoked to the dastardly device that made the priests rich in their temples. He thought longingly of the days of their youth, when he could plough all day and into the night with Jileve working by his side. They would then plunge into the canal for a swim—and thus washed clean of the grime of their toil—and they would make love under the stars.
He missed those days, the days before Jileve had talked him into swiping an apricot from the High Priest’s own tree, within the sacred precinct! He had pulled it off—would have done anything for Jileve. Then, having eaten the apricot, Jileve had become sick, for the dastardly snake of a gardener had laced the apricots with poison against just such a profane theft. Jacam dare not take Jileve to the priests for healing.
So she languished in their hut; old before her years; her every joint aching, barely able to thresh the wheat at harvest. All of the children save for Jacob had died early from famine and drought. Thank God for Jacob, who now took the reins of the plough from his weary father, hitched the fresh ass, and worked on through the night so that they might have enough to survive after the temple took its due.
A man has his needs, even when his woman has been beaten by the long years and no longer gives up her love. At dark on the sixth night Jacam leaves Jilith in her hut as she spurned him once again, not wanting to bear yet another child to starve in this world of muddy toil.
At length he comes to the Temple of Ishtar. The sweet smell of night flowers and lamp oil beckons him as he approaches the hulking wrestler at the temple door, patting the purse at his hip. “May I have a sacred appointment with the priestess please?” asks Jacam.
The wrestler heaves up off of his stool and seizes Jacam by the shoulders, lifts him, and shakes him, until not only his purse but all of the loose coins hidden in his clothes fall to the ground. The brute then sets him down, dusts him off and shoves him through the door, where his next door neighbor’s daughter So-phine, awaits him so that at least an hour of his week might not be spent in miserable toil and aching idleness.
