assortment of officials followed Marta and Pedaiah, in honor of the Jewish royal death, along with Shealtiel’s sister, Rachel, and younger brothers. Tia peered across the courtyard for a glimpse of Nedabiah, who would soon be her next husband, and gripped the edge of the chariot.
“You are not ill?” Her mother’s eyes narrowed, more disapproving than concerned. “I have told you that your ridiculous nighttime excursions are not healthy—”
“I am well, Mother.”
In truth, something like sickness did seem to hover. Was it only the upheaval of her new widowhood? Worry for her father and Kaldu’s strange palace death? It seemed something more, an oppression begun last night after the dream, and had not yet lifted.
They started off down the ramp, and the chariot lurched over an uneven paving stone, knocking Tia against Amytis. She pushed Tia upright and Tia again gripped the chariot wall.
In the street a six-wheeled wagon drawn by a team of brown workhorses held the huge terra-cotta burial urn. Tia turned her face from it, unwilling to dwell on Shealtiel’s body secreted inside. Two slaves stood on either side of the urn, holding it upright as the wagon wheeled through the still-crowded Processional Way. They followed, and in the chariots behind them, laments began.
Tia’s nightly run afforded her only the barest glimpse into its streets. To be on the ground, among the people, assaulted her senses in ways unaccustomed. She bit her lip to maintain her solemnity but felt the stares of the people and wished she could stare in return. The Processional Way, the massive thoroughfare built by her father, began at the Ishtar Gate and continued through the city, past the soaring tower of Etemenanki, with its seven tiers to match the Gardens, then stretched to the hazy horizon where it met the outer wall.
They rolled through the crowds, who made way for their convoy with their own laments, to honor the dead. Tia gazed on citizens, both rich and poor with their dirty tunics, and merchants with their wagons loaded with timber and wine. A cart of oranges caught her eye and she could almost taste the tang of the juicy fruit. It was all so . . . real . So different from the palace. But so removed, she might as well have been only the statue of Ishtar paraded in the annual Akitu Festival procession.
Though Tia would have tarried, would have reached her hands to the outstretched fingers of those they passed, still she wished the moon would rise faster in the east to hurry them along. A goat pranced back and forth on the end of a rope, and Tia felt a restless kinship with the animal. She shifted in the chariot and drummed her fingers along its walls. Amytis jabbed her with an elbow, then bowed her head. Too interested in my surroundings for a properly grieving widow . She stilled her body and stared ahead.
At last they reached the burial ground, a collection of royal tombs at the southern edge of the city, and alighted to stand at its edge.
The crowd formed around the tomb given to the royal family. Marta and Pedaiah joined her, and Amytis dropped back to stand with the Babylonian officials, as was fitting. Behind them, Rachel and Nedabiah held hands. But Tia did not belong with either group, not the family, nor the Babylonians, and she held herself apart.
They waited for slaves to complete the laborious process of removing the heavy urn from the wagon and transporting it to the tomb. The night air was damp and heavy, and Tia lifted the hair from her neck. Pedaiah stepped to her side. She could feel his tense anger, strung tight beside her. Would he welcome her sympathy?
“I am sorry for the loss of your brother.” She said it quietly, as it was meant only for him.
He glanced at her and then away. “Are you?”
Perhaps he guessed her small measure of relief in her freedom. Tears stung her eyes at her own callousness. She formed her words slowly, thoughtfully. “I know that you loved him. And he spoke often of
“You are not ill?” Her mother’s eyes narrowed, more disapproving than concerned. “I have told you that your ridiculous nighttime excursions are not healthy—”
“I am well, Mother.”
In truth, something like sickness did seem to hover. Was it only the upheaval of her new widowhood? Worry for her father and Kaldu’s strange palace death? It seemed something more, an oppression begun last night after the dream, and had not yet lifted.
They started off down the ramp, and the chariot lurched over an uneven paving stone, knocking Tia against Amytis. She pushed Tia upright and Tia again gripped the chariot wall.
In the street a six-wheeled wagon drawn by a team of brown workhorses held the huge terra-cotta burial urn. Tia turned her face from it, unwilling to dwell on Shealtiel’s body secreted inside. Two slaves stood on either side of the urn, holding it upright as the wagon wheeled through the still-crowded Processional Way. They followed, and in the chariots behind them, laments began.
Tia’s nightly run afforded her only the barest glimpse into its streets. To be on the ground, among the people, assaulted her senses in ways unaccustomed. She bit her lip to maintain her solemnity but felt the stares of the people and wished she could stare in return. The Processional Way, the massive thoroughfare built by her father, began at the Ishtar Gate and continued through the city, past the soaring tower of Etemenanki, with its seven tiers to match the Gardens, then stretched to the hazy horizon where it met the outer wall.
They rolled through the crowds, who made way for their convoy with their own laments, to honor the dead. Tia gazed on citizens, both rich and poor with their dirty tunics, and merchants with their wagons loaded with timber and wine. A cart of oranges caught her eye and she could almost taste the tang of the juicy fruit. It was all so . . . real . So different from the palace. But so removed, she might as well have been only the statue of Ishtar paraded in the annual Akitu Festival procession.
Though Tia would have tarried, would have reached her hands to the outstretched fingers of those they passed, still she wished the moon would rise faster in the east to hurry them along. A goat pranced back and forth on the end of a rope, and Tia felt a restless kinship with the animal. She shifted in the chariot and drummed her fingers along its walls. Amytis jabbed her with an elbow, then bowed her head. Too interested in my surroundings for a properly grieving widow . She stilled her body and stared ahead.
At last they reached the burial ground, a collection of royal tombs at the southern edge of the city, and alighted to stand at its edge.
The crowd formed around the tomb given to the royal family. Marta and Pedaiah joined her, and Amytis dropped back to stand with the Babylonian officials, as was fitting. Behind them, Rachel and Nedabiah held hands. But Tia did not belong with either group, not the family, nor the Babylonians, and she held herself apart.
They waited for slaves to complete the laborious process of removing the heavy urn from the wagon and transporting it to the tomb. The night air was damp and heavy, and Tia lifted the hair from her neck. Pedaiah stepped to her side. She could feel his tense anger, strung tight beside her. Would he welcome her sympathy?
“I am sorry for the loss of your brother.” She said it quietly, as it was meant only for him.
He glanced at her and then away. “Are you?”
Perhaps he guessed her small measure of relief in her freedom. Tears stung her eyes at her own callousness. She formed her words slowly, thoughtfully. “I know that you loved him. And he spoke often of
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