A Collision In Time

Good fortune calls for organization and wisdom.

– Sumerian proverb

Winter, 3203 BC, Uruk, Sumeria

A simurgh feather drifted upward, rising above where the shore met the Great Saltwater. The feather caught the wind and flew inland, floating over irrigation canals, past plots of golden grains, a ridge with a small path traversed by a caravan of traders, more farms and irrigation canals, then onward to the walls of the magnificent city. The city of Uruk.

Kushim surveyed the feather’s approach while standing on a hill that overlooked recently harvested fields. He reached as high as he could, snatched the feather, and grinned. Feathers ushered in good luck.

“Alad, stay still for a moment,” said Kushim and touched the boy on his forehead.

The boy tilted his head and remained motionless as Kushim wove the feather into the boy’s hair, then wiped the sweat from his brow. He returned to his task and examined the clouds traveling above him. Kushim pointed to the sky. “What do the clouds tell you, my son?”

Alad squinted up at the sky. “The cloud designs are not dependable, father.”

“Perhaps they are, but you are not able to interpret what they tell you. The high priest requires us to read anything the gods show us. Understanding the skies that accompany the games tomorrow is important information for our high priest. Even if the answer is hidden by the gods, the resolution is still foretold.” Kushim lay on the ground to ease his stiffening neck. “Join me, Alad.”

Alad laughed. “You only want to nap,” he teased his father.

Kushim smiled. “When you are as old as I am, you will prefer to watch the sky this way. Now let us be earnest. What do you notice, my son? Tell me.”

“The clouds are unorganized and lazy. Surely this means no rain, Father. Yet I also witness dark formations gathering on the edges of the sky where they merge with the horizon. There they are thick and angry. This may be a sign of intensity and rain tomorrow.”

Kushim sat up. His eyes twinkled. “Or it may be that the gods are undecided and are presenting us with a request.” He smirked. “Alad, listen. The signs are clear. They seek an offering. The reason we cannot resolve the sky pattern is that the gods themselves are undecided about us. They guide us and the priests of Uruk to sway the outcome, to influence their actions, rain or no rain. Not you and I, mind you, but a priest. If they wanted you and me to read, they would show us. No, they want a priest involved. Do you understand?”

Alad nodded. “Yes. When Mother asks me to clean, I instead order Kash to do it.”

Kushim laughed. “You must treat your brother with more kindness, Alad. But yes, you understand. If a priest offers the wrong gift, this may displease the gods, who will punish Uruk and bring rain. Alternatively, an astute gift will bring sunshine and the graces of the high priest.”

Kushim spoke gazing at the sky. “It may or may not rain, but whether it does will depend on a priest, no matter my interpretation of clouds. The science is obvious; this is not a matter of observation, it’s a matter of priestly action. We are off the hook.”

“Off the hook?” Alad asked.

“Yes, we are a fish that has been freed, for another fish is on the hook.”

Kushim and Alad returned to the city on the worn path overlooking the bank of the Blue River. The path led them through the tall grasses and alongside the freshly built irrigation canals that provided water to nourish garlic, onion, and chickpea crops.

“One day I will create canals as you are doing, Father,” said Alad, smiling proudly. “It’s fitting that tomorrow we celebrate the food they are growing.”

“Thank the gods for my inspiration,” said Kushim. “Without whom I would not beget the ideas that I do. As a result, yes, tomorrow we will celebrate the bounty of food at the games.”

They walked toward the city gate, where they were waved on by the duty guard without question. The outer wall continued to rise upward and onward, sweeping around the city, though it was more a symbolic structure than a military objective. Kushim grimaced as he examined the wall. He had explained that invading bandits would easily scale the wall with simple ladders, but no matter, construction continued. Material and slave resources were infinite, after all.

“Alad, you go home. I have work to do for the White Temple.” Kushim knelt and kissed him on both cheeks. “I will be home soon.” He watched Alad run toward home and waved despite Alad not seeing him. He continued walking.

At the center of Uruk lay the newly constructed White Temple of the god Anu, in the Sacred Precinct of Kulla. Glare from the sun reflected off the temple and illuminated the path he followed. Kushim closed his eyes, then opened them to perceive the image of Anu on the white gypsum walls of the temple. Alongside the White Temple stood the Eanna District and Kushim’s working houses. Here Kushim designed, prayed, and directed his men to organize the ongoing development and expansion of Uruk. He walked toward the Eanna courtyard.

“Kushim,” a voice called out. A young man moved briskly in his direction. He carried a cylinder, which he handed to Kushim. “The latest count, sir.” The man bowed his head.

Kushim eagerly grabbed the carved cylinder recording Uruk’s first census. “A count of 32,204 people,” he read aloud. “I was close in my estimation, if not a little high.”

“The slave population changes daily,” the man said.

“Yes, I suppose. Thank you. You will come and meet me later. We must devise a plan to do the count at each harvest. I will be happy to announce our population tomorrow at the games.” Kushim bowed to the man, then turned and entered the Eanna District. It was bustling with activity as men and women prepared for tomorrow’s celebration, erecting tents and food stands and creating floral decorations. Kushim looked around, saw the man he was seeking hurrying away, and called, “Meskalamdug, wait.”

Meskalamdug turned and Kushim saw his frown before a false smile replaced it. “Kushim. How are you, my dear friend?”

“I am well, Meskalamdug. There is an important task for you to consider.”

Meskalamdug eyed him with suspicion. The rivalry between the priests and the officials for the high priest’s attention created tension and distrust. “I am very busy, Kushim.”

Kushim moved in front of Meskalamdug. “This is a matter of the highest importance for the high priest, my cousin. It doesn’t matter how busy you are.” Kushim lifted his hands. “As I gaze at the sky, it’s apparent that Anu is undecided about whether tomorrow offers rain or sun. Today you must appease Anu and ensure the sun shines tomorrow.” Kushim waited for his reaction.

Meskalamdug’s face grew red. “As I understand it, Anu has already made the decision. It is your task to read the sky and translate its message.”

Kushim shook his head. “No, Anu is indifferent and awaits our next step. It is up to Uruk to show our grace. I will inform the high priest of your disbelief—respectfully, of course.”

Meskalamdug twitched his head. “No need,” he said, too quickly. “I will ask my apprentice, Amar-Ser, to serve. It’s necessary for his education.” He left immediately, not looking back at Kushim, who smirked.

Kushim marked his shadow, noting that the day was proceeding quickly. He quickened his pace and jogged toward his place of work in the Red Temple to finish preparations for tomorrow. He passed by a line of men who stood impatiently beside the brewery, waiting for their payment. Many were already drunk and Kushim doubted they needed more beer. He must remember to petition the high priest to consider other forms of payment instead of beer. That sort of petition would not be a popular request, he knew; he doubted it would be a successful appeal.

Kushim entered the courtyard at the Red Temple. A group of children used molded clay into small pottery bowls on a disc that Kushim had engineered to speed up the forming process. Every Uruk inhabitant, except for slaves, was provided bowls, and each bowl was produced at the Red Temple. “Hello, my children,” Kushim said as he passed them.

A welcoming chorus greeted Kushim. He waved, laughed, and entered the Red Temple. His wife sat at a table, concentrating on tightening the weave of a food basket, made of reed and stalks of barley.

“Hello Iamma,” Kushim said and put his hand on her shoulder.

She grinned at him. “Did you have an enjoyable walk?”

“Yes. We are lucky. The crops and food harvest are excellent. There is progress on the new aqueduct and very little breeze.”

“You hurried—you are perspiring.”

Kushim wiped his brow on his sleeve. “I am not in the same physical health as when I was a young man.”

“Your mind is healthy, Kushim. That’s what I like about you.”

Kushim bowed his head. “I will start my exercises again tomorrow night, once the games conclude. I am sure of it.”

Iamma smirked. “I have heard this before.” She changed the topic. “Will there be sun tomorrow? What did you recognize in the clouds?”

“If Amar-Ser does his work, yes.”

“I understand.” She stared at him, and her eyes narrowed. She turned her head away, displeased. “Alad explained your deceit. Of course, he didn’t name it like that. He was proud of learning how to be off the hook.”

“The sky was undecided.”

“I understand,” she repeated, focused on the weaving again.

“I will pray tonight for sun tomorrow, Iamma.” He decided against pushing the topic anymore with his wife.

“Thank you, Kushim. Several people are waiting in the chamber to discuss matters with you. There are disagreements and confusion about tomorrow. I think you should talk to them.”

Kushim sighed. He walked to the chamber and overheard the chatter well before arriving. He stopped before he entered, listening to many familiar arguments: the rate of payment to the artists and the form of payment accepted, merchants debating where they should be placed around the courtyard, the bias of the judges amongst the chickpea bread competitors, disagreement over the sharpness of the weapons used during combat. It would be a long day.

Kushim arrived home at sunset. He noticed the emerging stars—the sky had cleared, holding promise for sunshine tomorrow.

“Daddy!” crowed his youngest daughters as he walked inside.

“My girls.” He walked across the room and squeezed them.

His home buzzed with activity and energy. Iamma walked about the rooms filling up the shell lamps with sesame oil and lighting them from a burning bundle of reed. The lamps brought both light and heat during cold nights. His older three girls prepared fried bread, cooked onions and lentils, and fig and apple salad. Kushim overheard his four boys in the back as they crushed chickpeas and grain and cleaned the trough for the water to flow from the house to the drainage system and back to the river.

When Iamma called them in to eat, the four boys sat on woven sheep’s wool carpets arranged in a circle on the floor. “Let us honor Ninhursag and our high priest, King Ubara Tutu.” Kushim raised his hands toward the sky. A moment of silence followed. Following tradition, the youngest daughter reached for the bread, and the distribution of food began. Kushim enjoyed the typical banter, teasing, and laughter from his family, a contrast to the disagreements he’d had to deal with earlier that day.

“Are you prepared for the games?” he asked Alad, who was competing in three of the athletic events. His son nodded and filled his mouth with bread. Kushim pressed on. “Remember to think about shadows, the glare of the sun, and the uneven ground.”

“Gula, did you complete your painting?” Iamma asked.

Kushim’s middle daughter grimaced. “Yes. I hate it, but you insist. The painting is ready.”

“You are too hard on yourself, Gula.”

“Like my father,” she winked at him.

Kushim laughed. “Yes, I suppose. You know me too well. You must only copy the best of me, Gula, and ignore the rest.” He reached for an empty bowl. “Tomorrow is a big day. Let us make our food offering to Anu.” Kushim tore a piece of bread and placed it inside the bowl. He handed the bowl to Iamma, who did the same thing. One by one each member of the family filled the bowl with fragments of bread.

“May there be sunshine,” Iamma said to Kushim and returned the bowl to him.

“Yes, may there be sunshine,” he said as he glanced back, smiling. “Anu be willing.” He tossed the bread from the bowl through the open window, where birds quickly consumed the pieces and flew upward into the open night skies.