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of the underworld.
    The men and women of the lower city were the subjects of the Lords of Ur, but never saw their faces. Whenever Ichbi Sum-Usur needed craftsmen or merchants from among them, he would ask his scribes, his foremen or his regents to find them.
    Sarai just had to look around her to realize that she would find neither help nor shelter. Who would welcome a girl from the royal city, a runaway, moreover, without fearing the wrath of the lords? It wouldn’t stay secret for long, because there were no secrets in the lower city. People spent as much time on the streets as they did inside their own homes. The doors of the houses were usually left open, and the inner courtyards could be seen by anyone passing by. The streets and alleys were cluttered with children, geese, dogs, and even pigs, and strewn with refuse. But nobody seemed to mind. They all went about their business, their mouths wide open, bustling unconcerned about the stalls where everything was bought and sold: food, rope, fabrics, sacks of grain, even asses. All around was the smell of rotting vegetables, of meat and fish exposed to the heat, mingled with the stench of excrement—the excrement of asses and children—not yet absorbed by the dusty ground. A stench so suffocating that Sarai had to hold her veil over her mouth to breathe. She was the only one doing so, but everyone was too busy to pay her any attention.
    She was suddenly startled by a cry: “Child, child!” An old woman sat in a doorway, smiling—or grinning—at her, her face nothing but wrinkles, her eyes almost invisible, her lack of teeth revealing a disgustingly pink tongue. She wagged a crooked finger at Sarai, beckoning her to come closer.
    â€œHerbs, my child, herbs! Do you want any of my herbs?”
    A dozen small baskets were lined up along the wall beside her, crammed with leaves, seeds of all colors, stones, crystals of gum. Sarai wanted to run away, but the old woman’s eyes held her back.
    â€œHerbs or something else? Come here, child, don’t be afraid!”
    Her voice became softer. There was even a touch of kindness in it. Were luck and the gods smiling on her? Sarah wondered. Perhaps the old woman could find her shelter for the night? What could a woman like her fear? But her next question froze Sarai’s blood.
    â€œDo you need something, goddess? Anything you want, Kani Alk-Nàa can sell it to you . . .”
    Why did the woman call her “goddess”? Had she guessed she was from the royal city? Or was she simply mocking her? Feigning indifference, Sarai bent over the baskets. They not only contained herbs and seeds, but animal skeletons, fetuses, skulls, dried entrails, and the gods knew what else! She was outside the lair of a witch, a
kassaptu!
    The old woman noticed her expression of disgust and let out a piercing laugh. “You’re a long way from home, goddess! Make sure the demons of the night don’t eat you!”
    Sarai straightened up, fear in her belly, and ran away.
    Behind her, the high walls of Ur towered like mountains, their tops bathed in the ocher light of dusk: impossible to get back inside now until dawn. Above the walls, only the upper terraces of the ziggurat were visible, the dark crown of the gardens, the Sublime Bedchamber with its lapis lazuli reflecting the sun like a daytime star. There was no more beautiful sight in all the world.
    Sarai ran without looking back, thinking of her garden, her new bedchamber, the softness of her bed. She slowed down. Night was coming on fast, like the sea coming to drown the shore.
    She knew that if she had stayed in her father’s palace, she would by now be with a husband who didn’t care about her and would be in a hurry to get it over with, and there would be nothing beautiful about her chamber or her bed. Yet tears welled up in her eyes. She felt a good deal less brave now.

    â€œMAKE sure the demons of the night don’t eat you!”