That evening, the steppe of Shinar stretched beneath a dust-gray sky. walked north until nightfall, along the old dried canal whose banks were crumbling under the wind. All that remained of the great watercourse was a bed of hardened silt, cracked into wide polygonal plates that rang underfoot like fired brick. No bird flew above the dry reeds. The air cooled quickly over the flat ground, blurring the outlines of distant earthen mounds.
When the sun vanished below the horizon, the plain changed color. The gray clay took on shades of rusted iron, then shadows stretched out from every thorn bush. stopped at the foot of a mudbrick embankment, the remains of some long-forgotten dike. He set his wool bag on the ground, took out his heavy cloak, and spread it over the cold earth.
He sat down, legs folded beneath him. His thighs were heavy from the haste of his departure, and dust clung to his damp skin. He took the goatskin waterskin hanging at his belt, loosened the leather collar that smelled of tallow, and let a gulp of warm water run down his throat. The water had the bitter taste of hot leather. He held it a moment in his mouth before swallowing, his gaze fixed on the line of the horizon where the plain met the sky.
Far off, several leagues to the south, the silhouette of Hurmuzjard stood out in black. The great brick ziggurat rose above the haze of dust, square and still. The upper temple, usually invisible at this distance, formed a dark outgrowth against the fading light of dusk. The city was behind him now, but its presence stayed rooted in the flat landscape, barring the sky.
set his hands flat on the ground. The clay was cold. He set his right hand against his chest. He looked at the emptiness before him, opened his mouth, and spoke a sentence into the silence:
"On this earth, there are only two believers."
The voice was faint, absorbed by the clay and the soft wind stirring the tamarisks. He thought of , left behind the great wooden door of the workshop, her gaze proud before 's anger. He did not know where she would sleep that night, nor whether she too would cross the threshold. The word hung a moment, then faded. He closed his eyes, his right hand still resting on his heart.
Two figures appeared on the horizon. The first star was already shining in the west. They came from the northeast, skirting the bends of the old canal to avoid patches of soft mud. Their movements were slow and steady. It was the gait of long-distance walkers, the one that no longer changes after several hours.
walked in front, a heavy coarse-cloth bag slung across his chest, an ash-wood staff in his hand. followed close behind him. A dark wool veil covered her shoulders. Dust rose in small gray clouds around their ankles, then settled back onto the dry ground. Neither hurried their pace. Neither called out. They walked toward the brick embankment where sat. The dark shape of his cloak guided them across the pale clay.
When they reached him, they stopped. No cry greeted their reunion. A fine layer of gray dust marked the creases around their eyes. Their faces stayed grave. set his staff against the earthen embankment. He unslung his cloth bag and set it gently on the ground. He sat down beside , legs bent, both hands resting flat on his knees. His fingers were stiff with fatigue. He stayed still, his eyes lowered to the ground between his bare feet. He did not turn his eyes toward the distant shape of the ziggurat.
came closer in turn. The red wool cord held her hair back, visible beneath the folds of her dark veil. Her high forehead, marked with sweat, stayed uncovered. She sat facing , on the bare earth, without spreading a cloak beneath her. Her dark, steady eyes settled on 's face. She said nothing.
looked at , then at sitting to his left. Three of them now on the land of Shinar, seated in a circle at the foot of the brick ruins.
rose without a word. He took the bronze knife from his belt and moved off toward a stand of withered tamarisks whose dead branches hung near the old canal. His sandals made the dry branches crackle on the ground. and stayed alone near the brick embankment. The wind rose, carrying the bitter smell of sun-scorched reeds.
turned to her. His voice was low, almost a whisper, so as not to break the silence of the plain.
"I knew you would follow me."
did not look away. Her eyes stayed fixed on his. The wind lifted the folds of her veil. She did not blink.
"A wife follows her husband," she said. "Even beyond the walls of Babylon."
"Where are we going?" she asked then.
raised his hand toward the northwest. The sky there still held a streak of pale orange above the unseen hills of upper Mesopotamia.
"Toward my Lord."
A sharp whistle cut through the air from the distance, the wind passing through the dry reeds of the canal. Then it died away. waited for the silence to settle. He added, in a level voice:
"He is the Mighty. The Wise."
listened. Her face stayed still in the thickening dusk. She nodded once. Then she set her left hand against the cold earth to brace herself.
came back carrying an armful of dry tamarisk branches. The wood was light and hollow, dried out by years without water. He set the wood down at the center of the circle, then knelt. He took two black flint stones and a piece of dried palm fiber from his bag. He struck the stones together above the fiber. A shower of blue sparks fell into the darkness. A thin white smoke rose, fragrant. blew gently on the young ember. A red flame rose at last, lighting their three faces with a flickering glow.
opened her rough linen sack. She took out a round, flat barley loaf, baked the evening before their flight. The wind of the steppe had hardened the bread. Its surface was rough, flecked with whole barley grains and traces of gray ash. She tried to break it in two. The crust stayed too hard beneath her tired fingers.
took the bread from 's hands. He pressed it between his broad palms and squeezed. The bread cracked, breaking into three pieces. He did not count. He handed the first piece to , the second to , and kept the third for himself.
They ate in silence. The sound of dry barley crunching under their teeth was the only noise on the plain, besides the crackling of the tamarisk wood. ate quickly, his head bowed toward his knees. He did not look at the other two. After each bite, he set his hands flat on his thighs. ate slowly. She chewed each bite of hard bread with diligence. Her eyes stayed fixed on the south, where the ziggurat of Hurmuzjard already gleamed with small points of light. The priests' fires burned on the upper terraces. They formed a crown of yellow flames above the dark plain.
chewed his bread without raising his eyes toward the city. The waterskin passed between them, from 's hand to 's, then to 's. Each of them drank long draughts of the warm water that smelled of tallow. Each wiped the leather spout with the back of a hand before passing it on.
The night had turned cold. The night sky had opened wide above the plain of Shinar, vast and dark, without a single cloud. The stars shone with a cold light. They traced the constellations the astrologers of Ur named every night from the temple terraces.
raised her eyes to the crescent moon rising in the east. Its white light lit the edge of her face and her cheekbones. She did not blink.
"Nanna," she said.
She gestured with her chin toward the fires of the ziggurat.
"The temple burns with all its fires at this hour."
did not answer. He picked up an unburned tamarisk twig. He threw it onto the embers. The wood caught at once, casting a last glow over their faces before dying down.
turned toward him again. Her right hand gripped the collar of her wool veil.
"The waterskin will last two days," she said in a calm voice. "After that, there is no well before the northern canal."
looked at the red embers beginning to gray beneath the ash.
"The feast is in twelve days."
froze at these words. His hands, resting on his knees, clenched. His fingers tightened on the cloth of his tunic, until his knuckles grew taut as bone beneath the skin. He stayed like that for several breaths, still, his gaze fixed on the dying fire. Then, slowly, his fingers loosened. His shoulders sagged.
held 's gaze. The glow of the embers shone in her dark eyes. She asked no question about the danger, nor about the royal guard. She slowly turned her eyes toward the cold ashes of the camp.
The tamarisk fire went out completely. Nothing remained at the center of the circle but a small heap of gray, cold ashes, which the night wind began to scatter over the clay. The ziggurat of Hurmuzjard was now nothing more than a faint glow on the black horizon.
A sound. Hooves, distant, on the brick road to the south. stiffened. His hand went to the ash-wood staff leaning against the embankment. The sound drew nearer. did not move. The hooves passed some hundred cubits off, behind the embankment. Two donkeys. A merchant snoring on the lead animal. The sound faded away northward.
let go of the staff. His fingers were trembling.
The wind of the plain weakened. lay down on his wool cloak, spread over the ground. The cold, hard clay pressed against his shoulder blades through the coarse cloth.
In the complete darkness of the steppe, three breaths rose. They answered one another at intervals, marking the rhythm of sleep. closed his eyes beneath the vastness of the night sky.
believed in him. And [] said: "I am emigrating to my Lord, for He is the Mighty, the Wise."
Surah Al-ʿAnkabūt, 29:26