Day of the False King

by Brad Geagley

  Semerket broke into pursuit. It was not easy to weave through the multitudes lying prone on the ground, but Semerket was like an eel among the reeds. He leapt over their heads, ignoring their yells and curses that followed him. Families visiting their relatives cowered as he flew by, staring after him as they would an escaped lunatic. The priests in their fish robes turned to frown at the commotion.

  Semerket reached the lane seconds after Marduk had disappeared into it. There was no sign of him. Semerket stopped, panting, and hurried to where the lane divided into two streets. No one lingered there, nor were there any doors or gates through which Marduk could have gone.

  “Marduk!” he called out again. He waited for an answer. “Marduk!”

  When he was sure that he was completely alone, Semerket turned dispiritedly, beginning to doubt his own eyes—though if the man had not been Marduk, why would he have run away as he did? He sat on the lip of a nearby cistern, the only structure into which Marduk could have gone. But a bronze grille covered its top, and the grating was too narrow for any man to fit through. Nevertheless, just to make sure, he pulled on the grate; as he suspected, it was locked.

  Semerket returned to the Square of the Sick. Ignoring the annoyed stares of those over whom he had so rudely leapt, he searched for the man to whom Marduk had been speaking. He located him in the area where the sufferers of skin afflictions were sequestered. Semerket grimaced when he realized that the man’s face sported suppurating wounds, and tried to ignore the great patches of skin that peeled in sheets from his cheeks and chin.

  “Do you know him?” Semerket asked the man abruptly.

  “Pardon, lord?” the man said, startled.

  “The man you were speaking with just now—who ran when I called out to him. Marduk is his name.”

  “No…no, my lord. I’m very sorry.”

  “What were you talking about?”

  “I—I asked him if he knew a cure for my suffering,” the man said unwillingly. “It’s the custom here, you know.”

  Semerket did not believe the man, and brought his face closer to look into his eyes to ascertain if he were lying. When he drew near, the unmistakable scent of honey filled his nostrils. Semerket smiled, for the smell confirmed his suspicions.

  Before he could say anything more, however, a sudden deep tolling of a bell came from the direction of the river. All around the square, people turned to listen to its sonorous, mournful notes. Families started to rise, gather their belongings together, and bid their farewells to their sick relations.

  “What is that?” Semerket asked.

  “The warning bell from the bridge. In a few minutes, its gangplank will be drawn back so that evildoers cannot cross it during the night.”

  Semerket knew he had to get back across the river. If he did not reappear through the Egyptian temple’s gate, his Dark Head spies might panic and report him missing to the Elamite authorities. He cursed his luck, for he wanted to question this man more closely; Semerket was now absolutely convinced he was not telling the truth about Marduk.

  “Tell him,” Semerket said over his shoulder as he walked swiftly away, “tell him that I want to see him again.”

  “Believe me when I tell you, my lord—I don’t know this man!”

  “Tell him.”

  When he reached the street that would take him to the bridge, Semerket suddenly turned to call out. “I can help with that skin condition of yours, you know…!”

  The man did not reply, but many heads turned in the dark to hear what Semerket had to say.

  “Wash it with plain water!” Semerket yelled, his voice echoing through the dark square.

  “WE WERE VERY WORRIED, SIR,” the thin spy told him reproachfully as they walked down the alley, away from the Egyptian temple.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “We almost went to our captain.”

  “I’ll try to get here earlier tomorrow.”

  “We thought something had happened to you.”

  Semerket said nothing, and continued walking swiftly in the direction of his hostel.

  As it was night, his spies no longer feared being seen with him. The fat spy puffed and wheezed without restraint. “Where did you go today, sir?” he asked Semerket companionably.

  “But you know,” said Semerket.

  “How could I? We were waiting outside the temple all day, just as you paid us to do.”

  Semerket smiled. “I was praying.”

  “YOUR THUMB, my lord.”

  The priest pushed Semerket’s thumb lightly onto a wedge of soft clay, using a rolling motion. He took the wedge into a shaft of light that streamed from an opening in the roof, comparing the print to the one Semerket had made on Pharaoh’s tablet so many weeks before.

  It was dawn, and Semerket was in the Temple of Marduk, which the Babylonians called the Esagila. Though the Great Temple of Amun in Thebes was far larger, it would be hard-pressed to compete in sheer opulence with the Marduk sanctuary. Alabaster pillars rose to coffered ceilings of hammered gold, while purple curtains hung from silver rings, cascading in rich folds to mosaic floors of malachite, turquoise, and mother-of-pearl. The Esagila existed in a perpetual and holy state of gloom, lit only by the small skylights in its roof. Everything in it, including the gold and silver threads woven into the vestments of its priests, seemed made for the shimmer of lamp and torchlight.

  “All seems in order, my lord.”

  The priest indicated that Semerket was to follow him into the rear of the building. They soon came into the cool vaults where the priests secreted their treasure.

  “If you will make your signature,” the priest said in his low voice, “in cuneiform, please, here on this tablet where I have indicated…?” He pushed a fresh wedge of clay toward Semerket. Several leather sacks already waited for him on a table of inlaid citron wood, each bulging with gold.

  Semerket blinked in surprise. “But I can’t take all this.”

  “I assure you, my lord, it’s precisely the amount inscribed on the tablet you presented. If you’d care to count it…?”

  “I couldn’t possible carry it all!”

  “Perhaps your servants…?”

  “I have none.”

  A trace of suspicion lit the priest’s eye. Who was this servantless man, Semerket could almost hear him thinking, who lays claim to Pharaoh’s gold? In the end, the priest suggested that Semerket take only as much as he could conveniently carry. The rest would be returned to the vault until Semerket came for it. The priest smoothed out the figures he had previously inscribed onto the clay receipt, and quickly entered the new amount.

  “Your gold will be safe with us, my lord.”

  Semerket once again affixed his thumbprint. When he left the room, his belt was stuffed with gold rings. Never before had he carried so much wealth on his person. And to think he had four more of Pharaoh’s tablets waiting back in the hostel…

  At the thought of Pharaoh, a sudden river of guilt surged through him. Since his arrival in Babylon, Naia’s and Rami’s rescue had so consumed him that he had given no thought to his other mission, that of obtaining Bel-Marduk’s idol for his king. Since he was at the Esagila, Semerket reasoned, he might as well see the idol for himself, if only to gauge the effort it would take to transport it back to Egypt.

  He stepped into the processional line, following it down a long sloping ramp into the underground chapel. It was perhaps an hour or more before the temple guardians allowed him into the presence of Babylon’s most sacred idol.

  The soft chanting of songstresses filled the halls, and the overpowering scent of smoky myrrh enveloped him. Semerket strained to see ahead to where the idol reposed, but the crowd of milling worshippers blocked his view. He did not know what to expect, but when he finally saw the thing standing beneath its cloth-of-gold canopy, his first feeling was of disappointment. The idol was no taller than he was, and not at all well crafted; glancing down, he saw the statue’s wooden armature poking through a broken toe.
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br />   Fashioned in a crude, archaic style, the bearded god wore a high crown, and a girdle of starlike rosettes hung about his waist. A soft smile on his face gave the unfortunate impression of nothing so much as divine imbecility. In the god’s left hand was a ring-and-rod scepter held close to his chest, while his right hand extended forward in greeting.

  Pharaoh had told him that at the start of every reign, the new king of Babylon clasped the outstretched hand in his to receive the god’s consent to rule. The hand was now almost featureless, its thumb and fingers smoothed almost entirely away. How many kings, how many millennia, Semerket wondered, had it taken to wear that hand to such slimness?

  The god gradually became vibrant in his eyes, resplendent with the accumulated worship it had inspired over so many centuries. It was perhaps the oldest statue of any god in the whole world, and for that reason, the most revered. Semerket abruptly remembered the words Pharaoh had whispered to him. “I will take the god’s hand in mine, and I shall be cured of all illness.” Seeing the golden hand that had conferred power on so many kings, Semerket thought for the first time that perhaps the magic that resided in the idol might indeed help Pharaoh regain his health.

  Semerket continued to stare at the statue until a temple guardian whispered that he must leave the chapel so that other worshippers might themselves approach the god. When he was again in the outer hall, he found a young priest waiting for him.

  “Lord Semerket?” the man asked.

  Semerket nodded, surprised.

  “The Lord High Magus Adad requests a word.”

  “With me?” Semerket asked, wary.

  The young priest inclined his head, pointing to a small, featureless door at the end of the hall, all but hidden from the public’s view. It opened upon a narrow, private stairway leading to the temple’s second floor.

  The high magus’s chambers were as dark and quiet as the god’s sanctuary. The young priest put a finger to his lips, and nodded to the far end of the room. Semerket stared into the gloom and saw the back of a man, busy at a distant stone altar. The young priest closed the door softly behind him as he departed, and Semerket was alone with Adad. At that moment, the ferrous, salty smell of freshly spilled blood subtly infiltrated his nostrils, alarming him.

  “I’ll only be a moment, Lord Semerket,” Adad called reassuringly from the table, though his next words were disturbing enough. “I’ve just finished reading your liver.”

  Semerket saw the discarded carcass of a sacrificed kid lying at the Magus’s feet, its eyes half-lidded, its gray tongue protruding. Adad turned from the table, and Semerket noted that his hands were green with bile. Thrusting them into a basin of water, Adad cleansed himself before again addressing Semerket.

  “I’m disappointed,” said Adad casually, wiping his hands upon a cloth. “The kid’s liver wasn’t clear today, telling me first one thing and then another. I didn’t learn as much about you as I wished.”

  “If the Lord High Magus wants to know anything about me, he has only to ask.”

  Adad looked at him, taking Semerket’s measure. The magus was a large, powerfully built man, bearded like his god. “Words were invented to hide the truth, Semerket,” he said. “Only a liver never lies. But for all its cloudiness, I did discover some interesting things about you.”

  Semerket arranged his features into polite curiosity.

  “It told me you come here in search of someone. Two persons, in fact.”

  Semerket’s expression did not change.

  “It said that you and your pharaoh work to some secret purpose here in Babylon.”

  Semerket continued staring at the magus.

  “It tells me that Egypt’s wealth has been committed to the endeavor.” Irritated by Semerket’s continued stillness, Adad became suddenly impatient. “Well? Are you mute? What have you to say to all this?”

  Semerket shrugged. “I would say the liver tells you nothing more than what you found by reading the contents of my pack the other night.”

  Semerket heard Adad’s short intake of air. “Do you doubt my ability to read livers?”

  “I’m beginning to.”

  Adad’s tense jaws clenched several times before he answered. Few had ever spoken to him so impudently. The high magus began to pace, not looking at Semerket, and when he threw himself into his chair his fingers thrummed on its ivory armrest. “Since the Lord of All has given us the gift of prophecy and divination, Bel-Marduk’s magi have no need for common snooping,” he said firmly. “But if you would be so honest, then why don’t you admit you come here to carry away our holy idol to Egypt?”

  “Did you learn that from the liver?”

  “I won’t banter with you, Semerket. Ambassador Menef told me of Pharaoh’s interest in it the moment Ramses’ courier arrived in Babylon.”

  Semerket again did not respond. He was thinking instead of what possible motive Menef might have for telling Adad of Pharaoh’s confidential words. Some might construe it a treasonous act. Was the ambassador seeking to thwart Semerket somehow, intending to send the idol to Egypt himself and thereby earn Pharaoh’s favor and acclaim? As it was, Semerket cared little as to who successfully arranged the idol’s state visit to Egypt. If Menef had already done so, all the better—Semerket would be thus free to continue his search for Naia and Rami, unhampered by other concerns.

  Yet if that were true, what purpose had this high priest Adad for waylaying him like this? If the idol’s visit to Egypt were already managed, what need for any of this discussion between them?

  “And was Ambassador Menef successful?” Semerket asked. “Have you given your permission for the idol to visit Egypt?”

  “It’s not mine to give. The decision resides with King Kutir alone.”

  Semerket spoke his doubts aloud. “Then why did Menef go to you and not to him?”

  Adad dropped his eyes. He looked at his hands, picking nervously at the golden tassels on his pectoral. “Because the magi must be consulted, of course.” He raised his head to peer again at Semerket. “Because we alone can divine the god’s disposition in these matters.”

  “I certainly hope you do a better job of it than with the liver,” Semerket said lightly. Deciding that he could accomplish nothing more from the interview, he backed away, extending his hands to knee level, turning to leave. As he reached for the door, Adad’s voice came to him, sharply.

  “A moment, Semerket.”

  Semerket faced the high magus.

  “Once, long ago, another king of Elam marched into Babylon. He laid unholy hands on the idol and carried it off to Susa in chains.” Adad paused for effect. “Their crops failed. Plague struck. The Elamite armies went without victories. One after another their kings died. Finally, of their own accord, they returned the idol, paying us in gold to remove the god’s curse from their land.”

  The high priest was warning him, Semerket knew. Nevertheless, he asked, “And the reason you tell me this, Lord High Magus?”

  “Because it’s what happens when the Lord of All is taken from Babylon against his will.”

  “You see me,” replied Semerket. “What armies did I bring with me? What weapons? I don’t even carry a knife.”

  Adad stood. “But there is about you an air of violence and mayhem. I’ve heard they call you a ‘follower of Set’ in Egypt—that you can wreck a nation simply by walking through it.”

  Semerket shrugged. “I am not your enemy, lord. It’s true I seek the idol for my king, but you must decide whether it will go or stay. As I see it, my task is merely to convince you—and Kutir—of the advantages such a visit might bring to both our nations.”

  “And if the magi say that Bel-Marduk’s idol must remain in Babylon—even though the king should give you his consent—?”

  There it was, the reason why Semerket had been summoned to Adad’s chamber. Semerket finally comprehended that the idol was at the center of some political contest being waged between the invader Kutir and the Babylonian clergy. It was clear the prie
sts were afraid the Elamite conqueror might send the idol away against their will—and with it would go their power. Adad was warning Semerket that the real consent must come from the magi.

  “I would never subject Egypt to the calamities you’ve described,” Semerket answered.

  Adad pursed his lips. Unwillingly, his eyes strayed again to the kid’s liver glistening on the table beside him. Then, with an imperious wave of his hand, he dismissed Semerket.

  IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD of the foreign legations, the only activity at the moment came from the energetic feints and parries of a young guard, practicing his fencing in the shadows of the Egyptian embassy’s high walls. He was the same young man who had struck the physician Kem-weset with the shaft of his spear the previous day.