Gilgamesh and Ramses drew nearer.
“I don’t see anyone else,” whispered Ramses.
“What?” Gilgamesh asked.
“Look through the gate. No one is about.”
“Where’s Enlil?” Gilgamesh asked.
Minos laughed as he lifted the jug. “Here, drink.” He tossed the jug.
Gilgamesh caught and uncorked it, sniffing. Palm wine, strong and potent. He corked the leathery jug and handed it to Ramses.
“No thanks,” Ramses said, as he patted his paunch.
Gilgamesh tossed the jug back.
“Aren’t you thirsty?” Minos asked.
“Where’s Enlil?” Gilgamesh asked.
“Drinking with his friends,” Minos said.
“You came by ship?” Gilgamesh asked.
“Of course.”
“And the king,” Gilgamesh said. “Did he come?”
Minos shook his head.
“Who captains the ship?”
“I almost forgot,” Minos said, as he set down the jug. He drew a square piece of clay from a pouch, handing it to Gilgamesh. “Notice the seal.” Gilgamesh saw the picture of a man shooting a dragon. It was Nimrod’s seal. Within the thin clay envelope would be a baked clay tablet. He’d have to break the envelope to open it.
Gilgamesh handed it to Ramses.
“It’s addressed to you,” Minos said.
Gilgamesh nodded.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Minos asked.
“First I want to know who captained the ship.”
“Ah,” Minos said, and it seemed as if his smile lost a bit of its shine. He retrieved his jug, pulling the cork, taking a swig, wiping his mouth and corking the jug. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some? This is an excellent vintage.”
Gilgamesh patted the water skin at his side. “Why don’t I see any people in the streets?”
Minos turned, looking back through the gate. He gazed up at the sun. “It’s a hot day. I suppose there is the reason.”
“Listen,” Ramses said.
Gilgamesh cocked his head. He heard drunken men singing from within the city.
“It looks as if you had good luck hunting,” Minos said, indicating the gazelle.
Gilgamesh shrugged.
“Work on the Tower goes well,” Minos said, in a conversational tone. “They’re almost finished with the fifth level. But I imagine that Ramses already told you that.”
“No,” Gilgamesh said. “He’s too worried about the coming war.”
“Yes,” Minos said. “It’s sad. But the others have become unpredictable. For the good of all they must be freed from the old ways and brought into harmony with the rest of mankind.”
“That isn’t the reason he’s going to war,” Ramses said.
Gilgamesh shook his head at Ramses, and now it was his turn to smile at Minos. With the razor-sharp tip of his lance, he touched the front of Minos’s garland. “Who captains the ship, my friend?”
Minos laughed, stepping back.
Following him, Gilgamesh let the tip drop, and he touched Minos’ cheek. “I’m weary of word games. What are you hiding?”
“Nothing,” Minos said. “I came to deliver Nimrod’s message.”
“Tell me what it is.”
“He said to let you read it.”
“Fair enough,” Gilgamesh said. “Now I want to know—”
A bell clanged. It seemed to come from the other end of town, from the wharf perhaps.
“There’s my signal,” Minos said, as he backed away.
“Signal for what?” Gilgamesh said.
“It was a quick trip,” Minos explained.
“You’re not leaving already?” Ramses asked, surprised.
“I’m afraid so,” Minos said. “The king wants everyone at home, you see. War comes. We must be ready for anything.”
“Who…” Gilgamesh said.
But Minos hiked up his robe like a woman, exposing bare legs, and he turned and ran through the city gate.
Gilgamesh glanced at Ramses.
“What strange behavior,” Ramses said. “He didn’t seem drunk.”
Gilgamesh dropped his gazelle and jogged after Minos.
“What do you think is wrong?” Ramses said, running after him.
“It’s that premonition,” Gilgamesh said. “Something feels wrong.”
“You’re no priest,” chided Ramses. “No oracle.”
“Gilgamesh!” Enlil shouted. He and two others had been leaning against a smithy. Well, two of those three lay slumped against the smithy. They must have been drinking for quite some time to be that far-gone. Enlil staggered to them, with a jug in his hands.
“The others left when the bell clanged,” Enlil slurred, “and now I drink alone. That isn’t right. Drink with me!”
Gilgamesh pushed Enlil aside. “Run,” he said to Ramses.
They ran down the empty dirt street. A flash of blue showed Minos darting around a home and toward the wharf.
Gilgamesh left a panting Ramses behind. He saw Minos pound down the wooden wharf and leap aboard the ship, which had straining Mighty Men pushing poles from shore.
“Ahoy the ship!” shouted Gilgamesh.
He saw Obed and Zimri, close friends of Uruk. He saw Thebes, another friend of Uruk. Finally, he saw the biggest Mighty Man of all, the new War Chief.
“Uruk!” shouted Gilgamesh.
The big man turned sharply. He stood on the stern deck, the only deck on ship. He held the tiller in his big hands. Uruk grinned meanly. “I delivered the message. Now the king needs me back at Babel.”
A wind caught the triangular sail, sending the ship faster from Erech’s wharf.
Gilgamesh stopped on the wooden planks. He frowned, not understanding any of this. Ramses halted beside him, panting, out of breath.
“Why are they hurrying?” Ramses asked.
Gilgamesh shook his head. A shout caused him to turn. His Mighty Men, Enlil and two others, bleary-eyed, staggered toward them while waving jugs. They hollered to the men aboard ship.
“We just got started drinking!” roared Enlil. “Come back!”
A dreadful feeling came upon Gilgamesh. He shaded his eyes and looked at Uruk. The big man smiled. He seemed…
“Where’s my sister?” Ramses said, glancing about. “Opis should be here.”
Gilgamesh made a strangled sound, turned and sprinted to the palace, the two-story house beside the equally high city temple.
Gilgamesh burst through the front door. “Opis!”
Silence.
He ran into the house, shouting his wife’s name. Despite the heat outside, it was cool within. He hardly noticed. Furniture was sparse, as in most homes. They had low tables, cane-backed armchairs, mats and stools.
He found Opis in the bedroom. She sat on the bed. It was low-built with a frame of wood. His wife sat staring, seeming unaware of his shouts.
“Opis,” Gilgamesh said, moving closer.
She didn’t seem to hear him.
Puzzled, with the bad feeling worse than ever, Gilgamesh noticed that the room seemed…
A vase was overturned and had cracked. The nightstand lay on its side. The bed sheets…
“Opis, speak to me,” he said, kneeling on the bed beside her.
Her head whipped up. She stared at him, wild-eyed.
“Opis?” he whispered.
She had draped a gown over herself, but in turning, it fell from her shoulder. A blue bruise, like a handprint, marred her shoulder.
“Opis, what happened?”
Tears dripped from her eyes, and she moaned.
Gilgamesh touched her.
She shrieked, flying back from him. “No! Don’t touch me!”
“Opis,” he said, bewildered.
She backed into the corner, shivering, moaning, no longer willing to look at him.
A sick feeling filled him. “Did, did Uruk—”
Hatred welled in her eyes as her head snapped up.
&
nbsp; Then it became clear to Gilgamesh why Minos had held him up at the gate. Why the bell had clanged and all the friends of Uruk had gone running to the ship. It made sick sense now why Enlil and the other two Mighty Men had been given drink, and why no people where on the streets—they had been scared off.
Uruk had raped his wife.
12.
Semiramis strolled down a narrow corridor. She wore a scarlet gown and a crown of fish-eyes. Behind her trailed a Singer with a smoking torch and another with an ostrich feather fan.
She moved to a curtain and peered into the throne room. It was crowded, stank of sweaty men and jingled with the sounds of armor. They loved to pose. The rugged warriors who often mocked women strutted in front of each other like a roomful of fighting cocks. They jested, quaffed wine and toasted her husband on the throne. She spied Minos in his blue robe, carrying a harp. He seemed uncomfortable, although probably only to her eye. Minos strummed, humming tunes, nodding whenever a warrior shouted to him.
When Minos looked her way, she waved so he grinned. He began to weave his way through the preening crowd. Finally, he glanced over his shoulder and then slipped past the curtain into the corridor beside her.
She motioned the Singers to move back before whispering, “Did he do it?”
“Now that was a chore,” Minos said. “Sailing the Euphrates with the Mighty Men is nothing like being with the Singers. They’re gruff, high-strung oafs who raise their fists at the slightest perceived insult.”
“I not interested in listening to you whine.”
Minos studied her until he frowned. “Your eyes are glazed from black lotus. You’re stilling using it?”
She ignored the question. “Tell me. Did the new War Chief achieve his dream?” She meant Uruk.
Minos plucked a string.
She dragged him deeper into the hall. “Don’t play the clown with me, little brother.”
He laughed. “Poor Semiramis, trapped amid riches and yet powerless.”
“I have power enough to wring your neck.”
“No doubt, no doubt. But then you would be alone among these muscle bound boors. Where would you gain your diversion?”
“Perhaps I’d fashion a troupe similar to the Singers, composed of handsome young men.”
“Nimrod would allow this?”
“Is it fair that he frolics with the Singers and has nothing left for his wife?”
“Semiramis, that’s drool.”
She gripped his shoulder. “Did Uruk do it?”
Minos nodded.
“In her own house?” Semiramis asked.
“On her own bed. He claimed to be brutal. And of that I have no doubt.”
“He didn’t suspect your motives?”
Minos laughed. “The War Chief?”
“Don’t underestimate his cunning.”
“Yes, Uruk has low animal craft.”
“And strength and murder-lust to see him through,” Semiramis said.
Minos shrugged.
“Oh, you are a fool,” she said. “You think you’re clever. You laugh at them, even though any Mighty Man could smash your skull. It’s the fact you’re my brother that you’re still alive. You’d do well to remember that.”
“Of course.”
“Don’t you dare laugh at me.”
He strummed his harp as he put on a doleful face.
It was her turn to laugh. “There’s no cure for you, little brother. Now tell me, did he suspect your prodding?”
“No. A word here, a raised eyebrow and Uruk soon thought it was his idea.”
She frowned.
“You should be delighted,” Minos said. “This was what you wanted.”
“I am. Opis won Gilgamesh’s heart, but I can still make her life miserable.” Semiramis took her brother by the arm. “Let us go somewhere else to celebrate alone. It will be a boring evening if you stay with them. A feast is to be held and a discussion among the Mighty Men concerning war.”
“It has been decided upon then?”
“Long ago,” Semiramis said, “but Nimrod still has to go through the rituals.”
13.
It was late at night on the upland plain of Nineveh. The moon had set and the stars twinkled. Bats returned to their lairs and wolves, gorged on game taken that evening, slunk to their dens and lay down to await the dawn.
A door creaked. The sound ceased. A shadow, a blot of darkness that had moved, now stopped. The head of the shadow bent forward. The door inched open, the creaks loud and poignant in the gloom. The shadow stepped into the log cabin and closed the door until the latch clicked.
Using all the skills learned over the years, Hilda crept to her bedroom. Her mind boiled. Odin had begged once again for her to be his wife and escape with him to the Far North. How she yearned to say yes and flee this doomed place. She almost agreed. She worried about her father, though. How he would react to her departure?
She stopped and listened. It seemed—she froze. Someone was in the room, someone awake.
No, no, she told herself. Her father slept in his room. Why would he be up this late at night? She waited. The feeling grew. She held her breath and listened harder.
She could have sworn a moment ago that she had heard someone breathe. Oh, how she wanted to stop this subterfuge and call out. But what if her father sat up and waited, and what if even now he watched her in the darkness? He wouldn’t be able to see her, of course. But if he sat up, holding his breath, also wanting to call out—
Her stomach whirled. She loved Odin. She wanted to marry him. But she didn’t know if she could leave her father all alone, after all the terrible things that had happened to him. She hated it when he looked at her in the morning, so sad, so…
She took a step. The floorboard creaked. Gradually, creak by creak she moved to her room, opened the door and slipped within, shutting her bedroom door behind her.
In the darkness of the main room, in the corner, Beor let out his breath. He vowed that, come what may, he would slay this imposter Odin who tried to steal his daughter from him.
14.
Ham rubbed his eyes. His arms ached and his fingers had grown stiff from hours of slinging and archery. Hay-backed targets stood thirty paces away. Splotches had appeared in his vision so he could no longer make them out.
“Let me help you,” a lad said, the one who had been fetching arrows for others.
Led by the hand, Ham soon sat on a bale.
“Food has always helped before,” the lad said.
Ham accepted bread, mechanically tearing it, stuffing the pieces into his mouth. He swilled cold mountain water, wishing it were ale.
“Should I find Odin before he sneaks off to Hilda?”
“Does everyone know about it?” Ham asked.
“Everyone but Beor,” the lad said. “Well, none of his band knows, either. People want to see her married and are secretly praying for Odin’s success.”
“Ah, that’s better,” Ham said. He could see again. He tousled the lad’s hair. With a grunt, he rose and picked up his bow.
Snowcapped hills stood to the north, mere blurs for him, although he could make out the palisade-ringed hill to his right. The palisade wasn’t a town in the Akkad or Babel sense, just Assur’s first line of defense. Rocks and boulders littered the undulating terrain, stands of pines here and there and a stream that had detached from the Tigris. It meandered until it reentered the main river several leagues from here.
To the north and west of the hill fort, lived the majority of Shem’s clans and a few of Japheth’s. Some Shemites had migrated to Babel along with many Japhethites, and now Japheth himself had gone. The numbers were three to one in Nimrod’s favor. Worse, except for Beor and his band, there was nothing like Nimrod’s Mighty Men. Few here owned bronze armor, although many had fashioned leather coverings and practiced with the bow or spear.
“Patriarch,” the lad said. “Here comes Assur and Shem.”
In the process of tying on a leather bracer, Ham
glanced at the blurry hill-fort. Of course, he saw nothing. “Where are they?”
“Halfway down the hill.”
“Walking?”
“Riding donkeys.”
First rubbing his eyes, Ham squinted at the targets. The bracer on his left forearm protected the flesh from the slashing string of the bow. Whenever he released, the string scraped the wrist, and after continued shooting, the bowstring would cut and made his skin bleed without the protection. He tested various bows.
Most of those owed by the Shemites were short bows, usually drawn to the chest. Few men had huge, six-foot bows like Beor. Few could have drawn the string of Beor’s bow to their cheek. The usual tactic with the short bow was to sneak up close and shoot from hiding. Long distance shooting demanded a bow like Beor’s. Close-set ambush tactics, Ham felt, wouldn’t work against Nimrod. So he looked for the right combination of bow that shot far but didn’t need a truly strong man. It seemed for what he envisioned that slings were better. The only problem was that slings took years of practice to use well.
Ham plucked an arrow out of the ground and notched it. His shoulders ached and his fingers stiffened. “Steady, old man,” he whispered. The arrow hissed and the heavy smack told him he’d hit the bale.
“It’s in the circle,” the youth shouted.
Ham grinned, but the hint of a splotch in his eyes and a twinge in his shoulder convinced him he had pushed himself to the limit. He unstrung the bow and told the lad to gather arrows. Then he ambled to his bale, awaiting his brother and nephew.
Assur was tall, lean and had a curly black beard almost down to his waist. He had wise eyes and a broad forehead. He judged disputes between his siblings with a wisdom that had earned him the title: the Just. Shem, riding a donkey, looked much as he had when they built the Ark. Shem savored his words as always, prayed every morning at the family altar and chose a different cabin each day to visit. The great-grandchildren loved to crawl over him as he told them Jehovah-centered stories.
“Good afternoon, Uncle,” Assur called.
Ham waved.
The Shemites hobbled their mounts and strolled to him, Assur in his disjointed stride and Shem in his leisurely pace.
“How goes the target practice, Uncle?”
People of the Tower (Ark Chronicles 4) Page 14
