A cold, hard feeling grew in his gut. Something grim was going to be demanded of him soon. His smile was cold. His stay in the damp black cell had readied him for hard tasks. His head bumped against the ceiling. He fumbled for the trapdoor and hissed in elation as he pushed it upward.
19.
Hilda and Odin dragged Gilgamesh down the long ramp. Below a scene of madness greeted them. People fought in the plaza. Many lay as if dead, killed, bludgeoned to death. Frenzied shouts filled the night.
“Look at the sky,” Odin said.
Hilda craned her head. The stars were blotted out. That almost caused her to miss her step and plunge to her death down the stairs. No, no, not blotted out. A cloud hung over the city.
“It feels like rain,” Odin said.
Hilda gobbled silently. “Not rain,” she hissed, “lightning.”
“What?”
“Oh, Odin,” she sobbed. “It’s going to thunder and lightning.”
“How do you know?”
“That isn’t just a cloud,” she said, no longer daring to stare upward.
They resumed the march down the ramp, Gilgamesh’s feet thumping at each step.
“What do you mean that isn’t a cloud?” Odin asked.
She huffed at the heavy load of Gilgamesh. “Don’t you remember the story of the Ark? How right at the end, a cloud appeared to shut the Ark’s door?”
“That wasn’t just a cloud,” Odin said, “but the presence of Jehovah.”
“Right!”
All the blood drained out of Odin’s already pale face. He looked inhuman and his features stark.
“Hurry,” Hilda said.
Odin did.
20.
Uruk swore in rage, with his leaden mace clubbing down another fool. The man’s skull cracked, the body thumped onto the plaza bricks and gore oozed. The mace, a ball of lead, was his badge of office as War Chief. Beside him were his wine-besotted brothers, and a cousin, the only people left he could understand. They too bore weapons.
Order had to be restored.
“Uruk, look at that,” his younger brother said.
Uruk grunted. Odin and Hilda bearing a bleeding Gilgamesh stepped off the bottom stair of the Tower.
“That doesn’t seem right,” his brother said.
Bloodthirsty joy filled Uruk. He hated Gilgamesh, the one who had stolen Opis from him. He winced inwardly. That day on Gilgamesh’s bed with Opis, he should have enjoyed it. The shame of it haunted him every day of his life. He hated himself for what he had done to Opis, and he blamed that on Gilgamesh.
People scattered, fleeing out of his way.
“You!” roared Uruk.
Odin looked up, and so did Hilda.
Uruk’s eyes narrowed. Why had they been in the temple and how had they been bloodied? He had seen Nimrod racing down the steps before.
His brothers and cousin, bearing knives, surrounded these traitors.
“Who freed you?” Uruk asked.
Odin shook his head.
“So you won’t answer?” Uruk said, raising his gore-spattered mace.
He gave Odin this. The Spear Slayer didn’t flinch. Odin opened his mouth and barked like a dog. At least it made as much sense as a dog barking or a wolf snarling. Had everyone but his brothers gone mad?
Knives from his brothers and cousin poked Odin and Hilda. They weren’t going anywhere. That was certain.
Uruk grabbed Gilgamesh’s sweaty hair and jerked his head up. He almost leapt back. Gilgamesh glared at him like a berserk, a dread smile spreading across his bloody lips.
“Forgive me,” whispered Gilgamesh.
“Eh?” said Uruk. “You want my forgiveness?”
Gilgamesh’s eyes seemed to look right through him. “I have sinned against your wife,” said the delirious governor of Erech.
“You fool,” Uruk shouted.
Gilgamesh’s wild eyes cleared, and his bloody smile became hideous. He took a hand from his side. It held a knife.
For Uruk time slowed down. The razor-sharp knife punctured his stomach. The blade slid into him, biting inner organs. He roared, stepping back, pulling the hilt out of Gilgamesh’s grasp.
Uruk’s knees buckled. He crashed to the plaza. What was wrong with him? Oh yes, there was a knife in his guts. His head drooped as his brothers shouted at him.
A terrible boom like the end of the world forced Uruk to look up. Lighting, pure and shining, cracked into the blue temple on top of the Tower. The bolt jagged down from that dreadful cloud that blotted out the stars.
The temple exploded. Bricks, in his slow motion sense, flew into the night sky.
Uruk’s head drooped. The bricks would rain down soon. He didn’t think it would matter to him. No. He slumped, chest-first onto the plaza, grunting as the dagger pushed deeper into him. He sighed, his final sound, and his soul departed his useless husk.
21.
Bricks rained. Bricks smashed like hail. People screamed. Some died. Everyone else ran, Odin and Hilda among them
“It’s Ragnarok!” howled Odin. “Armageddon! The end of the world!”
“Look out!” screamed Hilda, pushing him.
A brick exploded onto the plaza, a chip of it rebounding, slashing her cheek. She felt blood drip down her face.
“Run!” she screamed, as a man in front of her crumpled to the ground dead, a gaping hole in his back where a brick had smashed.
Odin and she ran as another pure and scintillating lighting bolt struck the doomed temple of Babel.
22.
Stumbling through the main palace hall and to his throne room, Nimrod heard the thunder and the rain of bricks. He snarled. He cursed Jehovah. He wasn’t dead yet. As long as he was alive, he still had a chance.
He threw down the throne room door-bar and panted behind it. The thunder seemed to have stopped. He grinned. He was alive. He turned, and stopped in shock.
Semiramis watched him from beside the Dragonbone Throne.
“Have you gone mad as well?” he asked.
“My lord god,” she said, with obvious fear, her eyes fixed upon his bloodied dagger.
He scowled as he staggered to the throne, throwing down the blade so it clattered on royal tiles.
She noticed the blood leaking through the fingers that pressed against his side. “You’re cut. You’re bleeding.”
“Gilgamesh attacked me,” he said, watching her.
She pushed her knuckles into her mouth as he loomed before her. “Did you cut off his head, my lord god?”
“I will,” Nimrod said.
“He’s still alive?”
“Not for long.”
A mixture of emotions played across her face. “You must order his death,” she said. “You must do it at once.”
He slumped onto the Dragonbone Throne and pulled away his bloody robes. “Get me catgut threat and a needle. I must bind this wound before I do anything else.”
She stared at him, at his wound and then into his face. She spun and hurried from the room.
He sagged against the throne. Blood oozed from the deep cut. He winced at the pain. What had caused Gilgamesh’s treachery? He shook his head. What had caused tonight’s madness? “No,” he whispered, striking the arm of his Dragonbone Throne. “I am Nimrod. I am the god of Babel. I will not be cheated of my prize.”
Semiramis returned with a tray. On it stood a golden chalice, needle and thread. She knelt before him, holding up the tray. “You must drink this, my husband.”
“What is it?” he said, suspicious again.
“A healing draught, my lord god. It will help ease the pain.”
He ruffled her hair as he might a dog. In all the treachery and madness of this strange night, he still had some who were loyal. He nodded. Most would be loyal. He took the chalice, and paused.
“What’s wrong, my lord god?”
He studied her. Gilgamesh had attacked him. He handed her the chalice. “Drink,” he said.
She took the cup and peered i
nto it. “My lord god, there won’t be enough if I drink.”
He struck her, rising from the throne as she sprawled onto the tiles. “Harlot, witch, you seek to poison me?”
“No, my lord god. No.”
He picked up his dagger, groaning. Blood oozed from his side.
She scuttled back, and her features transformed from fear to hate. She rushed to the door as he staggered several steps after her, groaning again.
“Does a god bleed?” she sneered.
He stared at her.
She lifted the bar and opened the door, and she recoiled. “No!”
Nimrod laughed. “Kush brings reinforcements, my pretty. I spoke to my father, one of the few yet sane this night.”
She moved aside, glancing at him.
“Kush,” Nimrod said, with the hand at his side slippery with blood.
It wasn’t Kush, but Shem, Assur and several of his sons.
“Who let you out, old man?” Nimrod asked.
Shem pointed at him and spoke stern, chattering words. The men with him tightened their hold on spears and long-bladed knives.
Nimrod licked his lips. “Do you think to beard me in my throne room? Me, Nimrod the Dragon Slayer, the Mighty Hunter and the god of Babel?”
Shem turned to his son and grandsons, speaking quietly, no doubt urging them on.
Nimrod laughed, and he spat a bloody gob onto the floor.
They fanned out toward him as Semiramis slipped behind them and dashed down the hall. She had to find Gilgamesh.
Nimrod the Mighty Hunter roared his last battle cry and charged the Shemites, the sons and grandsons of Shem. If only he could cut down the old man—
Then spears and knives flashed, ending his dreams of glory and godhood.
23.
Odin and Hilda staggered out the Lion Gate. Behind them, Babel burned, flames roaring, licking, devouring what it could. At other gates, other people likewise fled, some knotting together with those who understood them.
The city perished. The wrath of Jehovah destroyed their dream.
24.
Noah parted company, leaving Ham and Rahab as he marched away into the darkness.
“What do we do now?” Rahab asked.
They stood outside the city.
Ham shook his head. He didn’t know what to do now. Start over? Just the two of them this time? He felt weary and old.
“Father?”
Ham and Rahab glanced at one other.
“I understood that,” she said.
“Over here!” shouted Ham, waving his arm.
A group of people with torches and drawn weapons approached. Tall Menes led them, with Lud and muscular Ramses.
“Father,” said Menes, “do you know what’s happening?”
Ham took hold of Rahab’s hand, glanced once more at burning Babel. He moved closer, putting his other hand on Menes’ shoulder. “It’s a long story,” he said. “The main point is that we can’t stay here any longer.”
Genesis 11:8-9
So the LORD scattered them from there over all the Earth, and they stopped building the city. This is why it was called Babel—because there the LORD confused the language of the whole world. From there the LORD scattered them over the face of the whole Earth.
Pharaoh’s Palace
1.
An exhausted, blind and weary Ham wiped spittle from his lips. “Water,” he croaked.
“Get him water,” Pharaoh said.
Feet pattered. Clothes rustled. Water gurgled into a cup. Princess Taia approached and put the cup into his hands.
Ham drank it dry and held out the cup until it was lifted from his grasp.
“What happened next?” Pharaoh asked. “Nimrod died and then what?”
Ham shook his head. “It was an awful and confusing night. No one understood anyone but close family members.” He frowned deeply.
“What?”
“Ah, it was a terrible time, Pharaoh. As I’ve said, as soon as Noah spoke his curse the change occurred.” Ham shut his eyes. They had done the work of Jehovah together, Noah and him, and because of it, they had been separated. He’d wanted to tell his father so many things, things he’d held back during the long walk from Mount Ararat to Babel.
“You couldn’t speak to Noah,” Pharaoh said, “only to Menes. That explains why you came to Egypt.”
“It wasn’t Egypt then, Pharaoh. It was just another swamp among many. Yet here is where Menes stopped and began anew. And that’s what happened after Babel. Each family member left with those he could speak to. Some went north, some south, others east and a few west. Semiramis the Harlot Queen kept Babel, with Gilgamesh as her King.” Ham smiled. “Odin and Hilda went to the Far North.”
“I’m intrigued by one aspect of your story particularly,” Pharaoh said.
“Yes?”
“Taken as a whole, your story shows that civilization has in a sense only begun once,” Pharaoh said, “in the Antediluvian Age.”
“Or to be more precise in Eden,” Ham said. “Well, perhaps after Eden. Cain built the first city and his descendent Lamech bore clever children. Jabal was the father of those who live in tents and raise livestock. His brother Jubal was the father of all who play the harp and flute. Tubal-Cain forged all kinds of tools out of bronze and iron. His sister Naamah I’ve of course told you about.”
“What I mean,” Pharaoh said, “is that you brought that civilization over on the Ark. Nimrod could build ziggurats because the methods of constructing them had already been developed in the Antediluvian Age. He didn’t have to discover how to build them.”
“And our pyramids here in Egypt as well,” Taia said.
“Exactly,” Pharaoh said. “These civilizations haven’t risen from the dirt, but are merely remembered from the first one.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Ham said. “It is one continuous civilization since creation. Only it was harder keeping civilization alive after Babel than after the Flood.”
“Why?” Pharaoh asked.
“After the Flood we had all the tools we needed for starting over in the Ark. We had Noah, Japheth, Shem and their wives, people of great wisdom and remembrance of the days of old. All we had to do the first time was wait for the needed numbers, the extra hands, and teach them.”
“You had all that after Babel, too.”
“Not so, Pharaoh. Many families fled far, taking very little with them. They had recourse to stone tools only. In time and as numbers increased, they began to use copper and then bronze once they found enough tin. But during those times, families and the growing clans stumbled upon one another. They brought what we never had to worry about after the Flood. War! Warfare and raiding and making others slaves retarded the rebirth of civilization except in a few key locations.”
“As in Egypt?”
“Yes, Pharaoh.”
“Interesting, I suppose. But now you must tell me why you’ve told me all this and how I may be cured of my sickness.”
“Before I do so, Pharaoh, I ask that you let me eat and that you bring Sarai and her so-called brother Abram here.”
“You mean he lied to me?”
“Let me eat first and regain my strength. Then I promise to tell you all.”
2.
On Taia’s arm, Ham shuffled back into Pharaoh’s bedroom. He took a seat and listened to the whispering.
“They are here,” Pharaoh said. “You must delay no longer.”
Ham rose and cleared his throat. “Here is the lesson of my tale, Pharaoh. Jehovah will not be mocked. A man reaps what he sows. The Antediluvian Age sowed rebellion and sorcery and reaped the Deluge. The builders of Babel and its Tower likewise sowed rebellion and apostasy and reaped confusion. You, Pharaoh, have stood in the way of the Living Jehovah and are about to reap death. For you have taken the wife of one who is dear to Jehovah.”
“I’ve done no such thing,” Pharaoh said.
“Abram, are you here?”
A man rose. “I am, lord.”
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Ham recognized the shepherd’s voice. “Sarai, are you here?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Pharaoh,” Ham said. “For reasons known only to them, these two have not spoken the full truth. Abram is Sarai’s husband.”
Silence descended upon the room.
“Is this true?” Pharaoh asked.
“It is true,” said Abram. “I beg your forgiveness.”
“You, Pharaoh,” Ham said, “have been inflicted with these diseases because you are forbidden to touch Sarai and so defile her. Abram is a friend of Jehovah as Noah was, and is under similar protection.”
“What have you done to me?” cried Pharaoh. “Why didn’t you tell me she was your wife? Why did you say, She is my sister, so that I took her to be my wife?”
Abram spoke in a defeated voice. “Ah, Pharaoh, as we were about to enter Egypt I told my wife, Sarai, ‘I know what a beautiful woman you are. When the Egyptians see you they will say, ‘This is his wife.’ Then they will kill me but will let you live. Say you are my sister, so that I will be treated well for your sake and my life will be spared because of you.”
“Take her and go.” Pharaoh next spoke to his men. “Load Abram with gifts, cattle and donkeys and see that no harm befalls him in Egypt. Make certain his wife Sarai is with him and that everything he owns leaves Egypt with him.”
After the people left and the doors closed, a panting Pharaoh said to Ham, “Is there more I must do?”
“Pray to Jehovah that He heals you.”
“I know not this Jehovah. You pray over me, son of Noah.”
Princess Taia guided Ham to her father. Ham put his hands on Pharaoh and prayed. After he was done, he said, “You must sacrifice to Jehovah and to Him alone.”
“It will be done as you’ve said,” Pharaoh said.
“Now, Taia, take me to my room. I’m very tired.”
People of the Tower (Ark Chronicles 4) Page 25
