People of Babel (Ark Chronicles 3)

by Vaughn Heppner

  Rahab sat up, glancing at him with a quizzical look. “Do you mean in the Antediluvian Age?”

  He nodded. “Thule fell to a ravaging pox, with two thirds of the city slain, and that in a matter of months. When seafarers first landed on the deserted quays, they were amazed by the hordes of rats, teaming legions of them devouring everything in sight, grown so bold they had chased out the city cats.”

  “Yes, so?” Rahab said.

  “So the seafarers said the rats had carried the sickness that slaughtered Thule.”

  Rahab frowned thoughtfully. “Then you don’t think this spotted fever is divine retribution?”

  “How am I supposed to know that?” Ham put his hand on the latch, with his other hand still holding the cloth over his mouth. “But I do know what I’m going to do.”

  Rahab was about to ask what that was, when the lad began coughing. So Ham shut the door and hurried outside to implement his plan.

  16.

  Lud, the father of Opis, contracted spotted fever. His wife and sons fled the house. Only Opis, on Rahab’s advice, dared reenter the dark room where Lud writhed in agony. She rushed to her father. Red spots dotted his sweat-drenched face as he coughed, his glazed, red-rimmed eyes shining with fever.

  Opis bathed him with a wet rag and changed his sheets. She brought him tidbits of food and helped him drink much water. Day after day, she ministered to him. Then she joined Rahab and several others. They went from house to house, and to people’s astonishment, none of the women of mercy got sick.

  At the same time, Kush and Nimrod sacrificed over a hundred animals: bulls, boars and rams. Kush prayed aloud, beating his breast in an imitation of zeal and piety. At times, people surrounded the altar. On one bright day, as the sun shone at noon and as the smoke of their sacrifice curled into the sky, Kush drew a sharp, silver dagger.

  “Hear me, O Angel of the Sun! Save us. Save Babel that we might do your bidding.” Kush cut his chest. He slashed once, twice, three times, drawing lines of blood.

  Cries of dismay and shock arose around him. Many shrank from the sight.

  With his bloody dagger held skyward, Kush lifted his face and intoned, “O angel, accept the ichor of my veins, and turn your fierce anger from us.”

  During these ceremonies and afterward, Ham and teams of great grandsons aged nine to fourteen wielded sticks and traps. Hundreds of rats fell to them. They carried the corpses far outside the city and buried them in pits. At night, Ham led them with torches, and bait brought out rats otherwise too cunning to kill.

  At the count of a thousand, Ham said, “We’re winning. We’re getting the upper hand. Let’s not tire and quit, however, until victory is ours.”

  Then, as suddenly as it had come, the spotted fever flickered out like a guttered candle. Kush accepted praise for defeating the menace. “The angel has heard us,” he said. “Now we must continue to do his will.”

  “You mean the will of Jehovah, don’t you?” Rahab said.

  “Of course,” Kush said, who spoke from beside the altar, to the crowd around him. “The angel merely acted as a messenger.”

  A few people thought the spotted fever had been beaten because of the five women of mercy. “They met it frontally and slew it through their brave ministering to the sick,” Menes said.

  Ham shook his head. They spoke in the Menes smithy, Ham working at the stone anvil. “I’ll tell you what stopped it. The lads and I slew over a thousand rats.”

  “Rats?” Menes asked. “You mean all those carcasses you buried?”

  “We averted the disaster of Thule,” Ham said.

  “What?”

  Ham told him the story, and Menes left later, half-convinced that perhaps his father knew what he was talking about.

  Soon thereafter, the flooding slackened as the height of the Euphrates receded. People began to wonder again, what had happened to the seven Hunters. Meanwhile, work resumed on the Tower. Day followed day, and as spring heated up into summer, three forlorn men staggered into the city. Minos, Thebes and Obed had returned.

  17.

  In the Hunter’s Compound, Semiramis listened to Minos’s tale of woe. He stood waist deep in a latrine pit that an angry Nimrod had ordered him to dig.

  Many weeks ago, the three of them had arrived at the deserted lumber camp in the north. There, they’d found binding ropes and enough logs for several rafts. Snow had already begun to melt, and Obed had counseled caution, suggesting they trek home afoot. Minos and Thebes had vetoed the idea, arguing they were in enough trouble. Bringing in these logs might help weaken Nimrod’s rage against them. So, after building a giant raft and pushing it into the swirling waters, they had raced down the Euphrates. Then the raft had smashed against rocks, breaking Obed and almost drowning Minos. Only Thebes’ swift action had saved them. They had waited for Obed’s bones to heal before resuming the trek home afoot, as first suggested.

  “Is Gilgamesh dead?” Semiramis asked. Her skin looked shallow, with circles around her eyes.

  Minos, who leaned on his shovel, shrugged. “I have no idea, although I dearly hope not.”

  “Did Obed give him away?”

  Minos seemed astonished. “How do you arrive at that idea?”

  “Obed and Zimri run with Uruk. Uruk might wish Gilgamesh to fail. That seems simple enough.”

  “Would they give Gilgamesh and themselves, too?” Minos peered past Semiramis. “Look who comes.”

  Uruk, with his ape-like arms, approached. He wore a hardened leather jerkin, boiled and waxed to armor-like toughness. He had a leather helmet studded with bronze knobs and a stone hammer belted at his waist. With his brutish features and massive thews, he presented the image of an Antediluvian warrior, a proto-giant in the making.

  He dipped his helmeted head to Semiramis. “May I speak with you a moment, my lady?”

  “I see nothing hindering you,” Semiramis said.

  A pained smile creased Uruk’s features. “This is a private matter.”

  Semiramis glanced at Minos, who seemed intrigued. “Why don’t we step over here,” she said, moving toward a small hut, a shrine where Nimrod kept Ham-carved figurines of the angel.

  Uruk followed, glancing around, glaring at Minos until Minos bent his back and began to pitch dirt. Only then did Uruk face Semiramis. Grim seriousness added to his menace, the feeling that here, indeed, was a killer.

  Semiramis stood straighter, trying to project an imperious quality. She smiled wryly as she noticed that Minos had immediately stopped shoveling as Uruk turned his back. Her brother sidled to the edge of his pit, straining to hear.

  “We seldom talk, you and I,” Uruk said. “Perhaps you think ill of me.”

  “Why should I think anything one way or another?”

  Uruk’s seriousness seemed to grow. “You are friends with Gilgamesh. We all know that. As you may know, Gilgamesh and I sometimes disagree on certain matters.”

  “On private matters mostly.”

  “Yes,” said Uruk. “Private matters. As a Hunter, I admire Gilgamesh. He has many of the skills I lack. He is fleet of foot, swift in thought and fast, very fast with the lance and dagger. Your husband has wisely chosen Gilgamesh as one of his captains.”

  “Along with you, Uruk,” Semiramis said. “You’re a warrior matchless in strength and dedication.”

  “Thank you, my lady. Those are kind words. You should know by now, I hope, that Nimrod means more to me than life. He is the greatest among us, the Mighty Hunter. I’d follow him anywhere.”

  “Ah, Uruk, my husband holds you in high esteem. Many times I’ve heard him say so.”

  “I am overjoyed then, and almost complete.”

  “Almost?” Semiramis asked, lifting one of her plucked eyebrows.

  “I do not have Gilgamesh’s easy way with women. He is skilled at speech. I am not.”

  Semiramis thought that an understatement. Uruk was a brute without need for speech, a savage with a bull’s disposition and strength, willing and able to ta
ke whatever he pleased..

  Uruk said, “I grieve at the thought that Gilgamesh may have died at Beor’s hands.”

  Semiramis stiffened. “That’s presumptuous of you to say. I find it in very bad taste.”

  “There,” said Uruk. “That’s what I mean. I have upset you, and that was not my wish. No, Semiramis, I want you to think well of me.”

  “What does it matter what I think?”

  “I want no enemies,” Uruk said. “No enemies who love Nimrod as much as I do. That is why I wish to show…” He scowled. “I must say something presumptuous. But I ask that you not be offended by it.”

  “I find this entire conversation bordering on the upsetting.”

  Uruk nodded solemnly. “I am afflicted with a monstrous appearance, one that women find repulsive. So I will get to the point and leave you in peace. Semiramis, because you grieve for your good friend Gilgamesh, I wish to give you a present.”

  “A present because he might be dead?” Semiramis asked, revolted at the idea.

  “No,” Uruk said, “a present in token of a fellow captain. Gilgamesh was to acquire something for you. It seems he failed. So I will stand in his stead and offer you this.” Uruk lifted a small, leopard-skin pouch.

  Semiramis hesitated, not wishing to touch Uruk’s big hand. Then she stepped nearer and snatched the pouch. She found her stomach knotting. She didn’t want to untie the sinews. Yet curiosity stirred. She pulled the string and rolled three lustrous white stones onto her palm.

  “They are sea-gems,” Uruk said.

  Wonder filled her. “They’re beautiful.” Then the wonder turned to amazement. “These are fish-eyes,” she said, staring at Uruk, “fish-eyes from Dilmun, the Blessed Land.”

  “That is so.”

  “You stole them from Gilgamesh.”

  If it was possible, Uruk became even graver. “Stole is a harsh word, Semiramis. What I know is that they’re yours, in token of the amber beads.”

  Semiramis drew herself to her full height. She was a tall woman, taller than many men were, although not as tall as Uruk. He seemed like a brute, a killer and a warrior of massive might. Yet behind that bony ridge under which his small eyes glowed rested a cunning mind. He spoke from design, with double meaning behind his words. With a chill, Semiramis realized that the ugly, massive man before her was dangerous. That he plotted deeply. That, as an enemy, he might prove formidable.

  “I cannot accept these,” she said.

  “I beg you to. For only your beauty can do them justice.”

  She studied the three fish-eyes, perhaps the most costly gems in the world. Uruk gave these not to gain her love. No. Her slender fingers curled around them.

  “They are very beautiful,” said Uruk.

  “Would they not better serve you in other matters?”

  With a grunt, Uruk knelt on one knee, catching Semiramis by surprise. She glanced at a watching Minos. He seemed as bewildered as she did.

  “Semiramis,” rumbled Uruk. “I beg you to accept the gems as a token of friendship between us.”

  She eyed him, calculating swiftly. “Friendship flows both ways, does it not?”

  “I ask nothing in return,” Uruk said.

  “Can I not help you in some small matter?”

  Uruk seemed puzzled. “Perhaps…” He shook his head. “No. It is a private matter, a trifle.”

  She opened her hand. The sea-gems were beautiful, three drops of moonbeams. That Gilgamesh had won them by diving into leviathan-infested waters only increased their luster. She felt desire for them, and envisioned a string of them circling her brow.

  “Perhaps I could speak to Nimrod, my husband, on your behalf. Perhaps I could counsel him to rescind an order of his concerning you and this trifling matter.”

  Uruk seemed to choose his words with care. “I am in love, Semiramis, deeply in love.”

  “I’ve heard. Her name is Opis, I believe.”

  “I ache at not being able to fulfill this love,” Uruk said.

  Her fingers curled around the fish-eyes. “Perhaps now, things will begin to change for you.”

  “Do you think so?” Uruk asked. “Any who aided me in this endeavor I would cherish like a sister. My undying gratitude would be theirs.”

  The knot in Semiramis’s stomach refused to unravel. By Minos’s account, Beor had surely killed Gilgamesh. She clenched her fingers into a fist. Wicked, wicked Beor. Someday…oh, she yearned for his death. It would take a mighty warrior to slay Beor. She eyed Uruk.

  “I don’t understand why you need my encouragement,” she said.

  “Failure in this matter is inconceivable. By all and every means, I plot for success.”

  She nodded. He was formidable indeed. “Then success, my friend, is what you shall have.”

  18.

  Word that Beor’s Scouts and perhaps sons of Magog had waylaid the Hunters caused anger, grief and controversy in Babel. Canaan and Zidon suggested they didn’t know all the facts. They pointed out that Minos had no love for Beor and might have invented some of the tale.

  “Four Hunters didn’t return,” Nimrod said. “That is no invention. That is the first fact. The second fact, just as incontrovertible, is that they were foully ambushed.”

  The sons of Canaan, only recently arrived, grew sullen and talked among themselves of the mistake of moving to Babel. Perhaps they should return to the Zagros Settlement. So Kush called an elder’s meeting, with Ham as patriarch and Nimrod as chief of the Hunters attending. During the meeting, they decided to send a delegation to Magog Village, to inquire into the facts. Ham, Zidon and several grandsons of Menes were appointed.

  Nimrod rose from his chair, with a leopard cloak drawn over his shoulders. “This is a poor decision. Four Hunters have been slain.”

  “You don’t know that,” Menes said. “Gilgamesh and Enlil never showed up, Obed said. As for Olympus and Zimri, all we know is they took arrows to their legs.”

  “Do you hear what you’re saying?” Nimrod asked in outrage. “They were ambushed, shot at and stuck with arrows.”

  “As Beor was once ambushed and shot at,” Canaan said, “and also stuck with an arrow.”

  Nimrod began to pace. “This is incredible. In peace, my Hunters went to Magog Village. In trust, they journeyed among the sons of Japheth. Their reward for such was death.”

  Kush rose. “The delegation will leave in a week. We must find out exactly what occurred. What we must not do is let this disaster threaten the unity of Babel.”

  “War has been thrust upon us,” Nimrod said. “I now fear for the safety of the delegation.”

  “Nonsense,” Ham said. “You’re overreacting. I admit that I have little love for Japheth, but I don’t believe that his sons have become murderers.”

  Nimrod grumbled further, but the meeting was at an end.

  Three days later, a Shemite delegation arrived at Babel. Assur, son of Shem, led it. He was a dark-bearded man with a grave and dignified manner. He bore a scroll from Magog, sealed with wax and given to Ham. In it, as Ham and Rahab read, Magog admitted that he feared for his safety to come to Babel or to let any of his sons or grandsons come and explain what had happened. Thus, he had begged Assur to act as an intermediary. Assur now explained to Ham and Rahab the brunt of Magog’s reasoning, why he had allowed Minos and the others to be taken in ambush.

  “This is unbelievable,” Rahab said, when Assur had finished. “Gilgamesh tried to steal the amber necklace.”

  “I told them I wouldn’t take the message unless I could speak alone with Gilgamesh,” Assur said. “He admitted taking the necklace, but that he had been returning it. Why else had he barged into Beor’s house with the necklace already in his possession, if not to return it?”

  “Did you believe him?” Rahab asked.

  “I did,” Assur said.

  “What about Enlil?” Rahab asked.

  “He hid in the forest as an accomplice,” Assur said. “But it was the testimony of Scyth, a grandson of
Magog, who condemned the Hunters. He said that Minos came to him, offering a ruby if he would lure Beor into the forest.”

  “Scyth said this of his own free will?” Ham asked.

  Assur shook his head. “After they captured Gilgamesh and Enlil, Beor said they should question those who had spent the most time with the Hunters, to see what other mischief they planned. Scyth had been with them the most, and he was questioned the hardest, until he broke down and admitted the truth. That’s when Beor convinced them to ambush the Hunters. Gilgamesh said he knew nothing of this plot.”

  “Did you believe Gilgamesh?” Ham asked.

  Assur shrugged, shaking his grave face. “It’s hard to know what to believe.”

  “But you didn’t think he was lying?” Ham asked.

  “It’s hard to say,” Assur said.

  Ham glanced at Rahab. She reached out, touching Assur on the wrist. “You did well in coming here,” she said. “We thank you.”

  “Strife must be averted,” Assur said. “As it is, Magog fears retribution, while Beor breathes threats of open conflict.”

  “They hold three Hunters as slaves,” Ham said.

  “Slaves?” Assur said. “I’m certain they didn’t use that term. In fact, I believe Magog would be distressed to have it expressed so.” Assur glanced from Ham to Rahab. “We all understand the implications of that term.”

  “Do we all?” Ham asked. “Then let me say it again—slaves. For the Hunters, you say, wear wooden yokes, imprisoning their necks and wrists, and they sleep at night in cages. If they didn’t say slaves, those in Magog Village still treat them as such, and that is what matters. My question is, how does making slaves of my great grandsons avert conflict?”

  “I do not believe their condition is permanent,” Assur said. “Beor and Magog merely punish the wrongdoers. They make them work to pay back for the harm they have done the community.”

  “How long does Beor plan to keep them?” Ham asked.

  “Until Nimrod purchases their freedom,” Assur said. “Beor is open to negotiation, he said, but, on one point, he is inflexible. First, his wife Semiramis must be returned to him.”