People of Babel (Ark Chronicles 3)

by Vaughn Heppner

  The humming quit, as did the chiseling. The door opened. Lines crisscrossed her husband’s forehead, showing that it had been furrowed in concentration.

  “Can I show you something?” she asked.

  The hint of perplexity vanished. “Lead on,” Ham said.

  She brought him to the hearth. “What do you smell?”

  He sniffed, studied her a moment and said, “Roasting barley.”

  “What do you hear?”

  He cocked his head and then shook it.

  “Do you hear screams?” she asked.

  “You know that I don’t.”

  She beckoned and he followed her outside, onto a dusty lane where children laughed and ran, kicking a rag ball, with a small dog barking, leaping at their side.

  “Imagine a lion among them,” Rahab said. “Imagine it leaping onto the smallest. What would you hear?”

  “Screams,” Ham said, “the crunching of bones.”

  “What would you see?”

  He squinted at her.

  “What is more precious than shed blood?” she asked.

  Ham scratched his leathery cheek, watching the shouting, laughing children.

  “Sacks of grain don’t scream, don’t bleed and never suffer. With only a few of them, we can regain Gilgamesh, Enlil and Zimri.”

  “First, Semiramis must divorce Nimrod and then return to Beor,” Ham said.

  “Beor won’t be able to make that stick with Noah, Japheth and Shem at Festival.”

  “Perhaps not,” Ham admitted.

  “Grain versus blood, my husband. With which do we really want to buy back our young men?”

  Ham pursed his lips, studying the children, his forehead furrowed once again.

  23.

  Ham decided Rahab was right, and he quietly sounded out his sons. Put wanted nothing to do with secret negotiations. Menes said he’d have to think about it.

  The next day Ham sat at Menes’s writing board, with a parchment before him.

  “Who can we trust to take the letter?” Ham asked.

  Menes beckoned Ramses, a muscular youth, with broad shoulders and narrow hips.

  “By chariot?” Ham asked.

  “Too conspicuous,” Menes said. “At Kush’s orders the Hunters guard the main routes. Ramses will have to sneak away by foot.”

  “How many men will you take?” Ham asked Ramses.

  “He’ll go alone,” answered Menes.

  “No,” Ham said. “Too risky. What if a wild animal attacks? Two men are stronger than one, three are even better.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Ramses said. “I often trek alone.”

  “That’s brave,” Ham said, “but foolhardy.”

  Ramses looked away. Menes spoke urgently, convincingly, saying that secrecy in this was all-important. Kush and the others had become strangely intense on the issue of war. The only way to stop them was to outmaneuver them.

  Ham picked up an ostrich quill and dipped the sharpened tip into ink. Soon the only talk was the scratching of his pen.

  After Ham departed, Ramses stared hard at his grandfather. “I wish you hadn’t used me like this. I feel soiled.”

  “He trusts you,” Menes said.

  “That’s what I mean.” Ramses left, leaving the scroll on the writing table.

  Menes sighed wearily, putting the letter in a wooden carrying case. Then he left the house.

  The next day, Ham was invited to the Hunter’s Compound, supposedly to see a new invention. Waiting for him in the yard was Nimrod, Uruk and Thebes. They seemed grim, although Nimrod said he was glad he came.

  “Is that it?” Ham asked, noticing a cloth hanging over an item almost as high as his chest.

  “Indeed,” Nimrod said.

  They moved to it and Nimrod whipped off the cloth, revealing a wooden post with a square, hinged stock punctured by three holes. Nimrod opened the stock, splitting the three holes. “I’ll give you a demonstration.”

  Uruk and Thebes grabbed Ham, making him bellow as they dragged him around, forcing his neck and wrists into the holes. Nimrod slammed the top half of the stock down and locked the latch.

  Trapped, his back immediately aching because of the unnatural bent-forward stance, Ham shouted, “What’s the meaning of his?”

  “The meaning?” growled Kush, striding out of the nearby shrine to the angel, where he must have been hiding. He thrust a rolled-up scroll under Ham’s nose. “This is the meaning.”

  Ham’s heart sank. They must have caught Ramses. “The boy acted under my orders,” he said.

  Nimrod laughed. “You fool. Ramses never took the message.”

  “What?”

  Kush scowled at Nimrod, shaking his head. “Ramses doesn’t matter. What does is your writing the letter, your willingness to warn our enemies of our plans.”

  Finally, Ham understood. Menes had set him up. This was all an elaborate scheme by his sons. He fell into brooding silence.

  “This isn’t a game,” lectured Kush. “This is a new day. Old things are passed away. Think about that and consider how best you can aid your children rather than betraying them.”

  Ham wanted to roar, rave and gnash his teeth. Instead, he plotted: promising himself that next time he made a move, it would be with all the cunning at his disposal. One thing immediately became clear. For them to drop their guard, he’d have to allow himself to be won over slowly. He had to let them persuade him over the days. Later, when the time was right, he would act.

  Unfortunately, both he and they miscalculated. It was the second night in the stocks. He was cold and squirmed because his bowels gurgled. He shouted, until Nimrod strolled out the nearby shrine.

  “I have to use the outhouse,” Ham said.

  Nimrod regarded him coldly.

  “Did you hear me?” Ham said, squirming worse than before.

  “You must be quiet, Grandfather. I’m trying to pray to the angel.”

  “Let me out, you ingrate! Bring me to the outhouse.”

  “Wait until morning,” Nimrod said. “It’s dark and you might try to escape.”

  “Boy!” roared Ham.

  Nimrod walked away.

  “Come back.”

  For another hour, Ham squirmed, until in the moonlight sweat glistened on his face. He groaned. He ground his teeth. Then, as he hissed with rage, he befouled himself.

  24.

  With steep, picturesque mountains as background, rugged mountains studded with pines and with the sun shining hot in the sky, Gilgamesh shuffled barefoot through a valley wheat field. The chains attached to the chaffing copper bands around his bony ankles clinked. His back ached as he swung a hoe, chopping weeds for his captors. His hair was matted and his beard wild, and ribs showed on his sweaty, dirty skin. For weeks he’d labored, earning his bread and board, as Beor had said. At night, they kept him in a cage, yoked like an ox so he couldn’t chew through the bindings with his teeth and make his escape.

  Weary, he dropped the hoe and straightened, easing his sore back and eyeing the nearest woods. If he could escape into them and remove his chains, no one could catch him. Unfortunately, between him and freedom there stood two Scouts with bows. They chatted idly, with a water jug at their feet. Farther along his row worked Zimri, his hoe rising and falling, thudding into the soil. They seldom talked. Gilgamesh was still furious with them for trying to ambush Beor, for linking him to their abominable plan. He felt that Magog might have forced Beor to let him go by now if it hadn’t been for the failed ambush, the attempt to slay Beor. Gilgamesh wiped his brow. Enlil was gone because, several days ago, Beor had taken him to a meeting with Japheth and his sons.

  “Keep working,” the senior Scout shouted, a grandson of Canaan named Yorba.

  The second Scout perked up, seeming to look past Gilgamesh. He touched Yorba on the elbow and pointed.

  Gilgamesh turned, and his eyebrows rose. Hilda, wearing her knee-length dress, bearing a spear, strolled with Gog. The handsome young man was beefy around the
shoulders, with heavy arms and two prized bronze wristbands that gleamed like the sun. The bands proclaimed him the wrestling champion of Magog Village, and the boy must have constantly polished the wristbands the way they shone. Gog had a thick neck and open features, and long blond hair. Give him a few years, and he would certainly turn massive, perhaps fat. Now he was in the bloom of youth.

  Gog and Hilda held hands, Gog studying Gilgamesh carefully. Hilda seemed concerned, with her blonde hair tied in a ponytail.

  Zimri straightened, letting his hoe swing to his side. Zimri wore clean woolens and had a trimmed beard, although sweat bathed his face. His wounds bothered him. But he had talked, and now received better treatment than Gilgamesh did.

  Silently, as he had done everything since his capture, Gilgamesh watched as the couple picked their way through the wheat field. They had been promised to each other. The wedding was to take place after Festival, after the “Babel problem” had been dealt with. From the few snatches of conversation that Gilgamesh had overheard, the sons of Magog were worried about Nimrod’s reaction to the Hunters held in captivity.

  Gilgamesh watched the couple approach, again noticed them holding hands. He thought constantly about Opis and Uruk and that he wasn’t there to press his suit. His stomach roiled, and he was sick with the knowledge that as soon as he was free, he’d become a murderer. If Uruk had married Opis, Uruk must die, would die. On that, Gilgamesh had vowed every night.

  Yorba, the taller of the two Scouts, a square-headed man with premature silver hair, hurried near, his bowstring half-drawn and his barbed arrow an instant from being aimed at his heart.

  “Go away,” Yorba told Hilda. “Your father will drive my head through a tree if I let you stay.”

  Hilda stopped. So did Gog. He peered at Gilgamesh frankly. “She’s in no danger. I’ll protect her.”

  Yorba laughed. “Do you think a Hunter wrestles a bear or a champion of Magog Village? It is with cunning he’ll strike, not with grappling holds.”

  Gog released Hilda’s hand. He stood half a head taller than Gilgamesh and surely weighed fifty pounds more. Slab-like muscles bulged under his tunic.

  “Hilda says he is honorable,” Gog said. “Would an honorable man try to brain me with a hoe?”

  “Stand back,” Yorba warned, aiming the barbed arrowhead at Gilgamesh.

  Gog addressed Gilgamesh. “They say you are a champion among the Hunters. Perhaps you’d like to wrestle me.”

  Gilgamesh looked into Gog’s eyes.

  “I’m heavier than you,” admitted Gog. “Yet I’ve beaten men heavier than myself. Do you think you can pin me?”

  “Don’t let him goad you,” Yorba said.

  “Goad me?” Gog asked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “He’s a Hunter,” Yorba said. “He’s one of Nimrod’s captains. He’s clever, they say, cunning.”

  Gog ran a thick hand through his hair. “Against strength and skill, cunning goes only so far.”

  Gilgamesh glanced at the hoe lying in the dirt.

  Gog noticed, and he nodded to Hilda. “He shot your father with an arrow and now would use a hoe against me, against a man offering to wrestle him. I call that a lack of honor.”

  Gilgamesh snorted.

  “How can you disagree?” Gog asked.

  “Go away,” Yorba said. “Leave. He’s only goading you. He’s not going to wrestle you.”

  “Why not?” Gog asked. “He’s a captain, isn’t he? He’s one of their premier warriors. My offer is genuine. I don’t know anyone else who will give him the same opportunity.”

  Hilda spoke. “I’ve thought about the day Gilgamesh shot my father. I’ve wondered sometimes if he did that to save my father’s life.”

  Yorba laughed. It seemed he laughed often. “He did it to save Nimrod’s life. Beor would have finished the Mighty Hunter but for Gilgamesh.”

  “Is that true?” Hilda asked.

  Gilgamesh blinked. The girl was pretty and vulnerable, he realized. The wary look in her eyes told him that. He stared at his feet. He never should have stolen from her. He understood finally that Semiramis had sent him out of spite. Semiramis hated Beor, and she hated Beor’s daughter.

  “Why won’t you talk?” Hilda asked. “Why won’t you ever answer us?”

  “He’s proud,” Yorba said. “All the Hunters are. His capture has demeaned him.”

  Gilgamesh shook his head, even as he continued staring at his feet.

  “Oh?” Yorba said.

  Gilgamesh lifted his eyes. Hilda seemed fragile, even though she carried a spear.

  “Why do you hate us so?” she asked.

  Gilgamesh couldn’t understand what pulled the words out of his mouth. “I don’t hate you. And the reason I don’t talk is shame, shame for stealing from you and shame at doing Semiramis’s bidding.”

  “Eh?” Yorba asked, stepping nearer. “Semiramis ordered you to do this?”

  Gilgamesh closed his mouth.

  “Only men of honor feel shame,” Gog said. “So if he feels shame, perhaps he is yet honorable.”

  “No,” Yorba said.

  “Why do you say that?” Gog asked.

  Yorba scowled. “We’re not here to debate. Gilgamesh must work. So you must leave.”

  Gog glanced at Hilda. She nodded. They turned to go.

  Gilgamesh bent to pick up the hoe.

  Yorba, lowering his bow, stepped from behind and pushed Gilgamesh, tripping him, causing him to sprawl and, with a crackle, to crush wheat.

  “What are you doing?” shouted Gog. “That was a foul act. You must treat him with respect. In Magog Village, we even treat cattle better than that.”

  “He was going to strike you,” Yorba said. “Now go, leave. The slave must finish his work.”

  Gilgamesh’s stomach tightened, as did his fingers around the hoe’s haft.

  “That’s right,” snarled Yorba. “Pick up the hoe and charge. Then I’ll drill you like you deserve.”

  “No!” Gog said. “Do that, and you’ll have to answer to me.”

  Yorba stepped back from Gilgamesh. He regarded Gog. “He broke your grandfather’s peace. He is treacherous, dangerous. I’m merely doing my duty, guarding against more of his underhanded schemes.”

  “He is brave, whatever else he is,” Gog said. “Brave men must be given respect.”

  They stared at one another, the proud archer and the open-faced wrestler. Yorba at last dipped his head. “As you wish.”

  Gog glanced at Gilgamesh. Then he took Hilda’s hand and left.

  Gilgamesh picked up the hoe.

  Yorba half drew his bow. “They say Gog is noble. I call him a fool because he doesn’t understand those tainted by Nimrod.” Yorba bared his teeth. “You must understand me. Do anything wrong and this time I won’t miss. Right through the middle of your neck instead of grazing it on the side.”

  Gilgamesh’s eyes became half-lidded. So, Yorba had been the one to try to assassinate him back in the Zagros Settlement, that day by the well. He nodded. “I’m an easier target this time, more in keeping with your skills.”

  The second Scout walked near, while Yorba no longer grinned. His square, silver-rimmed face was a study in hatred.

  “I promise not to move,” Gilgamesh said. “Or should I step closer? Perhaps the skilled Yorba would like to place his arrowhead against my neck. Then you might not miss.”

  With his eyes narrowed, Yorba turned to the other Scout, motioning with his head. The man picked up a dirt clod, wet, webbed with weedy roots. Underhand, the second Scout pitched the clod up in a high arc. Yorba spread his feet and drew the bowstring to his cheek. He tracked the clod, waiting. The string twanged.

  Gilgamesh watched the arrow’s flight. It struck the clod, disintegrating it. Then the arrow sped on, hissing into the earth a hundred paces distant.

  “I spoke as a fool,” Gilgamesh said, impressed. The man was skilled.

  “You are a fool,” Yorba said. “Someday, I shall kill you.�
� He smiled sourly. “But not today. So back to work—slave.”

  Gilgamesh took a deep breath, lifting the hoe, turning and chopping his thousandth weed.

  25.

  As Europa shook her head, a profound sense of deja-vu settled upon her. Once, she had stood like a bulwark for her brothers and sisters—in Antediluvian times. They had been scattered after her father had lost his castle and had lost his kingdom to brigands, to Nephilim marauders. One by one, she had redeemed her brothers and sisters from slavery or won them husbands and wives, providing them the means to restore what had been lost.

  Now, this night, after almost ten decades since leaving the Ark, she stood against cowardice, against craven capitulation to the sons of Ham, to the offspring of a peasant girl. Only this time it wasn’t brothers and sisters she saved, but her very own children.

  Gomer, Magog and Tubal huddled together on one side of a brazier. The three were thick men bundled in furs and leather and with heavy beards, clan heads. They met in a spacious hall, with the rafters swathed in shadows, with cold winds howling outside. On the other side of the brazier whispered Madai, Meshech and Tiras, also clan heads, also thick-limbed men with blue or green eyes. Tiras was their spokesman, and he had said that trouble with the sons of Ham must be averted. They wanted Beor to leave Magog Village, leave Japheth Land altogether, and to take his hatreds, as they called it, elsewhere. They predicted that otherwise Beor would bring Japheth Land nothing but continuing trouble.

  Japheth frowned at the flames, standing, stroking his blond beard. He was lean and tall, and he was the patriarch of this land, not at all heavy like his sons.

  “No,” Europa said. She sat in a throne-like chair, closest to the brazier, wearing fur gloves and heavy garments. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, her hair hidden under a hood. Despite her age, she had retained her beauty and the imperious cast to her noble features. In Japheth Land, the clan heads met together and debated ideas. Along with the patriarch, they made laws or issued joint edicts. This night, she had decided to sit with them, to make sure they benefited from her long experiences in such matters.