Nimrod and Semiramis presently watched from a mat. She looked stunning, with a golden collar around her throat and a silver comb in her hair. She smiled, and the two of them held hands as they watched.
Minos, her brother, now made his way to the platform. He, too, looked good, smiling, making hearts melt. Evil rumors swirled around him, but the fine cloak he wore and the clean woolen tunic and the gold band around his forehead matched the golden harp under his arm. He walked onto the platform, flicked back his cape and sat on a stool. He had stage presence. He smiled and strummed his harp.
He sang with a brilliant voice, loud and melodious, and it was a captivating song. Almost from the beginning, people leaned forward, the better to hear. Ham sidled closer, finally squatting, and nodding as Minos sang. The poet told a mournful tale, of people surrounded and besieged by mighty beasts. Wherever they went, the beasts of the field stalked them. Lions, wolves and sabertooth cats, there was no end to the strange monsters that filled the land. Even dragons that breathed fire…ah, would these people be able to survive?
Slowly, the song began to change. It told of a man, a hunter, a warrior of the field, who would not submit to the beasts of prey. He challenged fate; he challenged the idea that men should fear these monsters. He fashioned for himself a bow and straight arrows, and he recruited like-minded men, Hunters, to stalk these evil creatures and bring peace to the earth.
At the song’s height, Minos chanted this warrior’s name: Nimrod the Mighty Hunter. The dragon, Black Mane the Lion, the leviathan who ate Anu, Nimrod had faced each, killing or driving them back into the murky depths. Nimrod Victorious! The champion of man! His Hunters made the earth safe for humanity. Nimrod! Nimrod! Nimrod the Mighty Hunter!
The song ended. Firelight flickered off Minos’s sweaty face. He lifted his handsome head and peered at the crowd. “Nimrod. Tell us about Babel. Share your dream with us.”
Because Minos asked, or so it seemed to Ham, the women clamored for Nimrod.
Reluctantly, pushed by beautiful Semiramis, Nimrod rose. People clapped, cheered and whistled, and he grinned, moving to the stage.
Minos bowed. “Nimrod the Mighty Hunter, I greet you.”
Nimrod clasped Minos’s hand, and he turned to the crowd. “None can match Minos, the poet of Festival.”
The cheering, whistling, and clapping was the loudest of the night. People leapt to their feet, giving Minos an ovation.
As they resumed their places, Nimrod paced back and forth across the platform, his Black Mane cloak swirling. He seemed like a tiger. He turned. His handsome face was a match perhaps for even Minos, and he began by picturing the bounty of Babel. He told of its security from predators and the great monument they built to the glory of Jehovah. He assured all that the citizens of the city thrived physically first, and then emotionally, artistically and spiritually. The Euphrates ensured a constant supply of water, and the soil was Eden-like. The fruitfulness allowed them time to mediate upon the higher qualities of life, not just grub for existence and die under the rending claws of ferocious beasts.
Beor jumped up, with his beard bristling. “You built a city, eh? But Jehovah has told us to obey Him first. The Lord Jehovah has decreed that man should fill the Earth. Each family must obey Jehovah and set out for points faraway, and there subdue the land, trusting in the protection of the Rainbow Promise.”
“Certainly, Beor,” Nimrod said. “I in no way disagree with you.”
Beor’s perplexity caused many to chuckle, which made him scowl fiercely.
“We must fill the Earth,” agreed Nimrod. “But cannot we alter the timing just a little? First, let us build a Tower to the glory of Jehovah, a monument that will please our Creator and ensure that we are not forgotten in the ages to come. Let us make a city where men can buy supplies and good weapons and retreat to as a place of refuge. For isn’t it wiser to colonize from a central base, lest the beasts devour us, as Minos has sung about? Do we wish for mankind to forget about us? Oh, if only you could all see Babel, could all see the Tower. Then you would all understand the glory and honor we do to the Immortal Creator.”
“You spout fancies,” Beor said, “to hide your disobedience to Jehovah.”
“How can you say that?” Nimrod asked. “Minos asked that I share my vision. So I do. What I say isn’t disobedience. I see a string of cities populating Shinar. Oh, if any wish to join us there, they are most welcome. Many hands make the load light. In no way are the best fields and the best sites already occupied. Too much of this land of plenty lies fallow and unused. Every clan, whether of Japheth, Shem or Ham, can set up in splendor and behind thick, protecting walls. If you think that an idle boast, ask Ashkenaz, son of Gomer, if we have done right by his clan. Speak to Javan, a son of Japheth. There is no favoritism in Babel, despite what a few malcontents have said about us. Hard work is rewarded. Valor is admired, whether you are our cousin or our brother. Oh, let us forge a united empire in Shinar, and then let the empire spread out over the Earth. As one, we will ensure peace. As one, we will subdue the Earth and fill it. And no longer will beasts stalk us. Never again, I say. We will stalk them and make the Earth safe for any maiden or child. He or she will be able to walk the breadth of the Earth with a pot of meat, never fearing a wolf or lion springing from cover and devouring them.”
“No!” Beor said. “You lie with fair words and trickery.”
Nimrod smiled softly. “Not all agree with me, I see. But for the sake of my men, men cruelly enslaved, I will forbear and let these insults pass. In any case, that is my vision, the vision of Babel. All I ask is that you consider it.”
“Let the insults pass?” Beor shouted. “It is I who let them pass. I, who Hunters tried to ambush and kill. Instead of slaying them, as was my right, I captured them.”
“You slew Olympus, a Japhethite.”
“Say rather, a man of Babel.”
Nimrod studied the big man. “Ah, Beor, I fear that now isn’t the time to weigh our differences. Let us enjoy Festival a little longer. Too soon, we will have to finish this.” Nimrod lifted his hands toward Semiramis.
She stood, smiling. It was dazzling. She walked like a queen, stepping onto the stage. Nimrod clasped hands with her.
“Consider well, Beor, what I may offer you in order to gain the release of my men.”
Beor swallowed.
It was obvious to Ham, and perhaps to many others, too, that Beor yet loved Semiramis.
“You know my conditions,” Beor said in a husky tone.
Nimrod smiled sadly. And together with Semiramis, he stepped off the stage, moved through the crowd and headed to their tent.
42.
Europa examined the Hamite camp. She noted the fine weapons, their method of stacking them and the uniform shields. She listened to her grandsons who had watched the Hamite army in motion, who had arrived earlier, as Japheth and the bulk of the Japhethites had been late.
Oh, she had warned them of the folly of that.
The grandsons had spoken in awe of the Hamite formation, its uniformity and its apparent militancy. Because of her husband’s dithering, the sons of Shem and Japheth hadn’t united at the critical moment. Kush could have beaten the Shemites, would have beaten them but for Noah.
At the recital, she had watched Beor with his peg leg. Oh, yes, he had a wonderful suit of armor. But he was nothing like handsome Nimrod, magnetic Nimrod. And Semiramis, now there was a queen. The two burned with ambition. She sensed it from them. The children from those two half Japhethites, she told herself.
Yes, Japheth and Ham didn’t get along. Yet Ham didn’t get along with Kush and Nimrod. And these ideas she had just heard, of a tower and rebuilding civilization, these were noble dreams. Perhaps she should talk with Magog, counsel him about Gog. Gog, a prince of a Japhethite, they said he was in love with Hilda. But young men fell in love all the time. A different Hamite girl might be the answer. She had plans for Gog, a king born, a man of honor, one who, in time and with training, could su
rely lead warriors in battle. She had been waiting for one like Gog.
Europa sensed flux this Festival, motion, shifts in destiny. Noah had stopped the slaughter, but Noah was sick, feverish, perhaps he was dying. His ways were the old ones. The new ways of Babel—Babel was a sign, a portent and certainly the path of things to come.
Europa decided to study, to watch and to wait, and then, at the right moment, to urge her husband and sons to choose the winning side. Finally, after all these years of drudgery in an empty world, the games of kings and kingdoms had arrived.
43.
After Minos’s song and the sharing of Nimrod’s dream, Odin brooded. Nothing had worked right since leaving Babel, since letting Ham talk him into racing here to warn the others. Hilda hadn’t swooned to him, and Nimrod… He needed to perform a feat of daring to win his way back into Nimrod’s good graces. Or, he had to captivate Hilda. Within his beard, Odin grinned. Sure. He’d explain to her why he’d come. He’d make her understand. He’d tell her how awful she and her father had been treated in the Zagros Settlement and that he hadn’t been around back then. Ah, she had such a beautiful smile. He wondered why other girls couldn’t smile like that.
So as the night’s festivities wound down, Odin faded into the forest, waiting patiently as only a Hunter could.
In time, he watched a Scout pick his way, pausing often, looking around and then gliding through the underbrush. The man was good. Odin knew he was better. For a half-hour, they played this game in the moonlight.
Then, through the trees, he spied a fire. Odin sank to a knee. The tall pines and the stately oaks grew thick here, with many bushes. He smelled the wood smoke and avoided staring at the flickering fire lest he lose his night-sight. It was dark under the trees, with thick pools of blackness sprinkled about and stabbing rays of moonlight in others. Crickets chirped. Somewhere to his left, a bat screeched.
Slowly, with Gungnir in his hands, Odin crept toward the camp. He heard voices, quiet talking, and in time, he heard the crackling flames. He froze, with his hand inches from a twine line.
A trap!
Clever Scouts.
Odin eased back, sweat prickling his neck. A fierce thrill swept through him. This was a game to his liking. He suppressed the thrill, concentrating on woodcraft, on outsmarting the Scouts. Circling the trap, forcing himself to sense others, he moved on all fours closer, closer…
A man hid behind the next tree. The fellow sighed, and then he bit into an apple. The crunch was loud and the chewing almost as much.
Odin He kept moving, avoiding the tree, telling himself he should first learn more about this place if he planned to go back to Nimrod. Finally, he sidled behind a mossy rock, peeking up. The sight amazed him.
Gilgamesh, Enlil and Zimri sat in a wooden cage, their necks and wrists yoked within heavy blocks of oak. Each of them looked morose, with shaggy beards and disheveled clothes. Nearby, the fire flickered, with a mouth-watering hog spit over it. The aroma made Odin’s belly rumble, making him wince and glance sharply at the others. None of those around the fire seemed to have heard his stomach. They sat hunched around the fire like trolls, muttering about Nimrod, about what Beor was going to do to him.
Odin counted five, six if he included the apple-eating sentry hidden behind him. Hilda, sitting on a log, combed her hair. She was beautiful. The tough-looking man with the bronze wristbands moved a heavy arm, explaining a wrestling hold. Gog, he heard one of them call him. Gog looked strong. He spoke enthusiastically about this year’s Festival wrestling championship.
Hilda smiled at Gog. Her eyes shone.
Gog laughed, saying, “And after the championship, Hilda and I will be married.”
The grin slipped from Odin. He eased behind his rock, thinking, imagining what it would be like walking into the main Festival camp with Gilgamesh, Enlil and Zimri. He’d take them right to Nimrod’s tent, saying, “Here they are.” Then he’d turn and saunter away, letting Gilgamesh recount the tale for Nimrod, how Odin had walked into this forest hideaway and beaten up five Scouts. Wasn’t he the Spear Slayer? What would look best to the girl? What would get her attention?
He grinned, grunted, stood and watched them. He took a step, two. Hilda, in mid-stroke with a brush, looked up.
“Hello again,” Odin said.
The effect was electric. From within the cage Gilgamesh, Enlil and Zimri gaped. The Scouts leaped to their feet.
“I couldn’t help smelling the pork,” Odin said. “Figured I’d come over and ask for a bite.” He leaned on his spear, watching them, listening for the sentry. Let them think he was a fool.
Gog stepped to Hilda, being protective.
“What did you do to Yorba?” Hilda asked.
“The man eating his apple?” Odin asked.
“Yorba!” Hilda shouted.
“You don’t need to get excited,” Odin said, letting his eyes get that sleepy look. No one expected anything from a dullard. Let them get relaxed and get careless.
“We can’t let him go back,” Gog said.
Hilda glanced at Gog. She looked scared. “This is Festival.”
“We won’t harm him,” Gog said. “Just not let him go back.”
Odin heard this Yorba behind him. The man halted. “Who’s he?” Yorba asked.
“A Hunter,” Gog said. “One you let slip past.”
Odin yawned, and he saw Gilgamesh motioning with his eyes. He smiled, nodding at Gilgamesh. Gilgamesh shook his head in despair.
“Are you going to ask me to eat or not?” Odin asked.
Hilda and Gog exchanged glances.
Odin heard Yorba step close. Then Gilgamesh shouted a warning. Odin wished Gilgamesh hadn’t done that as he twirled Gungnir and savagely thrust it back, the butt grinding into Yorba’s stomach. The other Scouts yelled, leaping to their feet. Odin twirled Gungnir again. The vibration in his hands, of stout wood hitting skulls, told the story, and them dropping one, two and three. A fourth tripped and landed in the fire. The Scout screamed, rolling out. Then a desperate fellow, one he’d already hit, grabbed Gungnir. It took Odin a moment to stomp on the fellow’s foot. But in that time another of them got too close. It took a hard thump with his elbow to knock that one away. Then Gog struck his arm with one of those bronze wristbands. It made Odin’s arm go numb. Another Scout hurled a rock. Odin grunted, and he dropped Gungnir.
“Get back,” Gog shouted at the others.
For just a moment, Odin debated running. The information of this hideaway was what really counted. Then he saw Hilda’s worried look. Was it for him? Gog laid a hand on his arm. The man’s grip was crushing.
Odin was strong. He was a good wrestler. He knew cunning moves. After a brief flurry of grapples, countermoves and heavy breathing, he knew Gog was better.“Hurry,” gasped Gog. “Get twine.”
Odin struggled. Gog tightened the hold. Odin groaned. It felt like his back was going to snap. Gog was incredible. Scouts knelt around him, tying twine to his wrists.
44.
The archery contest this morning had narrowed down to Put and Beor. Ham stood beside his brothers. They were the judges and stood parallel to a single, hay-backed target at the end of a long, thin field, with oak trees rustling leaves ten paces behind the black-clothed target. On either side of the lane, there stood towering firs, with people lining under the trees to watch. At the head of the seventy-pace lane stood Put and Beor, deciding who would shoot first.
“It’s interesting when you think about it,” Ham said.
“What is?” asked Shem.
Ham grinned at Japheth as he said, “That the two finalists are Hamites.”
Japheth sniffed, with a bored look, his nose in the air.
“Ah,” Shem said. “It seems they’ve decided.”
Put stepped forth, and smoothly, seemingly effortlessly, drew his bowstring, aimed and let fly. The arrow zoomed, hissing, striking the target with a meaty thwack!
The three brothers, the elders of humanity, moved to the hay-backed
target.
“Beautiful,” Ham said.
“Practically dead center,” Shem said.
“Hmm,” Japheth said. He knelt, pulled out a stick and measured the amount that the arrow was within the black target circle. He drew out the arrow, handing it to Ham.
They walked back, Ham fingering the fletching, noticing that Put used hawk feathers.
Put stepped back, and Beor clumped up with his giant bow. All talking along the lane ceased. Beor thrust his foot out, anchored the bottom end of his bow to it and drew the bowstring. He held it one second, two. Then the arrow flashed with sickening speed. Like a blur, it slapped into the hay target, the three-foot arrow sinking halfway down to its feathers.
People roared.
“Amazing,” Japheth said. “What a fine example of primitive strength.”
“I’d say he’s won,” Ham said.
Shem nodded.
“Let’s make it official,” Japheth said, squatting again, using the same measuring stick. “Yes. Beor wins.” This time, Japheth didn’t bother working out the arrow.
Ham noticed that the feathers were black, those of a raven.
“We have a victor,” shouted Japheth, “Beor, son of Canaan.”
The roars erupted once more. Put and Beor shook hands, and that seemed to delight the people.
The victory medallions would be handed out the last day of Festival. Now it was time to test pies. The women had been baking all morning, and the smell of them drifted on the breeze.
As Ham strolled with Shem and Japheth, he noticed Beor gathering his archery equipment. The big man clumped alone in his odd gait on a different path, leading away from the main Festival grounds. Unseen by Beor, Semiramis detached herself from her group and glanced around. She headed down the same path, seemingly after Beor.
People of Babel (Ark Chronicles 3) Page 21
