Twilight in Babylon

by Frank, Suzanne

  Nimrod sipped his beer. “Who would be the opponents?”

  “A champion of your people against a champion of mine.”

  “Thus we would win back our host gifts or you would keep them? That hardly seems a wager,” Nimrod said.

  “Agreed. Instead, you could win back your host gifts or… we get to keep three of your people as slaves.”

  Quiet, disturbed only by the rustling of the wind in the fronds above them.

  “How long would the slavery last?” Nimrod asked.

  Cheftu hadn’t appeared to be less interested in the amount of food he was consuming, but Chloe knew he was watching everyone and noting every expression. She had a sickening feeling who the “champion” might be.

  “The slavery? Oh, nothing serious, a few months. Until the end of the season perhaps.”

  “Anyone in mind?” Nimrod said, gesturing to the men and women who were his.

  “She would be a lovely addition,” he said, pointing to one of the guard’s girlfriends. “Maybe that man there, he seems to be light on his feet. And her—”

  Cheftu froze.

  Chloe stared into the dark eyes of the man with the crown.

  Nimrod laughed. “I am afraid we have no agreement,” he said. “Keep your gifts, with my blessing.” He made as though to rise; Asshur didn’t move.

  Tension settled more thickly on the table. Cheftu had set aside yet another poisson skeleton and had washed his fingers in the scented water beside him. He watched Asshur like a very large, barely tamed cat. Chloe swallowed silently. Let’s get out of here, she thought. I don’t like these games. And we don’t want the goat back.

  “Let me sweeten the offer,” Asshur said to Nimrod. “If you win, you get all you gifted to me returned, plus 200 percent more. Paid in seed and grain.”

  Bull’s-eye, Chloe thought. Seed and grain were really the only things they needed. Ur hadn’t had much to spare, obviously, and no other city was selling grain and seed. Asshur must truly want new slaves, she thought. They needed that grain. But did Asshur get it from his fields? They hadn’t looked very healthy.

  Nimrod shook his head. “Impossible.”

  “Who is your champion?” Cheftu asked Asshur.

  Asshur stared at him. “I am.”

  The man had biceps like ham hocks and thighs the size of… Chloe drew a blank. Big, big and brawny. He wasn’t as tall as Cheftu, but he had to outweigh him. “Don’t do it,” she muttered to Cheftu.

  “Are you the champion for lugal Nimrod?” Asshur asked Cheftu.

  “I am,” Cheftu said resolutely.

  Chloe sent a pleading glance to Nimrod, but he ignored her.

  “Do we have a deal?” Asshur asked, and looked at Chloe. Deliberately. Up and down. I’m the ante, she thought.

  Nimrod and Cheftu spoke simultaneously. “We do.”

  * * *

  There wasn’t time to prepare, to talk, to discuss, to plan. The bowl began then and there. A priest, the “bowl master,” ran up on the portico and drew a circle on the pavement. Cheftu and Asshur stripped down to loincloths.

  Asshur was enormous, especially for this day and age. But he wasn’t young. Chloe couldn’t begin to guess how many years he had. She had gotten as close to him as she wanted to. Cheftu had retreated into another world, a mental world of competition. He rose from the table, took his place, and never once looked at her.

  This must be the Kidu part, Chloe thought. He would never risk me otherwise. He’s out of his ancient mind. Asshur leered at her, and Nirg stepped closer to her side, protective.

  “The rules are as follows,” the bowl master said to the two men. “You mustn’t step out of the circle.

  “You will compete for as long as you both can stand.”

  Cheftu’s gaze flickered over Asshur’s body, but Asshur refused to give Cheftu the same respect.

  “You must have both hands on the opponent at all times.”

  Cheftu’s face was inscrutable.

  “No one must be killed.”

  That was good.

  The bowl master brought out the jars. “To win, you must break your opponent’s jar, and yours must remain unbroken.”

  The citizens of Uruk cheered. Asshur knelt, and the jar was placed on his head, atop the crown, and tied around his chin. Cheftu’s jar made him at least six-foot-six, but Chloe could tell the strain his body was enduring already. The veins of his neck bulged as Cheftu tried to move.

  The bowl master slowly drew Asshur and Cheftu into the circle.

  “May Inana decide,” he said, and placed Cheftu’s hands on Asshur’s arms and Asshur’s hands on Cheftu’s arms. “Begin when the music starts.”

  The two men were a head’s width apart. Cheftu had only the advantage of height, which was no advantage because that meant his jar was proportionally taller and that much more unstable. The flutist began and Asshur pushed at Cheftu. He recovered his balance quickly and pressed against Asshur. The singers started, a soft melody, accented with chimes.

  Like a boxing match set to Enya, Chloe thought.

  Both bodies glowed with sweat, and Asshur seemed to be waiting. Cheftu held on, his muscles shifting and swelling beneath his sweaty skin. Cheftu’s grip looked like it was getting harder, and he’d slipped his leg between Asshur’s feet, as he tried to trip him. Asshur slammed his head, consequently his jar, against Cheftu’s. The crowd roared above the gentle music, and the high notes of the singers.

  “What did you say?” Asshur said to Cheftu, panting from the effort.

  Probably something in French or Egyptian or English, Chloe thought. Her own hands ached from clenching her folded arms.

  Cheftu pushed him, hard. “Nothing.” Sweat from his face fell onto Asshur’s arms, and the lugal slid his hands up to Cheftu’s clavicle. The only way Chloe could see for someone to win was to snap the breastbone of your opponent, then as he fell, kick his jar. Or to kick high and catch it at a moment he was unaware.

  Cheftu’s attention and exertion were unflagging. His breath was heavy, his body wet, but he was unmoved.

  The clapping of the crowd spurred Asshur on. He pushed at Cheftu, forced him backward.

  Cheftu gave way, and Asshur fell forward almost two steps, unsteady with the jar on his head. Cheftu struck out with his jar at Asshur’s, but the latter turned his head. The glancing blow left both men stunned. For a moment they clung to each other, not in combat, but in an effort to stay upright.

  They pressed each other, and the singers’ voices rose into the silence. The crowd no longer cheered; they watched with fear.

  * * *

  Neither man was winning.

  Or losing.

  “Do you thirst?” Asshur asked Cheftu. “We can agree to drink.”

  “I do,” the blonde grunted.

  “Drink!” Asshur called. The crowd cheered. The priest brought them a jug, much like the ones tied to their heads, with two drinking tubes.

  “You both have to agree to relax,” the bowl master said to them. “Agree not to take advantage of the other while you rest.”

  Chloe chewed her lip and watched. They kept their hands on each other, but eagerly slurped down the cooling beer until the jug was empty and the priest took it away.

  “On the count of three, you resume,” the bowl master said. The music began, the crowd cheered, and the game recommenced. Cheftu was slower to respond, and Asshur moved him back a step. The crowd roared, and began to chant his name: Asshur, Asshur, Asshur.

  Cheftu didn’t move after that. It was like his feet had grown into palm trunks that fastened him to the ground. Periodically, he and Asshur tried to bash each other’s jars. However, they were so closely linked that any indication of movement gave the opponent time to evade it.

  They struggled on as the moon sailed across the sky.

  * * *

  The blackness of night had broken and Cheftu couldn’t move. His hands, even these big strong Kidu hands, were aching vises around Asshur’s arms. His legs were frozen in
place. In truth, the two men were hugging each other fiercely. They hadn’t spoken in hours.

  What happened if no one won?

  Cheftu heard scratching on the pavement. “Inana leaves our world for the other in just moments,” the bowl master said. “The circle is narrowed. Whoever pushes his opponent out of the circle by sunup wins.”

  The crowd cheered, though somewhat less enthusiastically than before. He didn’t know how close he was to the edge of the circle, so Cheftu shoved forward. Asshur met his strength and pushed back. Cheftu’s toes clenched into the pavement as the cool of the night faded from his back and shoulders.

  Asshur bellowed, and the pressure on Cheftu’s arms doubled. He shouted, too, tightened his grip, and smashed his head against Asshur’s jar. The sounds of shattering clay, shouting people, and ringing in his head coalesced into blackness.

  * * *

  “We’re going to see the gateway to the underworld, Kur,” Chloe said. “But I bet you don’t want to go.”

  Cheftu opened an eye; she sat on the bed’s end with a nimbus of light behind her.

  “Head hurts, huh?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad you won,” she said.

  He closed his eyes. “Moi aussi.”

  “What possessed you—?”

  “Kidu,” he spat and rolled over. “Kidu was a champion in the mountains before Puabi seduced him into the city.”

  “So when you heard the challenge—”

  “I lost my rational mind,” he said from the pillows.

  “You were very sexy,” she said, running her finger down his back. “Sweaty and angry and wild.”

  He wanted to sleep, to forget this lunacy, but her touch was as undeniable as any of the other desires he had, and he had to sate. “When do you go to the underworld?” he asked. Her hands were on his shoulders, kneading those muscles around his neck. He felt the heat of her skin and smelled the fragrance of her femininity. Cheftu groaned. “Chérie—” He turned onto his back, ready to plead for time or—he saw her face. “I will never be able to resist you,” he said.

  She smiled. “You just lie back and relax. I’ll do all the work.”

  * * *

  “Your mate is sleeping?” Asshur asked, when he met Chloe in the hallway of the palace. No guards, no aides, no scribes followed him.

  The lasciviousness in his eyes was missing also.

  “He is,” Chloe said evenly. Standing closer to the man, she had to marvel at how he’d almost beaten Cheftu last night. Asshur was not a young man. Not by a long shot—but he was still built like a WWF contender.

  Would it be a social gaffe to ask his age? Chloe wondered. Probably more of an offense than they could afford. “Did you want to see him?”

  “He’s a mountain man, I am told?”

  “Uh, yes,” Chloe said. That would be the French side of the Alps. Though perhaps Cheftu remembered more of Kidu’s life than she did of the marsh girl’s. “May I ask why?”

  Asshur hesitated. “I would like to speak with him. The others are waiting, for the trip to the gate of the underworld.”

  “Is it really the gate of the underworld?” she asked him.

  He rolled his eyes. “Old mothers’ stories, to frighten children. They claim that anyone who goes down there can be struck dead or be given life everlasting. Tales for little ones.”

  “Come with me.” Chloe said. “I’ll wake Ch—Kidu.”

  * * *

  “Wake up,” she said, and kissed him.

  “Chérie, even I—”

  “Don’t be so vain. Asshur is here. He wants to talk to you about the mountains.”

  Cheftu’s eyes opened. “Here?”

  “In the next room. That’s why I’m whispering.”

  Cheftu sat up, then looked down to see he wasn’t dressed.

  “I’ll tell him you’ll be there in a minute,” Chloe said as she slipped back into the receiving room.

  Asshur and Chloe stood in uncomfortable silence, while she waited for him to speak. That much she’d learned in seven years in ancient times. Kings spoke first. Period. Asshur was impossible to read, lost in his own world. Chloe found herself studying his face, his hands. He wasn’t attractive, but he was… intriguing. For the first time in years, she itched for a pad and pencil to get him on paper.

  “You are Khamite?” he asked, finally.

  “Part,” she said.

  “The other part?”

  “Marsh dweller.”

  He nodded. His head was shaved, so Chloe didn’t know if he was black-haired, brown, or fair. His skin was evenly tan, his eyebrows medium dark, and his eyes curiously flat, emotionally guarded and garden-variety brown.

  Cheftu opened the door, and Asshur greeted him. With relief, Chloe noticed. They spoke about the weather, exchanged news of the towns, and then refreshments arrived. Chloe hadn’t asked for any, but maybe the lugal had. It was sweet and minty tea, minus the leaves—the only connection to the modern Middle East Chloe had known.

  “You may speak before her,” Cheftu finally said. “What is on your mind?”

  “You are a son of Jepheti?” Asshur asked.

  “Great-grandson,” Cheftu said. “Jepheti lives still. He moved across the green sea to the islands there.”

  “Your people, do they age?”

  Cheftu raised a brow in question.

  Asshur leaned forward. “Did Jepheti ever mention standards? Carved? Set into the earth?”

  We aren’t discussing behavior, Chloe guessed. Standards, as in notices? Like the ones standing outside Ningal’s court?

  Cheftu shook his head, in thought. “No. But Jepheti was conscious of what he ate, and no one was allowed to drink his water.”

  “You have his water!” Asshur almost came out of his seat.

  Cheftu’s sleepy-cat gaze narrowed. “His water was finished before I was a man.” He leaned forward. “Why do you ask me these things?”

  Again, Asshur looked at Chloe. “I will not speak of sacred matters before one who is cursed and ignorant.”

  “She is half-Jepheti,” Cheftu said. “And only half-Khamite.”

  Chloe bit her lip to keep from reminding them she was still in the room.

  Asshur rose. “I cannot.” He looked at her. “It is no disrespect to you, ma’am, but only honoring the wishes of my male human forefathers. Kham was cursed. Banished. He had no part of the continuing line.”

  Chloe glanced up at Cheftu; he wanted her to go. He wanted to know what Asshur was talking about, and her leaving was the only way he was going to get it. In this way, they were a team.

  “Well,” she said, “I will go visit the gates of the underworld, then.”

  * * *

  The sledges were lined up in front of the royal residence like taxis. Chloe climbed in and told the driver where she was supposed to go. Uruk was a beautiful, colorful city, more subdued than Ur and Larsa, but maybe that was because, on the whole, the population was older. Not many children ran in the streets, and Chloe saw a lot of sledges—exactly like taxis—taking people back and forth between the municipal buildings and temples.

  “What are those?” she asked the driver. Before each of the doorways were huge stones, planted in the ground, and intricately inscribed.

  “Judgment standards,” he said. “That’s the judicial complex. Each judge commemorates his best decisions by writing them on stone. That way, you know what to expect. Some are harder on civil cases than criminal, some specialize in contract law, or land negotiations. You save time and costs if you know to whom to appeal.”

  She wanted to ask if they had plea bargaining, but couldn’t translate the concept. The sledge stopped beside a public park. “The gate to the underworld is right down those steps,” he said, pointing to a hole in the ground. “Did you bring an offering?”

  Chloe was stuck; she hadn’t.

  “If not, these are the finest watchers,” he said, pulling back a blanket on the seat beside him to reveal crude figures w
ith enormous eyes. It was hard to tell which was male and which was female. Chloe exchanged a few beads from her belt for a purportedly female “watcher” and dismounted.

  At least it wasn’t Rolexes, she thought. Though in Saudi Arabia, it was usually Cartier knockoffs that the taxi drivers sold.

  No one else seemed to be around. There weren’t guards or priests, nothing and no one. I just go in, I guess, she thought, and took the steps downward.

  * * *

  “Tell me of this water of your forefathers,” Asshur said. The look in his eyes was lustful, more so than when he’d looked at Chloe the night before. Cheftu sensed all the travelers from Ur had been manipulated, but to what purpose? “Where did he get it? When did he begin to drink it? What age was he when he fathered his first child? When did—”

  Cheftu held up his hand. “I don’t know the answers,” he said. “I am sorry, but I cannot help you.” It was true; Kidu’s memories were hazy at best. Not thought processes so much as emotions and reactions. Hence Cheftu’s inability to control them very well. Though he had dodged a number of green-eyed women. “What do you seek?” he asked Asshur.

  “My years are counted in centuries,” Asshur said.

  Centuries, plural?

  “I do not deceive you. I was the last child born Before the Deluge.”

  Cheftu blinked, the Deluge that was now accorded the status of legend?

  “Lives were long for humans and their kin. Men matured slowly, having fewer children much later, learning gradually, but more, for they had many years to do so. The First Father was 930 when he died, and he didn’t have his first son before 130 years.”

  The numbers were familiar to Cheftu the scholar; the story was familiar to Kidu the mountain man.

  “Where do you think the knowledge of the Black-Haired Ones springs from? No one family could learn about animals, land, metals, medicine, and writing in a single generation—unless such a generation were hundreds of years old. Ziusudra’s children were, are, that generation. You said my uncle Jepheti is well-aged, yet still he travels.”

  Cheftu had told Chloe Ziusudra wasn’t Noah, but he was beginning to doubt himself. If only the names of Noah’s children, three sons, would come to Cheftu’s mind. “What do you want? What do you seek?”