Legends of Garaaga

by Paul E. Cooley

  He walked to the shelves along the wall. Three open spaces where the rest of Trianni's tablets rested. In the light of the braziers, Herodot examined each tablet, made sure they were in order, and then carefully placed them back in the slots.

  Tablets. More tablets. They stretched to the end of the wall. Herodot began counting. He lost count at 22 and there were many more left. Weeks. He had weeks of Trianni's tales left to translate.

  A scratching sound.

  Herodot turned to look at the grate. Something was moving beneath it. His skin prickled in fear. He rose from his knees and took a torch from the wall. The scratching sound stopped. Herodot held his breath. The sound returned.

  On rubbery legs, the young scribe stepped forward toward the grate, torch held down and to his side. The sound continued.

  As he neared it, fingers appeared through the metal mesh. Herodot let out a cry. The fingers disappeared. From below, he heard someone curse.

  "Who are you?" Herodot yelled down into the grate.

  There was no response save the shuffling of cloth on stone. He ran to the far wall and peered out the small opening. The ocean waves crashed against the shore. In the inky moonless night, there was nothing to see but the white froth of the water and the city lights.

  "Sir?"

  Herodot jumped and almost dropped the torch. He turned and stared at the soldier standing in the doorway. The soldier's short sword was drawn.

  Heart hammering in his chest, Herodot panted.

  "Sir? I heard yelling?"

  Herodot nodded and turned back to the grate. "Someone is trying to get into the storeroom," Herodot whispered.

  The legionnaire walked across the floor, his sandals barely making any sound. The man stood next to him and stared down through the metal.

  "Are you certain?"

  "I saw fingers. I think they were trying to push aside the grate."

  "Your torch, sir?" Herodot handed it to him with numb fingers. The man knelt on his haunches and lowered the torch to the grate.

  In the wavering dim light, Herodot could see splinters of wood and a piece of metal.

  The soldier grunted. "Sir? I think it best you leave the storeroom and return to the dormitory. Tell the centurion downstairs what has happened and that I will remain here until dawn." The Roman rose and smiled. "We'll keep them out."

  "But who would try and get in here? And why?"

  The man shrugged. "Perhaps Ptolemy's men are looking for a way into the Library. Find a way to ambush us."

  Herodot shook his head. "Ptolemy and Caesar have agreed the Library is out of bounds."

  "Perhaps," the Roman said, his eyes returning to the grate. "But that doesn't rule out treachery. This is war, scribe, there are no rules in combat except to win." He clapped Herodot on the back. "Go your way, young man. And do what I've told you."

  Herodot took in a shuddering breath. The rush of adrenaline and fear was slowly departing. He felt as though he would faint. "Yes. Thank you, sir."

  The soldier nodded, gave a salute, and then stood still, eyes gazing into the darkness below.

  His eyes popped open at the sound of steel on steel. Herodot sat up in bed. For a moment he wasn't sure where he was. It was still dark out, but the horizon glowed with the hint of day. A hoarse shout of pain caught his attention. He turned toward the window in his cell.

  Many lights burned in the distance. He rose naked from his bed and walked to the window. The lights moved and bounced. The streets were crowded with legionnaires and Egyptian soldiers.

  At the sound of a whistle, a group of Roman soldiers assembled from the broken lines. The front line planted their shields and created a continuous wall. Other legionnaires raised their shields to cover their comrades.

  Egyptian soldiers flooded into view and rushed the phalanx. The soldiers moved their shields aside and stabbed as one. Shouts of pain, screams of dying men, the clang of sword on shield, the whistle of the commander...the sounds mingled together into an incongruous din.

  Herodot watched in horror as the phalanx climbed over fallen bodies and stabbed those who still lived. The Egyptian soldiers rushed forward once more only to fall again before the organized lines of the Roman soldiers.

  The Egyptians began their retreat and disappeared from sight. The sky filled with arrows as unseen archers loosed their arsenal. Although the building obscured the fleeing combatants, their shrieks of pain were all too audible.

  The phalanx stopped its forward motion. The shields remained held above and around the rectangle of men. Herodot let out a shuddering breath. Another whistle. The phalanx broke apart into lines of men. Another hoarse shout and the men rested.

  "Been at it all night," a quiet voice said from behind him.

  Herodot turned. Isaac stood in the doorway, a robe wrapped around him.

  "All night?"

  "You haven't heard them?"

  "No," Herodot admitted.

  Isaac chuckled. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You've been working too hard."

  In the darkness, it was impossible to make out more than Isaac's glittering eyes.

  "I guess I have." Herodot sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his eyes. "You can't sleep?"

  Isaac shook his head. "Not with that going on all night. Perhaps I should suggest to Cleitus that he explain to the warring factions they are interrupting the Library studies."

  Herodot laughed. "Yeah, I'm sure Ptolemy and Caesar would give their apologies."

  Isaac stepped into the room, reached for a robe hanging on the wall, and threw it to Herodot. It landed on his naked legs.

  "Perhaps you should cover yourself?"

  Herodot blushed. "Of-- Of course." He quickly donned the robe and stared at the window. "Is this madness going to end?"

  "Soon, I expect."

  Herodot turned back to face Isaac. "Dawn is breaking."

  "Yes."

  "Someone tried to get into the storeroom again last night."

  Isaac frowned. "From the grate?"

  Herodot nodded. "I saw fingers. They were trying to push the grate aside."

  "Did you--"

  "A soldier heard me and came to guard the room. As far as I know, he's still there."

  Isaac nodded. "What could they want in the storeroom? Everything there is to be translated or already has been. All they have to do is ask to see something?"

  Herodot shrugged. "I don't know. The legionnaire thought maybe Ptolemy's men were trying to get into the Library so they could mount an ambush."

  "Hardly likely. If Ptolemy's men attempted to use the Library for military purposes, the outcry would finish him. I guarantee Caesar would use that to rally all of Alexandria against him."

  "Perhaps," Herodot said. The sounds of battle started once more. "What if Caesar is trying to make it look like Ptolemy's breaking into the Library?"

  Isaac shook his head. "You hung around Archelon too long yesterday. He's passed on his madness."

  The young scribe smiled. "He is really quite intelligent."

  "No doubt. But that doesn't make him less insane."

  "The maps he showed me were amazing, Isaac. Incredibly detailed."

  "Places are not our job, Herodot. Words are."

  "Places belong to words," Herodot muttered.

  "What?"

  "Nothing. Is today the Sabbath?"

  Isaac nodded. "Scribe Hall. In a few hours."

  Herodot yawned. "Then I have time for more revision."

  "Yahweh will not be pleased. There is no work on the Sabbath."

  "You say that every Sabbath. And I always say the same thing back to you."

  "I know." Isaac clutched the robe tighter around himself. "You may pursue your passion alone, my friend. I'm going to try and sleep."

  "Good morning."

  "Morning," Isaac said and disappeared from the cell.

  Herodot rose and looked out the window. Daylight was encroaching fast. The torches seemed out of place and less bright. By the time the sun rose into th
e sky, the fighting would more than likely cease altogether. Without Ptolemy's signal fires to guide his troops, the Egyptian army would retreat until nightfall.

  One day soon, Caesar would have to make a choice. Either die one soldier at a time during the night, or push forward through the streets of Alexandria and chase Ptolemy's army into the desert.

  The battles in the streets had disrupted the daily lives of the entire city, save the Library. Herodot wondered how much longer the Egyptian citizens would put up with it. Those who hadn't chosen a side would soon be forced to choose Cleopatra or her brother for their ruler.

  With the sunlight strengthening, he could make out the faces of corpses. He shivered and looked away.

  Trianni had written of the endless Akkadian wars along their border, but Akkad itself had never been attacked. Trianni would have written an epic account of these small skirmishes, highlighting every detail.

  Herodot shrugged off his robe, dressed in a fresh tunic the slave had left for him, and put on his sandals. He wanted to swim, but Cleitus had been firm about not leaving the confines of the Library walls.

  He yawned again and placed the robe on a peg. The slave would clean up his room, as always, and leave a fresh robe and tunic for the next day. He turned and stared at the lamp on the tiny bedside table. Scribe Hall would more than likely be dark this time of the morning. Herodot took two steps toward the lamp and stopped.

  He smiled. "I'll risk it," he whispered as he left his cell.

  As expected, Scribe Hall was empty and clothed in shadow. The new day's sunlight barely penetrated the gloom. Most of the braziers as well as the torches had burned out.

  Herodot sighed. The servants hadn't yet made their way to the Hall to light it for the day's work. "Or the Sabbath services," Herodot whispered.

  He walked to the wall, grabbed the bucket of oil and marched back to the brazier nearest his table. The inky liquid slid into the brazier's reservoir. He was careful not to overfill it-- the servants would do a proper job when they returned to prepare the hall.

  Outside the window, the ocean rolled with high, white, froth-filled waves. The western horizon was dark with clouds. Herodot frowned and shivered. On the Library's second floor, the air was much cooler. Without the braziers providing their constant heat, Scribe Hall was a cold tomb.

  He made another trip to the wall to replace the oil and picked up a flint. He walked back to the brazier, struck the flint until it caught the wick. Eager flame licked up from the black surface and illuminated the wall. Welcome heat radiated outward. Herodot reached his desk and lit his lamp.

  A small, narrow scroll sat on his table. Herodot frowned. Instead of the Library's official bronze rollers, he could see the ends were made of cedar. He picked it up and examined it. There was no seal or stamp. Wherever the scroll had come from, it wasn't the Library.

  He sat down and unrolled it. "Ah," he said as he saw the first words.

  Transcribed by Titus Cleitus

  The Babylonian scroll the head librarian had spoken of. Herodot smiled at the lettering. Cleitus may be very knowledgeable, but his penmanship left much to be desired. Even Cleitus' signature was muddy and malformed. He began to read.

  The soldier Philus told the story of his friend Nerutal, the man who'd led Alexander's Scouts regiment through the Indus Valley. After exile from the army, Nerutal and his remaining men traveled through the Indus Valley in an attempt to make their way to Lothal. On their journey they not only discovered a village of hostile people, but something that hunted them.

  Upon destroying the village populace, the Scouts found a primitive temple of sorts. Philus could only say it was a hut from Nerutal's description. Inside the makeshift temple, they discovered a book made of animal hide. The language inside the book was impossible to decipher. It was after discovering the book that they became hunted by the creature.

  Philus' descriptions of the monster were vague. The man admitted that he had written the account upon Nerutal's passing, and as such, was unable to get more details from his friend. Nerutal, it seemed, had perished on the return journey to Babylon.

  "A woman, with crimson eyes, that hunted, followed, killed. A deadly naide," Herodot muttered, "that whispered to your loins until you wanted to follow her. Couple with her. But her embrace was death. To us all."

  A quote? Herodot wondered.

  The book is the most beautiful and frightening thing I have ever seen, Philus had written. Every other page is in Indus, while the facing page is written in symbols I've never before seen. The words seem to glow, as if drawn in human blood that still radiates stolen life.

  The final symbol in the book is the sigil Nerutal described seeing on the backs of the villagers. What strange religion did my friend uncover?

  I have placed the book in Alexander's treasure room. Since Nerutal's death, it has haunted my dreams. I never wish to see the cursed thing again.

  As he neared the end of the tale, goose flesh broke out on his arms. Nerutal had been no more than five days from Lothal, traveling down the banks of a green river, when he and his men discovered the village.

  "Gujaritan?" he whispered to the room.

  Certainly not. An enormous amount of time had passed since Akkad had fallen. Much more than a millennia. Trianni described no such religion or customs, and certainly not a book. His people were incapable of marking more than years on a stone slab.

  Herodot rolled up the scroll, tied a ribbon around it, and then placed it in the pouch on his belt. He could leave it on the table, but it was Cleitus'--the man would no doubt want it returned.

  "I have placed the book in Alexander's treasure room," he whispered to himself. Indus script, Philus had said. Herodot needed to find Cleitus after the Sabbath ceremony and ask him if he had seen the book.

  Herodot looked out the window. The sun hung high over the horizon. More time had passed than he thought. He rose from the table and walked to the end of the hall. He had just enough time to translate another of Trianni's tablets.

  The hallway leading to the storeroom was pitch black. The torches and braziers had all gone dark. But the centurion...

  "Hello?" Herodot called down the hall. No response. "Centurion?"

  Nothing answered but an echo.

  A prickle of gooseflesh rose on his arms. The darkness was absolute, a waiting, yawning mouth.

  Filthy Jew!

  Herodot shuddered. The dark place. The boys.

  He turned back to Scribe Hall and headed for his table. The lamp. It wouldn't completely dispel the darkness, but it would be enough. With the lamp in his left hand, he walked back to the storeroom hallway.

  Slow steps. He moved forward into the darkness, listening to the blood pounding in his ears. "Hello?" he yelled down the passage. Nothing.

  Filthy Jew!

  The boys. Always the boys. Whenever darkness crept in, the voices were there. His muscles tightened as if he were still trapped in the cramped space. His breathing came in gasps with each step.

  Shaking with fear, Herodot made it to the corner. He turned and faced the dark storeroom. "Soldier?" he whispered. The artifact room echoed with his words. He turned to the brazier on the wall and dipped the lamp.

  A warm orange glow grew within the iron. The shadows slowly departed as the flames rose. The pounding in his chest slowed. Nothing. The legionnaire was gone.

  The grate was still in place. With a sigh, Herodot walked to the tablet shelves. He placed the lamp on the stone floor and knelt on his haunches.

  He searched the edges of the tablets, taking note of which had dust and which did not. "Clean, clean, clean, ah." He pulled two tablets from the shelf. He knew it was ambitious, but maybe he had enough time to get through both.

  A bird screeched from inside the grate. Herodot stiffened, but didn't cry out. Shaking his head, he rose with the lamp and tablets and walked from the room.

  Scribe Hall was more than half-full. The majority of the Jewish scribes had returned to their cells to pray and read the
Torah, but the Greeks and Egyptians had filed in as soon as the ceremony was over.

  Herodot sat at his table staring down at the scroll. The seven tablets he'd managed to transcribe before the Sabbath had been returned to the artifact room. Three more were stacked on the table's edge. Greek letters stared back at him from the papyrus.

  During the ceremony, he'd barely been able to mouth the words as the Rabbi read from the great book. Trianni's ancient voice had echoed in his mind.

  The story of Isin, the last survivor of the destroyed village of Gujaritan, had flowed from the symbols like water. The men, women, and children of Gujaritan had all been murdered, the sigil of an ancient evil carved into their backs. The young man, remembering that Trianni left for Akkad to become a scribe, had set out to find him.

  Trianni described the man's journey from their homeland to Akkad in great detail. Isin had traveled down the river from Gujaritan to Lothal. Upon reaching Akkad, he sought out Trianni to tell his tale. The young man knew he was dying, but managed to reach the scribe before his illness could take his life.

  Herodot had been interrupted by the Sabbath gathering at that point. Isaac practically dragged him from his table to prostrate himself before the Rabbi and join the ceremony. With each verse from the Torah, Herodot fought to turn and stare at the tablets on his table.

  The moment the Rabbi uttered the words to close the ceremony, Herodot had returned to his workstation.

  "What is wrong with you, brother?" Isaac asked.

  "I am in the middle of a story."

  "More important than Abraham, I see."

  Herodot turned and stared. Isaac stepped back.

  "We know the story of Abraham. I don't yet know all there is to know about Gujaritan."

  Isaac rolled his eyes. "Trianni again. Herodot, if it were possible, I believe you would return to Akkad and marry the man."

  "When I'm finished transcribing all the tablets, I'll make sure you read the scrolls. Then we'll see what you think."

  "I am going back to my cell. This is the Sabbath, Herodot. You should not be here."

  Herodot smiled. "I think Yahweh will forgive me."