Legends of Garaaga

by Paul E. Cooley

  The treasure room had bounty from every land he'd traveled and bled in. Yahweh only knew how old or from where each piece had been taken.

  Herodot walked through the long aisles of relics. The light from the front braziers had bathed the entrance and the first aisle, but shadows once again crept in the further he went. He glanced at the walls. Between the stuffed head of a furry creature that was far too large to be a dog, and a huge stuffed snake, he saw an unlit brazier.

  He brought it to life and the shadows dissolved once more. Another aisle, and another. Whenever the light became too dim, he found another brazier to light. He continued toward the back of the long, wide chamber until he found what he was looking for.

  Tall wooden shelves rose from the floor. A heavy wooden ladder was leaned against them. Vellum scrolls lined the shelves, their ends made from gold. Herodot stood before them, his eyes searching. The scrolls varied greatly in size. Some were as narrow as he'd ever seen while others were bloated, their ends round as a fist.

  He reached for one and then stopped. He wondered if Cleitus felt like this-- struggling to ignore curiosity, the temptation to pull every one of them and study their words, scribe them into Greek from whatever language they were written in.

  "When you see the shelves of parchment," the Librarian told him, "they will call to you." He'd held up a finger. "Do not touch what you do not need."

  Herodot sighed. So much history, yet the Ptolemys allowed nothing to leave the room. This was a shrine to Alexander. It was not to be profaned by scholarly curiosity.

  He continued down the shelves, his eyes scanning from top to bottom before taking another step. He was on the fifth shelf when he saw a single dark space between the gilded scrolls.

  With a shaking hand, he reached forward and slid his fingers into the darkness. He expected to feel cobwebs, or perhaps the fur of a rodent. Instead, his fingers caressed something cool and pliant. He pulled the object out of the space and stared.

  Seven crimson colored symbols stared back at him from the leather cover. He frowned. He knew eight languages, but these runes were like nothing he'd ever seen before. He rubbed his index finger across them.

  The cool leather warmed in his hands. Philus' account had been accurate after all. The symbols practically blazed with color as though they had been inked yesterday.

  He opened the cover and stared at the first page. Sanskrit marks covered the inside. The right was made of more of those strange glyphs. Herodot began to read.

  The Library courtyard was empty. It seemed like years ago that Cleitus had warned the Library denizens to remain inside to avoid the bloodshed and chaos in the streets. Herodot hadn't considered disobeying the command until after he'd read the book.

  He stared off toward the dying sun. The day had disappeared for him. The trip to "the pit" consumed it.

  "A Torah?" Cleitus had mused that morning.

  No, Herodot thought. A summoning. Laws. And a roadmap to worship. He shivered.

  He spent hours pouring over the tome, translating the sanskrit in his mind and then memorizing the runic symbol that matched it. There was no way to tell how the language was spoken, of course, but he had absorbed enough of the runes to guess how it was written.

  His idle hands drew in the sand on the stone bench. The runic symbols appeared beneath his fingers. He wiped it away and began another, all the while repeating the Greek word that went along with it.

  Sanskrit to Greek. The runes to Sanskrit to Greek.

  Exhaustion tugged at him. In the last rays of the warming sun, he could easily have lain down and been asleep in moments. There was, however, too much to do.

  The book was a profanity. It had to be destroyed.

  After committing the words and runes to memory, he had tried. First in the brazier. It refused to burn. The cover, instead of smoking or catching fire, glowed with an unearthly light. His hands dropped the tome to the stone floor in fear.

  He'd stood over it for what seemed like hours, afraid to touch it. Afraid to leave it. Once he found his courage, he bent down and retrieved it. The cover was still warm, the runes still glowing crimson. He opened the book to the middle and tried to tear out a page but it resisted. Herodot even tried to cut the book using a gold-hilted dagger. Still, the pages refused to break or tear.

  Profanation. Something not of Yahweh. Something not of this world, and it was hidden in "the pit" amongst Alexander's treasures.

  At last he'd decided to keep it hidden. Instead of placing it back on the shelves as he'd found it, he'd stored it in the great lion's head statue of bronze and silver. Those who searched for it would not find it where it belonged, and with as many artifacts as the tomb contained, he doubted it would be found at all.

  Carve the sacred symbol into your flesh. Make your bargain. Serve.

  He shivered again. The words flashed in his mind, Greek to Sanskrit to rune. As he'd translated the tome, the chamber had grown insufferably warm. Once he'd finished and closed it, the fetid, cool air returned.

  Sheol contained nothing like this. The elders at the synagogue never mentioned the word Garaaga or a beast like it.

  Nephilim. The fallen ones.

  The Torah mentioned them as the offspring of Yahweh's angels and women. Children not of man, and yet walked with him. Ruined him. Destroyed him.

  Herodot looked down at the sand. He'd drawn the symbol from the book. Its symbol. He shivered again and wiped it clean.

  After leaving the pit, he came straight to the courtyard. If Akakios or Cleitus found him, they would no doubt want to know what he'd discovered. He wasn't certain what to tell them.

  The cartographer, Archelon, told him not to trust Cleitus. The head Librarian provided him with Philus' account. The words of the long dead soldier had confirmed the link between Trianni's writings and the Indus Valley. Without the Alexandrian-period account, he would have written off Garaaga as the scribblings of a madman.

  Or would I?

  And what of his patron, Akakios?

  "Akakios cannot read Sanskrit," Herodot muttered.

  Something didn't make sense. The two men were hardly friends, although they shared meals together at times. Their heated debates were legendary, as was their dislike for one another.

  Yet in the matter of Trianni's tablets, they seemed allies, pushing him to finish the translations as fast as he could. When he'd asked Cleitus for permission to visit "the pit", the old man had hardly interrogated him.

  Cleitus. Akakios. Archelon.

  Even after years of service to Akakios, he didn't feel as though he knew the man. His childhood had been consumed by the study of the Torah, Greek, Akkadian cuneiform, Egyptian, hieroglyphics, Latin, and Aramaic. Their time together consisted of each of them with their nose in a scroll or discussing its creation.

  Aristotle, Socrates, and Sophocles became his gods. Their logic, their science, even their pagan religion was of more interest to him than his own faith.

  While he held the book in his hands, Yahweh had never seemed more real to him. If Garaaga existed, so must Yahweh. And so must Nabu and the rest of the Sumerian gods. The Greek gods too. Or were they all one and the same?

  They must never know of the book, he thought to himself. No one must know how to summon It.

  The sound of armor clanking and sandals marching in step filled the courtyard. He looked up to watch a cadre of soldiers take positions in front of the burbling marble fountain. The fountain, an old relic carved by one of the first artisans invited to the Library, displayed a statue of Apollo stretching his hand toward the sun. The men said nothing as they stared toward the street.

  "Librarian!" a gruff voice called in Latin. Their leader, dressed in red and gold, approached Herodot. "Get back inside, young man, and head to the dormitory. We are closing off the rest of the Library. Nothing good will happen here."

  Herodot stood. "Is the royal army near?"

  The centurion grunted and spit a wad of phlegm to the ground. "They are rabble, child. Not a
n army so much as a mob. We will break them and we will keep them from you and yours."

  Herodot brushed sand from his tunic and sighed. "Good luck, Roman."

  The centurion smiled and nodded. "Any man breaks," he yelled as he turned to face his troops, "and I'll have your testicles on a spear!"

  "SIR!" the cadre shouted in unison.

  He watched them for a moment as they stood silent, waiting. The leader hummed as he walked up and down the line. Their great shields caught the last of the sun as it finally dropped below the horizon.

  Herodot turned and made his way back into the Library.

  Soldiers filled the great hall. They held themselves in silence as night fell. Herodot watched them from the dormitory entrance. They would not let him or any other Librarian pass. Caesar sent message to Cleitus that while Ptolemy's soldiers would surely do no harm to the Library itself, he had no confidence the mob would show the same respect.

  As soon as Herodot entered the dormitory some hours ago, Cleitus gathered the Librarians in the dining room and explained the situation. There were murmurs of disapproval, of outrage. Herodot saw them for what they were: fear.

  The old Greeks, Romans, and even the Egyptians were terrified. The Library was their home. Hundreds of blood-thirsty, destruction minded Alexandrian citizens might pour into the courtyard at any moment and exercise their wrath against any who dwelled inside.

  When Cleitus dismissed the assembly, he caught Herodot's eyes and waved. Herodot blinked, unsure what to do. The old man finally beckoned him with a gnarled hand.

  "Did you find it?"

  Herodot opened his mouth and then closed it. He swallowed. "No, sir."

  The old man's lips curled at one corner and then lay flat. "A pity. Perhaps it doesn't exist."

  As the Greek's dark eyes peered into his, he felt a chill and shame. He had lied. He had lied to the head of their order. It was grounds to be removed from the Library. Should Cleitus ever discover that...

  "Perhaps I should look myself."

  Herodot smiled. "If you wish, sir. I'm certain the guards would love more company."

  Cleitus laughed. "And what did you think of the royal guard?"

  "I would not care to make them angry."

  "No, I should think not." Cleitus casually turned. The hall was all but empty. "Come with me, child. I shall walk you to your quarters."

  The pair left the dining hall and headed toward the dormitory. Cleitus had asked about the treasures, of what Herodot thought of them.

  "The animal heads. What creature was that on the wall? The furry one that looked too large to be a dog?"

  "That was a bear, my son."

  "A bear?"

  Cleitus had nodded. "You have obviously never seen one."

  "Only read of them."

  "They are much more majestic and terrible in person. Believe me."

  Silence fell between them as they reached Herodot's cell. He felt uncomfortable, as though the old man expected him to say something. When they stopped outside his small room, Herodot turned to look at Cleitus.

  The old man had grinned. "Tonight should be very interesting," he whispered. "Steel on steel. Romans and Egyptians dying in the street." He sighed. "I doubt there will be sleep tonight for any here."

  Herodot nodded. "How many men can a small phalanx hold off?"

  Cleitus shrugged. "We shall see, my boy. We shall see." He clasped Herodot's shoulder and gently squeezed. "When this madness is over, I should like to study your translations. I expect enlightenment."

  "I wasn't aware you had so much interest in Akkad."

  "Akkad. Babylon. The great Sumer of legend. Yes. I fear my ability with language pales in comparison to yours and Akakios's. I was never able to learn cuneiform. The symbols never made sense to me."

  "What languages do you know?"

  Cleitus cocked an eyebrow. "It is rather arrogant to ask such a question and mock your betters."

  Herodot blushed. "That was not my intent, sir. I merely--"

  "I speak and write Greek, obviously, Egyptian and Latin, old Egyptian, Aramaic, and I can barely translate Sanskrit."

  "Sanskrit?"

  Cleitus laughed and held his hands behind his back. "Yes. I would have been quite a teacher for four-year olds."

  Herodot grinned. "I take it you are not a master."

  "As I said, all those symbols make little sense to me. I leave that to the likes of your kind. I was a scribe once," he sighed, "but I was a failure as such. Science and history were always more interesting."

  Herodot said nothing.

  At last, the old man offered his hand. "Good night, Herodot."

  "Good night, sir."

  For hours, he stayed in his cell. Isaac called on him once, but only to invite him to a drunken party down the hall. Herodot told him he was too tired. Isaac left with a frown upon his heavily bearded face.

  He lay in bed, eyes closed, listening to the shouts of the cadre leaders as they kept their men at attention. Their voices dimmed, replaced with the images of Sanskrit words and the runes. The ancient symbols written by an unknown hand glowed crimson against the darkened backdrop of his mind.

  The runes. The book. The tablets. His scrolls. Together, they were a map to obscenity, a catalog of carnage and worship of a monster worse than those in Sheol.

  A cold tear rolled down his cheek.

  He left his bed and walked into the dormitory hall to watch the soldiers guard the entrance to the great hall. He knew what he wanted to do, what he must do, but it would be impossible to get to the Library of Scrolls through the soldiers. There had to be another way.

  Herodot turned and headed down the hallway. The party was going on near the back. Long before he approached it, he could hear drunken singing. Dinner may have been canceled, but the servants had certainly provided the Librarians enough wine and beer for the occasion. He passed Cleitus' large, well-lit cell. Through the throng of sitting and standing men, he saw the Head Librarian propped up on a pillow in the corner, snoring away.

  He continued down the hall past closed doors. He smelled burning incense and heard the sound of muted conversation through thin wood. When fear and danger were at hand, all men seemed to find faith in a god or two.

  When he reached the windows at the end of the hall, he stopped. The braziers had not been lit. Perhaps the servants were drunk as well.

  He pried open one of the wooden shutters and stared out at the sea. There were more lights on the water than ever. Ptolemy was preparing to attack. Caesar's ships were still harbored at the pier. The Roman leader was outnumbered both on land and sea. Ptolemy's navy would rain down arrows on the Romans before unloading tides of men on their flank. The legionnaires near the Library would be slaughtered, mob or no mob.

  Herodot closed his eyes and listened to the waves crashing on the shore. There would be no room for mistakes. If his hand slipped, he would fall to the pier below or drown in the water.

  He opened his eyes and raised himself on the sill. He placed his hands against it for balance and stepped out onto the wide lip. The moon was bright and the sky cloudless. He straddled the sill's edge and headed toward the nearest column.

  Unlike the rest of the Library, the dormitory had only a single floor. All he had to do was get to the roof. "Get to the roof," he muttered.

  Herodot stood on his toes and reached one hand toward the lip of the arch. His fingers explored and finally found purchase. His skin prickled, either from the cold breeze or fear.

  With a groan, he reached his other hand up and then pulled. His body swayed with the exertion. Fire flowed up his arms as he struggled to lift himself. His fingers cramped. He cried out with effort, but kept pulling. "Must-- Get--" he whispered through labored breath.

  When his chest was above his hands, he pushed off with his left hand and reached with his right. His fingers found the roof. For a dizzying moment, he felt his right hand lose purchase and swing out into open space. A scream locked in his throat, he flung his right han
d up to join his left. Another pull-up and his knees were on the roof.

  He rolled over on his side gasping for breath. His muscles screamed with pain and cramps. He lay with his eyes staring at the moon, tears dripping down his cheeks. Herodot focused on the bright moon and willed his body to relax. He unclenched muscle after muscle, panting and wincing as each screamed in pain and then muted.

  When at last he felt he could stand, he rolled on his stomach and lifted himself to his knees. The muscles cramped for a moment and then blissfully loosed. He rose with a groan as the cool breeze dried his sweaty skin.

  He turned away from the ocean. The Library was ahead. Its second floor rose above the dormitory in a sloping arch. He loped toward it.

  As he reached the arch, he paused. There were shouts from the pier. Caesar's men must have finally figured out they were doomed.

  He spat on his hands and then leapt against the arch. His sandals slipped off the first time causing him to land in an awkward heap. He tried again and banged his knee against the stone, but he held. Cursing with effort, Herodot pushed with his feet and pulled with his fingers.

  Progress was slow and painful, but he managed to climb the sloping arch. When he reached the Library's roof, he stood panting. The shouts from the piers were more numerous now, but he still didn't hear the sound of steel on steel. The battle was still to come.

  Using the moonlight and his internal map of the Library, he jogged past the Library of Scrolls and towards the western corner of the building. He only hoped Archelon's boy left the ladder in place.

  A glowing rectangle marked the open skylight. He walked forward, tripped and fell. Cursing and confused he rose to his knees. A thick rope had been tied around one of the turrets. He blinked at it. The rope led to the skylight.

  His skin prickled as he followed it. Someone had been here before him. Someone with the same idea of getting back into the Library.

  He stood frozen in place. The torchlight played off the dead man's glassy eyes. Archelon was on the floor, his face screwed up in a scream of terror and pain. His toga was red with blood. The man had been stabbed to death. His servant, the small boy who'd climbed the shelves, lay next to him, his head smashed in.