Thebes did so desire, as did Minos. And for Semiramis’s sake, Nimrod took them both.
The next day, Nimrod sat with Ham in his workroom. He asked the patriarch about rats and spotted fever and nodded judicially regarding the theory of Thule. Then, bit by bit, Nimrod asked about giants, Nephilim heroes and battles. He got Ham talking about Ymir and how the Nephilim had used the Choosers of the Slain to build a kingdom. Nimrod listened for hours, absorbed, wanting every detail about battles.
It finally dawned on Ham that Nimrod seemed too keen. “Battles are a terrible curse,” Ham said. “Men die hideously.”
“You speak of a curse,” Nimrod said. “I wonder if you mean Noah’s curse, the one implemented in Magog Village?”
Ham grew silent.
“My men are yoked like animals and forced to labor for others,” Nimrod said. “Doesn’t that sound like slavery?”
Reluctantly, Ham nodded.
Nimrod soon bid farewell and sought out Kush at the Tower site. Anon the Architect directed youths placing baked bricks into the vast base. With his plum-line and level, Anon studied each stack of bricks, insuring perfection. Kush, with slime on his fingers, helped mortar a section. Upon seeing Nimrod, Kush excused himself, wiping his hands, unable to scrub-off all the tarry slime. It was impacted under his fingernails, and black stains dotted his woolens.
“A messy business,” Kush said.
“So is this affair with Magog,” Nimrod said.
Kush scowled. “I wonder sometimes what might have happened if Beor had died by the dragon as I’d planned.”
Nimrod stiffened. He wore his lion-skin cloak and a tooled leather belt, with the vine baton thrust through it. The leather straps of his sandals clad his muscular calves, and his handsome features, the blaze of his eyes, the angle of his chin, gave him a lion-like quality: imperious, bold and deadly. His father Kush was heavier, with bigger hands, but coiled strength, litheness of movement and sinuous grace made Nimrod the Dragon-Slayer seem indeed like a warrior-born.
“Without Beor you would have missed this opportunity,” Nimrod said.
Kush, who rubbed at a particularly stubborn stain on the meaty part of his palm, looked up in surprise. “Is that a joke?”
“We’ve often wondered about Noah’s curse, yes?”
Kush’s nostrils, flat and rather wide compared to most men’s, flared, heightening his image of an ox.
“We’ve been told many times,” Nimrod said, “that Jehovah moves in slow steps, taking long years before bringing down His wrath. Now, because of Beor, we see that slavery of the sons of Ham—not just the sons of Canaan—will occur in our lifetime. Perhaps even to you and me.”
“Your Hunters brought this upon themselves,” Kush said. “If you attempt to kill a man, you do it. You don’t fail. They failed, and now they reap their reward.”
Nimrod shook his head. “You haven’t considered the full implications. Hamites have become slaves of Japhethites. The reasons don’t matter. Noah’s curse has happened, or the first step has. Others see that, if we can’t or if we refuse to. Soon they’ll consider it a matter of course. ‘Yes,’ they’ll say, ‘Noah has cursed them. This is just. They’re slaves.’ Soon, as it surely must—for they are men just like us—some of them will say, ‘Work is tiresome. Let us capture more slaves to do our work for us. They are, after all, Hamites, natural slaves, cursed so by Noah.’”
Kush’s dark eyes gleamed as he stroked his bushy, white beard.
“You told Assur that the sons of Noah will decide our fate,” Nimrod said, watching his father. “Japheth will sit in judgment of us. Perhaps so will Gomer.”
“I will not be goaded,” growled Kush. “Not by you, not by anyone.”
Nimrod laughed. “Fair Babel, home to the angel. What is your design, Father? To draw the others here, to rebuild civilization to staggering heights, to carve a name for ourselves, a glorious name to shine throughout eternity.” Nimrod shook his head, laughing again. “The men of Babel are slaves to the sons of Japheth. We are timid and meek, trembling at the curse of Noah. Are we truly the ones who will rebuild civilization?”
“Nor will I be goaded into moving too soon,” Kush said.
“Then you will be too late.”
Kush’s features hardened.
“Did Black Mane allow me the leisure of a perfect instant to move?” Nimrod asked. “Did the leviathan pause before he ate Anu? There is a moment, Father, when to wait is to die, to accept defeat. Instead, at that moment, one must strike before he is struck, at least if he desires victory.”
“What do you suggest?” Kush said with a sneer.
Nimrod lifted a fist. “I will not be a slave. I will not cow before the curse of Noah. To this end, I have raised the Hunters, a band of warriors who will not submit to infamy.”
“Is that so? Yet they have been defeated by Beor’s Scouts.”
An ugly smile matched Nimrod’s fiery eyes. “A skirmish is not a battle. A single loss doesn’t decide a war.” He leaned nearer, twisting his head, spitting at the ground. “I give that for the curse of Noah. Listen to me, Father, as I lay my curse. I will make them slaves. They will cower before us.”
“Boasts aren’t deeds,” growled Kush.
“That’s what I’ve been saying. You’ve told me for years that we will not bow to evil, that the sons of Ham will not accept the yoke of slavery from anyone. We will be free, you said. We will impose our will on the others. Father, as a Hunter, a man of the chase, I tell you that this is the moment to strike. We must march to Festival armed and trained for battle. We must surprise them, striking down any who opposes us.”
“But I told Assur—”
“Do you think Japheth and Gomer will believe that you’ll meekly accept a peaceful solution? They always think the worst of a man, these Japhethites who hide clubs along a trail. They cheat, thinking nothing of using deception. But this time you don’t just risk yourself. You risk Babel and our dream of civilization. What kind of name will we forge if we go as fools to the slaughter?”
A haunted look entered Kush’s eyes.
“They’ve made slaves of Hamites,” Nimrod said. “Their appetite has been whetted, a dangerous thing indeed. For you must remember the old saying: Eating builds appetite. How long until they march here to make us slaves?”
“You’re overreacting,” Kush said.
Nimrod laughed. “One doesn’t make a name through hesitation. Father, you must think of Babel. You must awe the Japhethites through our boldness, our hardness of resolve. Bend them to your will. Do not be bent by theirs and the wretched, unfair curse of Noah.”
Slowly, Kush nodded. “Perhaps you are right. I must think on this.”
“Don’t think too long. Otherwise we cannot train in time for battle.”
“Battle?”
“We must march to Festival as if for war,” Nimrod said. “For lions aren’t slain by wishes, only by courage and skillfully wielded spears.”
Turning away, scowling, with his head bowed in thought, Kush absently wiped his hands and moved with slow steps back to the Tower.
21.
The summer sun ripened the fields as water gurgled through the canals. Kush brooded over the enslavement of Gilgamesh, Enlil and Zimri. He prayed more and sought the angel’s aid. Deborah, meanwhile, spoke quietly with Miriam, Canaan’s wife. In turn, Miriam talked to Canaan, swaying him to the view that perhaps Noah’s curse had caused this slavery.
“Our son, Beor, stands in the middle of this,” Canaan said. “So it cannot be the curse.”
“That isn’t what Deborah says, and who among us is more knowledgeable about the ways of Noah?” Miriam asked. “When Deborah was a child, Noah used to spend hours alone with her.”
Canaan grew silent, and during the next few days, people heard him in the fields arguing heatedly with Zidon.
As the days melded one into the other, people talked about this outrage, some beginning to gesture with anger, speaking ill of Magog and Beor the Trai
tor. Nimrod trained his Hunters, and from the altar, Kush spoke to the people, stirring them to thoughts of justice, of righting wrongs, of making certain that the hated institution of slavery was demolished at its inception.
Late one evening in his rock room, Deborah told Kush, “If you lead them in battle, your authority will be immeasurably strengthened.”
“What about Nimrod?” Kush asked. “He seems thirsty for the blood of men.”
“He once ate the dragon heart,” Deborah said. “So let him be a dragon to your enemies. Let him be your War-Chief. Let the people see you talking with him, nodding sagely at his advice. But on no account can you let Nimrod head the attack.”
Kush picked a red stone off the shelf, hefting it. “When I think about marching against Noah, my stomach churns. For surely, Noah will be at Festival this year.”
“You don’t march against Noah. You march against those who turn citizens of Babel into slaves.”
Kush studied the red stone. “My courage wilts whenever I think of meeting Noah across a battlefield. Who can defeat the Patriarch of Man?”
“Even though you know that sooner or later you must face him?” Deborah asked.
Kush clutched the rock, his eyes haunted.
“You must pluck up your courage, husband. You must realize the gift you’ve been given in Nimrod and his Hunters. Nimrod is strong and skilled in the chase. Everyone knows it, and they will be encouraged in his company. Like our fields, Nimrod has ripened. Consider. His leadership in the chase will now turn into generalship on the battlefield. The Mighty Hunter of the forest will soon be the mighty soldier in the plain. He subdued the savage beast and will soon conquer his fellow man. Your task, my husband, is to harness Nimrod’s ability and make it work for you.”
“This is a terrible risk,” Kush said.
“Don’t you know that people whisper that you fear the curse too much? Do you think that if you fail to march now that, in time, Nimrod might not usurp you? Simply by exciting the people to revenge, he could gain supreme power.”
Kush’s features turned stern. He put away the red stone. From that day on, he turned Babel into an armed camp, persuading his brothers to march to Festival as for war.
22.
Rahab scooped barley grains out of a sack and onto a clay sheet, setting the sheet over the hot hearth and then covering the sheet. These barley grains came from a field that had ripened earlier than the rest, which, in a week or two, would be harvested. She heated these grains, parching them to prevent germination. Once parched, these grains lasted for years if stored in sealed jars and kept dry. Thus, unlike fleshy plants like melons, cucumbers or mushrooms or leafy plants like cabbage, lettuce, spinach or onions, the cereals like wheat or barley maintained their value year after year after year. Some families had built extra huts, storing more and more grain. So prevalent and long lasting was grain that it had become a medium of exchange. So many sacks of barley, became a standard value for such varied items as daggers, cows, beer and jewelry, practically anything really. And with stored grain acting as a medium of exchange, the more one possessed, the richer one became. Huts filled with grain jars equaled easily gauged wealth.
Rahab sighed. Wealth, hadn’t Assur said that Nimrod could gain the captives’ release through the exchange of goods?
She tied the barley sack. Thoughtfully, she headed to the workshop down the hall. Through the closed door she heard humming and the tap-tap-tap of a chisel. She knocked.
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 u
nder 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.
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