“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 surely 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.
That’s odd, thought Ham. But he refrained from following. What could the two of them possibly say to one another?
45.
As she hurried down the path, Semiramis touched up her hair, setting the silver comb just so. She wore a long gown, one that hugged her figure, with the golden collar adding to her beauty. She’d sat an hour this morning before her mirror, applying henna, malachite eye shadow and ointments to her skin. She forced a smile, her heart beating quickly. Once, years ago, Beor had two legs and little of his present bitterness. He had been kind, if not very handsome, and she had even gotten along with Hilda. Oh, he’d blustered about and made much of his slaying of a great sloth. She could have put up with that. But he made her work like a scullion, and he’d seemed to have so little ambition other than tramping about the woods with his Scouts.
Then along had come Nimrod, young, handsome Nimrod with his restless ambition and wild promises. Who had seduced whom? She shrugged. It hardly mattered anymore. Oh, Nimrod hiked through the woods with his Hunters, and he boasted endlessly about slaying this beast or that. It was all very boring and tedious. But he didn’t foist brats on her or force her to act like a drudge. He aimed high, promising that she’d become a queen.
As she saw Beor’s broad back, her smile became feral. Her memories included that wild chariot ride; the vile promises she’d made herself then.
“Beor!”
He turned, the archery champion, and his eyebrows rose.
She had cost him a leg. Now, as she batted her eyes, she cast a net for his soul. “Oh, Beor, I just had to speak with you. You were wonderful just now, simply wonderful.”
Despite his eagerness—she saw it on his face—he glanced behind her.
She used a dazzling smile, holding out her hands to him. “Can I speak with you? Will you permit it?”
He looked into her eyes.
She held him with them. Men were so easily trapped. He smiled, and he patted his beard.
“Beor…”
“Semiramis. This is a surprise.”
She halted several feet from him. She folded her arms under her breasts, pushing them up. He glanced at them. Her dress was low cut.
“Where’s Nimrod?” he asked, his voice husky.
She shrugged.
“Won’t he be upset when he finds out you spoke with me?”
“Nimrod speaks with elders, with clan heads, urging them to visit Babel.”
Beor nodded slowly. “Why did you follow me?”
“You’ve laid out as a condition for the return of his men that Nimrod hand me back to you. That must mean you still care for me.”
He blushed, his eyes burning, and he took a step nearer.
“You must think of me often,” she said.
It seemed he couldn’t speak.
“I think of you,” she said. “I think of you often.”
“Nimrod claims he won’t let you go.”
She shrugged.
“I watched you last night,” he said, “when you went up to him on stage.
“Nimrod is a hard taskmaster. I must do his bidding to perfection or he beats me.”
“So you’ve finally discovered that he’s cruel as well as vain.”
“Yes,” she said, in a small voice.
Beor studied her, taking another step nearer. “You were my wife, Semiramis.”
“You divorced me.”
“At spear point,” he said.
“Beor,” she said, crossing the distance between them, holding out her hands. She saw emotions war in his eyes. “Beor,” she whispered, rubbing his arm, surprised that he didn’t envelop her in a hug. “I miss you. I’m sorry for what happened between us.”
He swallowed, frowning, scowling.
“Oh, Beor,” she whispered, touching his face. “I was cruel and mean, a wasp, stinging the one that I loved.”
“Did you love me?”
“Oh yes, Beor. Yes.”
“What if Nimrod gave you up? Could you love me again?”
“You know I could.”
His gaze narrowed.
She hung her head.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I’m afraid,” she said. “I’m afraid of Nimrod. He will never let me go.”
A thick finger lifted her chin. A soft smile greeted her. “You can’t understand how much I want to take you into my arms. How often I’ve longed to do so. But you are
his wife now. I will not commit adultery.”
She opened her mouth.
He put a finger on her lips. “Listen to me. I will do this lawfully. I will force Nimrod to give you up.”
“Impossible.”
“No,” he said. “It’s—” He looked past her and his features hardened. He stepped back, reaching for a hatchet thrust through his belt.
Semiramis turned. Nimrod, with Uruk and several others stood on the path.
“Well, well, well,” Nimrod said. He laughed in an ugly way.
Beor glanced at Semiramis. “You tricked me.”
“No,” she said, with her hand before her mouth.
Grim suspicion swam in Beor’s eyes. He looked at Nimrod again, who marched nearer. Beor’s fist tightened around his axe haft.
Nimrod drew a dagger, a thick-bladed weapon. Behind him, Hunters also unlimbered daggers and axes.
Semiramis whirled around, rushing toward Nimrod. “No! It was my fault. I followed him. Blame me if you’re going to blame anyone. But don’t do anything to Beor.”
Nimrod struck her with the back of his hand. “Treacherous wife, racing after my enemy like a bitch in heat.”
Beor lurched nearer.
Nimrod laughed again, bracing himself, with his Hunters fanning out beside him.
Beor stopped. Rage mixed with suspicion.
“She’s my wife,” Nimrod said.
“You treat her no better than a dog,” Beor said.
Semiramis wept on the path, her spilled hair hiding her face.
Nimrod spat at her. “Faithless wife.”
“Do you give her up?” Beor said.
Nimrod sneered. “I give up nothing. But, I’ll wager her.”
“Wager how?”
“Tomorrow, in the wrestling pit,” Nimrod said. “I’ll wager her against my captured Hunters. The winner of three throws takes all.”
“Semiramis against Gilgamesh, Enlil, Zimri and Odin?” Beor asked.
“Odin?” Nimrod asked. “What do you mean: Odin?”
“Last night, he tried to free your three Hunters on his own. Now he’s joined them.”
Wives of the Flood Page 69
