Facing Nimrod across the field and looking down the gentle grade shuffled Assur’s host of spear and bow-armed men. They moved in a ragged formation, a rectangular shape four times as large as Nimrod’s shield wall. All the men and boys old enough to twirl a sling had gathered from the remaining clans.
Spear-armed fighters stood in front, archers and javelineers to the rear. What a spearman wore and how he armed himself depended on his personal preferences. Most had six-foot spears, a few seven or eight foot. Two men hefted twelve-foot lances. Everyone but the lancers carried a shield, although no one had such huge monstrosities as Nimrod’s men. About half the spearmen wore leather armor of some kind, if only a thickly quilted jacket. Uniformly, they peered fearfully upon the enemy. They had neither flags nor drums to bolster their spirits, no cymbals or flutes. Compared to Nimrod’s men, they seemed like farmers, uncertain, hesitant, as if they weren’t sure what they were doing today in this dangerous place.
To the left of the unwieldy mass stood a thin line of slingers, young boys with a few older brothers. To the right—the place of honor—waited Beor’s chariots, filled with hard-eyed warriors in bronze.
“We have more men,” Ham said. “I still don’t know how we’re going to defeat them.”
“Our side won’t hold against a charge,” Beor said. “Our men are set to flee.”
“Can you blame them?” Odin asked. “Nimrod puts on a great show, shaming our men before the battle even begins.”
The enemy’s drums rumbled, quickening their beat. Flags dipped, and the Mighty Men of the front rank took their spears and beat them against their shields. Step-by-step, they began to move up the field.
Ham’s belly tightened. The enemy—his grandsons and great-grandsons—moved perfectly, while the drumming and spear-banging terrified him. Who could stop Babel’s Mighty Men? Surely not Assur’s host. Those men glanced at one another, wondering what to do, pups facing a bear.
“It’s got to be now!” Ham shouted. “We must act before our side runs away. Hiya!” he shook the reins. Beor barely grabbed the railing in time.
“What are you doing?” roared Beor, as he righted himself.
Ham aimed the chariot into the center of the field. Caught by surprise, the other chariots only now followed in a line, hurrying to catch up. “This is the moment,” Ham shouted at Beor. “We have one chance as you’ve said, and we’ve got to take it now.”
“The donkeys won’t plow into them,” Beor said. “They’ll pull up short if you try to crash them into the shield wall.”
“I know that. Whoa!” Ham sawed on the reins. “Get your bow ready. You’ve got to kill Nimrod before the battle starts.”
“You’re crazy, old man. It’s too soon.” But Beor slipped his bow free and leaped out of the chariot.
The enemy’s drumbeat changed. The shield wall stopped about one hundred and fifty paces away. Flags dipped sideways. With bellows of rage and rams’ horns blowing, both enemy chariot squads charged up the grade at Ham and Beor.
Beor stuck out his good foot, anchoring the end of his six-foot bow.
“Odin!” cried Ham. “Charge the left group. Throw them into confusion and buy us time.”
Red-bearded Odin raised Gungnir and shouted insults at Beor’s charioteers. He pointed his spear at the enemy and yelled, “Charge!” Raggedly, the eight other chariots followed, while Ham fought to keep his donkeys in place.
Beor drew his mighty bow and released. The three-foot shaft arched high and sank with sickening speed, hissing into the dirt before Nimrod’s feet.
“You’re out of range!” cried Ham.
Beor whipped out another arrow, drawing the string past his cheek. “Help me, Lord Jehovah.” Black-bearded Beor squinted, and as the thunder, crashing and rams’ horns of the charioteers sounded, he let go with a twang. In sight of the two hosts, the arrow sped, punching through Uruk’s shield, making the massive War Chief drop to his knees.
Assur’s host gave a great shout.
“Attack!” shouted Assur, waving his spear, striding at the enemy.
“Get back into the chariot,” Ham shouted at Beor. Through the ground, Ham felt the thud of many running feet.
Beor glanced over his shoulder. The mass of Assur’s men ran at them. He drew another arrow. The enemy drums pounded and the shield wall finally moved—at them.
Ham tried to hold the donkeys, but they brayed in terror, their eyes rolling as the two hosts charged one another, Assur’s at a run and Nimrod’s at an unnaturally even pace.
“Get in!” shouted Ham. The donkeys bolted then, Ham thrown back, barely able to stay on. He didn’t have time to glance at Beor or see what happened elsewhere. He fought for control as the donkeys raced to where Odin engaged the enemy charioteers in a swirling contest.
21.
Another arrow hissed with deadly velocity. Its bronze head glinted. It flew down the gentle slope, seeming to gain speed, faster, faster—aimed directly at Nimrod.
“Look out!” shouted Gilgamesh. With his shoulder, he shoved the Mighty Hunter out of the arrow’s path and then twisted aside. The arrow flashed past Gilgamesh, missing him by a hair’s breadth. Behind him, Zimri screamed.
Nimrod whipped his attention forward again, keeping in step as the drums pounded out the beat. In a crash of armor and shields and with their spears leveled, they marched at the howling mob bearing down on them.
“We’ve got to counter-charge!” shouted Gilgamesh.
“Steady in the ranks!” Nimrod roared.
Across the field, Assur’s host flowed down the grade. Some sprinted, while others hung back. It destroyed the semblance of a solid front and gave them a ragged, gapped, uneven line. It wasn’t a military formation that raced at the shield wall, but it was a cheering, bellowing mob of over three times the shield wall’s numbers.
Dreadful Beor with his awful bow—and the heart of the enemy’s zeal—drew back for another shot. Nimrod clenched his teeth, bracing himself, cursing his cousin who aimed at him. He yearned to flee the hated arrows, but knew that’s what the enemy wanted. His stomach churned. He wanted to howl and smash Beor’s head so brains and gore splattered everywhere.
At least the enemy chariots fled, following Grandfather Ham out of the fight. The first squad hounded them; yelling and screaming foul oaths and jeering at the defeated foes. The second squad bore down on Assur’s slinger flank.
Nimrod flashed his teeth in a death’s grin, for as Assur’s people swept past Beor, they bumped him. The massive oaf staggered and dropped his bow. Nimrod barked laughter. Men buffed Beor off his feet and onto his knee.
“Shield wall advance at double-time!” Nimrod roared.
The drums doubled their noise, and a wild shout, a practiced bellow issued at the same moment from all the Mighty Men. They charged up the grade.
No two hosts of war had ever run full tilt into one another. Before that awful impact occurred, man’s fear weakened his warlike resolve. He slowed his sprint as he viewed the spear points aimed at his chest. The enemy seemed so fierce, so deadly and awful. Here on this primitive field it proved true. At a little faster than a swift walk, the two hosts met, not throwing themselves upon the other, but stopping and thrusting spears or smashing shield against shield.
The sound was deafening to Nimrod, the shouts and the banging shields. Spear points screeching across bronze bosses. He blocked a spear, turning it, and he thrust over an opposing shield, the man’s leather jerkin saving his foe. All along the line, similar events occurred. Yet here and there, points drew blood or a cunning jab nicked a forearm or an exposed neck, or some men didn’t have leather armor. Two more ranks followed Nimrod’s front. Assur’s mob milled six or seven deep. With dread, those in the back watched those in the front rank. They saw men cry out, wounded. Yet the back rankers were unable to relieve the tension welling within them by swinging weapons. They had to wait their turn, to endure the ever-increasing pressure.
Nimrod bellowed, shoved with his shield, his
thrust blocked by an enemy counter-thrust. He pushed harder, and then danced back as a cunning foe stabbed at his feet.
The man dipped his shield in order to regain his balance, because the fighter behind him accidentally jostled him. Nimrod thrust at the opening. The man howled and then fell to his knees. With a wrench, Nimrod freed his bloody spear. He exuded in his victory. Yet for all his strength and training, he gasped for air, tiring fast in the heavy armor. He fought full out, with the draining, overhanging threat of permanent maiming or death. Drums pounded and raw throats roared all around him.
“Keep at them, boys!” Nimrod bellowed. His loud voice was one of the few heard above the din. He had faith in his Mighty Men, and that gave him courage. Each of them had faced awful beasts together, inuring themselves to the tensions of fear. Friend fought beside friend today, just as they had while slaying a roaring lion or butchering snarling wolves.
To the side of the fierce contest, Nimrod’s second chariot squadron swept away the slingers that opposed them. But unlike the first squad that had chased the enemy off the battlefield, cool-headed Thebes, grandson of Javan, sounded the ram’s horn. Around him wheeled six chariots, the drivers looking to him for orders. The other three chariots rattled away in bloodlust as they chased running slingers.
Thebes pointed at Assur’s formation. He pointed at the men jumping up in the enemy rear ranks. They did that to get a look at what happened up front. Others in the rear ranks stood frozen in dread fascination, slack-jawed as they witnessed man’s brutality and savagery. Among them, huge Beor tried to shove his way to the front, peg-legging. He held a shield in one hand and a spear in the other.
With a shout, the drivers shook their reins and followed Thebes. Their vehicle companions readied javelins. As Thebes’s chariots rushed past the rear of the mob, they threw. Darts burrowed into backs, dragging down the unwary. They hurled more missiles, while the drivers blew their horns.
The mob flinched from the handful of charioteers. The surprised rear-rankers goggled at the chariots sweeping past them. They felt themselves surrounded and trapped. One, two, three more men went down. In seconds, terror destroyed the will to fight. The instinct to live overwhelmed all other senses. Several men dropped their shields and weapons. They bolted.
Meanwhile, in the terrible cauldron of the front rank, in the no man’s zone of spear-length where men hid behind their shields, both sides clashed and fought. Warriors still stepped forward, bashing shields, although only the bravest continued to do so. Many men panted, exhausted and frazzled, wondering how long this could go on.
“Kill them!” shouted Nimrod, his voice lashing his men.
At that point, that frightful moment, Assur’s people heard the enemy horns behind them. Fear made them quail and glance back.
“They’re attacking us from behind!” cried a man.
Several men just behind the front rankers turned around. They saw the charioteers standing tall, hurling javelins, and they saw some of their men fleeing, streaming past the enemy vehicles.
“They’re running away!”
“Save yourselves!”
Like lightning, panic swept through the Shemite mob as men realized their worst fear: the enemy was attacking from behind where they were indefensible. It demoralized them, sapped what was left of their fighting spirit. Once a man turned around, he never faced forward again. The impulse to flee, to get away from what seemed certain death overwhelmed all other logic, all other emotions. He must live. He must survive. Sobbing, the panic stole his manhood and turned him into a mob cipher.
The panic infected the front rankers, the ones directly facing snarling foes with reeking breath and straining muscles. Many of the front rankers threw down their shields like those behind them. They turned and—spears stabbed them in the back.
The wild thrill of victory, of defeating those who moments before had tried to kill you, it rushed like a drug through Nimrod’s men. They bellowed in glee, chasing the enemy, stabbing, slaying and indulging in one of man’s most foul joys.
At that point, Beor reached the disintegrating front line. He gnashed his teeth and froth foamed from his lips. Wild battle frenzy gripped him. His eyes riveted onto Babel’s King in his golden armor.
“Nimrod!” bellowed Beor.
Shemites fled all around him, although one or two stood with him.
Beor thrust his spear at Nimrod, parting the seven-layer shield and cutting the King’s forearm. “To me! To me!” roared Beor. He knocked aside Gilgamesh’s spear-thrust. Then he tore a heavy dagger from its scabbard.
Nimrod threw away the massive shield in time to see Beor leaping upon him.
“Nimrod!” shouted Beor.
The big warrior crashed upon the king, grappling, stabbing. Bronze screeched on bronze, the king’s armor momentarily saving the Mighty Hunter’s life. Then spear butts hammered against Beor, thudding against his back and on his head. It gave Nimrod time to squirm free. Rage, pain and murder lust overwhelmed him. The king pried a stone loose, and he lifted it above his head.
“Beor!” shouted Nimrod.
The eldest son of Canaan was bloodied and cursing, with his arm before his face as he warded off blows. He locked eyes with Nimrod.
“Fight me man to man!” bellowed Beor.
“Die!” screamed Nimrod, dashing the rock against Beor’s face.
Bones cracked. The big man flopped back. Nimrod ripped Gilgamesh’s lance from his hands. He pinned Beor to the dark earth, finally riding himself of his deadliest foe.
22.
The aftermath bewildered the defeated, a strategic design of the Mighty Hunter. Speed, novelty and generous terms kept the Shemites and remaining Japhethites off balance.
First, Nimrod gathered the captured clan elders, among them a depressed and dispirited Shem and Assur. Nimrod spoke with each and found who hated him and who could live with the New Order. Those who yet breathed fire, he put among the hostages. From the elders who would remain, he took favorite sons or daughters, also putting them among the hostages. Two hundred people would return with him to Babel. He promised to treat them well, and even did so now. Odin and Hilda were among the few tied by the neck to a slave line and guarded in a tent away from everyone else.
Second, he divided the defeated clans into four groups and placed selected elders over them. He splintered clans for a reason, mingling Japhethites with Shemites, and Assur clan members with Elam clan members and so forth. Over each group, he placed a band of Mighty Men. They weren’t enough to defeat them in battle, but enough to awe and keep the others in submission, or enough to make examples of hotheads.
Third, he told each of them the city name and location where they must build: Nineveh, Rehoboth-Ir, Calah and Resen. Controlling a populace in a central area would be easier than if they were spread out over the countryside.
“I will return in a year,” Nimrod said. “Sooner if there is rebellion. If you rebel, there will be rapes, butchery, weeping and the gnashing of teeth. Build your city and remain loyal to me and you will become full-fledged members of the empire.”
“We will remain loyal,” Elam said, the chosen elder for Nineveh.
“I know you will,” Nimrod said, smiling his most brilliant grin.
Soon thereafter, he departed with his host and hostages, the wounded remaining behind. The battle had only cost him handfuls, lost during the savage push of pike. Too bad the chosen Hunters had found no trace of Grandfather Ham, although Grandmother Rahab had agreed to return to Babel. He’d wanted all three sons of Noah in Babel, adding splendor to his reign and also near keeping them where he could watch them. Perhaps Ham had died. Nimrod shrugged. He didn’t see how one drunken old man could harm him.
“What if he goes to Noah?” asked Uruk, riding a chariot because of his wound.
Nimrod didn’t like thinking about Noah.
“Send dagger-men to kill Noah,” suggested Uruk.
“Who would you send?”
“Any Mighty Man will do,” Uruk
said.
Nimrod shook his head. “Only a hard man, an utterly loyal and clever warrior, would be able to slice that old bastard’s throat.”
“Send Gilgamesh,” Uruk said.
Nimrod eyed him. “I had thought to send you, War Chief.”
Uruk paled.
That confirmed Nimrod’s thoughts on Noah. If the old man stayed on Mount Ararat, he’d let him live. If not—Nimrod pursed his lips. To do a job right, one often had to do it himself. Let old Noah enter the empire at his peril.
So Nimrod dismissed the failure to capture Ham and decided to wait on Noah. Instead, he planned the glorious jubilee he’d stage when the Tower was finally completed this winter.
23.
A month and a half later, Ham trembled as he gazed upon snowy Mount Ararat, or the blur of it in the distance. He slid off the weary donkey. On unsteady legs, he sank onto a fallen pine. Weeks of travel, forever glancing over his shoulder, wondering when he’d spy Hunters loping after him, had drained him.
Years ago, more than a century now, the Ark had grounded onto Mount Ararat. It had grounded onto an empty world, with all the possibilities that promised. Ham shook his head. A thousand recriminations played repeatedly. From fleeing the lost battle, from teaching Kush boxing, from the day he parted ferns and witnessed the bathing beauty of Naamah. He sighed. Nothing could be changed. What had happened, happened.
“Oh, Rahab,” he said. He should have slipped back and freed her. But he wasn’t a young man anymore. It wouldn’t have worked.
The donkey swung its head at him.
Ham smiled tiredly. These past weeks, the donkey and he had slipped past a pair of rutting bears, an angry auroch bull pawing loamy soil and a wolf pack sniffing their trail. Arrows and shouts had sometimes been the answer. Other times, stopping and facing the danger had won them safety. On only two occasions had precipitous flight been required.
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