“Minos,” Semiramis said. “Your part in this is easy.”
“Do you know that I can already feel the impaling spike in my guts? It haunts me, the thought of hanging in midair as the stake drives the life out of me in horrible agony.”
“Minos,” she said, paling. “You mustn’t talk like that.”
He leapt to his feet, taking one of his sister’s smooth hands. “Reconsider,” he pleaded. “No one can defeat Nimrod. He is invincible.”
“He’s dangerous. No one has said otherwise. But hubris has stolen his cunning. He’s like a bloated viper, a killer that has consumed too much. Thoughts of the coming transformation have unhinged him. This is the moment to strike, this and no other.”
“If we fail, his wrath will be terrible.”
“We mustn’t fail.”
Minos shivered. “Easy to say, but hard to achieve.”
“Think on this then and grow serene. I will soon be a goddess, the Queen of Heaven. And I have not lost my wits, for I know this is only a title, a matter of policy, not some real metamorphosis.”
Minos shook his head. “I don’t know, sister. There are powers at work here… Perhaps Nimrod really will become a god.”
Her certainty fled as fear reentered her eyes. She turned away. “It is hubris to believe that mortals can turn into gods. One mustn’t fall prey to the illusion.”
“Your husband doesn’t strike me as a dreamer, and there lies my terror. Nimrod has always been frighteningly realistic.”
Semiramis took a deep breath, facing Minos. The smile had returned. “Nothing is as realistic as poison, as a dagger in the back.”
“Or the impaling spike.”
“Enough. You will stand by me, Minos. Quivering like a mouse or standing bravely, you and I are in this together. Don’t forget that.”
He nodded, and he tried to smile. It came off as a painful grimace.
“Find Gilgamesh. Tell him that I forgive him for not seeing me last night. I suppose there will be time enough for that later. Tell him to be ready, but not to move until I give the signal.”
“What if he backs out?”
“Gilgamesh?”
“It’s possible. His wife has a strange effect on him. He seems to ooze with remorse when she’s around, as if he’s guilty.”
A dangerous look hardened Semiramis’s beauty. “That particular problem will be easy to solve.”
Minos seemed to take strength from her bloodthirsty desires. He picked up his lyre, standing and bowing. “With your leave, Goddess.”
“Not yet,” she said. “Not yet. But soon I shall be Queen of Heaven. Now go. Do as I have bidden. And mask your terror lest you bring ruin to us all.”
10.
Guilt consumed Gilgamesh. Since Opis had arrived in Babel, it roiled in his guts. Whenever she turned her doe’s eyes to him, he felt dirty and soiled. He yearned to tell her all, to beg forgiveness and flee this wicked city and its bewitching queen. But he couldn’t. Every time he tried to tell her—well, the one time—the words stuck in his throat. He was filthy with desire for the queen, trapped, hog-tied, an ox ready for slaughter.
He stood in the plaza. It swarmed with people. Everyone wore finery, waiting before the Tower. The great day had finally arrived.
Gilgamesh swallowed as drums rolled, flutes piped and cymbals clashed. The people parted for priests, priestess and the virgin attendants of the Eternal Flame. The holy ones filed through the massed crowd. They approached the ramp, halting at the foot of the stairs, the long brick steps that led up to the blue temple of Babel.
The drum roll increased. Trumpets blared. Nimrod and Semiramis approached.
Gilgamesh’s stomach hurt as he first eyed Nimrod in his garment of red and single-horn crown. Once, none knew Nimrod better than him. Old friend, thought Gilgamesh. Then he couldn’t look at the king. His eyes lingered on Semiramis. She wore a red robe and lustrous fish-eyes strung across her forehead.
“The scarlet woman,” Gilgamesh said.
Opis glanced at him. But he refused to meet what he knew would be her questioning gaze.
The two sovereigns of the world moved majestically. They ascended the steps. But instead of marching to the temple, to the pinnacle of the great Tower, they moved unto a square block a story above the plaza crowd.
On the massive block, Nimrod glanced at his queen. She nodded, stepping back. He moved to the edge.
One push, Gilgamesh thought, and they needn’t plot any longer.
A hush fell upon the plaza as Nimrod raised his arms, the garment’s long sleeves slipping to reveal heavily corded arms.
“Behold,” said the king, “the Tower of Babel!”
A roar erupted, a shout, wild cheering. Gilgamesh flinched as people threw rose petals into the air and cried out to the king. The thousands of petals fluttered like pink snowflakes, while Nimrod, high up on the block, turned and smiled at his queen. She bowed low before him. The cheering went berserk. The sound of it coursed through Gilgamesh’s body. “Nimrod! Nimrod! Nimrod the Mighty Hunter!”
Gilgamesh thrust his arm skyward, shaking his fist in time to the chant, yelling with everyone else. To not do so might arouse suspicion.
King Nimrod, standing on the edge of the block, basked in the adulation. Once again, he lifted his arms.
The cheering died down as the last rose petals fluttered to the plaza bricks.
“Behold,” cried Nimrod, “the gods who saved you!”
The War Chief and Kush each commanded a team. At their signals, warriors yanked ropes. The leather tarps around the slender objects flanking the stairs fell away.
Gilgamesh gasped. So did the thronged masses.
The sun glittered hurtfully off two golden statutes with cruel smiles. One looked like Nimrod and the other resembled Semiramis.
“Bel and Ishtar!” shouted Nimrod, “God of the Sun and Goddess of the Moon! To thee do we worship! To thee do we dedicate the Tower of Babel!”
Cheers rose again, although not as loud as before.
Then a wail rent the proceeding, one well off script. “Blasphemer!”
Gilgamesh, as did hundreds, craned to see who did the shouting. People parted from an area near the Tower’s base, as they might for a man with plague. Gilgamesh caught a glimpse of the man’s face. He didn’t know his name, but the man was definitely a Shemite.
“Jehovah is sovereign! Not these lifeless idols!” The Shemite shook his fist at the Mighty Hunter.
Uruk, with a squad of Mighty Men, pushed through the packed throng.
“We commit blasphemy!” the Shemite cried. “We must repent or we’re doomed!”
People shoved to get away, creating an open space around the man.
Gilgamesh stumbled in the tight confines of the crowd, holding up Opis. He watched the Shemite.
Uruk stepped near the man. The War Chief drew a long dagger and glanced upward at the massive block.
Nimrod twisted down his thumb.
Uruk’s blade plunged into the Shemite’s back.
The crowd moaned.
Mighty Men picked up the corpse, hiding it behind their huge shields.
“Bel and Ishtar rule our hearts,” shouted Nimrod. “It is them we serve.”
A ragged shout rose from the shocked crowd.
“Do you fear Jehovah?” bellowed Nimrod. “I do not. Jehovah.” He gazed into the sky. “Do You hear me, Jehovah? Do You see what I have done? Strike me now, Jehovah of Noah, Jehovah of Shem, if You are displeased with my actions. Come! Strike! I dare You to do your worst!”
Breathless, the masses watched their impious king. Nothing happened. The blue sky changed not an iota.
“Do you see?” cried Nimrod. “Jehovah is not there. He doesn’t hear or see what happened. We are free of Jehovah. We are free to worship Bel and Ishtar who will give us the desires of our hearts.”
The roar was louder than before.
Kush ran up the ramp. His rich robes flapped and his white beard swayed. He ran up twenty st
eps and then turned and shouted, “Nimrod the Mighty Hunter! You are a god, a son of Bel. I worship you, Nimrod, son of Bel!”
“Nimrod, son of Bel!” roared the Mighty Men, led by Uruk.
“You are a god!” shouted Semiramis, prostrating herself before Nimrod.
The crowd took up the cry. “Nimrod, son of Bel. You are a god.” The chant grew louder until rose petals again flew and fluttered.
Gilgamesh brushed a petal out of his face. He glanced around. Could one kill a god?
“Bow down to Nimrod the Mighty Hunter, son of Bel, the god who is among us!”
All around Gilgamesh, folk fell to their knees, worshiping. Soon only a few stood. Dragging Opis down with him, Gilgamesh bowed and pretended to worship Nimrod.
“Guide us, Nimrod,” shouted Kush. “Create an Empire over the Earth. Lead us into a new paradise, Nimrod, god of Babel.”
Nimrod seemed to glow in ecstasy as he soaked in the worship.
Gilgamesh trembled. What sort of fate lay in store for a god-slayer?
11.
Ham and Noah trudged along the road to Babel. From Mount Ararat, they had come these many months. Lions, wolves, bears and fierce aurochs and elephants, they had seen their share. With his bow, Ham had brought down enough game for their campfire, and wild fruits, tubers and nuts had added to their diet. They were not the men they had once been and the trip had taken longer than anticipated.
“We’ll be too late,” Ham said more than once.
Noah always shook his head.
Now, as twilight darkened the sky, seven hundred year old Noah leaned on his gopher-wood staff. Beside them, the Euphrates whispered in its rush to the sea, while on the other side the dry plains stood silent.
“The city,” Noah said. “Look how it glows.”
Ham shaded his eyes. In the twilight before true night, his vision was worse than otherwise. “You can see Babel?”
“It’s as if the city is on fire. A thousand torches must have been lit. Or perhaps the sinking sun reflects off the waters.”
“I wonder what we’ll find?” Ham missed Rahab, and he anticipated her cheerful face. But surely, he was a hunted man. This time they might do more than just put him in a stock. He glanced at his father.
Noah was gaunter than before. The old man sighed, and they continued the journey as dusk deepened, as two old men walked along the dusty road.
Later, as crickets chirped, as stars twinkled and as a cool wind dried their sweat, Noah held out his staff. They were near cultivated land, but were still in the wilds. Because of his father’s nervousness, Ham expected to hear the pad of lions or the whining of a hyena pack.
“Take out your bow,” whispered Noah.
Ham slipped it from his back. A silvery plain devoid of reeds or bushes spread around them.
“Notch an arrow. Move softly behind me.”
Ham obeyed, his best arrow touching the bowstring as he rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen them for a hard pull and release. His stomach tightened as his father moved like an old leopard, wary, skillfully, but lacking the finesse of youth.
Ham sucked in his breath. A man with a drawn sword stood on the path. He had his back to them, and was tall and broad-shouldered. He wore a robe made of an unidentifiable material.
Ham frowned. A sword? It wasn’t a long-bladed dagger, but a true sword like men used to forge in old times. Ham drew his string one-quarter, wondering if he should send a shaft into the man’s back.
“Stranger,” Noah said.
The man turned. Darkness hid his face, although his sword gleamed with moonlight.
An eerie feeling filled Ham. Whether it came from the man or the sword, he couldn’t tell. Both seemed…unnatural…supernatural.
“Are you for us or against us?” Noah asked, who sounded strangely nervous.
“I am neither, son of Lamech. I have come as the commander of the armies of Jehovah.”
Noah sucked in his breath.
Ham eased tension from his string.
“Onto your face,” hissed Noah, over his shoulder. “It is the Angel of the Lord.”
Shock froze Ham. Openmouthed, he stared at the man. No, he stared at the angel. Darkness hid the angel’s face. But the sword, it seemed wet with terrible sharpness. With a croak, Ham dropped his bow. His knees turned to water. He fell onto his face, and he covered the back of his head.
“Take off your sandals,” the angel said, “for the place where you stand is holy.”
Ham kicked off his sandals. He was terrified and he screwed his eyes shut.
The angel moved near. All Ham could think about was that bright sword and that he was a sinner and a drunkard.
“I have come down to see the tower which the sons of man have built.”
“Mercy!” cried Noah. “I beg for mercy for my sons and grandsons and great-grandsons. They have been foolish, but surely they can be redeemed.”
“Noah,” the angel said, “you who are righteous in the eyes of Jehovah, listen: They are one people, and they all have the same language. And this is what they have begun to do. Now nothing which they purpose to do will be impossible for them.”
Ham wanted to cry out like Noah. He had a hundred questions. But his mind, all he could think about was how soiled he was, that he was unworthy. He yearned for the angel to leave, to take away the wretched feeling of sin. Yet he also wanted the angel to stay, to help him, to teach him more about Jehovah.
The angel stepped beside Noah, touching him with the sword. “I commission you to go into the city. You will stand by the tower and curse it.”
The sandals formed in heaven moved beside Ham. When the sword touched his shoulder, he nearly fainted from fright.
“Your task will be many years in the future,” the angel said, the words burning into Ham’s mind. “I commission you to remember.”
Remember…remember… The sword no longer touched him. Silence, until crickets chirped and a small creature rustled.
“The angel is gone,” Noah said.
Ham opened an eye. Noah stood, looking around. Of the angel, there was no sign. Surprised at his stiffness—how long had he been lying like this—Ham worked to his feet and retrieved his bow.
“Do you think he’ll return?”
Noah gave him an unreadable glance. His father seemed old, weary. “Come, my son, let us go into the city and fulfill these charges given us by Jehovah.”
12.
South of the city, Odin survived in the pit. Since the hour he had faced the wolves and the lion, Gilgamesh had visited him every second day. The governor of Erech brought him a loaf of bread and sometimes a joint of beef or a sack of onions, along with a water jug. One time, Gilgamesh had thrown down ointment for his shoulder.
The shoulder wound from the lion’s claw didn’t blacken and turn gangrene, which amazed Odin. He swept off flies and tried to keep it clean, but in the pit, both proved impossible. It festered, oozed pus and swelled, but cleaning it with the precious water and smearing on the ointment saved it.
Odin didn’t know why he bothered. He would never again leave the pit.
Sunk up to his hips in the slime and muck, he peered at the starry hole ten paces above his outstretched hands. The guard had gone to Babel for the grand celebration, for a night of revelry. It made no difference. How could he possibly clamber up the sides and crawl like a spider on the dirt ceiling until he reached the hole? He tried to understand why Gilgamesh had bothered with the humanitarian gestures. Because of it, his days lingered longer and his lot seemed bleaker. He wasn’t delirious, but aware, with enough strength to think and plot and thus worry and despair.
“How about enough strength to dig out to freedom?” he muttered.
He didn’t think so, but the alternative was eventual death. So Odin waded his way through the filth. Normally, the guard posted above wouldn’t have permitted this. Using his hands as spades, he dug into the earthen wall. The clayey substance was difficult to penetrate. But what else did he have to do?<
br />
After an undeterminable amount of time, he had dug out a small shelf not quite large enough to crawl into. Then he heard a chariot and his hope became ashes. That he felt bitterness galled him. He shouldn’t have hoped. That had been foolish.
Soon a torch waved above. “Odin, can you hear me?”
“Gilgamesh?”
“Are you strong enough to climb a rope ladder?”
Surprise stole Odin’s words, almost his wits.
“Odin?”
“Throw it,” Odin said in a thick voice.
A rope ladder uncurled. “Let me peg it down before you climb.”
Odin waited, with his limbs tingling. He kept touching the ladder, wondering if it was a dream. But his shoulders ached from digging and he had lost several fingernails while scrabbling in the hard clay. At the okay from Gilgamesh, he fought up the ladder, soon squeezing through the earthen hole. Seeing Gilgamesh didn’t surprise him, but Semiramis dressed in hunting leathers certainly did.
Filthy mud caked his nakedness and the joy of freedom should have drowned out other thoughts. Nonetheless, Odin felt exposed, and he crouched low. “What sort of trickery is this?”
“Nimrod has become a tyrant,” Gilgamesh said, as he unhooked his cape. “The king has become unbearable and overbearing to those who love freedom.”
Odin gratefully knotted the cloak around his waist, standing, feeling manlier because of a garment. “Nimrod has long been a tyrant. Because of it, you are the ruler of a city. So why does tyranny suddenly matter to you now?”
“There are other things than power,” Gilgamesh said.
Odin glanced at Semiramis. She had bewitching power, and it seemed she had used it on Gilgamesh, the poor fool.
“Nimrod calls himself a god,” she said, her fury ill-concealed. “He has made us bow down and worship him. But that isn’t enough. He also plays stallion with the Singers and now dares to do so with the priestesses of Ishtar.”
“On certain nights,” explained Gilgamesh, “a selected priestess of Ishtar will climb the Tower’s ramp and spend the night in the temple. There she will wait for Bel or some other god to descend from the stars and sleep with her so she may bear his child.”
Wives of the Flood Page 92
