People of the Tower (Ark Chronicles 4) Read online

  She shook her head. “Oh, Nimrod, I wish I could make you understand. I fear that the ancient disease of hubris has already grown too strong.”

  “I don’t agree. I need help. Yours. It’s why I summoned you. Grandmother is said to love Hilda and that the feelings are returned. Convince grandmother to convince Hilda to become a priestess of Ishtar.”

  “I don’t believe it. I come to warn you against Semiramis and you give me a task that will ensure your wife’s most bitter hatred. Don’t you know that Semiramis has troubled feelings regarding Hilda? She used to be the girl’s mother.”

  “Her step-mother,” Nimrod said.

  “You can’t sleep with the mother and then the daughter, or even with the stepdaughter. It isn’t right.”

  He scowled. “I haven’t said anything about—”

  “Spare me your assurances. When you speak about Hilda the lust in your eyes becomes over-powering. If you wish her that much, bring her into the palace and have your way with her. Why flaunt this in front of everyone? But most importantly why flaunt it in front of Semiramis?”

  “Have a care, Mother.”

  Deborah once again dipped her head.

  “You think I do whatever I please. But that isn’t so. I need the sons of Canaan and Canaan himself. To rape Hilda at my leisure…no, I must work within the trappings of authority. But I will have Hilda. One way or another, she will be mine. Until apotheosis, perhaps even afterward, I will keep feathers smoothed.”

  “Why not apply that policy to your wife?”

  He glanced at his cheetah. The big cat slept. Perhaps it would be wise to watch Semiramis. If his mother had hoped to plant a seed of suspicion in him, then she had succeeded.

  “Will you talk to grandmother for me?”

  Deborah studied him, nodded.

  Nimrod smiled, rising, taking his mother’s hands. Then he guided her to the door.

  4.

  I’ve become like Cain, Gilgamesh told himself, a rootless wanderer, with no place to call my own.

  It wasn’t technically true. He was still the governor of Erech. Yet he seldom set foot in the most southern city. Instead, as Nimrod’s herald and as the king’s eyes and ears, he went from city to city, from place to place. He didn’t ride a donkey or a chariot or go by boat. He ran through the wilds with his hounds and with his black lance in his fist. For hours every day, the pad of his feet and the panting of dogs and the sight of passing grasses or leaf-waving bushes gave him the solitude to think.

  Opis grew worse, not better. Whenever they were alone, her eyes turned wild like a deer in the presence of a wolf. She flinched even if he happened to brush her. For a long time, he was compassionate and understanding. Then one night after a tiring journey, he became angry and laid hands on her, saying this foolishness had gone on long enough. She shrieked and fled the house, leaving him feeling like a scoundrel and a ruffian. The next day, he began the trek to Babel.

  He loved Opis, and he despaired for her. But he had no idea how to achieve a cure.

  Lean and wind-burned, darkened by the sun, his leathers dirt-stained and sweat-soaked and his stamina bordering on the legendary, he arrived in Babel. He felt constricted in the great city. Babel had turned into a beehive, with large mud-brick houses and people packed onto narrow lanes. Above them like some evil behemoth watched the Tower. Squat, dominating, monumental, it dwarfed the city, a colossus among pygmies and a symbol of unquenchable power. At its awe-inspiring pinnacle, workers fitted lapis lazuli tiles onto the temple or substitute tiles of green-blue faience.

  Gilgamesh noticed a new addition in the plaza, statues of Nimrod and Semiramis.

  He spied Uruk and accompanying warriors. He was Uruk the Resplendent, with a bronze helmet with red-dyed eagle’s feathers sticking up. Like an ape, he shouldered people out of the way.

  Near the statute of Semiramis, they met.

  Uruk nodded. “I trust your wife is fine,” he said, as he nudged Thebes.

  The brazenness surprised Gilgamesh. He opened his mouth in disbelief.

  “You know,” said Thebes, “little Opis has always reminded me of a gazelle. Quivering, excitable, liable to make a dash for freedom but squealing when caught and moaning in the face of a predator.”

  Tanned and wind-burned though he was, Gilgamesh paled with fury. To stop his hand from shaking, he clutched the dagger-hilt at his side.

  “Careful, boys,” Uruk said. “Gilgamesh is as blood-thirsty as a hawk, and he can strike as fast. If he makes a move for me, skewer him. The king will understand.”

  Thebes, Zimri, Obed and the others stepped nearer. Gilgamesh wondered if perhaps they might strike first and say later that he had tried to kill Uruk. So he turned, with his cloak swirling, and strode from them as they laughed.

  That evening, Gilgamesh paid his respects at the palace.

  “Sit a while,” Nimrod said. “Let us talk of old times.”

  That lasted all of a half-hour. Minos entered and whispered into the king’s ear. A rutting look like a boar overcame the Mighty Hunter and he rattled off instructions to Gilgamesh before following Minos.

  Gilgamesh ignored a summons from Semiramis. The next morning he trekked north to Akkad, relaying a message to the governor, handing over a packet of clay tablets.

  He hunted two days with Akkad’s governor, and he chanced while in the city to run into Patriarch Shem. A brick wall surrounded the village, while a two-story palace and temple stood in the town center, just like in Erech. Otherwise, single story brick squares, homes, set on short, dusty lanes, made up the community.

  A shepherd herded his small flock through the lanes, and guard dogs used to tackle lions barked from a nearby enclosure. Shem and several others still openly adhered to Jehovah-worship. Nimrod considered such as troublemakers and he had split them between Erech, Akkad and Calneh. Babel itself the king wished to keep pure, he said, for religious reasons. It had something to do with a coming celebration.

  Guardians of the king’s peace keep watch on Shem. The massive hounds that barked at the sheep were in Akkad primarily because of the patriarch. If Shem tried to escape, Mighty Men were to release the hounds.

  Gilgamesh stood by a wooden trough. He set his foot on the side and tightened one of his sandals. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Shem. The old man was dark-bearded. There wasn’t a white hair on him. Yet Shem seemed haggard, worried, like one who carried a secret burden. His robe had seen better days and he carried a shepherd’s crook. It might help drive off one big hound, but not a pack.

  Shem turned away from the hounds. With an upraised hand, he shielded his eyes from the sun and then noticed Gilgamesh watching him. A smile changed the old man’s features. It creased his face. In a sure stride, he approached the water trough.

  “Greetings, Herald.”

  Gilgamesh dipped his head as he took his foot off the trough.

  “You just came from Babel?” Shem asked.

  “Two days ago, sir.”

  “If men were weapons I’d call you a javelin, Herald. You seem ready to fly wherever swiftly and surely. They say you can run for days without becoming weary.”

  “I get weary, believe me.”

  “What is the secret to long-distance running?”

  “Constant practice. I hope you merely ask out of curiosity.”

  Shem squinted. “How close is the Tower to completion?”

  “It is complete.”

  “They have finished the temple then?” Shem asked.

  “Not quite.”

  The patriarch eyed him. “You’re not like the others.”

  “Which others?”

  The survivor of the Flood chewed his lower lip. Finally, he patted Gilgamesh on the shoulder and wandered away.

  The conversation bothered Gilgamesh. He wondered if he should report it to Shem’s guardians. Probably. Shem sounded like a man ready to run, which seemed silly. Two hundred-year-old men didn’t run. Yet Shem seemed capable of it. The hounds, Gilgamesh told himself, w
ould stop any foolish notions. Shem knew no one outran such brutes. Gilgamesh smiled to himself. The idea of Shem running was ridiculous.

  The next day, as Gilgamesh began the trek back to Babel, he thought about the conversation. He thought about an old patriarch bound to a city, with big hounds ready to rend him to pieces. He thought about Opis and that Semiramis had summoned him. Of course, he hadn’t gone to her. Uruk and his cronies, he thought also upon them, and that Nimrod had little time for him but much time for his special Singers. Why had Semiramis summoned him? Was it rude of him not to have shown up? Perhaps if the king couldn’t or wouldn’t help him against Uruk, perhaps the queen would. Too, it wasn’t wise to spurn a queen’s summons, not unless the king was securely behind you. A man needed someone in court as benefactor.

  The longer he pondered these things, the surer Gilgamesh became. So when he jogged through Babel’s Lion Gate two days later, he found Semiramis’s most trustworthy Singer and said he would see the queen if she still desired it.

  He washed, borrowed fine garments from his Grandfather Put and spoke with Semiramis that evening in a small chamber within the palace. Candles flickered, two maidens attended them and they ate sparingly of spiced eel and honey-soaked bread, sipping date palm wine. After the dishes were cleared, Semiramis told the maidens they could retire. It left the two of them alone in the small, rather cozy chamber. The play of candlelight on Semiramis’s face was startling and heart pounding.

  A soft rap came at the door.

  Semiramis frowned and Gilgamesh nearly flew out of his chair.

  One of the maidens peered into the room. “Lady, I’m sorry to interrupt, but what shall I do if the king summons you?”

  “Perhaps it’s time for me to go,” Gilgamesh said.

  Semiramis shook her head, and she told the girl, “Wait down the hall for messengers. If you see one or the king, run here and knock on the door.”

  “Yes, Lady,” the maiden said, softly closing the door.

  Semiramis smiled. The play of candlelight made it a stunning thing. “You mustn’t leave yet, my brave Hunter. You’ve hardly touched your wine, and I chose it just for you.”

  “Oh, well, in that case,” Gilgamesh said, picking up the chalice.

  For an hour, they reminisced. Semiramis poured more wine and her eyes lingered on him.

  “You seem like you did then,” she said. “Oh, there are a few wrinkles at the corners of your eyes, and there is a quickness to you that seems positively deadly. Yet you’re unlike the other Mighty Men, those who bask in their positions and grow with a ponderousness of authority. Their minds have become dull, while you…Gilgamesh, tragedy fills you. Nothing has ever come easily for you. Doggedness and determination are your trademarks, and that has left you keen and perceptive. You understand when others hurt. Like I hurt, Gilgamesh. Oh yes, does that surprise you?”

  It did. He sipped wine and looked into her dark eyes. “You’re as beautiful as ever,” he said, and he glanced at his goblet, wondering if she had drugged it.

  As if reading his thoughts, she reminisced about that day too.

  He felt heat on his face. She laughed, and she detailed exactly what had happened that day, how she had kissed him and soon thereafter he had fled.

  “What if I kissed you now, Gilgamesh, would you run away again?”

  He smiled.

  “I’m serious.”

  He cocked an eyebrow.

  “I’m serious in that I want to know what you would do.”

  “Do?” he asked. The wine seemed to swirl in his mind.

  “If I arose and came around the table and kissed you. Would you squirm free and rush out the palace?”

  “You tested me then and found me loyal to Nimrod.”

  “That was then,” she said softly. “Perhaps another loyalty test is in order.”

  “Don’t test me beyond what a man can endure.”

  “What are you saying?” she whispered.

  “You’re…you’re beautiful, and I’ve drunk wine. What man could resist you?”

  “You once did.”

  He gulped more wine. He didn’t want to betray Opis. Yet he had been so long without a woman. Back in the wilds when Semiramis had kissed him, he hadn’t yet slept with a woman. Now desire flamed in him. The cozy room, the candles, wine, the most beautiful woman in the world across the small table from him, it wasn’t right what he was thinking. She was Nimrod’s wife, his queen. Yet he had heard rumors. Semiramis was unhappy. Very unhappy, and he yearned to slay Uruk. It had become his passion. He didn’t know how to do it unless Nimrod was out of the way. His old friend wasn’t the man he had once known. Nimrod had always been ambitious, of course. What drove the king now seemed… Gilgamesh had heard the story of Laban, how Azel the Demon had indwelled him. Had something similar happened to the king?

  “Gilgamesh,” whispered Semiramis.

  His head reeled at the possibilities. He had drunk far too much wine. He should flee. But the woman was ravishing. “Did you put something in my drink?”

  “For instance?” she purred.

  “A little green fly?”

  “What if I said yes, Gilgamesh? What if I said the green fly, crushed and prepared, a love potion of irresistible power, had been liberally added to your wine? What if you knew that you couldn’t resist me? That if I crooked my finger, like this, Gilgamesh? Do you see, my love, I’m crooking my finger? It means you must rise and come around the table. You must do as I order. I am your queen. I order you to rise.”

  He stood, swaying, with his heart pounding.

  “You are an obedient subject,” she said.

  “I am,” he whispered.

  “Walk around the table, Gilgamesh, my gallant lover. I, your queen, order you to come to me and kiss me, take me, to hold me as one who will never let go.”

  She was beautiful, bewitching and she had ordered him. He must obey his queen. The drug in his wine…

  “Gilgamesh, this instant you must obey my order.”

  His legs seemed to move on their own accord. The two of them embraced and kissed.

  Only much later did they talk about Nimrod, kingship and the follies of letting a megalomaniac rule them.

  5.

  The reason for hot bread and continuing jugs of drinkable water came many mornings later. A shout woke Odin. He drew his torso from the cold slime of his pit, looking up. Lean-limbed Gilgamesh peered down the hole.

  “Would you like a little exercise, Spear Slayer?”

  “I thought you were in Erech governing the people,” Odin said.

  Annoyance flickered across Gilgamesh’s handsome features. “I’m the governor of Erech, that’s true, and I’m also the king’s herald.”

  “The errand boy, you mean. Do you like running hither and yon, wherever your king commands?”

  “I’d rather stay in Babel, if you must know. And for the coming celebration, I will be. Then it’s off again on the king’s errands.”

  Odin rubbed a finger across his chest to clean it of mud and then he scratched his nose. “I’ll trade you places, if you like. I’m always near Babel.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question, Spear Slayer.”

  “Do you have a rope?”

  Gilgamesh showed him he did.

  “This must be Nimrod’s idea,” muttered Odin. “He likes pulling the wings off flies. You’ll get me to say yes and then laugh at me and leave.”

  “My offer is genuine.”

  “Once I get out I’m supposed to do something for you, is that it?”

  “Of course.”

  “And then it’s back into the hole with me?”

  “That depends,” Gilgamesh said.

  “On my good behavior? On whether I sell my soul to Nimrod?”

  “No. On whether you’re still alive after Nimrod is finished with you.”

  A cold feeling swept through Odin. He felt bitter. A moment later, he shrugged. “Toss the rope. I could use a vacation.”

  Gilgame
sh threw one down, instructing Odin to tie it under his armpits. The mud made sucking, slurping sounds and the cord bit into his flesh as he swayed upward. He emerged through the opening.

  Odin blinked at the morning light and laughed as rough hands pulled him the rest of the way up. Babel stood like a small mountain in the distance. Sunlight reflected off the nearby Euphrates. Three chariots were parked to his left, curious donkeys watching him. Men held him as his legs wobbled. He’d forgotten how to lock his knees. Finally, he indicated they could let go.

  Their mouths twisted with distaste. Two of those who had been holding him wiped their hands on the grass. The last used a rag. Odin staggered and then swayed. He delighted in the sweet odor of the outdoors, breathing deeply. He marveled how bright the grass was and beautiful the horizon.

  “You stink and look a mess,” Gilgamesh said, who waved off flies.

  Odin ignored the even greater amount of flies around him as he scraped slime from his body, flinging it from his hands.

  “You’re naked under all that mud,” Gilgamesh said. “We can’t have that for propriety’s sake. Here.”

  Odin first wiped his face and then wrapped the rag around his emaciated waist. “Don’t I get a bath or at least a swim in the Euphrates?”

  “No such luck,” Gilgamesh said. “But give him a drink and then let him eat.”

  One of the Mighty Men, a youngster with tattooed cheeks, went to a chariot and lifted a waterskin from the peg.

  “A drink, I said,” Gilgamesh said.

  Understanding flickered across the warrior’s features. He drew a small copper flask from his belt pouch and pitched it to Odin.

  Odin caught it and hesitated.

  “Go on, drain it,” Gilgamesh said. “You’ll need it. Believe me.”

  Odin worked out the cork and sniffed the strong brew. “What’s next?”

  “A little exhibition of your skills,” Gilgamesh said.

  Odin lifted his eyebrows. “I’m getting a spear?”