People of the Tower (Ark Chronicles 4) Read online

  “Not just a spear, my friend. Gungnir.”

  Odin corked the flask without having sipped and pitched it back to its owner. “I’ll take water if you don’t mind and then that food you talked about.”

  “Hope eternal.” Gilgamesh shook his head. “What fools we are. But I can’t say I fault you. Let him drink.”

  Odin stumbled to the chariot and chugged from the water jug. He debated flinging the jug at the nearest warrior, leaping aboard and trying to drive for freedom.

  “You wouldn’t get far,” Gilgamesh said.

  Odin saw how closely they watched him. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “It was only a thought.”

  Gilgamesh snorted. “Nor should we worry about being tied to a tree and left for the vultures and crows.”

  “Is that what he threatened you with if I escaped?”

  “It makes no difference what the threat was because you’re not going anywhere.”

  Odin supposed that was true. Still, maybe being cut down by them would be better than anything Nimrod planned.

  As if divining his thoughts, Gilgamesh said, “Hilda will soon be here.”

  Giddiness filled Odin. He hadn’t thought to see her again. “Why is she coming?”

  “I think the king wants to surprise you with it,” Gilgamesh said.

  “Has she…” Odin let the question drop because he refused to think badly of Hilda. Instead, he poured water over his head, washing out mud and filth, and he poured it on his beard. Too much of the grime had impacted into the pores of his skin to allow him to be clean, but at least he looked human again instead of like some earth monster risen from the roots of a tree. One of the warriors handed him several sticks of jerky. He gnawed on the first one, making his loosened teeth ache. He was a shell of his former self. Thin because, like a hibernating bear, he had lived off his accumulated fat.

  Gilgamesh frowned, turning away. He took several steps and then twisted back to face Odin. It seemed he wanted to speak, but he glanced sidelong at the other three.

  “Here they come,” said the young warrior, the one with the tattoos.

  Each of them gazed toward Babel, Odin chewing fast. Dust rose, indicating chariots, a cavalcade of them.

  Gilgamesh marched near and clutched him by the arm. He glanced at the other three. They peered at him curiously. He let go of Odin and backed away, shaking his head. A moment later, he took out a rag and wiped his hand. “I didn’t have anything to do with what’s about to happen. It was all Nimrod’s idea.”

  In sick apprehension, Odin watched the approaching chariots.

  “Shouldn’t we bring him there?” the tattooed youth asked.

  Gilgamesh signaled Odin. “Get in the chariot. You’ll ride with me.”

  The ride was short, a place of dirt mounds and many pits dug into the grassy area. Not pits like his swampy hole, but wide and open to the air, usually fifteen feet deep and thirty feet across. Animal sounds came from several of them. One of the pits had a four-foot high, woven reed fence around it.

  The three Mighty Men drew knives, surrounding and prodding Odin in the back.

  “Escape isn’t an option,” warned Gilgamesh.

  Odin watched the chariots pull in. Nimrod wore armor and Uruk the War Chief rode with him. Canaan came, Hilda—Odin’s throat caught. Hilda! Her hair whipped in the wind and she seemed pale. She wore billowing clothes and her mouth was a firm line of disapproval. As they pulled in and she saw him, she began to tremble.

  “Don’t speak to her,” cautioned Gilgamesh.

  “Why not?” Odin asked.

  “It will be much worse for you if you do.”

  The chariots halted. One by one, the crowd filed toward him. Hilda leaned on her grandfather Canaan’s arm. She looked away and then looked at him. It seemed she wanted to call out, but she looked at Nimrod every time she seemed ready to speak. The Mighty Hunter grinned as of old. His eyes shone as if he’d been drinking.

  “Hilda!” shouted Odin.

  One of the warriors kneed him from behind. He crumpled to the grass.

  Laughter rippled from Nimrod’s crowd.

  Anger swept away the terror. Odin rose, realizing he had learned nothing in the Well of Knowledge, at least nothing about controlling his rage.

  “Odin the Traitor,” Nimrod said, striding to him, with Uruk on his heels. The War Chief carried a huge figure-eight-shaped shield. They weren’t taking any chances with him. Nimrod sneered, saying, “Bring him.”

  The three warriors grabbed Odin by the arms, hustling him after Nimrod and Uruk. Gilgamesh hung back, his face a mask. They marched Odin to one of the pits.

  Three snarling wolves looked up, shaggy, starved-looking creatures.

  More Mighty Men took up position, hefting big shields like the War Chief. Canaan and Hilda stood behind them.

  “Give him his spear,” Nimrod said.

  Gingerly, from behind the shield wall, a man handed the spear point-first to Odin. As he stood on the edge of the wolf pit, Odin took it, realizing with a shock that it was indeed Gungnir.

  “Hilda,” he said, grinning, hefting his spear. The warriors did him the honor of looking worried, shifting uneasily.

  “If you use it on them, she dies,” Nimrod said.

  Odin spun around. Nimrod and Uruk stood on the other side of the pit.

  “What’s this all about?” Odin asked. He was surprised they feared him. He was a stick, a joke of what he’d once been.

  Nimrod glanced at the wolves and then back to him. “Jump into the pit.”

  “No!” Hilda shouted. “Don’t do it, Odin.”

  “Ah,” Nimrod said, gracing her with a glance. “This is interesting. You speak to him.”

  She paled and shook her head.

  “You know what that means,” Nimrod said.

  “No, no,” she said. “You mustn’t.”

  “You know how to insure it doesn’t happen, my dear,” Nimrod said.

  She bit her lip, blinking back tears.

  “Whatever he wants out of you, Hilda,” Odin shouted, “don’t give in, ever.”

  “Poor advice,” Nimrod said. “Now jump in as you value her life.”

  Odin eyed the pit floor fifteen feet down. Even if he’d been in the best of shape, it would have been a chancy thing. Then one of the men of the shield wall pushed him.

  Hilda screamed. Odin lost his balance. The wolves snarled, scrambling out of the way. One of them wasn’t fast enough. Odin fell on it so it yelped and broke his fall. The other two leapt from him. Groggy and surprised, he realized he still held Gungnir. He wobbled upright and the two wolves took to snarling. He lunged, stumbling because he wasn’t used to this and his thigh giving way because it had so little strength. He thrust his arms, stretching to reach, killing the nearest wolf. The other backed away, its hackles raised. He yanked his spear free and staggered against a dirt wall, panting, watching and judging his chances. He trembled uncontrollably, whether from lack of food or fear he didn’t know. He pushed off the wall, and soon the third wolf lay dead at his feet.

  Still shaking, almost vomiting the sticks of jerky, Odin looked up. The others with their big shields crowded around the pit, with Hilda and Canaan looking over their shoulders.

  “That was a dirty trick,” Odin said.

  “Hand up the spear,” Nimrod said, his grin now frozen in place.

  For an instant, Odin debated hurling it at the handsome face. Yet he wasn’t suicidal, at least not yet. So he poked it up. Gilgamesh took it. A rope ladder uncurled and Odin climbed out.

  To the side, Nimrod spoke earnestly with Hilda. She had a knuckle in her mouth.

  “What’s he saying?” whispered Odin.

  Gilgamesh shook his head.

  “You don’t know or you won’t say?” Odin asked.

  “Won’t say,” Gilgamesh said.

  “Very well,” Nimrod said loudly. “Bring him along.”

  The shield wall moved behind the Spear Slayer, leaving only one way to go. Odi
n took it and soon he stood at a similar pit, except this one had the four-foot fence. Below, prowling back and forth, was a young male lion. Its ribs showed. The lion coughed and angrily swished its tail.

  “This fight won’t go so easily,” Nimrod said, who swung open a small gate.

  Odin’s throat was dry and he wondered how many pits the Mighty Hunter would take him too, how many he could survive.

  “What’s it to be, Hilda?” Nimrod asked, stepping from the gate, giving Odin room.

  “What’s he asking her?” Odin hissed at Gilgamesh.

  Gilgamesh stared at him.

  “Not to be his wife, I hope,” Odin said.

  Gilgamesh shook his head.

  “What?”

  Hilda sobbed.

  “Into the pit with him!” shouted Nimrod.

  Odin didn’t wait to be pushed. He’d been watching the beast. He scooted to his rear, with his legs dangling over the edge. Gilgamesh handed him Gungnir. With spear in hand, Odin slid down bellowing a war cry. The lion roared. They charged. Odin ducked, set the spear and took a raking to his left shoulder, one claw opening skin. Gungnir snapped, although the bronze point bit deeply into the beast. Bleeding, gasping, terrified, Odin dodged about in the small space as the dying lion crawled after him. Finally, it was over, but Odin was drenched with sweat mingled with his own blood.

  Nimrod stood above, clapping. “An excellent show, don’t you think so, Hilda?”

  Tears stained her puffy features.

  “Throw down the ladder,” Nimrod said.

  Odin was pushed to the next pit. Snakes, over a hundred of them, slithered upon each other down there.

  Hilda moaned.

  “What now, my dear?” Nimrod asked. “Are you ready to see noble Odin die?”

  She moaned again. It was a pitiful sound.

  Terror and pain wilted Odin’s courage. The idea of vipers slaying him left him paralyzed. Then he roared and tried to leap into the pit before Hilda could give way. Gilgamesh tripped him and two Mighty Men kept him down.

  “No, Hilda!” shouted Odin. “Whatever he wants, don’t do it. He’s going to kill me anyway.”

  Nimrod clapped again. “What a touching display. See how noble he is, my dear? Will you let such a noble man die such a hideous death?”

  Hilda wept, and she went to Nimrod, taking his hand. “Please. Don’t do this.”

  “You know how to save him,” Nimrod said.

  “No!” howled Odin, struggling to get up.

  “Choose,” said the king.

  Hilda hung her head. She nodded.

  “You’ll join Ishtar’s priestesses?” Nimrod asked, “and all that entails?”

  She nodded again, sobbing, while Odin was hauled to his feet.

  “Take him back to the hole,” Nimrod said. “His life has been spared thanks to the daughter of Beor.”

  6.

  Shem groaned in his sleep. Sweat bathed his face. Terror filled him. Jehovah spoke to him in a vision.

  “You must go to Babel and there buy a clay jar from a potter. Take along some of the elders of the people and stand before the stairs of the Tower. There proclaim the words I tell you, and say, ‘Hear the word of Jehovah, O king of Babel, Erech, Akkad and Calneh and all you people. This is what the LORD Almighty, the God of Heaven and Earth, says: Listen! I am going to bring disaster on this place that will make the ears of everyone who hears of it tingle. For they have forsaken me and made this a place of foreign gods. They have burned sacrifices here to gods that neither they nor their fathers knew, and they have filled this place with the blood of the innocent. They have built this Tower for a temple of adultery, prostituting themselves to false gods and yearning to set their throne above heaven. So beware, the days are coming, declares the LORD, when people will no longer call this place the Gate to Heaven but the City of Confusion.

  “In this place I will ruin the plans of men and take back from them the breath of life. I will make them fall by the sword before their enemies and by the cup of wrath, and I will give their carcasses as food to the birds of the air and the beasts of the earth. I will devastate this city and make it an object of scorn; all who pass by will be appalled and will scoff because of its wounds. Men will flee in terror of one another and behave shamefully and with their daggers drawn, smeared with his brother’s blood.

  “Then break the jar while those who go with you are watching, and say to them: ‘This is what the LORD Almighty says: I will smash this nation and this city just as this potter’s jar is smashed and cannot be repaired. Unity will forever vanish. Men will look upon one another as beasts, as beasts that bark, whine and snarl, their words confusing and bewildering. Beware! The hour of my wrath is at hand.’”

  Shem groaned, and awoke, sitting up, staring into the darkness. Trembling, without waking his wife, he crawled out of the bed and knelt beside it, praying, asking that this task be taken from him. As he prayed, it was impressed upon him that three times every day he had sought Jehovah. He had prayed in the past that the One, the Redeemer spoken of in the Garden of Eden, would arise from the woman’s seed and destroy the Old Dragon, the Great Serpent, Satan and the Lord of Lies. He had urged Jehovah to deliver them from the bondage of tyranny and from the wicked rule of Nimrod the Dragon Slayer.

  “This is the answer to your prayers,” seemed to say a still small voice.

  Shem wiped sweat from his face and rose, silently praising Jehovah.

  Later, after washing, eating and taking his shepherd’s crook, Shem went outside into the predawn chill. Normally men watched him, he knew. Every day he felt their eyes burn into his back. He walked through the sleeping town and to a wooden fence where huge hounds, shaggy brutes used to hunt lions, paced and sniffed one another.

  Shem glanced at the stars. He stared for some time.

  “What’s the matter with you, old man?” asked Chamoth, a Mighty Man.

  Surprised, Shem regarded the warrior, the lean man in leather hunting clothes. He had a scarred face and a scarlet band tying back his long hair. Chamoth had the eyes of a wolf, savage, ever moving, watchful. He carried a deadly bow.

  “Do you fear Jehovah?” Shem asked.

  Caution entered those eyes. Then Chamoth sneered. “Did Jehovah help you when Nimrod smashed the host of Assur? Get along, old man. Quit bothering the hounds, and make sure your foot doesn’t stray outside these walls.”

  Shem walked down the lane, heading to the wharf. It was still early, chilly, with mist rising from the Euphrates. He walked across the planks as they creaked, as water rushed underneath. Sitting on the far edge of the pier, with his feet dangling, he asked Jehovah how he was supposed to get out of Akkad and alive to Babel.

  “Chamoth and his men will hunt me,” Shem said, “and the hounds will rend me to pieces. I cannot do as You ask.”

  He waited for that still small voice.

  The sun rose. A crane flew across the river, landing in some nearby reeds. On its long legs, the crane stalked frogs, spearing them with its bill, devouring them.

  Sleepy eyed fishermen glanced at him as they pushed their punts into the river, paddling to their favorite locations, to toss nets.

  Sighing, Shem worked up to his feet and walked off the wharf. He had to trust Jehovah. But he didn’t want to die, especially not by the teeth of hounds as they tore and snarled over him, pulling out his entrails. He had seen them slay a gazelle that way.

  He passed the day as he usually did, praying, visiting others, working with his hands braiding rope or making pottery or writing his memories on clay.

  Later, Ruth asked if he was feeling well. He went to bed earlier than usual. He smiled and told her not to worry. But he didn’t tell her what he planned. Jehovah had spoken. He didn’t want her trying to talk him out of it, and in doing so having someone overhear them and running to Chamoth to tell him to beware of Shem.

  In the middle of the night, he woke, gathered his robe, staff, dagger, waterskin and a bag of bread. He crept outdoors into the starr
y chill. Akkad slept. He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think a sentry watched his house at night.

  One did watch, unknown to Shem. But the man had taken that moment to climb down from the neighboring roof where he watched and relieve his full bladder near the corner of a building. The watcher knew he shouldn’t have drunk so much wine earlier, but he’d only be gone from his post a moment.

  Shem used that moment to walk away unnoticed, moving through the shadows. There was no moon tonight and only a single watch fire where two warriors warmed themselves by the main gate. He went to the wharf, to the tied boats. As Opis had done long ago, he borrowed a boat, slipping onto the dark Euphrates, softly paddling away.

  He was amazed it was so easy.

  With sure strokes, he dipped the triangular-bladed paddle into the water, the river swirling, gurgling around him and moving toward the Bitter Sea countless leagues downstream. A cold wind whistled past his ears and caused him to shiver. For several hours, he journeyed and then he worked toward shore. It was too chancy to stay on the Euphrates. It was a main thoroughfare for the Mighty Men.

  The punt whispered against reeds as frogs croaked and crickets chirped. He jumped out, wading in muddy water, pushing the punt deeper into the reeds. He slung a leather band over his shoulder, carrying a waterskin and a pouch of bread, and he scrambled up the bank, spry and strong for a man two hundred years old. With his shepherd’s crook, he trekked inland, until his sandals no longer sank in mud but kicked up dust. He veered south to Babel.

  At daylight, he crept into a stand of dry reeds, his stomach growling as a finicky herd of antelope chanced by. Maybe they didn’t like the way he shook the reeds when he crawled to the edge to investigate. They bounded across the plain and disappeared out of sight. Later, wild dogs trotted past, sniffing in the direction the antelope had gone.

  Shem sipped from his waterskin. Then he dug with his knife until brackish water seeped from the ground. He grimaced and decided getting sick from dirty water bordered on lunacy. Unaccustomed to such exertion, he said his prayers and curled up to sleep. He awoke stiff and sore and wondered if Chamoth was already on his trail. He listened, but heard no baying hounds.