People of Babel (Ark Chronicles 3) Read online

  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.”

  Nimrod glanced at Uruk. Uruk raised his hands in an I-don’t-know-anything-about-this gesture. “Yes,” Nimrod said, “I want Odin back as well.”

  Beor seemed to consider. “You’d wrestle a one-legged man?”

  “Pick any champion you desire,” Nimrod said, “although I thought you considered yourself the most dangerous man on Earth. But if you fear to face me, so be it.”

  A crafty smile light Beor’s face. “Any champion?” he asked.

  “Those are my terms.”

  “Before the elders you will swear to abide by them?”

  “Of course,” Nimrod said. “Who is your champion?”

  “Are you worried, Mighty Hunter? Are you reconsidering?”

  Anger flashed across Nimrod’s face. “You’ve heard my terms.”

  Beor studied Nimrod for such a long time that Semiramis looked up from the path. “Tomorrow then,” Beor said, in a clipped tone. “Tomorrow you will finally be paid back for your treacherous theft.” Then he limped away in his odd gait.

  Only when Beor was well down the trail and out of sight did Nimrod kneel and help Semiramis to her feet. Before his Hunters, he said softly, “I beg your forgiveness for striking you, my love. You were marvelous.”

  With a cloth, she wiped spittle out of her hair. A red welt, where he had hit her, still branded her cheek.

  “Strike me if it will help you feel better,” Nimrod said.

  A loud slap left
her handprint on his face.

  “You’d better win this match, Mighty Hunter,” she said.

  He towered before her, taking her hands between his, holding them against his chest. “No man will ever have you but me.” He kissed her, forcing her head back to the lusty shouts of his Hunters.

  46.

  All Festival turned out for the wrestling contest. Word of it spread like wildfire. In front of Japheth, Shem and Ham, the terms had been stated and qualified. The bout would consist of three throws: the shoulder or back of an opponent touching the ground would constitute a successful throw. That, or forcing an opponent’s foot outside the circle. Ties weren’t allowed. On the second win for either wrestler, the person or persons stated in the wager must cross the line to the other side.

  With their hands bound behind their backs, Gilgamesh, Enlil, Zimri and Odin stood on one side of the line. Semiramis, in her most costly gown, stood on the other.

  Beor gave a speech concerning the Hunters’ various crimes, letting all Festival hear. Nimrod disputed the alleged faults, but the elders overruled him. After giving evidence, Beor waived his rights to these four if his champion were defeated. Nimrod stated in much fewer words that Semiramis, his beloved, staked her matrimony for the good of the Hunters. Murmurs arose against such a barbarous wager. Nimrod thereupon said he did this in order to quash the base rumor that Semiramis had become his wife in some wrongful manner. Jehovah would prove it by letting the righteous one win.

  Thereupon Nimrod stripped off his lion cloak, handing it to Uruk. His skin rippled with muscles, with grace.

  Beor’s champion doffed his cloak and removed two bronze wristbands. Heavily limbed Gog strode to his side of the pit. He was shorter than Nimrod, but more thickly built, with a wide neck and heavy shoulders. He seemed like a bear versus a tiger.

  Chin, son of Zidon, hurried to Nimrod. “Back out,” Chin hissed.

  Nimrod scowled at his cousin.

  “This is Gog,” Chin said. “Gog the Wrestler. In a hundred years, there hasn’t been one like him. The best wrestlers of Japheth Land have taught him every skill. Each of them, Gog has beaten in turn. Beor has tricked you.”

  “I hear they call you the Mighty Hunter,” Gog said from across the pit. “It is an honor to wrestle you.”

  Shem broke away from his brothers and stepped into the pit. “I disprove of this match. But my brothers outvoted me, and they begged me to referee it. Reluctantly I do this. Gog, Nimrod, there will be no biting, no eye gouging, no hitting with a closed fist and no hair pulling. To do any of these reprehensible acts will cost you the match. The winner of three throws will be declared the victor. Are you agreed to these rules?”

  “I am,” Nimrod said.

  Gog nodded.

  “At the clap of my hands, you will advance,” Shem said. “At any second clap you will retreat to your end of the circle. The wagers are set, which I also disprove of. We should let law decide this.” He shrugged. “You have both agreed to these terms?”

  They both said yes.

  “Come, shake hands,” Shem said.

  Gog stalked near, as did Nimrod. Each wore a loincloth. They shook hands, blond-haired Gog smiling. Each man had a big hand, although Nimrod winced at Gog’s grip.

  “Retreat back to your ends,” Shem said.

  Beor whispered last minute instructions to Gog.

  Nimrod shook his hand, and he glanced at Chin.

  Chin whispered, “It’s not too late.”

  “Too late for what?” whispered Menes, who had agreed to coach Nimrod.

  Nimrod studied Gog. The youth seemed made for wrestling. Nimrod frowned.

  “He is Magog Village’s champion,” rumbled Uruk. “He will be dangerous.”

  “Be wary of his hands,” Chin said. “His grip, I hear, is all powerful.”

  Nimrod’s lips drew back. Win or lose, he couldn’t back out now.

  Shem clapped his hands.

  Warily, like a stalking tiger, Nimrod moved to the center of the pit. Gog likewise advanced, crouched, with his arms weaving like pythons.

  Nimrod faked a lunge. Gog dropped his left arm. Nimrod backpedaled, his eyes gleaming. Gog followed flatfooted. Nimrod roared, lunging again, swiftly. Hands slapped each other’s arms with meaty thuds. They pushed. Their chests touched. Gog grit his teeth, straining. Nimrod snarled. The skin under each other’s hands turned white. Gog snaked an ankle behind Nimrod’s right foot. He shoved. Nimrod tottered back, but at the last moment, Nimrod twisted and Gog bellowed, leaving his feet. Gog struck the sand with his shoulder an instant before Nimrod fell on top of him.

  Shem clapped his hands.

  Nimrod leaped up, his face wreathed with smiles. Gog rose, too, scowling. Each man retreated to his side.

  “I judge the first round won by Nimrod,” Shem said.

  A roar rose from the watching Hunters.

  Beor whispered hotly to Gog, who neither nodded nor shook his head nor said a word. He stared at Nimrod, flexing his fingers.

  At Nimrod’s end, Uruk praised him.

  Shem clapped his hands.

  Breathing hard, Nimrod stalked back into the pit.

  With teeth bared, Gog stomped toward him. His fingers continually flexed. They were thick fingers, strong and dangerous.

  Nimrod thrust out an arm. Gog latched onto the wrist, and he pivoted on his heel, spinning, yanking Nimrod. Nimrod stumbled toward the edge of the circle. A roar went up from the Japhethites. Nimrod caught himself at the edge. Gog was on him, one of his hands on Nimrod’s face. Nimrod twisted his head. Gog shoved. Nimrod stumbled out of the circle.

  Shem clapped his hands. “Gog wins the round.”

  A shout, a roar went up.

  Uruk and Menes hurried to Nimrod, who shook his head, blinking.

  “He cheated,” Nimrod hissed. “Check his fingernails. They must be bloody.”

  “Let me see,” Menes said, peering at Nimrod’s nose. “I don’t see blood.”

  “It was a fair throw,” Uruk said.

  “Check his fingers,” snarled Nimrod.

  Menes and Uruk glanced at one another. Uruk shrugged and went to Shem, whispering.

  Shem shook his head. Uruk seemed to insist.

  “Gog,” Shem said. “Let me see your hand.”

  “What slander has Nimrod given?” Beor shouted. “Can’t the Mighty Hunter lose a round manfully?”

  “Let me see your fingers,” Shem said.

  Gog thrust out his hands. Shem studied the fingernails and soon he shook his head. “No blood,” he called. “It was a fair throw.”

  Nimrod, who had been mumbling bizarrely, now looked up. He gnashed his teeth and his eyes glittered strangely.

  Shem clapped his hands.

  Gog stomped back into the pit, crouching, his arms weaving.

  Nimrod bellowed, his face turning crimson. Like one demented, he sprinted at his foe. He latched onto Gog’s left wrist and shoulder. Nimrod spun, shouting. He threw Gog off his feet. Headlong. It was a berserk feat of strength, or something supernatural. Gog landed with his face. His thick neck snapped. Princely Gog convulsed, twitching, as people began to shout.

  The rage drained out of Nimrod, or something did. His shoulders slumped and he almost staggered to his knees.

  Beor limped to Gog, checking him, looking up white-faced.

  Shem blinked stupidly. But he clapped his hands. “Nimrod wins the round and the bout. He is the victor.”

  Beor rose. “Gog is dead,” he said.

  Somewhere in the crowd, a girl began to scream.

  The End

  The epic adventure continues with

  People of the Tower

  Read on for an exciting excerpt from the next book in the Ark Chronicles.

  1.

  Hilda wept for Gog, her dearly beloved, slain by Nimrod. The death stunned all of the people at Festival. On a bier of crossed spears, four men hefted the woolen-draped corpse. With a slow step, they carried it out of the Festival grounds.


  With a shawl hiding her features, Hilda followed, weeping. Her father’s strong hands kept her from collapsing. A moment of clarity, of hatred for her father, flashed powerfully through Hilda. She wanted to scream at him that he take his murderous hands off her. Then she burst out crying again, shaking her head, knowing that it hadn’t been her father’s fault. It hadn’t been Nimrod’s fault either. Fate had stolen her beloved. She couldn’t believe that Jehovah would allow Gog such an early and stupid death. Why had he died at such a young age when he was strong and powerful, the best wrestler in the world?

  She followed the four men as they marched up a hill. Behind her and her father followed all the people of Festival, the joy and merriment departed just like her beloved.

  They buried him on the hill, one wind-swept, without pines but rocky.

  Noah spoke, as did Japheth and Magog. Europa spoke as well. And Nimrod begged the sons of Japheth, begged Magog for the favor of speaking at Gog’s funeral.

  The Mighty Hunter cleared his throat. Gog lay in the hole, with fresh dirt beside it. Nimrod stood at the head of the grave, with the people circled around him. Noah coughed as he sat on a stool, shivering, with a heavy blanket around his shoulders. From under her shawl, Hilda watched with red-rimmed eyes. She felt hollow, empty. She debated throwing herself into the hole and stabbing herself to death, to join her beloved in the afterlife. Beor towered over her. She knew he studied Nimrod.

  “I am shamed,” Nimrod said. He shook his head and stared at the grave. Then he grasped his tunic, a fine linen one. With his strong hands, he tore it in half, exposing his muscled chest. He bent near the fresh dirt, scooping some in his hands. He poured the dirt on his head. “I weep for Gog. I grieve. He was a noble warrior. I hate the spirit of fury that fell upon me and caused his death.”

  Fresh tears welled from Hilda’s eyes.

  The Mighty Hunter’s eyes were bloodshot. With his torn tunic and dirt in his hair, he stepped before her, kneeling. “I beg your forgiveness, Hilda.”