People of the Tower (Ark Chronicles 4) Page 22

  Nimrod resumed his throne. “No. Shem will stay in Babel, in the palace.” He grinned. “He will stay with the rats in a room I’ve had built in the lowest chamber.”

  Shem wondered if that was a euphemism for the grave.

  “Take him away,” Nimrod said.

  8.

  The gloomy chamber depressed Shem. It was under the palace as Nimrod had said. Uruk had opened a trapdoor and ushered him down a small spiral staircase into the earth. With a key, he had unlocked a heavy door and shoved him in.

  Most of the time, it was pitch-black. When they brought him bread and water, his jailers used a torch and they gave him a lit candle. When the candle guttered out, he sat in darkness. He heard little other than his own breathing. His cell was five strides by five. With him were a reed mat and blanket, a bucket and several lumps of melted wax. He prayed, slept, ate and shuffled back and forth in his five by five cell. After several sleeps, he developed a cough, so he had something new to listen to.

  Then one day after a meal of barley porridge, he heard the upper trapdoor creak and the sound of a man treading the stairs. The key rotated in the lock and on stone hinges, the door opened.

  Nimrod set down a stool, sitting in the doorway. The king wore hunting clothes and his single-horn crown. “Please,” Nimrod said, “sit.”

  Shem moved to his mat, sitting cross-legged, using the cell wall as his backrest. He coughed wetly.

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Nimrod said.

  Shem shrugged.

  Nimrod studied him a moment longer. He smiled. It was radiant as of old. “You’re unlike your brothers. My Grandfather Ham is a drunkard trying to reform with occasional flashes of glory. At times, he surprises you and then later he sits in his house carving his elephant ivory, seeming to have no care in the world. Japheth poses and brags about his wisdom. If you don’t praise him often enough, he frets and sulks in silence. But you have visions. You seem to take everything in stride. Now I’ll admit that you don’t come up with interesting inventions and cunning artifices. Ham, as I said, surprises one with his insights and brilliance. But it’s meteoric, flashes, burnouts.”

  Shem’s cough turned into hacking. He spat phlegm into the bucket.

  “You’re different than your brothers. You understand more about the spirit world than the rest of us.”

  Shem shrugged again.

  Nimrod rested an elbow on his knee, stroking his chin. “You’re more like Noah. And in that sense you trouble me.” The king patted his sheathed dagger. “Part of me says, kill him and be done with it. The other half suggests caution, that perhaps I should glean information out of you. That you might help me discover in what ways Lucifer lies to me. I doubt the prince of angels gives me the whole truth.”

  “After that you’ll kill me?”

  “You could join us,” Nimrod suggested.

  Shem smiled.

  “Isn’t joining us than better than death?” Nimrod asked.

  “No.”

  “So you truly believe in Sheol, this Lake of Fire?”

  “I do.”

  “Because Jehovah said so?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What is it like having Jehovah talk to you? I’ve only heard Bel and Lucifer.”

  “Listening to Jehovah makes your belly sink and your knees weak. It makes you feel dirty, small and insignificant. Then you thrill to have the Creator agree to speak with you. It’s the most marvelous thing in the world.”

  “Better than sleeping with a beautiful woman?” Nimrod asked.

  “Of course.”

  Nimrod considered that. “Lucifer showed me the beginning. It was awesome, as you say. I saw the angels at their birth, or at their evolution.”

  “Their what?”

  “The angels evolved.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Lucifer says its means they were self-created.”

  Shem snorted, which brought on another bout of coughing. He shook his head. “He is the prince of liars. Jehovah created the angels.”

  “Jehovah certainly seems powerful. Yet…when the other gods are ranged against Jehovah, who will win?”

  “Jehovah.”

  “How do you know that’s the truth?”

  “Who brought the Flood?”

  Nimrod rubbed his chin. “Jehovah says to us, don’t do this, do that, serve me in such and such a way. It is very tiresome.”

  “Jehovah is the Creator. It is His right to do as He pleases. Consider, has your spear ever complained how you use it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Neither should we complain how Jehovah uses us. He fashioned us just as you or some spear-maker fashioned your spear. Only Jehovah did more than that. You had to find wood and smelt ore to make bronze. Jehovah, out of nothing, made the substance out of which He fashioned man.”

  “That’s an interesting thesis. But I am not a piece of wood or bronze. I am a man.” Nimrod grinned. “Soon I am to become a god.”

  “No. Soon you are to die.”

  Nimrod scowled.

  “You are like mist in the field. The sun or a strong gust of wind will make you vanish. You are like the grass that withers, dies and is thrown into the fire. Trust Jehovah and live. Defy Him and you will find yourself pitched into the Lake of Fire.”

  “No!” roared Nimrod, leaping to feet. “I am Nimrod! I am the Mighty Hunter! I will not bow my neck to some tyrant even though he threatens me with terrible perils. I will war against Jehovah. Even better, I will gain allies, have gained allies, and with them I will storm Heaven and unseat Jehovah from his throne. Then freedom will reign. Why do you think I have built the Tower? Out of sheer megalomania? That’s what many think, but they are wrong. It is a staging area, a mystic link to the other realm, to the spirit world. Lucifer himself will come down and teach man wisdom. He will help us fight.”

  “You are a fool, Nimrod, a dupe of Satan. Think well on what happened in Eden.”

  “I have, old man. Adam and Eve gained insight. Before that, they were buffoons, playthings and toys for Jehovah. Then Lucifer opened their eyes and they knew good and evil. Yes, Jehovah drove them out of Eden, because he feared this new man. But soon, soon, old man, Jehovah will have to pay for his arrogance, for his bluster and tyranny. Soon mankind will arise with dreadful powers and Heaven itself will shake. And I, Nimrod, will lead the charge. My throne will last forever. None shall topple me. This is what I have been promised.”

  “By the prince of liars, which means you have a fool’s bargain.”

  Nimrod’s hard eyes narrowed. “Call me a fool again and I’ll kick you to death.”

  Shem looked away.

  After a time, Nimrod picked up the stool. “Perhaps a day or two without food will clear your senses. People say fasting is a useful endeavor. We’ll talk afterward.”

  The door slammed. The lock turned. Footsteps grew fainter and the trapdoor above thumped shut.

  9.

  The Glorious Day of Celebration of the completion of the Tower and the temple atop it neared. As ordered by Nimrod, people poured from the four cities of the north and from the cities in the plain of Shinar. They thronged the streets, staying with friends or relatives, marveling at the splendor of Babel. The great city seethed with activity as anticipation of the day rose. Feasts, wine drinking and dancing, the nightly festivities primed them for what some whispered as the coming grand debauch. They wore colored woolens dyed bright red, purple, yellow and green. During the day, they trooped past the mighty monument in the plaza, seeing the work of the hands of men, impressed, awed and certain now that their name would shine throughout eternity.

  The Tower of Babel arose seven imposing levels or terraces, a man-made mountain, some said in imitation of the Holy Mount of Heaven. The bottom terrace was painted white, and each succeeding level was black, red, white, orange, silver and gold. On the peak, reached by three sets of stairways, stood the temple, the holy shrine, of enameled blue bricks. The proud Tower of Babel filled
hearts with dreams of glory, of might, of staggering possibilities. A civilization had fallen, but now one rose up that would dwarf the ages. The Age of Man, of heroes and builders, was upon them. Like a beacon, the Tower beckoned them to achieve greatness. Here we stand, humanity, proud, bold and assertive.

  Flanking the main ramp were two tall, leather-covered objects. They had appeared one morning after a night of enforced curfew and constant wagon creaking and the lowing of oxen. Three times the height of a man and guarded hourly by warriors, the people wondered what lay under those tied-down tarps.

  In the middle of the morning a few days before the celebration, a worried Minos tiptoed through one of the palace’s hidden corridors. He held a golden lyre under one arm and wore a purple tunic and a garland of flowers in his curly hair. With a wary look that a rat stealing upon a cat’s saucer of milk might have, he approached a door and lightly rapped upon oiled wood.

  The door opened suddenly, almost instantly, and an angry Semiramis ushered him into a room full of flowers in colorful vases, with perfumed furs kicked into a corner. She wore a sheer piece of linen that ill-concealed her beauty, with her hair piled high and held in place by several ivory combs.

  “Why didn’t he show?” she snapped.

  “His wife arrived yesterday,” Minos said. “He sends his sorrows and asks that you understand.”

  “Did he sleep with her?”

  “Sister,” Minos said soothingly. “Uruk saw to that. I’m told Opis shudders if Gilgamesh even glances at the bed while she’s in the room.”

  Semiramis fretted with a smooth cord that bound her slight linen slip. “It’s a pity any of that had to happen. I don’t rejoice in it.”

  “Of course not,” Minos said.

  Semiramis glanced at him sharply. “I’m in no mood for your mockery.”

  “You don’t think I feel similar regret? Plotting a rape, gathering the scoundrels needed for it and then harming an innocent girl… It’s a terrible deed, and your conscience has enough weighing it without this added insult. Fortunately, a single cup of poison can clear everything. Away, guilt! Away, conscience! The thought is breathtaking.”

  “One day you’ll go too far, dear brother. I promise you that.”

  His grin was crooked. “It’s lucky for me then that you break every promise you’ve ever made.”

  Thoughtful worry replaced her rage. “Have I misjudged you, little brother? Does your nerve crack?”

  Minos turned away, and he began to pace.

  “Look at me, Minos.”

  He sat on a stool and set down his lyre. It seemed that his hand trembled.

  “I shouldn’t have asked for your help in this.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Minos said.

  “He mustn’t suspect.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? My blood freezes every time he looks at me. Then I tell myself: All he can think about is godhood, about his coming apotheosis. He can’t tell that my hand shakes, or that my notes are sour, that his Singers misstep their dances because of it. But some of the Singers frown at me as they twirl about him. Oh, yes, they know because I’m constantly wiping sweat from my forehead and because I stink like a reeking warrior.”

  “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.