People of the Tower (Ark Chronicles 4) Read online

  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 steps 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 a
nd 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?

  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.”

  “To create Nephilim?” Odin asked, stunned at such wickedness.

  “No!” Semiramis said. “The priestess won’t sleep with a god, but with Nimrod.”

  “He claims he is a god.” Gilgamesh spat on the ground. “Tonight the city has gone mad with the celebration of it. No one is sober. Tonight the first priestess will await Nimrod on the temple couch.”

  “Can you guess who the girl is?” Semiramis asked, staring intently.

  Odin’s jaw dropped. “Hilda?”

  “Unless you reach her before the deed marks her as one of his many new concubines,” Semiramis said.

  Odin felt numb.

  “Tonight is our chance,” Gilgamesh said. “We must rid ourselves of the tyrant and regain our freedom. All the Mighty Men adore him and now most of the people as well. For who would dare strike a god? I alone can’t slay him, or I can’t risk Semiramis that I can. After all, he is Nimrod the Mighty Hunter for a reason. I need help.”

  “Let me help,” Odin said.

  Gilgamesh strode to the chariot and took out a spear. He pitched it to Odin. “It isn’t Gungnir.”

  “It will do,” Odin said, a thrill running through him. He became thoughtful. “I stink too much to climb the Tower unnoticed.”

  “A quick dip in the Euphrates will solve that,” Gilgamesh said. “Hurry. Board the chariot. We’ll tell you the rest of the plan along the way.”

  13.

  A grim-faced Noah and an amazed Ham entered the city through the Sheep Gate. No one stood guard and the nearby houses and homes were dark. Across from them, in the city center, the smoke of a hundred torches and various bonfires illuminated the Tower.

  “I hear the sound of battle,” Ham said.

  “No,” Noah said. “That is singing you hear, and the clash of cymbals and the mockery of pipes. Alas! I fear for my children. They are about to bring down the judgment of Jehovah.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I am commanded to curse the Tower,” Noah said.

  Ham thought of Noah’s curse against Canaan. It hadn’t seemed to bother his youngest son. Neither Canaan nor any of Canaan’s sons were anyone’s slave—unless one counted them as Nimrod’s slaves. But then so were Shem’s sons and Japheth’s too.

  “What if Nimrod catches you?” Ham asked.

  “Say rather: What if I catch Nimrod?”

  Ham glanced sharply at his father. Kedorlaomer and his bloodthirsty sons had long ago thought to beard Noah, and had found out what the crazy old man was capable of. Nimrod, however, wasn’t Kedorlaomer. And the Mighty Men were tougher than archers of Havilah. Ham wondered if perhaps the angel with his terrible sword might aid them, as an angel had once aided Noah when he had faced down Ymir and Naamah.

  His father and he stalked through the dark city, through its winding lanes and twisted paths, all the while the sounds of revelry becoming clearer. An awful feeling of doom began to fill Ham. It constricted his chest, making breathing difficult and his stomach clenched until he groaned, leaning against a mud-brick wall.

  “What ails you?” Noah asked, a strong hand clutching Ham’s arm.

  Ham licked his lips. A drink…no, he must face his fears. He pushed off the wall. “I’m all right.”

  Noah eyed him.

  Then a loud unified shout, a crowd roar, caused them to peer at the Tower. They had penetrated about half the distance to it and could make out certain details.

  Noah grunted.

  “What is it?” Ham asked. His father’s eyesight was better.

  “A man walks up the stairs. He wears scarlet, and he moves quickly.”

  A wild chant filled the night, the mob sounding like some gargantuan behemoth. Pipes piped louder and with greater abandon while drums thudded like a beast’s heart.

  “It will be crowded there,” Ham said.

  Noah stroked his beard. Then he tapped Ham’s cudgel, one thrust through his rope belt. “Put away your bow. Use that instead.”

  Ham squared his shoulders. Tonight, he would play the part of a true son of Noah, the man Jehovah called righteous.

  They trod the dusty lanes, slipping through the city like ghosts, until Ham noticed a mark on a door of a red-wined black bird.

  “Wait.”

  “There is no time,” Noah said.

  Ham opened the door anyway, and he wasn’t surprised to see Rahab rocking in her chair, mumbling to herself, as a candle flickered. Praying, Ham realized. How beautiful she looked. Her skin was wrinkled and weathered and she wore a hood, while her knotted hands were clasped together in her lap.

  “Wife.”
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br />   Rahab opened her eyes. She stared unblinking, perhaps thinking him an apparition.

  “Your husband has returned,” Ham said, grinning.

  She leapt up and ran to him, hugging him. “Oh, Ham, darling!”

  “Rahab,” he said, kissing her. How he had missed her. “Rahab, we’ve come—”

  “We?” she said, letting go. “Noah.”

  “Hello, Rahab.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We go to the Tower,” Ham said.

  Rahab became concerned. “The people have run amok. They…” She shook her head. “The things I saw today… You might not be safe, Father.”

  Noah became stern. “Come,” he said, “the hour of judgment grows near.”

  14.

  It didn’t seem possible, but the sternness on Noah’s face grew as he looked upon the revealers. Ham was appalled.

  In the plaza surrounding the Tower, people danced, fluted and guzzled wine. They twirled, shedding robes and garments, laughing and crying out in intoxicated joy. Men and women embraced, many kissing. Watching them stood two golden idols. The idols seemed to leer, to mock and to watch carefully, noting who most loved the New Order. And the Tower, like a beast it brooded, shadowing all, like a behemoth it engulfed the night by its mass. Above everything, grand torches flickered from the blue temple atop the Tower, the gateway to the stars, to the heavens, to the very glory of Jehovah, or so it seemed.

  “This is monstrous,” Rahab said, while holding onto Ham.

  “Ready your club,” Noah said.

  “They’ll mob us,” Ham said.

  Noah glanced at him.

  Ham dropped his gaze. He was terrified. He didn’t think it would be like this. He hefted his club nonetheless and took a deep breath, trying to calm his tripping heart. Death…the night stank of it. Destruction. Doom. “Lead, Father, and I will follow.”

  Noah didn’t smile. He was too grim-faced. Yet his eyes tightened, and he reached out to his son. Ham wrapped his fingers around his father’s thick wrist; Noah’s big hand gripped his wrist. “Live or die, we serve a mighty Jehovah,” rumbled Noah.