People of the Tower (Ark Chronicles 4) Page 9

  Leaning forward, noticing the wary way the others glanced at him, Gilgamesh undid his feet. New sandals shod them. He threw away the hemp cords and stood, feeling the sway of the ship, adjusting to it so he didn’t fall.

  “We’re a long way from the marsh,” Odin said.

  Gilgamesh flexed his fingers, wondering who he should kill first.

  “Soon we’ll land at the first island,” Odin said.

  “At Dilmun?” Gilgamesh asked thickly.

  “No,” Odin said. “The one you landed at the first night at sea when you traveled with Nimrod.”

  “Ah,” Gilgamesh said. “Yes. I remember.” And he did remember that first fantastic voyage aboard the Odyssey, with Grandfather Ham guiding them.

  Someone had woken Ramses. He shuffled over. “I’m sorry how we treated you.”

  Gilgamesh nodded thoughtfully. A hollow spot filled his stomach, an ache. Yet…the terrible despair wasn’t as strong. He wondered what sort of trick they had played on him. How had they managed to change him? It couldn’t simply have been the new clothes and lots of food, and a shave and thorough washing. Such things didn’t affect a man as strongly as that.

  “Do we have to tie you up again?” Odin asked.

  Gilgamesh pondered. “I won’t jump overboard, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He made no promise not to hurt them, to pay them back for what they had done to him.

  “You’ll come with us to Dilmun?” Ramses asked.

  Gilgamesh thought about lying and then slipping into his canoe at night and paddling back to the marsh. No. He didn’t want to lie. And he knew a strong current flowed away from the marsh and toward the sea. Such a current would make it a difficult journey in a one-man canoe.

  “Let me think about it,” he told them. “Give me a day.”

  “As long as until then, you promise not to leave without first telling us,” Odin said.

  “Agreed,” Gilgamesh said. After he was done with them, they might beg him to leave. But on that, he remained silent.

  19.

  Toward nightfall, they came to the first island. Gilgamesh remembered it as a rather barren place, home to sea turtles and little else. Still, it was better than sleeping aboard ship and more exotic than landing on the salt marsh shores of the mainland.

  Odin ordered the sail reefed. With long poles afterward, they pushed themselves toward a sandy beach. The waves lapped against the ship and every once in a while, a big one propelled them closer to land.

  “What’s that?” shouted a man, who stood at the prow.

  “What?”

  “It’s dark and lies on the shore,” the first man said.

  Men crowded the prow to look, but the sun had set and it was difficult to make anything out.

  Gilgamesh squinted with the rest of them. His heart quickened.

  “That looks like a canoe,” a man said.

  Gilgamesh couldn’t swallow, couldn’t think.

  “A canoe?” Ramses asked. “That means…”

  “Opis,” mouthed Gilgamesh, not daring to speak the word. He felt hot and then cold. Was it possible that Opis had made a run from the marsh to the island? The current would have worked in her favor. His eyes widened. It might have been impossible for her to paddle back to the marsh. What if the leviathan had crawled onto shore and eaten her as it had once eaten Anu? The possibilities…

  “Opis!” Ramses shouted. “Opis!”

  Men scanned the shore.

  “That’s definitely a canoe,” Odin said.

  It was visible to Gilgamesh as well, but there was no Opis. Then it became too much. He jumped overboard, salt water swallowing him, stinging the inside of his nose. He bobbed to the surface and swam in the darkening sea. Soon, he waded through surf as the men aboard ship shouted Opis’s name. Gilgamesh scrambled to the beached canoe, in the last light picking up an article of clothing. He sniffed it, and he didn’t know if it was his imagination but it reminded him of Opis, of having her in his arms.

  Trembling, he ran onto the barren island. His eyes roved everywhere. He dashed over dunes as stars appeared. Grass rose here and there, but what a wretched little island this was. How would one drink?

  He spied a hovel, what looked like sandy walls. Cloth flapped in the breeze.

  He ran, with a sinking feeling in his belly. Still he couldn’t speak her name. He tripped and sprawled. He crawled and leaped to his feet, spitting sand.

  The cries of Opis had grown stronger. The others must have landed.

  Gilgamesh saw an opening and in the darkness spied a heap. He walked with a slow tread. Terror, a final and grim weariness, stole upon him. Thoughts of Opis dying of dehydration or wasting from starvation threatened to fell him worse than any spear thrust. He walked through the opening. He knelt beside the heap. Slowly, tenderly, he drew a worn blanket back. Starlight shone on Opis. He leaned near, with his lips an inch from hers. Holding himself still, without breathing, he felt the soft intake of breath, a whisper of it through her nostrils.

  She was alive! His Opis lived.

  20.

  Opis dreamed. She dreamed that Gilgamesh had found her. It was such a pleasant dream as compared to the nightmares that had consumed her. Lonely weeks in the marsh, dodging crocodiles, learning to fish and build huts and then paddling away, terrified that Uruk or one of his cronies would find her and force her to marry against her will, had made her sick with fright. Then she had found the Bitter Sea. It had roused her curiosity. She had rowed over the bar and into the green waters. The wide sea had amazed and delighted her, until the current caught her canoe and propelled her farther and farther from shore.

  Landing on the deserted island and realizing that she’d probably die here… Constant nightmares had driven her to despair. Now, however, she dreamed that Gilgamesh stroked her fevered brow and gave her sips of water. In her dream, he fed her pieces of fruit and spoke words of love. At times, too, he spoke harshly. It didn’t seem directed at her, but at others. He said they couldn’t leave. She wasn’t well enough. She never heard any replies. Yet the dream changed. There was motion. At first, it made her sick, but Gilgamesh was always there.

  Then one day, she blinked herself awake. She lay under some sort of awning and heard odd thumps and the snap of leather and wooden creaks everywhere. She didn’t remember any of those noises or that awning when she had first fallen asleep. Some sort of motion was underneath her. She turned to inspect it. She lay on a thick mat. She felt under the mat, felt wood that moved or strained. It seemed, too, that water slid under the wood.

  A corner of the awning above her moved, admitting bright light.

  “Opis.”

  She lay back. “Gilgamesh?” she whispered.

  “Opis,” he said, ducking low, carefully hugging her.

  “This…this isn’t a dream?” she whispered, her heart fluttering wildly.

  “No. I’m real and so are you, my dearest.”

  “Gilgamesh,” she wept, clinging to him, refusing to believe this was true.

  After a time, he pried off her arms. “Let me get you some water, some food. You’re very weak still. We thought…” He smiled. He had strong, white teeth in a tanned face. She didn’t recall him being quite so dark.

  She slept after eating, and when she woke the second time, the realization that Gilgamesh had found her truly sank in. Her gamble had paid off, unless after all this, her beloved still couldn’t pay her father the bridal price.

  “Ha!” was Gilgamesh’s answer to that.

  They were anchored off Dilmun, the Blessed Land, and dove for fish-eyes. Gilgamesh taught the others the art. Some of them had found the sweet onions that Uruk had harvested. Bags of them lay in the ship’s waist. While at sea, three men with bows watched for the leviathan. Thoughts of the beast kept the diving tense.

  Opis soon discovered what her beloved’s ha meant.

  “Do you think I’ll let Uruk maul you after this?” Gilgamesh asked. “Do you think your father’s avarice will thwart me now?�
�� He laughed once more, a strong, manly sound, one that sent shivers of delight through her.

  According to her brother Ramses, who spoke to her when Gilgamesh dove, Semiramis had deep interest in her beloved. To bring Gilgamesh out of the swamp, the wife of Nimrod had plotted with Odin. Through cunning, Semiramis had convinced Nimrod to send the ship to Dilmun. At first, Semiramis had kept secret all knowledge of the fish-eyes. Nimrod, knowing there were ulterior motives at work, had soon discovered the secret. According to Ramses, who had learned it from Odin, who had learned it from Semiramis—she had coached him when to reveal what and to whom—Nimrod confronted her with the secret of the fish-eyes. Semiramis, as if defeated, admitted the truth. Shrewd Nimrod, went the story, studied his wife, at least barking laughter, saying he approved the gaining of such precious stones. Nimrod understood that some sleight of hand had taken place during the original voyage to Dilmun, and that at last Ham’s diving for oysters made sense.

  “Yes,” Nimrod said, “let Odin make this voyage for you, Semiramis. Let him find these fish-eyes so you may crown yourself with beauty.” According to Ramses, the real reason for the trip had been hidden from Nimrod: that of finding and revitalizing Gilgamesh for Semiramis’s future comfort.

  “Semiramis lays plots within plots,” Ramses said. “She knew that Nimrod would be suspicious of her. Thus, she hid something from him to find. Know, sister, that this wanton has designs on Gilgamesh. I believe she thinks that she loves him.”

  Opis kept this revelation to herself. She also swore Ramses to secrecy.

  “I won’t tell Gilgamesh,” Ramses said, reluctantly. “But I think it’s unwise for you and him not to confront this openly with each other.”

  “That’s because you think like a man,” Opis said. “I know what I’m doing.”

  Gilgamesh told her that now, after their ordeals, that no one could say to them: “Don’t marry. Wait. First get the father’s permission.”

  “Opis, my love,” Gilgamesh said. “We will present them with an accomplish fact. I will of course pay your father the bridal price. But we will not wait for his approval. Nor will either of us worry about Uruk’s reaction. He can worry about mine if he dares to molest you by so much as a frowning at you or giving you a lustful glance.”

  “Yes, Gilgamesh,” she said.

  Several evenings after her recovery, Ramses helped her don a fine dress that one of the men had made for her. Then, on land and near dusk, Odin presided over the ceremony. Everyone agreed that Ham had spoken before of the custom of Havilah galley masters in Antediluvian times. Such masters, according to Ham’s old stories, had the right to marry people. Odin, as ship captain, was invested with the needed authority.

  Gilgamesh, in clean clothes and with oiled hair, stepped through the ranks of watching crew. He took her hand, smiling, beaming, and turned to Odin.

  The ship’s fat captain made a few remarks, speaking about Jehovah and marriage and then he bade them speak their vows.

  Opis squeezed Gilgamesh’s hand, peering into his eyes. He promised to look after her in sickness and in health, to love her always and never to desert her. She promised to love, honor and obey him.

  Odin pronounced them man and wife: that Gilgamesh could go on and kiss his bride.

  Gilgamesh took her in his arms and kissed her.

  To the cheers of the crew and to their wild clapping, Gilgamesh picked her up and marched up the beach to a tent set up earlier by Ramses. There they indeed became man and wife, as Gilgamesh knew her.

  Opis’s fears of Uruk and Semiramis lessened. There was nothing those two could do to them now. They were man and wife. Jehovah had joined them, and as Father Adam had said long ago in the garden, “A man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and they will become one flesh.” She was safe at last. And that tiny knot of fear in her belly, Opis drowned that knot by the wonderful joy of being with her husband on their marriage mat.

  Father of Lies

  1.

  The New World was vast, empty and forbidding. The thought of striking out alone or in small family groups terrified people. To be swallowed up in obscurity, to be forgotten made life seem futile.

  The Tower cured that feeling. To build a mighty kingdom, one glorious and strong, struck a chord in people. It fired imaginations. In Japheth Land particularly, in those clans that had never feared Babel, there was talk about immigrating to the city. They wanted to follow their sons and daughters who already lived there.

  That year began the first great exodus from Japheth Land to Babel. And that year, the sons of Shem moved out of their valley, first in a trickle and then in a torrent. The majority of them moved to the upper Tigris River Region, to start a new colony along the lines of Babel. Others thought, why start from scratch? Go where they’ve already done the hardest work.

  Immigrants flooded Babel. Because of the increase and crowding, disputes became more frequent. Many accused the Babel elders—Kush, Put, Menes and Canaan—of favoritism in settling the quarrels. The Japhethites and Shemites soon grew resentful.

  Nimrod pondered this. His desire for fame, along with burning ambition, propelled him to a new course. It helped that Ham had left and lived with Shem beside the Tigris River.

  Nimrod started slowly. The first time, he found shepherds arguing with each other as they disputed grazing rights. Listening to their accusations, he attempted to make a fair ruling. Then he told them, “We must act justly with each other. Quarrels can too easily lead to bloodshed and that might lead to civil war.”

  Nimrod realized the people yearned for an impartial judge. If he became one, wouldn’t they grant him greater authority? With each case, he strove for fairness. It didn’t matter if a man was a Japhethite, Shemite or Hamite. He based his decision on the facts, nothing else.

  Soon, people recognized his fair dealing. Instead of going to the elders, they took their cases to Nimrod. He gained a reputation for being the only man to settle a conflict justly. Because of that, the number of his cases rose.

  The trickiest role came later. Nimrod went to the people. He told them that he had had enough of it. He would no longer sit in the chair of judgment.

  “Is it right for me to settle everyone else’s problems if I leave my own to fester? My Hunters have become dispirited because I no longer run with them. Soon, the beasts in the field will increase because of my absence. No, I must step down from this task. I’m exhausted by it.”

  Most people didn’t want to return to the elders for judgments. Then Kush made it worse by passing a law that said only the elders, as a group, could judge disputes. They had let one or two Japhethite and Shemite elders join them as judges. But as a group, the Hamites always outvoted the others. The outcry against the law grew, finally forcing Kush and his brothers to repeal it. Soon, thereafter, many whispered among themselves that lawlessness increased.

  At last, the people held a grand meeting to discuss the problem. During it, the friends of Nimrod did most of the talking.

  “We cannot continue to thrive in this land under the present conditions. Let us appoint a man to rule over us so that we can get on with our work. Otherwise, conflicts will continue and our new civilization will perish. What we need is someone honest, someone with the integrity of Noah.”

  Their arguments prevailed. Through it, the idea of monarchy reappeared as people debated it.

  “By his nature, an elder strives for the good of his clan, and who can blame the man? It is a common failing. But a king would have the entire people as his clan. He would desire justice for all because all would be beholden to him.”

  Men proposed candidates for king. During the debates, most the speakers spoke highly of Nimrod’s qualities. He was a fair judge and the mightiest among them. He, they agreed, was the man to be king, and so he became.

  Nimrod’s first act was to build a kingly palace. He soon appointed the Hunters as his guards. Then he introduced royal ceremonies. Admittance into his presence lessened. He preferred communi
cation through heralds. It also became an offence to laugh or spit in his sight.

  “My reasons are simple,” Nimrod told Semiramis. “Ceremonies are a safeguard against the men who think they’re as good as me. People treat me differently, and most will begin to believe this difference is innate within me. If men see me too much, it might lead to jealousy and resentment. Plots would follow. But if they don’t see me, yet feel my hand, my legend will grow. Soon, people will think of me as more than a man.”

  Three new processes helped to secure his power.

  As his bodyguard, every Hunter received a suit of armor. They also practiced furiously with their short swords. And through constant drilling, they could act in unison while in rank. The tramp of their feet and the clank of armor through the streets of Babel awed the populace. People began to call them the Mighty Men.

  The second change happened with the Singers, the lovely maidens who played reed pipes and twirled about in provocative dances. They moved into the palace, into a special woman’s quarters under Semiramis’ control. King Nimrod often came to them. He taught the girls new dances and new insights into the angel of the sun. During many of the talks, he brought them strong palm wine and bid them drink. While they were intoxicated, he explained deeper truths about Bel.

  Soon, thereafter, whenever King Nimrod appeared in public, it was with a train of Singers dressed in fawn skins over their robes. They waved ivy-wreathed wands, and they seemed crazed with joy, singing:

  “O Bacchanals, come,

  Oh, come.

  Sing Bel,

  Sing to the timbrel.

  Joyfully praise him,

  Him who brings joy.

  Holy, all holy

  Music is calling.

  To the hills, to the hills,

  Fly, O Bacchanal

  Swift of foot.

  On, O joyful, be fleet.”

  The final transformation was the most stunning. It was like a seal, a stamp, and set the mark of Nimrod’s rule.