People of Babel (Ark Chronicles 3) (20 page)

27.

Opis arose in the dark, silently, so as not to awaken her younger sisters. They all slept together in a wide bed. She heard their quiet breathing, the rustling of straw under the linen sheet as one of them turned or changed position. This bedroom was the safest in the house, the deepest from the outside and the darkest because there weren’t any windows.

This room was a vault, Opis thought to herself, protecting her father
’s most precious commodity: his marriageable daughters. Her earlier bitterness remained. She wondered how often bronze ingots or leather or glittering stones on their own accord fled a vault?

She donned soft deerskins that Gilgamesh had over a year ago given her
. Easing open the bedroom door, tiptoeing from her room, she moved like a shadow, picking up a knife belonging to her brother Ramses, a wallet of pounded and dried fish, a length of rope and a small bag of other rudiments. She froze once, looking around in the darkness, wondering at a noise, like a soft footfall, behind her. The noise didn’t repeat itself, but it felt as if the house watched her. She heart odd groans, a hissing perhaps of wind through a crack or even maybe that quiet, nighttime stillness that almost seems to become a sound.

After a time
, her throat tightened. She’d miss this house and the people in it. A terrible welling of sadness and fear almost overcame her bitter resolve. She shook her head. Uruk would never have her.

“
Never,” she whispered.

She shook off the feeling that the house watched her, eased open the front door and drank the cool
, night air as ambrosia, the taste of freedom. She hurried through the gloom of chilly, predawn lanes, her heart thumping and a crawling upon her spine turning into a certainty that she was being followed. She ran, racing through the streets, her small fingers clutching the dagger hilt, her tiny feet pattering on the dirt and her breath coming in frightened gasps. She headed for the docks, even as she kept glancing over her shoulder. What if Uruk found her? She clamped her teeth, deciding that she’d plunge into the river and drown herself before allowing him to paw her flesh.

She swung around a building and flattened herself against it, waiting, listening, her heart pounding and her breath coming in quick, bird-like gasps
. Finally, she eased off the wall, telling herself to think like Gilgamesh, to become a Hunter.

She resumed her trek, no longer running, but striding fast, much as her father had
walked through the main room earlier today. She reconsidered her plan and pushed aside any guilt. She wasn’t a thief, at least not in the worst sense. Yet, like Gilgamesh, she was willing to steal for the sake of their love. She paused at a pen of sleeping geese, with their heads tucked under their wings, and glanced down the lane she’d just come up. No one followed that she could see.

Why
, then, did the feeling of being followed persist? She shrugged, hurrying, afraid she’d be found out.

She hesitated at the docks, before boldly creaking across the planks and kneeling beside a post where she worked at thick knots
. The fishermen had tied them too tight.

“
Use your knife.”

Opis whirled around, startled, her heart racing as she opened her mouth to scream.

Her brother Ramses stepped out of the shadows and onto the dock. The mighty Euphrates gurgled underneath it, hissing as the current swirled around the many posts.

She crouched over her post, with her fingers on the knots and her gaze riveted on her approaching brother.

“Do you leave us to die?” Ramses asked.

Such words frightened her, nay, terrified her
. So she let the bitterness of a father and mother who sold their daughter to a monster sweep over her. “Maybe I do.”

“
Surely life with Uruk is preferable to death.”

“
No,” Opis said.

Ramses nodded, and it seemed then that he noted his knife belted around her waist
. “What is your plan?” he asked. “What shall I tell Gilgamesh when he returns?”

Could she trust even Ramses
? She decided yes, and on the instant, the truth bubbled out of her. She had to tell someone. “I’ll hide in the great southern marsh,” she said.

“
And die out there,” Ramses said.

“
Eventually, I suppose.”

Ramses nodded again
. He knew she must do this. “Gilgamesh will die of grief if you die,” he said.

“
Please let me go, dear brother. I cannot bear the thought of Uruk touching me, of him knowing me. Infinitely worse, however, I know my beloved Gilgamesh. On my behalf, he will perish trying to kill Uruk. Either Uruk will slay him, or the elders will stake Gilgamesh out for murdering a lawfully wedded husband.”

Ramses turned toward the vast river
. One heartbeat, two, he sighed, and he crouched beside her and untied the knots, freeing the reed boat. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “Soon Gilgamesh will return, for the Army of Babel goes to free him.” He pressed the rope into her small hands. Then Ramses darted off the dock and back into the shadows, leaving her alone.

Opis shuddered
. She dreaded the dark waters, dreaded this journey, she half hoped that Ramses would forbid her this perilous quest. As she pulled the line, drawing the boat nearer so it bumped against the piling, Ramses ran back. He carried a heavy duffel bag and pitched it in the boat.

“
Extra supplies,” he said. “My advice is to stay in the middle of the river and float all the way to the marsh. Find an island there. Build a small reed hut on it and fish. Sooner or later, Gilgamesh will find you.”

“
You must tell him,” she said.

“
I will.”

“
But you mustn’t tell anyone else where I went.”

“
They’ll guess from the missing boat.” Ramses put his hand on hers. “I’ll join you in a few days.”

She touched his che
ek, and she kissed him on the forehead. “You must tell Gilgamesh,” she whispered. “So you cannot join me in the marsh. Fear not, dear brother, I am the betrothed of a Hunter. From the very best, I have learned the lore of woodcraft.”

He didn
’t appear convinced. But he nodded, and then he leaned down and held the boat while she slipped in. He grunted, shoving the narrow, bitumen-covered boat into the vast Euphrates.

Exhilaration and terror blossomed
. She knew almost nothing of woodcraft. That had been a lie for Ramses. Yet she understood bravery. So she picked up the paddle and dipped it into the cool waters. She felt the strain of it in the muscles between her shoulder blades. She looked back, but already the dock was dark and too far away. Ramses had vanished. Squeezing her eyes, saying a prayer to Jehovah, she rowed, bringing herself to the middle of the river, letting the current take her to who knew what strange destiny.

28.

Ham at last agreed to terms. Upon exiting the Hunter’s Compound, a lean man rose from where he crouched against the wall and hurried toward Ham.

“
I wronged you,” Ramses said.

Ham said nothing as he limped home.

The lithe youth stared at the ground as he walked beside Ham. “I know you don’t trust me now. I don’t blame you.” He glanced at Ham. “I beg for your forgiveness. I had no idea what they planned.”

Ham halted and studied the boy
. Ramses looked haggard, in agony of soul. Ham patted him on the shoulder. “I forgive you.”

Ramses, never very emotional, grabbed his hand
. Then he let go, as if embarrassed by the display. “If I can ever do something for you…”

Ham smiled
. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.”

Ramses turned away, while Ham limped home, brooding, wondering how best to thwart the coming war.

These days, all the youths trained diligently, marching with spear and shield and shouting in mock rage as they thrust into straw dummies. Babel seethed with activity, a whirlwind of motion.

Then training halted as the barley bent under the weight of its ears
. Everyone helped in the harvest. Most people worked in teams of three. The first man reaped with a clay sickle, swinging, cutting dry stalks with a tool fired in a brick-baking kiln. The sickle had almost become vitrified, or turned glassy. Because of its hardness, the clay cut almost as well as a flint sickle. The price for the hardness and thus sharpness, however, was brittleness. Clay sickles often broke. Fortunately, making another cost almost nothing in terms of time and material. The second man of the team followed the first, gathering the cut stalks and binding them into sheaves. The third man piled the sheaves. Later, working in tandem, the three-man team hauled the grain to a threshing floor, spreading the stalks and driving a sledge over it. Under the sledge-board were embedded chips of flint and other sharp stones. These stones cut and separated the grains from the stalks. Barley lifters with flat wooden shovels heaved the product into the air. Wind blew away the lighter chaff and husks, while the heavier grains fell back onto the pile. If there wasn’t any wind, workers with wicker winnowing fans provided the breeze. The result of all the hard labor was golden heaps of barley. Joyfully, workers shoveled the wealth into fat-bellied storage jars. They loaded the jars onto two-wheeled carts and let oxen pull the carts to granary sheds.

The bountiful harvest weighed heavily in favor of Kush
’s decision. He and others claimed it was a message from the angel, incontrovertible evidence that they must indeed fight for freedom.

After the five days of harvesting and threshing
, and Uruk’s empty-handed return from the southern marsh, the training resumed and Fall Festival drew nearer. Finally, the day arrived when the chosen Hunters and the selected citizens of Babel, about two thirds the city levy, assembled, listened to speeches, cheered and then set out north to face the slavers and put to rest this so-called curse of Noah.

29.

Ham morosely sat in his workroom. His carving tools and saw lay on the table, as did a half-finished ivory piece. He eyed the many shelves and on them the figurines: Ymir, Rahab, the leviathan, Noah with his staff, a great sloth and mammoth and sabertooth cat. Scribes, priests, warriors and two peasants with a yoked team of oxen, these figurines and more, many more, lined the shelves. Ham stared, with deflated shoulders and with a grim feeling of defeat.

He sighed and uncorked the clay jug that sat between his legs
. The jug was heavy with beer. He sloshed it. What was the use of staying sober? Kush and Nimrod marched with Menes, Ramses and countless others. They marched to shed blood, to wage war, to gain glory. They didn’t put it that way, of course.

Ham grimaced, touching the tip of the jug to his lips
. The strong aroma of beer wafted through his nostrils. He closed his eyes, yearning to drink, to drown his worries and despair in long hours of drunkenness. His proud boasts now sounded hollow. His rage meant nothing after all. He was useless.

The hinges of his workroom door creaked
. He didn’t want to look up. Perhaps if he chugged deeply Rahab would leave him alone. He doubted it, yet…

Her garments rustled as she moved into the room, her footfalls light
. The bench he and now she sat on groaned ever so lightly. He opened his eyes as he set down the jug, looking into the wrinkled face of his wife. What he saw surprised him. It wasn’t reproof, anger or resigned despair. Surrounded by her hood and strands of gray hair, her bird-bright, brown eyes shone. A mischievous smile creased her lips.

“
What is it?” Ham asked.

“
You’re forbidden to leave Babel, isn’t that correct?” she asked.

He scowled
. He didn’t want to talk about it. He had been shamed, demeaned and demoted. Perhaps, genetically, he was the patriarch, in terms of family lines and seniority, the old man of the Tribe of Ham. However, his rude handling these past weeks had left him practically a prisoner, a castoff figure of folly and derision. The impotence of his will had wrung out his self-respect. Other than moments of rage, he was useless.

“
Odin, grandson of Ashkenaz, has been left in charge of the city’s Hunters,” Rahab said.

Ham shrugged
. What did that matter? Ashkenaz was a son of Gomer, the son of Japheth. He recalled the day he’d trekked to their site, the long cabin, and how he had persuaded Ashkenaz to immigrate to Babel. Soon thereafter, several of Ashkenaz’s grandsons had joined the Hunters, Odin being the most prominent among them.

“
Why was Odin left behind?” Rahab asked. “Do you know the reason?”

Ham shook his head
. He wished his mysterious wife, with her strange smile, would depart and leave him in peace. He fondled the jug. He wished to drink, to get drunk, to wallow in his despair and not bother thinking about his empty days.

“
Odin is a Japhethite,” Rahab said.

“
Yes,” Ham said. “But his allegiance is to the Hunters, to Nimrod especially.”

“
Unquestionably true,” Rahab said. “So why was he left here? He is the Spear Slayer after all, and he’s a captain.”

Ham sighed
. Each of the Hunters had earned a cognomen, a nickname that denoted a specialty. Nimrod was the Mighty Hunter. Gilgamesh was the Ghost Stalker. Odin, this grandson of Ashkenaz, was called the Spear Slayer, and he was a captain among the Hunters. Ham scowled, angry that he should think of this, but such a one as Odin might be sorely needed in a battle against the Japhethites and Beor and his Scouts. His wife had a point. Yet what did that matter? He had been demeaned and demoted. He was a figure of derision, a prisoner among his own offspring.

“
Aren’t you curious why Nimrod left the Spear Slayer?” Rahab asked.

“
Some one had to stay,” mumbled Ham.

“
To watch you? Is that what you mean?”

He shrugged.

“Are you saying, my husband, that you are such a dangerous possibility, that your fight against Ymir is remembered with such awe, that Nimrod would assign one of his toughest warriors to watch you?”

Irritated that his own wife should mock him, Ham looked away
. He wished she would leave. So he could drink, get drunk and forget about his impotence in the numbness of much beer.

Rahab said,
“Perhaps Nimrod thinks you will pick up an axe, shake it against those who remain, and march out of Babel, riding your chariot ahead of them and warning the others of what occurs.”

His scowl returned, and he regarded those bird-bright
, brown eyes, that mysterious smile.

“
A fast ride to Festival,” Rahab said, “with fresh teams of donkeys. Surely two men in a chariot might dash ahead of the Army of Babel and warn the others.”

“
They might,” Ham said.

“
Perhaps that is why Nimrod kept Odin back, to stop you from doing that.”

“
There are other Hunters here,” Ham said. “Only a handful, that’s true, but enough to stop me.”

“
Together perhaps,” Rahab said, “they might stop you.”

Ham took his left hand off the jug, clenching it
. He was yet strong, at one hundred and thirty years, and agile enough to fight. He had no doubt that in a fair fight with fists, he could defeat many of the Hunters. Most of them, in fact. Odin? Ham pursed his lips. The overweight Spear Slayer was perhaps the third toughest head-to-head fighter among the Hunters. Nimrod, of course, was first, followed by Uruk. Some men said that Gilgamesh would be a match for Uruk. Swiftness versus strength, cunning versus brute force, would be the contest between those two. In a battle, however, when men marched in ranks and rammed into the enemy, heavy warriors like Uruk seemed superior to swift fighters like Gilgamesh.

“
There is another reason Odin remained,” Rahab said, “a different one than mere fighting skills.”

“
Oh?”

The mysterious smile twitched
. “It has to do with his famous trek,” she said, “when he returned from it, when Odin stopped at Mount Ararat.”

“
What is this reason?” Ham asked.

“
Why do you wish to know?” she asked. “Don’t you merely want to get drunk, to wallow in your sorrow, to forget the humiliations you received?”

His features hardened.

“Or have you forgotten that Nimrod walked away from you in the stocks?”

“
I have not forgotten,” Ham said.

“
No?”

He grasped her wrist
. “Do not mock me, wife. It is unbecoming.”

She nodded after a moment
. “I have a plan, husband, if you are daring enough. It is a plan that will wipe away the shame of the stocks.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Ah,” she said. “I think you’re finally ready.”