Twilight in Babylon (40 page)

Salt.

In modern-day Iraq the Persian Gulf was at least a hundred miles farther south, and she could see the reason why.

Silt. The mouths of the rivers silted up over the centuries, the millennia, putting more and more land on the edge of the gulf. The salinity of the water was cumulative, driving the people farther and farther north in order to find decent soil. “Do we know where we’re going?” she asked Cheftu.

He shook his head, and Chloe saw the streaks of sweat running down his back. Fuzz glinted golden on his head already, and Chloe wondered how long it would take for those long braids to grow back. Years probably, if Cheftu’s hair grew like hers did—like hers used to.

She’d blamed his hair, his body, for the way she felt: drugged with desire. An exotic and new covering on the soul she loved so much and knew so well, was her excuse. There had to be some reason she couldn’t keep her hands off him.

He seemed to feel the same way about her.

It will be a miracle if we make it to wherever Nimrod leads,
Chloe thought. Neither Chloe or Cheftu had had even a double hour of sleep since they’d found each other. Cravings ran just too high actually to sleep beside each other.
Is this how a junkie feels?
she asked herself as she swatted a sheep on the rump, encouraging it back into the group. It was insane, but when she touched Cheftu—she had to have him inside her. Usually the sooner the better.

And it
got
better, every time.

I have to stop thinking this way or we won’t make it any farther today.

Another
guf
zipped by, the wind blowing the cloth around the sailors’ heads. They looked cool, exhilarated. Chloe put one foot in front of the other and felt the sweat drip off the end of her nose.

Ahead, Nimrod walked with his family; his two wives, his brother Roo, who’d been Chloe’s classmate, and a mass of sheep, goats, and cattle. Chloe was down to three sheep now. When she’d been listed as being among the “chosen,” someone had taken four of her sheep. Mimi, the goat, she couldn’t give away. As though he knew she was thinking of him, he turned wicked yellow eyes her way, his jaw moving furiously.

She was still dressed; Cheftu was, too. Who knew what the goat was eating.

“Hya! Hya!” she called, and hustled her livestock forward.

Ahead of her, Cheftu walked in a very short skirt and bare chest.

Oh yeah, it was hot….

“From the north to the south, from east to west. Everywhere, there is the taxman.”
By dusk, they’d reached the outskirts of a town and a broken dike.

“I’ve never seen a place so flat,” Cheftu said. Because of the flatness, any depth of water made the entire world look flooded, with the exception of the walled commonwealth of Larsa, which rose on the northeastern horizon, built up on generations of clay remains.

Chloe wondered if when she’d woken up in the plain of Shinar, this had been the depth of the water around her—four inches. Except she’d known there were houses and people and animals beneath the water, so it had to have been deeper. Still, this image was chillingly familiar. Flood. “I don’t see any animals going two by two,” she joked.

Nimrod walked back to them. “It’s not that deep. Step carefully. The walls of Larsa protected that commonwealth from the waters, and we can be in the city tonight.”

They slogged through the water, which was only calf deep. The sagging heads of barley poked through the surface occasionally, and palm trees, appearing stunted, grew from the blue water. Mosquitoes formed a mist on its face, and Chloe wrapped her head in her top to keep her nostrils and ears from becoming plugged with the incessant buzzing.

The walls of Larsa were wearing away; the brick had only been sun-baked, so sitting in water was starting to dissolve the clay. At the gate, a series of men, dressed in skirts similar to those in Ur, and black-haired or shaved bald, awaited them.

“Greetings,” they said to Nimrod. “Where do you journey from?”

“The great commonwealth of Ur,” he answered.

“How many are in your party?”

“Male humans?”

“No, everyone.”

It took some counting, but with the addition of children and women, they arrived at 63 humans and 109 animals.

One scribe started figuring that, while the first man told them of the sleeping arrangements available. “As you saw, our fields are in dire shape. Most of the freedmen and slaves who live out there had to take refuge within the city walls.”

“Is there room for us?” Nimrod asked.

“After a fashion,” the man said, then accepted the numbers from the other scribe. “Each of you will owe a 45 percent night-stay tax—”

“That’s—!”

“And an additional fee, paid to each of the homes in which you stay, plus payment for food for you and your families, overnight rental space for your animals, the temple tax so the god Ningirsu allows you to stay, and, of course, payment to me and my accountant here for our services.”

It was dark now. The moon and stars reflected on the waters that formed a moat around Larsa.

“Forty-five percent of what?” Cheftu asked the man; Nimrod looked like he could strangle him.

“All your estimated wealth. Travelers from Ur, you must be quite well-to-do,” he said with a wink and smile.

Cheftu drew himself up. “Then let me be the first to inform you that all the citizens of Ur beggared themselves in order to barter with Sin, who interceded with the sun god, not to destroy us. None of us have anything of value anymore.”

“Well,” the man said, “that is unfortunate. Either you pay the tax, or you keep walking.”

“Where?” Nimrod asked.

“Out of our territory, which is another half day’s journey, most of it through water right now. I’ll send escorts with you.”

“Who will no doubt, need to be paid?”

“Welcome to Larsa,” the man said. “Choose quickly, we close the gate in a few minutes.”

Nimrod and Cheftu looked at each other. “Would they take sheep in payment?” Chloe asked. “A goat?”

“I wonder if the people inside the walls are taxed like this,” Nimrod said. “They should rise up and kill these men!”

“What is our decision?” Cheftu asked.

Water. Possible malaria. Confusion, exhaustion… “What if the next commonwealth does the same thing?” Chloe said. “Then what will we do?”

“If they take 45 percent here and now,” Nimrod said, “then the next time, 45 percent is considerably less.”

“I have an idea,” Chloe said. “Barter for us to pay when we leave, and let us stay here a few days. And make sure I get to stay in a place with a big kitchen.”

Nimrod nodded as a light dawned in his eyes. “Is Nirg going to want to help you?”

“Oh yeah, I think so.”

*      *     *

Chloe got to sleep at dawn, and woke a double hour later, feeling refreshed. Cheftu was gone, and she stretched in the not terribly big or comfortable bed. At least they weren’t walking today. She’d just opened her eyes when something fell on the bed.

Chloe squealed and sat up.

The snake writhed in the sheets. She screeched and jumped off the bed. The snake, equally alarmed and rudely awakened, slithered off to a corner of the room.

Cheftu threw the door open. “Chloe?”

She stood stark naked in the center of the chamber and stared at the ceiling suspiciously.

“Good day,” he said, blocking her from outside view.

“I wonder. A snake just fell on my head.”

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “But I’m awake, that’s for sure.”

“You wanted to know when market day was? Today, it just began.”

She scrambled into her dried-out dress and paused to kiss him before she ran out to the makeshift souq stalls. Their whole plan depended on two things: her good cooking and the residents of Larsa’s imagination.

Either that, or the Urians would be short a few animals and lose a few months to slavery.

Nirg, Nimrod’s silent Aryan wife, walked beside her. “We need sage,” Chloe said, “coriander, marjoram, bay leaf, and pepper.” Ur’s marketplace had had everything—she only hoped Larsa’s did.

Compared to the metropolis on the gulf, Larsa was quiet. The market was almost empty of sellers, and the buyers didn’t seem to be buying. After she found the perfect cuts of meat, she learned why.

Chloe was wrapping the parcel of venison to tuck next to her pork slab, when a man approached her. He coughed delicately. “Yes?” she said.

“That would be another two minae,” he said.

She looked at the butcher.

He raised his hands. “Taxman,” he said.

“The whole cut was only four,” she said to the taxman. “A 50 percent tax on the meat?”

“Venison and pork? Yes.”

“If I got mutton?”

“Fifty percent also.”

“Pigeon?”

“Fifty percent.”

“A fig?”

“Fifty percent.”

“What if I don’t have the percentage—I just spent all I had on the meat?”

“Then, I fear, I will have to intercede with the butcher to return half the meat so you can pay your taxes.”

Chloe weighed out another two minae and got rid of the taxman. “Would you like a receipt?” he asked, gesturing to his scribe who scribbled furiously on a lump of clay.

“Can I deduct it?” she said.

“From what?”

“No, no receipt.” Chloe walked farther down the stalls, and paid more attention. Every shopper paid the vendor, then paid the taxman. Every vendor had a taxman. Nirg related the same thing on her purchases—50 percent tax.

“I’m finished,” Chloe said. It was hot already, and she needed to prepare the meat before it turned. “Let’s go.”

At the archway leading into the market, they were stopped. “Did you enjoy your shopping, ladies?” a man asked.

“No,” Chloe said.

“That’s too bad,” he said. “The two of you, purchasing—” he calculated what they spent, “owe—” he named his price.

“For what? We bought our stuff and we paid our tax! This is unbelievable!”

Nirg laid a calming hand on Chloe’s arm. “Why do we pay you?” she asked the man.

“A shopping tax. It goes to maintaining the courtyard, keeping the awnings in good shape, watering the palms that provide ease from the sun.”

Chloe looked over her shoulder. The market consisted of patched and pitched awnings that leaned against the walls and three palm trees planted in the center of the plaza. A lump of clay, formerly a staged temple that had lost its facing bricks and experienced too many seasons of water, huddled to the side of the market. Three other people shopped, cautiously.

“You’re going to kill the economy,” she said. “If people can’t shop, then they won’t, which will put your vendors out of business here. Everyone will start going someplace else to get what they need.”

“They do,” he said. “We just tax them when they return.”

Chloe exchanged glances with Nirg; she didn’t have anything else that could be considered “cash.” “This has been a terrible day,” she said to the taxman. “It started when a snake fell on my head. Now my meat is going to go bad, and I will have wasted all my time and money. If you want to tax me, you can follow me home.” She walked away. Nirg followed. The man shouted at them, but didn’t pursue.

They reached the gates of the estate where half of the group was staying, without meeting any more taxmen.

After washing their hands, Chloe and Nirg tore into the meat. Nirg, an expert with a metal blade, started chopping—Chloe added the spices.

“Where did you learn to do this?” Nirg asked. “It is not a food of the Black-Haired Ones.”

“No, it’s not,” Chloe said.

“Then again, you are a foreigner, like me.”

Nirg’s hair was the color of a Florida beach, and her eyes were azure blue. Next to Nimrod she looked like an Olympic swimmer, with broad shoulders and a muscular body.

“Yes, I am,” Chloe said. She remembered a little of the marsh girl’s life. Enough to know that her mom was a black woman—a Khamite—and her dad was fair. “Did you grow up in the mountains?” she asked Nirg.

“Yes, with the people of Kidu’s tribe. We ate food like this, but we put it back in the intestines and smoked it. For hunting.”

Anything that went back into the intestines was gross,
Chloe thought.
How could you ever get it clean enough… don’t go there.
“It makes it easy to eat,” she said. “Bite-sized.”

Nirg’s strong fingers mixed in the herbs. Then Chloe added the cheese—not the cheese she’d known—preshredded cheddar—but the only slightly hard cheese she could find. Then flour and a little bit of leavening, some milk and salt.

Together they mashed it into a mass, then divided it into greasy little balls. Chloe watched the fire and when she thought it approximated 375 degrees, they put the trays in and closed the door to the oven.

Nirg excused herself, and the heat of the day wore on.
August,
Chloe thought.
It’s August and I’m slaving over a hot stove outdoors.
“I’m certifiable,” she muttered to herself, and went to sit under the lone palm. The garbage pile was opposite her, so she pinched her nose and closed her eyes.

She jolted awake and checked on her concoction. They were still baking, not quite ready yet. Chloe wiped the sweat off her forehead, then squelched a yelp when she was yanked into the shade.

“Now,” he said as he lifted her up and leaned her against the tree. Chloe gasped as Cheftu entered her. She locked her ankles behind him and held on to her tree above her head. “Silence,” he whispered. She clenched the bark of the tree and gritted her teeth as ecstasy unfolded within her. Her head was spinning, her eyes were shut, her hands became claws as she fought to be quiet. Cheftu’s mouth was on her neck, her breasts, sucking the air from her lungs. Then he held her tight, his lips on hers, and she opened her eyes to see his, unfocused and glazed as he trembled inside her. She put her arms around his neck and whispered in his ear. “I love you.”

His only reaction was a hiccup, then his grip loosened. “Your food is going to burn.” he said.

“My balls!” she cried, and pushed him away. Tugging her skirt into place, she raced to the oven and opened it. They were just about perfect, brown and sizzling.