by Wilbur Smith
Trok strode through the wall without a check and killed the high priest with a single thrust through the old man’s throat. Wailing at such sacrilege, the other priests prostrated themselves before him.
Trok sheathed his sword and nodded to the captain, who commanded the guard. “Kill them all. Make certain no one escapes.”
The work was done swiftly, and when the courtyard was littered with purple-clad bodies Trok commanded, “Do not throw them into the river. We do not want the city guards to see them float past and guess what we are about.”
Then he turned to watch Ishtar, who, once all the priests had been disposed of, had entered the courtyard to work another charm to counteract the baleful influence of the god they had invoked. At the four corners he burned bundles of herbs, which emitted a thick, greasy smoke that was repugnant to Ninurta and, as Trok remarked jovially, to all gods and lesser mortals equally. Once Ishtar had completed the purification, he led the way into the holy places of the temple, and Trok and his troopers followed him, with blood-caked blades bared.
Their cleated sandals rang hollowly in the gloomy recesses of the high, cavernous hall, and even Trok felt a religious chill as they approached the image of the god on his plinth. The lion’s head snarled silently and the wings of stone were spread wide. Ishtar declaimed another lengthy prayer to the god to placate him, then led Trok into the narrow space between the rear wall and the idol’s back. Here he pointed out a heavily grilled gate built into the body of Ninurta. Trok seized the bars of the grille, and shook them with all his bear-like strength. They did not move.
“There is an easier way, all-wise Pharaoh,” Ishtar suggested sweetly. “The key will be on the body of the high priest.”
“Fetch it!” Trok snapped at the captain of his guard, who ran. When he returned there was blood on his hands, but he carried a bunch of heavy keys, some of them as long as his forearm. Trok tried two in the lock on the grille, and the second turned the ancient mechanism. The gate swung open on creaking hinges.
Trok peered down a descending spiral staircase into darkness. The air coming up the deep shaft was cold and dank, and he heard the sound of running water far below.
“Bring torches!” he ordered, and the captain sent four of his troopers to take down the burning torches from their brackets. With a torch held above his head, Trok started down the narrow, unprotected stairwell. He went gingerly, for the treads of the stone steps were slimy and slippery. The sound of running water grew louder as he went down.
Ishtar followed him closely. “This temple and the tunnels beneath it were built almost five hundred years ago,” he told Trok. Now there was the gleam of water below them, and the sound of the torrent running swiftly in the darkness. At last Trok reached the bottom and stepped down onto a stone pier. By the wavering torchlight he saw that they stood in a wide tunnel with a curved roof, an aqueduct of impressive dimensions. The roof and walls were lined with ceramic tiles, laid in geometric patterns. Both ends of the tunnel shaded off into deep darkness.
Ishtar picked a fragment of fungus from the wall and tossed it into the flow. It was whisked away down the duct and disappeared from sight. “It is deeper than a man’s head,” he said, and Trok looked speculatively at the captain of the guard, as though he considered testing that statement. The captain shrank back into the shadows trying to appear insignificant.
“This footpath on which we stand runs the full length of the aqueduct,” Ishtar explained. “The priests who repair and maintain the tunnel use it to gain access.”
“Where does it start and where does it end?” Trok demanded.
“There is a sump in the bed of the river, under the piers of the temple, into which the water flows. The far end of the aqueduct emerges in the other temple of Ninurta within the walls of Babylon, near the Blue Gate,” Ishtar explained. “Only the priests know of the existence of this tunnel. All others believe that the water is a benevolent gift from the god. After it gushes from the fountain in the temple precinct, the water is lifted by shadoof, water wheels, to the gardens of the palace, or sent by canals to every quarter of the city.”
“I do believe, Ishtar the Mede, that you are close to earning your three lakhs.” Trok laughed with delight. “It remains only for you to lead us down this rabbit-hole, and into the city of wonders and treasure, especially the treasure.”
Trok reasoned that the priests at the main temple of Ninurta within the city walls must regularly correspond with those in the river temple. Almost certainly they used this aqueduct as a thoroughfare between the two communities. It would not take long for them to discover that something untoward had happened to their brethren in the river temple. He had to make his plans swiftly.
Trok chose two hundred of his best and most reliable men, all members of his own leopard tribe. He divided them into two groups. Once they had fought their way through the aqueduct into the city, the first group was to secure the Blue Gate and keep it open until Pharaoh Naja Kiafan could lead the main force through it. The second, much smaller group was to make their way into the palace, and seize Sargon’s treasury before he was able to dispose of the gold. “Although it would take a thousand wagons to carry it all away,” Ishtar assured him.
The chosen two hundred were dressed in the uniforms of Sargon’s army, taken from the prisoners and the dead men left on the battlefield. They wore the long ankle-length tunics of striped material, belted at the waist, and the tall beehive-shaped helmets. Ishtar showed them how to curl their beards and hair into the characteristic ringlets of the Mesopotamians. They wore only a red sash to distinguish them from the foe. Rough copies of the city map were hastily drawn by the army scribes and issued to the captains of both divisions so that they knew the layout of streets and buildings. By evening every man knew exactly what was expected of him once he entered the city.
As soon as it was dark Naja quietly moved his assault force up into position outside the Blue Gate, ready to dash through into the city as soon as Trok’s men threw it open.
In the courtyard of the river temple of Ninurta, Trok mustered his division. While it was still daylight, he and Ishtar led them in single file down the spiral staircase to the level of the aqueduct. There was no hurry, for they had many hours in which to make the long subterranean journey. Their cleated sandals had been muffled with leather socks, so their heavy footsteps did not echo along the gloomy tunnel. They marched in silence, every tenth man carrying a torch, giving just sufficient light for the men who followed to make out their footing on the slimy stones of the pier. At their left hand the never-ending flow of water rustled darkly by. Every thousand paces Ishtar stopped to placate the god Ninurta with gifts and incantations, and to clear the way ahead of the magical obstacles and barriers placed by the dead priests.
Nevertheless, the silent march seemed endless to Trok, and it came as a surprise when abruptly Ishtar stopped and pointed ahead. The faint glimmer of light was reflected off the shiny ceramic walls. Trok signaled the men following him to halt, then went forward with Ishtar. Over their own garments they wore headdresses and purple robes taken from the bodies of the slaughtered priests.
As they went toward the source of the light, they saw another grille gate across the tunnel, and the distorted shadows of men thrown on the walls by the light of a torch set in a bracket above the gate. As they drew closer they saw that on the other side of the grille two robed priests were seated on stools, with the bao board between them, absorbed in their game. They looked up when Ishtar called softly to them. The fat one stood up and wobbled to the gate.
“Are you from Sinna?” he called.
“Yes!” Ishtar assured him.
“You are late. We have been waiting since nightfall. You should have been here hours ago. The high priest will be displeased.”
“I am sorry,” Ishtar sounded contrite, “but you know Sinna.”
The fat priest chuckled. “Yes, I know Sinna. He taught me my responses thirty years ago.”
His key jangled in the
lock of the gate, and then he swung it open. “You must hurry,” he said. Trok trotted forward with the hood over his face, holding his sword in the fold of his robe. The priest stood back against the wall to let him pass. Trok stopped in front of him, and whispered, “Ninurta will reward you, brother,” and killed him with a thrust up under his chin into his brain.
With a shout of alarm, his companion leaped to his feet, knocking over the bao board and scattering the stones across the pier. With two long strides Trok reached him and chopped his head half off. Without another sound, the priest fell backward into the dark stream and, with his robes ballooning about him buoying him up, he was carried away down the tunnel.
Trok gave a soft whistle, and with the muted tramp of muffled feet his men moved up into the torchlight with drawn swords. Ishtar led them forward until they reached the foot of another steep stone stairway. They went up it quickly until they came to a heavy curtain blocking their way. Ishtar peeped around its edge and nodded. “The temple is empty.”
Trok stepped through, and looked about him. This temple was even larger and more impressive than the river temple. The ceiling was so high that the light from fifty torches was eaten up by the shadows. Below them the image of the god crouched over the mouth of the shaft from which the full force of the aqueduct spurted like a gigantic fountain into a deep pond with a white marble coping. The corpse of the priest that Trok had almost decapitated was floating in the pool, from which the water spilled over into the canal that carried it to the city. Although the smell of incense was thick in the air, the great hall of the temple was deserted.
Trok signaled his men to come forward. As soon as they emerged from the tunnel they formed up behind their captains in silence. Trok gave the hand signal and they went forward at a trot. Ishtar led the smaller band through a side door of the hall into a corridor that connected with the palace of Sargon. Trok led his men out into the narrow lane behind the temple and, working only from his memory of the map, turned at the second lane into the wide avenue that he knew led to the Blue Gate. It was still dark and the stars blazed above the sleeping city.
They met a number of cloaked figures on the way, one or two staggering drunk, but the others scurried out of their way and let the dark column of armed warriors pass. A woman with a child in her arms called after them, “May Marduk smile upon you, brave warriors, and keep us safe from Trok, the barbarian of Egypt.” Trok understood just enough Akkadian to catch her meaning, and smiled into his beard.
Disguised in their plundered robes, they reached the end of the avenue without being challenged further, but as the gateway loomed ahead a voice sang out at them from the door of the guardhouse.
“Stand ho! Give the watchword for tonight.” The centurion of the gate, with five men at his back, stepped out into the torchlight. But they were ill-prepared, without helmets and body armor, their eyes puffy and their faces still crumpled with sleep.
“The honorable emissary of King Sargon to the pharaohs of Egypt,” Trok mumbled in execrable Akkadian, and gave the hand signal for his troops to charge. “Open the gate and stand aside!” He ran straight at the centurion.
For a moment longer the man stood uncertainly. Then he saw the glint of swords and shouted urgently, “Stand to arms. Turn out the guard.” But it was too late. Trok was on him, and dropped him in his tracks with a single blow. His men swarmed over the other guards before they could defend themselves, but the noise had alerted the sentinels on the parapets above the gate. They sounded the alarm with braying rams’ horns, and hurled their javelins down into the attackers.
“Winkle them out of there!” Trok ordered, and half of his men rushed up the ramps on either side of the gateway to reach the parapet. They were at once locked in close and desperate fighting with the guards on the wall. Trok kept half of his men with him.
Ishtar had described the gate room that housed the complicated machinery, a system of heavy winches and pulleys, that operated the massive gates. Trok led his men to the entrance before the defenders within could close the doors, and after only a few minutes of furious fighting they had killed or wounded most of them. The survivors threw down their weapons, some fell to their knees and pleaded in vain for quarter. They were stabbed and clubbed as they knelt. The others fled out of the postern gate, and Trok led his men to the massive winches. With two men on each spoke of the capstans they began to open the gates.
But the rams’ horns had aroused the city guards, who swarmed out of their barracks, some without armor and still half asleep, and rushed to defend the gateway.
Trok barred the heavy door to the winch room and placed men at the entrance to defend it. On the parapets above the gateway his men had killed the defenders or thrown them from the top of the wall, and now they fought on the ramps, holding off the attacking Babylonians.
The door to the winch room trembled and bulged as the Babylonians battered at it, trying desperately to break in, but the winches revolved slowly to the efforts of Trok’s men, and the mighty gates rose from their seatings, the gap under them widening inexorably.
The avenue leading to the gates was by now crowded with Babylonian defenders, but they were hampered by their own numbers. Only four abreast could mount the ramps to the top of the walls, and Trok’s men met them and hurled them back. Others were still trying to break into the room that housed the winches, but the doors were sturdy. When at last they smashed them down they found Trok and his men waiting for them on the threshold.
Outside the walls Naja’s men had swarmed forward with crowbars and levers. They forced the heavy gates wider and wider, until at last a squadron of chariots could pass through. Then they stood aside, and Naja led a phalanx of fighting chariots in a brutal charge through the gateway, and swept the avenue from side to side. The army of Egypt poured through behind them. Trok took command of them and led them rampaging through the city toward the palace.
The sack of Babylon had begun.
The defense of the palace was stubborn, led by Sargon himself. However, by that evening Trok had opened a breach in the outer walls of the first terrace. He led a strong contingent through and the defense collapsed. When they burst into Sargon’s bedchamber he was kneeling before the image of Marduk, the devouring god of Mesopotamia, with a bloody sword in his hands. Beside him lay the body of his favorite wife, a gray-haired woman who had been with him for thirty years. He had given her a merciful death, compared to what she might have expected from Trok’s men. However, Sargon had not been able to steel himself to fall on his own sword. Trok knocked the weapon out of his grasp.
“We have much to discuss, Your Majesty,” he promised him. “Was it not you who referred to me as the Black Beast of Seueth? I hope to convince you that you painted me the wrong color.”
The women from the zenana were herded out of the palace, only five hundred of them, not the five thousand of whom Ishtar had spoken. Trok selected twenty, the youngest and prettiest, for his personal entertainment, and the rest were given to his senior officers. After they had enjoyed them, they would be passed on to the common soldiery.
It took another two days to break into the treasury buried deep in the earth below the palace, for many ingenious constructions and devices guarded it. Without the expertise and first-hand knowledge of Ishtar the Mede, it might have taken even longer to penetrate to the main treasure chamber.
When the way was clear, Trok and Naja, Heseret following them, descended the stairway and entered the chamber. Ishtar had lit the interior with a hundred oil lamps, their rays cunningly reflected by burnished copper mirrors to show off the booty to full effect.
Even the two pharaohs and Heseret were stunned into silence by the splendor of the treasure. The silver had been cast into bars, the gold into conical ingots that fitted into each other to facilitate stacking. They were all stamped with the goldsmiths’ marks and the royal cartouche of Sargon.
Heseret, for once speechless, had to shade her delicate eyes against the dazzle of the masses of precious m
etal. Naja walked forward slowly between the stacks, which were higher than his head, stopping every few paces to stroke the ingots. At last he regained his voice and whispered, “They feel warm and smooth as the body of a virgin.”
Trok picked up a heavy bar in each hand and laughed with delight. “How much?” he demanded of Ishtar.
“Alas, splendid and divine Majesty, we have not yet had the opportunity to count it. But we have consulted the scrolls of Sargon’s scribes. They record the total weight of silver at fifty-five lakhs, the gold at thirty-three.” He spread his tattooed hands deprecatingly. “But who would trust the count of a Babylonian?”
“Sargon is a greater robber than I gave him credit for.” Trok made it sound like a compliment.
“At least there is enough here to pay me the pittance you promised me?” Ishtar suggested smoothly.
“I think we should discuss that further.” Trok smiled at him genially. “I am a kindly and generous man, Ishtar, as you know full well. However, over-generosity is a form of stupidity. Stupid I am not.”
Once he had finished gloating over the contents of the treasury, there was much else to see and marvel at within the city. Trok and Naja toured the palace, climbing to the top terrace with its fountains, gardens and groves. From this height they could look down on both the great rivers and the vista of fields, marshes and papyrus beds outside the city walls.
Next they visited all the temples, for these magnificent buildings were also stuffed with bullion, beautiful furniture, statuary, mosaics and other works of art. As they removed these Naja and Trok spoke to the incumbent god in conversational tones, as brother gods and equals. Trok explained that Babylon was no longer a capital city but merely a satrapy of Egypt. Therefore the god should remove his earthly seat to Avaris, where Trok undertook to provide him with suitable accommodation. The removal of the god’s wealth should be considered in the nature of a loan which would later be repaid.