People of Babel (Ark Chronicles 3)

by Vaughn Heppner

  Ham shook his head. “That is as good as declaring war against the Hunters.”

  “By Beor’s account of how he lost his wife,” Assur said, “it seems like a reasonable request.”

  “Reasonable or not,” Ham said. “It is a point on which no one will yield.”

  19.

  For two days, Kush wore his finest garments, long, red robes and a square leather hat with a ruby in the front center. Arm-in-arm, he showed Assur the sights of Babel: the canals, the fields, the river, boats and myriad of fish, fowl and eggs taken from the reed-filled lagoons. He showed Assur the walls, the stout homes, some of them two stories tall, the clean lanes and the beginning base for the Tower of Babel. He showed him the smithies, the items of bronze, daggers, arrowheads, shovels and plows. He showed him beer in the making, the baking of bricks, the vast stores of barley, wheat and sesame seeds. From Ham’s chariot, he showed Assur Hunters bringing down a bull elephant. He showed him Lud’s pottery, leather tanning and the creating of parchment. Kush showed Assur the plenty and industriousness of Babel, the budding of civilization, that Earth’s greatest and best hope lay in all the children of Noah banding together and lifting humanity into a golden age of prosperity here in this city.

  Assur, in his plain white robe, his long, dusty beard, drank in the sights. He seemed to marvel, and said many times, “I had no idea it was like this. Cousin, this is amazing.”

  Throughout the sights, the days of good eating and the evenings sipping date palm wine, Kush assured Assur of his peaceful intentions. They sat in candlelight one night in whicker chairs on the roof, studying the stars and sipping from golden chalices. Deborah rocked in her rocker, needling woolen threads.

  “Youthful vigor is good,” Kush said. “You saw the Hunters.”

  “They are very brave,” Assur said. “I thought the charging elephant would trample some of them.”

  “Yes,” Kush said. “They are skilled men, those Hunters. Brave, as you say. Sometimes, too—and this is very sad—they are impetuous. Take this terrible situation with Beor.” Kush shook his head. “I will not tolerate such things if what Magog says is true.”

  “How can you doubt it?” Assur asked. “I attest to its truth, otherwise I would not have come.”

  “I do not doubt you,” Kush said. He shook his head. “The subject is difficult for me, so I find it hard to express myself properly. What I hope is that, during Festival, we hammer out these differences.”

  “Do you think it will be that easy?” Assur asked.

  Kush looked stern and thoughtful, setting his chalice down, rubbing his wooly, white beard. “If Olympus hadn’t died, perhaps, for now blood has been shed, and Jehovah has said that blood must be paid for with blood.”

  Assur sipped date palm wine. “Olympus was a son of Japheth, not a son of Ham. One might think then that Olympus’s death is something for Japheth to avenge.”

  Deborah halted her measured rocking. “If you would permit a woman’s observation.”

  “Please,” Assur said.

  “Olympus was a grandson of Javan, thus of the tribe of Japheth,” Deborah said. “Yet he was also a citizen of Babel. For my husband has declared that everyone of the city shall be treated equally.”

  Kush nodded. “I am duty-bound to see justice done for Olympus.”

  Assur studied his chalice. “Perhaps justice has already been done.”

  Deborah and Kush traded glances.

  “Er, yes,” Kush said. “That is how it might appear on the surface. I, however, prefer to wait until Festival. There, all the sons of Noah, working in unison, can arrive at a just decision.”

  “We’ve learned from our experiences at Babel that unity is all-important,” Deborah said.

  Assur seemed thoughtful, as if he would add to that, but he didn’t. Soon, they spoke on other things.

  A few days later, Assur and his delegation readied to depart. He praised Kush, as nominal head of Babel, for openly declaring that he yearned to solve this dilemma peacefully. Assur assured him that such he would report to Magog, to Japheth and finally to Noah.

  20.

  Nimrod seethed. Hunters of his had been ambushed, had been beaten in forest combat and had been out-thought, out-fought and out-wood-crafted. He took Minos, Thebes and Obed far out into the wilds and railed at their stupidity, at their cowardice during battle. In a row, the three wayfarers stood, heads hung low, not daring to meet the Mighty Hunter’s gaze. Nimrod tongue-lashed them. Ambushed! Fallen upon unawares as if they were deer or oxen. How many wild dogs, he asked, ambushed lions? They were not like lions. That was painfully obvious. They understood nothing about hunting, about stalking, about slaying foes.

  “You are worthless,” Nimrod said. He drew a gnarled vine staff from his belt, a baton of office. Each of his captains bore one. “Obed. You, I once trusted, and you once performed great deeds, so I shall absolve you from punishment—this time. Minos, for Semiramis’ sake I hesitate to beat you as you deserve, and I know that in reality you are a rat and never to be compared to a lion or even to a wild dog. Dogs at least bare their fangs when kicked. You couldn’t even hold onto your weapons. Thebes, you have the makings of a Hunter and perhaps you can yet learn how to be a lion. Therefore, you will withstand the worst of my spleen. If you dare, I bid you to draw your dagger and defend yourself.”

  Thebes looked up, confused, until Nimrod advanced toward him. Thebes backed away, with his hand on the hilt of his dagger.

  “Kill me if you can,” Nimrod said.

  Thebes looked to Minos. Minos licked his lips and moved to Nimrod’s left. Cobra-quick Nimrod struck, the vine baton catching Minos on the side of the head, dropping him with the crack of wood on bone. Obed back-pedaled and then went to one knee, taking himself out of the fight. Thebes snarled and drew his dagger, the razor-sharp bronze glinting in the sunlight. The baton lashed again, hitting Thebes’ hand so the dagger dropped to the sand. Then Nimrod beat Thebes, until Thebes lay unconscious beside his dagger.

  Sweat slicked Nimrod’s face. He breathed heavily. He bid Obed to step near. Warily, Obed did, his grotesque features twisted with worry. “That one,” Nimrod said, toeing Minos, “will never be a Hunter. But this one.” Nimrod pointed at Thebes. “He never cried out in pain. For him, there is hope. Stay with them. Help them back to Babel, and tell me later if Thebes still desires to remain in the Hunters.”

  Thebes did so desire, as did Minos. And for Semiramis’s sake, Nimrod took them both.

  The next day, Nimrod sat with Ham in his workroom. He asked the patriarch about rats and spotted fever and nodded judicially regarding the theory of Thule. Then, bit by bit, Nimrod asked about giants, Nephilim heroes and battles. He got Ham talking about Ymir and how the Nephilim had used the Choosers of the Slain to build a kingdom. Nimrod listened for hours, absorbed, wanting every detail about battles.

  It finally dawned on Ham that Nimrod seemed too keen. “Battles are a terrible curse,” Ham said. “Men die hideously.”

  “You speak of a curse,” Nimrod said. “I wonder if you mean Noah’s curse, the one implemented in Magog Village?”

  Ham grew silent.

  “My men are yoked like animals and forced to labor for others,” Nimrod said. “Doesn’t that sound like slavery?”

  Reluctantly, Ham nodded.

  Nimrod soon bid farewell and sought out Kush at the Tower site. Anon the Architect directed youths placing baked bricks into the vast base. With his plum-line and level, Anon studied each stack of bricks, insuring perfection. Kush, with slime on his fingers, helped mortar a section. Upon seeing Nimrod, Kush excused himself, wiping his hands, unable to scrub-off all the tarry slime. It was impacted under his fingernails, and black stains dotted his woolens.

  “A messy business,” Kush said.

  “So is this affair with Magog,” Nimrod said.

  Kush scowled. “I wonder sometimes what might have happened if Beor had died by the dragon as I’d planned.”

  Nimrod stiffened. He wore h
is lion-skin cloak and a tooled leather belt, with the vine baton thrust through it. The leather straps of his sandals clad his muscular calves, and his handsome features, the blaze of his eyes, the angle of his chin, gave him a lion-like quality: imperious, bold and deadly. His father Kush was heavier, with bigger hands, but coiled strength, litheness of movement and sinuous grace made Nimrod the Dragon-Slayer seem indeed like a warrior-born.

  “Without Beor you would have missed this opportunity,” Nimrod said.

  Kush, who rubbed at a particularly stubborn stain on the meaty part of his palm, looked up in surprise. “Is that a joke?”

  “We’ve often wondered about Noah’s curse, yes?”

  Kush’s nostrils, flat and rather wide compared to most men’s, flared, heightening his image of an ox.

  “We’ve been told many times,” Nimrod said, “that Jehovah moves in slow steps, taking long years before bringing down His wrath. Now, because of Beor, we see that slavery of the sons of Ham—not just the sons of Canaan—will occur in our lifetime. Perhaps even to you and me.”

  “Your Hunters brought this upon themselves,” Kush said. “If you attempt to kill a man, you do it. You don’t fail. They failed, and now they reap their reward.”

  Nimrod shook his head. “You haven’t considered the full implications. Hamites have become slaves of Japhethites. The reasons don’t matter. Noah’s curse has happened, or the first step has. Others see that, if we can’t or if we refuse to. Soon they’ll consider it a matter of course. ‘Yes,’ they’ll say, ‘Noah has cursed them. This is just. They’re slaves.’ Soon, as it surely must—for they are men just like us—some of them will say, ‘Work is tiresome. Let us capture more slaves to do our work for us. They are, after all, Hamites, natural slaves, cursed so by Noah.’”

  Kush’s dark eyes gleamed as he stroked his bushy, white beard.

  “You told Assur that the sons of Noah will decide our fate,” Nimrod said, watching his father. “Japheth will sit in judgment of us. Perhaps so will Gomer.”

  “I will not be goaded,” growled Kush. “Not by you, not by anyone.”

  Nimrod laughed. “Fair Babel, home to the angel. What is your design, Father? To draw the others here, to rebuild civilization to staggering heights, to carve a name for ourselves, a glorious name to shine throughout eternity.” Nimrod shook his head, laughing again. “The men of Babel are slaves to the sons of Japheth. We are timid and meek, trembling at the curse of Noah. Are we truly the ones who will rebuild civilization?”

  “Nor will I be goaded into moving too soon,” Kush said.

  “Then you will be too late.”

  Kush’s features hardened.

  “Did Black Mane allow me the leisure of a perfect instant to move?” Nimrod asked. “Did the leviathan pause before he ate Anu? There is a moment, Father, when to wait is to die, to accept defeat. Instead, at that moment, one must strike before he is struck, at least if he desires victory.”

  “What do you suggest?” Kush said with a sneer.

  Nimrod lifted a fist. “I will not be a slave. I will not cow before the curse of Noah. To this end, I have raised the Hunters, a band of warriors who will not submit to infamy.”

  “Is that so? Yet they have been defeated by Beor’s Scouts.”

  An ugly smile matched Nimrod’s fiery eyes. “A skirmish is not a battle. A single loss doesn’t decide a war.” He leaned nearer, twisting his head, spitting at the ground. “I give that for the curse of Noah. Listen to me, Father, as I lay my curse. I will make them slaves. They will cower before us.”

  “Boasts aren’t deeds,” growled Kush.

  “That’s what I’ve been saying. You’ve told me for years that we will not bow to evil, that the sons of Ham will not accept the yoke of slavery from anyone. We will be free, you said. We will impose our will on the others. Father, as a Hunter, a man of the chase, I tell you that this is the moment to strike. We must march to Festival armed and trained for battle. We must surprise them, striking down any who opposes us.”

  “But I told Assur—”

  “Do you think Japheth and Gomer will believe that you’ll meekly accept a peaceful solution? They always think the worst of a man, these Japhethites who hide clubs along a trail. They cheat, thinking nothing of using deception. But this time you don’t just risk yourself. You risk Babel and our dream of civilization. What kind of name will we forge if we go as fools to the slaughter?”

  A haunted look entered Kush’s eyes.

  “They’ve made slaves of Hamites,” Nimrod said. “Their appetite has been whetted, a dangerous thing indeed. For you must remember the old saying: Eating builds appetite. How long until they march here to make us slaves?”

  “You’re overreacting,” Kush said.

  Nimrod laughed. “One doesn’t make a name through hesitation. Father, you must think of Babel. You must awe the Japhethites through our boldness, our hardness of resolve. Bend them to your will. Do not be bent by theirs and the wretched, unfair curse of Noah.”

  Slowly, Kush nodded. “Perhaps you are right. I must think on this.”

  “Don’t think too long. Otherwise we cannot train in time for battle.”

  “Battle?”

  “We must march to Festival as if for war,” Nimrod said. “For lions aren’t slain by wishes, only by courage and skillfully wielded spears.”

  Turning away, scowling, with his head bowed in thought, Kush absently wiped his hands and moved with slow steps back to the Tower.

  21.

  The summer sun ripened the fields as water gurgled through the canals. Kush brooded over the enslavement of Gilgamesh, Enlil and Zimri. He prayed more and sought the angel’s aid. Deborah, meanwhile, spoke quietly with Miriam, Canaan’s wife. In turn, Miriam talked to Canaan, swaying him to the view that perhaps Noah’s curse had caused this slavery.

  “Our son, Beor, stands in the middle of this,” Canaan said. “So it cannot be the curse.”

  “That isn’t what Deborah says, and who among us is more knowledgeable about the ways of Noah?” Miriam asked. “When Deborah was a child, Noah used to spend hours alone with her.”

  Canaan grew silent, and during the next few days, people heard him in the fields arguing heatedly with Zidon.

  As the days melded one into the other, people talked about this outrage, some beginning to gesture with anger, speaking ill of Magog and Beor the Traitor. Nimrod trained his Hunters, and from the altar, Kush spoke to the people, stirring them to thoughts of justice, of righting wrongs, of making certain that the hated institution of slavery was demolished at its inception.

  Late one evening in his rock room, Deborah told Kush, “If you lead them in battle, your authority will be immeasurably strengthened.”

  “What about Nimrod?” Kush asked. “He seems thirsty for the blood of men.”

  “He once ate the dragon heart,” Deborah said. “So let him be a dragon to your enemies. Let him be your War-Chief. Let the people see you talking with him, nodding sagely at his advice. But on no account can you let Nimrod head the attack.”

  Kush picked a red stone off the shelf, hefting it. “When I think about marching against Noah, my stomach churns. For surely, Noah will be at Festival this year.”

  “You don’t march against Noah. You march against those who turn citizens of Babel into slaves.”

  Kush studied the red stone. “My courage wilts whenever I think of meeting Noah across a battlefield. Who can defeat the Patriarch of Man?”

  “Even though you know that sooner or later you must face him?” Deborah asked.

  Kush clutched the rock, his eyes haunted.

  “You must pluck up your courage, husband. You must realize the gift you’ve been given in Nimrod and his Hunters. Nimrod is strong and skilled in the chase. Everyone knows it, and they will be encouraged in his company. Like our fields, Nimrod has ripened. Consider. His leadership in the chase will now turn into generalship on the battlefield. The Mighty Hunter of the forest will soon be the mighty soldier in the p
lain. He subdued the savage beast and will soon conquer his fellow man. Your task, my husband, is to harness Nimrod’s ability and make it work for you.”

  “This is a terrible risk,” Kush said.

  “Don’t you know that people whisper that you fear the curse too much? Do you think that if you fail to march now that, in time, Nimrod might not usurp you? Simply by exciting the people to revenge, he could gain supreme power.”

  Kush’s features turned stern. He put away the red stone. From that day on, he turned Babel into an armed camp, persuading his brothers to march to Festival as for war.

  22.

  Rahab scooped barley grains out of a sack and onto a clay sheet, setting the sheet over the hot hearth and then covering the sheet. These barley grains came from a field that had ripened earlier than the rest, which, in a week or two, would be harvested. She heated these grains, parching them to prevent germination. Once parched, these grains lasted for years if stored in sealed jars and kept dry. Thus, unlike fleshy plants like melons, cucumbers or mushrooms or leafy plants like cabbage, lettuce, spinach or onions, the cereals like wheat or barley maintained their value year after year after year. Some families had built extra huts, storing more and more grain. So prevalent and long lasting was grain that it had become a medium of exchange. So many sacks of barley, became a standard value for such varied items as daggers, cows, beer and jewelry, practically anything really. And with stored grain acting as a medium of exchange, the more one possessed, the richer one became. Huts filled with grain jars equaled easily gauged wealth.

  Rahab sighed. Wealth, hadn’t Assur said that Nimrod could gain the captives’ release through the exchange of goods?

  She tied the barley sack. Thoughtfully, she headed to the workshop down the hall. Through the closed door she heard humming and the tap-tap-tap of a chisel. She knocked.