There were precedents in her family for such a thing. Her mother had whispered the stories to her as a child, and her grandmother, a formidable lady, had witnessed the greatest of those events. Far back in Antediluvian times, when her father was still a child, their kingdom’s army had been on the verge of defeat, on the point of collapse. On the battlefield, the women had thrust forward as they bared their bosoms, pleading with the men to fight on to the last, to die heroes rather than see their wives and children made into slaves. The men, who cherished their wives, who, unlike many Antediluvians, had believed that an element of holiness and gifts of prophecy resided in their women, depended on their advice and goodwill. The men had rallied and driven the enemy back.
“Don’t you realize that in you flows the blood of kings?” Europa asked.
The six clan heads had heard these stories many times, had been weaned on them. They listened. Tiras, however, scowled, while Gomer’s eyes shone.
“Not only kings,” she said, “but the blood of heroes, of sage captains of war. Before my father’s time, the best young men ranked themselves into The Hundred, the chosen formation. They fought in a wedge, giving ground if needed and returning to the attack to win. Shrewd tactics guided them. But even if the battle were uncertain, they always retrieved the bodies of the fallen and brought them home. To throw away one’s shield was the height of disgrace. More than one warrior who had done so and returned home ended his shame by hanging himself.
“Even before my father’s time, the kingdom was known, was marked by men with hardy bodies, well-knit limbs, fierce countenances and unusual mental vigor—just like you sons of Japheth are today. Back then, they appointed men to lead them, and they obeyed such men. They knew how to keep rank, and they recognized opportunities when they came. Oh, my sons, they understood that fortune was fickle, that valor alone was supreme.
“What did Noah say? What did Noah predict for you, my sons? ‘May Jehovah enlarge Japheth, and let him dwell in the tents of Shem, and let Canaan be his servant.’”
Japheth stirred, stroking his beard, the twin vertical lines between his eyes sinking deep in thought.
“We know what dwell in the tents of Shem means,” Europa said. “To have fellowship with those of Shem, to be friendly with them. We are friends, and I counsel us to continue. Wasn’t it I who urged you to send Assur to Babel?”
“Yes, Mother,” Tiras said.
“Enlarge is easily enough explained,” she said. “To possess wide lands, to rule mighty kingdoms. I have always known that was your destiny. But I have come to realize something else. A person cannot rest on his accomplishments or on his abilities. It is like the proverbial rabbit that knows he’s fast and yet loses the race to the tortoise. The sons of Ham feel themselves cursed, and thus they struggle hard against it. They have accomplished much because of their struggles. Yet you, my sons, although I am loath to tell you this, have rested too much on Noah’s prophecy. You must win these kingdoms through courage, through action.
“And how are you to win them?” Europa asked. “I think the last part of Noah’s prophecy says it easily enough: Let Canaan be his servant.”
Europa swept her hood back, the better to study her sons. “Who is the greatest of Canaan’s sons? Beor is. Beor is a mighty warrior, the one who holds grandsons of Ham captive. With Beor stand other sons of Canaan, the Scouts. Now is the time to band together with them and use these servants to help you overcome the Hamites.”
“But mother,” Tiras said. “You just told us that you urged us to send Assur to Babel. He returned with news that they accepted what has happened. That they will come to Festival and bargain for their men.”
“You believe that?” she asked. “Fie on you, Tiras. I didn’t think I had raised such a simpleton.”
“That’s my point,” Tiras said. “I don’t believe it. Beor has provoked them. Those of Babel will be enraged and demand satisfaction against us.”
“What of you?” Europa asked. “Aren’t you enraged that Hamites came to Japheth Land as thieves and murderers?”
“Against one of their own,” Tiras said, “against Beor, not against us.”
“Beor is Magog’s guest. Protecting one’s guests is a holy duty.”
“Yes, I understand that,” Tiras said. “But—”
Japheth shook his head, and Tiras fell silent.
Europa said, “You speak of the Hamites as if you fear their wrath. Yet who leads them? Kush the Ox, they call him. What is an ox? It is a slow and stupid beast.”
“And strong and tireless,” Madai added.
“Yes,” Europa said, “but also guided by a nose-ring. Lead by the nose, in other words.”
Madai shook his head. “The strength of oxen is harnessed through yoke and pole to heavy wagons. By their strength, they drag vast loads. Kush may drag all of Babel upon us, and then what?”
Europa became silent. “These are not the words of a king, Madai.”
“A king must be wise, as you’ve told us many times,” Madai said. “Surely it isn’t wise to give the Hamites a pretext to fight.”
“They don’t fight,” Japheth said. “Assur told us of their good intentions.”
“And you trust that?” Europa asked. “You trust Ham?”
Japheth pursed his lips. “You spoke before about enlarge, in terms of Noah’s prophecy. I don’t believe enlarge means kingdoms. I think it means open-minded, to explore the worlds of thought to vistas of mental acumen. And if that is so, then your entire line of argument is… It fades.”
Europa looked stricken. She was surprised Japheth would undercut her before the boys.
Tiras cleared his throat. “Father, mother, Noah’s prophecy is interesting, to be sure. Yet we have come together to decide what to do about Beor. Should he be allowed to keep the Hamites as slaves?”
“They aren’t slaves,” growled Magog.
Tiras held up his hand. “I retract the term. We’ve been arguing all night about it, and I don’t want to start that again. Whatever we call it, should we allow Beor to do as he sees fit while among us?”
“We’re three to three on the issue,” Magog said.
“Father,” Tiras said. “You must break the tie. You have quizzed Enlil and you have heard Beor’s explanation and our views. Which way do you now chose?”
Europa tried to signal her husband, but he studiously kept from looking at her.
“For now,” Japheth said, “I vote with Gomer and the others. Let Beor keep his captives until Festival, until Noah and Shem tell us what they think. Then we shall see what happens.”
Europa sighed, nodding, glad her husband had seen reason, and glad she had come to the meeting. Otherwise, the others might have persuaded her husband differently. Once again, the women of her family had bolstered the men to a courageous act.
26.
Opis wept as her mother bade her stand before her in a wedding gown. She had stepped onto a block of wood because the old, woolen dress trailed across the tile floor and because it was much too wide in the hips. In the next few days, Kush, as high priest to the angel, would marry her to Uruk, First Captain of Nimrod’s Hunters. Her father had finally succumbed to the pressure, even though he’d given her many promises to the contrary. She wanted to be brave, but the tears kept bubbling as she thought of Uruk leering at her during their wedding nuptials.
“Hush, child,” mumbled her mother, holding several bone pins between her lips. Her mother kept testing the dress, folding back material, pressing it against her. “How skinny you’ve become.” Her mother secured a folded pleat by sticking a pin into it. “You must eat more, or you’ll fade away.”
With the back of her hand, Opis brushed away a tear. Her stomach was in knots. Thoughts of food made her nauseous. Knowing that Gilgamesh was caged in some dirty Japhethite village because he’d listened to Semiramis… It embittered her.
Her father, Lud, now hurried through the room with a pitcher of water in his miry hands. He skirted through the far end. This was their house’
s main room, with a warm hearth and many wooden stands showcasing her father’s pottery masterpieces. Head down, with his long legs striding fast, her father sought to avoid any more demonstrative incidents between them. Opis liked to think because they had become too painful for both of them. Yet she wondered what had finally swayed him against her. It embittered her to think it might have been a few more bronze ingots or extra leather or some glittering stones that everyone considered precious.
“You promised me, Daddy,” called Opis.
Lud stopped as if struck, with his long, lean face wrapped in frowns. He glanced at her and then he wouldn’t meet her gaze. It seemed, however, that he was unable to move.
“You said that only I truly loved you,” Opis said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother flinch. It was a cruel thing to say, Opis realized, especially since it was probably true. Yet volcanoes erupted when the inner pressure became unbearable. “Only I remained while you were sick unto death with spotted fever, Daddy. You swore to me then that I wouldn’t have to marry Uruk. You swore. You promised me.”
“It can’t be helped,” her mother said, her hands busier than ever, roving over the dress, jerking a little harder than before so Opis swayed at the pulls. “You’re more than old enough to be married, too old certainly to remain a maid. Jehovah’s command is to fill the earth. Do you think we have enough people already so silly girls can daydream and stare at the clouds? No, Opis. Now it’s your turn to fill the earth with healthy, rosy-cheeked children. Uruk is a fine man, strong, powerful and important. He’ll make you a wonderful husband.”
Opis shook her head, and she knew her mother bustled to hide her guilt. Ever since that day long ago in the woods, when Uruk had knocked her down and Gilgamesh had drawn his bow… She’d known then that Uruk was a monster and Gilgamesh a hero. She used her moist eyes, silently pleading with her father, willing him to look up and let his hardened heart melt.
Lud hunched his shoulder as if warding off her eyes. It seemed he wished to speak, was compelled to talk.
“When a man like Uruk wants a woman,” her mother said, “that is a great honor. He is rich, a leader and poised high in our great city. You yourself, Opis, will become very important.”
Opis shook her head. She had no use for lies. Her mother spoke to herself more than to her. She assuaged her own guilt.
“Forget Gilgamesh,” her mother said. “The contest is over.”
Lud gathered his courage, or so it seemed, and he looked up. “I had to, Opis. I no longer had a choice. Uruk is the superior man, able to marshal superior arguments as to why he deserves you.”
“He’s a monster,” whispered Opis. She knew by her father’s speech that bronze ingots, extra leather or glittering stones had exchanged hands. That in her father’s heart, greed had defeated love.
Lud turned away, clutching the water pitcher to his chest. He hurried through the door and back to his pottery wheel in the courtyard.
After that, Opis’s mother made her adjustments in silence.
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 cheek, 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.”
People of Babel (Ark Chronicles 3) Page 16