I stopped at the nearest portrait—a beautiful dark-haired woman lounging on a high-backed chair with a pair of big cats, one a tawny lion and the other a smoky black panther, resting on either side. “Nice.”
“That’s a da Vinci. It’s a little more than ‘nice.’”
“She looks a lot like your mom.” I peered closer. The colors had faded and the paint was cracked, but those eyes were the same. “I mean a lot.”
Turns out all the artwork in the foyer looked like Ishtar. A framed charcoal sketch by Toulouse-Lautrec showed her sitting at a café, fingers idle on a cup. Beside that hung a somber, dark painting of her in black silk…yet Ishtar, or her historical doppelgänger, smiled amusedly at me, as if remembering a joke only she understood. It was a strange collection. Had Ishtar picked these out of vanity?
Belet made her way down the hall. “Come on, then.”
I didn’t move. “When are you going to tell me what’s going on, Belet? Girls like you don’t go to schools like mine.”
She stopped. “And what sort of girl is that?”
With a fun mom like Ishtar, she’d had to grow up being the serious one in the family. That must have sucked. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost. “Complicated.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
I shrugged. “I’m a straightforward kind of guy. What you see is what you get.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” Belet barged through the far door. “Hurry up.”
I turned to the cats. “She always like this?”
The cats, being cats, kept their opinions to themselves.
I went through the door, and guess what? No Belet. The corridor branched to the left and right, which didn’t make a whole lot of sense given how narrow the house was. Had they knocked through the building next door?
“Hey! Belet?”
No response. Just great. I had so many questions, and both Belet and Ishtar had disappeared on me.
There was a pair of big double doors on the right, so I headed for those and went through.
Whoa.
Dimly lit glass cabinets filled the room, displaying swords, clubs, pistols, and every type of weapon in between, going back in time to a flint ax someone might have used to take out a mammoth. Along the walls, suits of armor stood at attention. Medieval chain mail hung next to ornate layered samurai outfits and richly inlaid steel-plate suits. It was a history-of-war parade in a single room.
Why would someone like Ishtar spend her fortune on this? I would’ve expected a room full of designer shoes instead.
In the middle of the space, a single spotlight illuminated a curved sword, its blade bare and supported by two silk-covered wedges. It was the scimitar Belet had brought to the fight at the deli.
What was so special about this one? Why pick it when there were Japanese katanas racked up nearby? Maybe because it wasn’t behind glass like the rest?
It did look ridiculously sharp. Working in a kitchen every day made you appreciate a keen edge, and this edge was keener than most.
Every hero from The Arabian Nights carried a scimitar. Those had been my favorite tales as a kid—you didn’t come across many Arabian heroes anywhere else.
I’d never even held a real sword.
I double-checked that Belet was nowhere nearby. Nope. I had the room to myself.
I’d just give it a few swings and then put it right back. I reached out.…
“Hands off, Private.”
I stopped dead and looked around. “Who’s there?”
“You touch me and you’re going to regret it for the rest of your short life.”
I gritted my teeth. The voice had a nasty, ear-aching, metal-scraping-metal pitch. “Come out. This isn’t funny.”
“I gave you an order.”
A couple more cats now prowled about the room, led by the white-eyed Sargon, who sprang up to the top of a suit of armor to watch. The others slinked behind the displays or perched themselves on the cabinets. One of them hissed at me.
They did not want me in here.
Claws clicked on the marble floor. A soft, deep growl rumbled from the shadows, but instead of the lion I was expecting, out came a Siamese. Someone had once told me that a group of cats was called a clowder or a glaring. These were definitely a glaring.
Was it my imagination, or had the cats grown in the last few minutes? Their claws looked longer and their fangs sharper. I heard the fluttering of wings. The green eyes of the black cat glowed and its snarl was something out of the jungle, the threat of a panther.
I picked up Belet’s sword.
“What do you think you’re doing, Private? I am off-limits to enlisted men!”
“Belet! I know you’re in here!” I shouted.
“This is a court-martial offense, soldier!”
The cats encircled me, hissing, growling, and scraping their claws on the floor, leaving deep, clean grooves. A big, fluffy Persian leaped, and I thought I glimpsed…wings as it sailed over me and landed by the door, blocking any escape. Wings?
This was ridiculous. I was freaking out over a bunch of cats! One squirt from a water bottle would be enough to deal with them, so why did I feel like a trapped mouse?
“Call that a fighting stance?” the voice continued. “Where did you learn swordsmanship, in the circus?”
“Shut up, whoever you are!” I swung the sword in front of the black cat that was getting too close.
“Careful, Private Clown. Another move like that and you’ll slice off your own ear.”
“Shut up!” I tightened my grip on the handle. I loved cats—they kept the deli rodent-free—but if any of these fleabags so much as hissed loudly, I was going to—
“Sik!”
I spun around, the sword swinging in a horizontal arc…
At Belet.
I stopped barely an inch from her neck. She hadn’t even blinked.
She held out her hand. “Didn’t your parents teach you not to touch things that don’t belong to you?”
“Ya Allah, Belet.” I was dripping with sweat. “Never creep up on me like that.” But I opened my hand and let her take the blade.
The cats lost interest in me, just like that. The lights brightened, and they went back to licking their paws. They seemed smaller again, and I didn’t see any wings on the Persian. Must have been my nerves playing a trick on me.
“I’m sorry,” said Belet.
I shrugged. “No need to apologize. I just took a wrong turn.”
“I wasn’t talking to you, Sik.”
“That door was supposed to be locked,” said the unknown metallic voice.
Belet wiped down the sword hilt. “Mother invited him unexpectedly.”
“Who are you talking to?” I asked.
She put the scimitar back on its stand. “Kasusu.”
“Yarhamkum Allah,” I said, thinking she had sneezed.
Belet pointed at the scimitar. “That’s Kasusu.”
Okay, okay. I needed a reality check. Get a major grip of yourself, Sik, I thought. “You have a talking sword?”
“All great weapons have voices, Sik,” said Belet. “Some are just louder than others. And more obnoxious.”
“I am not merely great,” said…Kasusu? “I am legendary, boy. You’ve heard of Excalibur?”
“Wasn’t that King Arthur’s sword?” I couldn’t believe I was actually talking to a piece of metal.
“Me. Ah, the fifth century. Those were the days.…”
I looked at it again. “I thought Excalibur would have been a bit…bigger?”
Kasusu huffed. “Size is not everything.”
Belet continued. “The greatest weapons evolve to suit the warrior. Kasusu is the first sword. It can take any form since they are all, originally, based on him. You must have noticed how perfectly it fit in your hand?”
“Okay, okay, okay.” I laughed at myself. A talking sword. As if!
“Something’s amusing you?” asked Belet.
“I’ve realized what’s happening. I’m having a
stress-related breakdown. Or at least a minor psychotic episode brought on by the trauma of last night’s attack.”
The far door swung open, and Ishtar strode in. “Belet, why did you bring him in here?”
“He found it himself, Mother. And where’s the food?”
Ishtar tapped her chin. “I honestly could not find the kitchen. Are you sure we have one?”
I’d had enough. “Look, I love all this domestic stuff, but I came here to find out why a fly-infested giant and a couple of freaks destroyed my home last night. What were they looking for? And how did they know me? Tell me the truth. Like normal people.”
Ishtar stood beside me, and there, surrounded by shadows and deadly weaponry, she came across very differently. It was the difference between seeing a tiger on the other side of the fence and then on your own. Suddenly I wished I’d never accepted their ride. No one would know where to look for me.…
“Sikander…” said Ishtar. “I suppose you know where your name comes from?”
“It’s Arabic for Alexander. Pretty common in the Middle East.”
She nodded. “It means ‘defender of the world.’”
That, I admit, I did not know.
Ishtar sighed. “He died in Babylon, in my arms.”
“Who?”
“Alexander of Macedonia. Alexander the Great. Only thirty-two years old and ruler of much of the ancient world. How much more he might have achieved if he’d only listened to me.”
That was impossible. Alexander the Great had died more than two thousand years ago. Yet she sounded so sincere, as if she were recalling a memory.
Ishtar glanced over her shoulder. “He cut the Gordian Knot with Kasusu.”
The sword grunted.
Ishtar gazed at me. “When I learned your name, I thought it was an omen.” She laughed lightly. “But then I remembered that we gods send omens—we don’t observe them.”
“We?” I asked. “You’re a god?”
Belet raised her head proudly. “My mother is Ishtar, the goddess of love and war.”
Between the freaky cats, the talking sword, and now this, my mind was turning to hummus. I faced Belet. “And that makes you…?”
“Adopted.”
“Well, that’s great, but I want to go home now.” These people were obviously deluded and probably dangerous. “I’ll find my own way out.”
Somehow, in a blink, Ishtar moved to block the door. “But we owe you an explanation, dear boy. You need to know the truth. You’re caught in a little drama, and I think you have a part to play. Whether you like it or not.”
“Why do I think I’m not going to like it?”
Belet spoke. “How much do you know about ancient Iraq? When it was Mesopotamia?”
“Not much. It was all destroyed when—”
Belet shook her head. “Not all of it. The gods survived. A few of them. My mother, her sister, and Nergal, the god of plagues. You met him last night.”
Ishtar joined in. “I thought I’d caught him in Iraq, but somehow he and his demons have managed to get themselves to New York. This will be our battleground.”
I backed away. “Do you hear yourselves? Gods and demons? They’re not real. All that—it’s just fairy tales. Stories to explain the sun and the moon, from back in the days when people believed the world was flat.”
“Some people still believe the world is flat,” said Belet.
“Yeah, and they’re crazy, too.”
Ishtar tapped her lips, thinking. “What would it take to make you believe?”
“You can’t. The world isn’t flat.”
She laughed. “No, child. That I am who I say I am. That you are caught in a war between gods.”
“It’ll take more than some fancy parlor tricks, that’s for sure.”
Ishtar stepped nearer. “You know they say the eyes are the windows of the soul?”
“Mother, don’t,” pleaded Belet. “You’ll break him.”
“Hush, sweetheart. Mother knows best.” Ishtar drew me close, right up close. I couldn’t resist her.
Her eyes were huge, dark, and deep. “Look, Sikander. Look into my soul.”
I did. I gazed into the soul of Ishtar.
And reality shattered.
AN AVALANCHE COMPRISED OF A HUNDRED THOUSAND memories, experiences, sights, smells, sounds, and feelings swept over me. My mind screamed. It was too raw, too real, too much. I was buried, crushed, under the soul of the goddess.
Ishtar sings as she stalks through the battle. On the dusty plains before the walls of Troy, thousands upon thousands of soldiers take part in the dance of death. Bronze weapons are an orchestra of destruction and bloodshed, and the screams of the warriors are her choir. Most beautiful of all are the emotions: She feels the tides of fear, bloodlust, despair, and blind fury like a swimmer in a stormy sea, overwhelming yet thrilling.
Men, smooth-limbed, muscular, tanned, and beautiful in their youth, offer their lives at the altar of love. For one another, for their kings, their people, and, most of all, for the Spartan queen, Helen, who watches from the battlements of the impregnable city.
To the east is gold-haired Achilles, his armor shining like the sun, his face a mask of raging battle madness. Around him men seem to melt, the light of their lives darkened under his long-shadowed spear.
To the west strives the Trojan prince Hector, his armor stained with the lifeblood of many Greek nobles. His dark eyes cannot hide the passion burning inside his heart; Ishtar has to shield hers to look upon him. Hector’s love powers every swing of his sword. Troy is his home, and within its walls live his wife and infant son. Should he fall, then they are doomed.
Thus love fuels war, turning it into an inferno whose heat and smoke rise to the heavens.
Ishtar cries out, and her voice rolls like thunder across the plain. She cannot contain her joy.
Children scream and mothers sob inside the classroom as the Luftwaffe continues its attack. The huddled townsfolk cannot contain their fear. A dreadful, chilling whine is heard as the bombs are released overhead. The sound pierces the dull drone of the aircraft engines, and then there’s an ominous pause before the thunder of another explosion.
The school building shakes again and tiles tumble off the roof. The windows have long since been blown in, and shards of glass are scattered across the floor. Pages from textbooks drift in the smoke.
A little girl clutches Ishtar with all the strength she has in her thin fingers. “When will it end, Mama?”
Ishtar smiles softly at the small blond girl, Florence. The goddess took her in when Florence’s parents were killed. This is not the first time Ishtar has gathered a war orphan from the ruins, and it won’t be the last. It lifts the guilt—at least some of it—from Ishtar’s shoulders. She strokes her new daughter’s hair. “It has just started, ma chérie.”
The bombings began at dawn and have continued unabated. But why? This little French town has no factories, no supplies, and it is far from the front line. The men have all gone to their battalions. Only the elderly, the women, and the children are left, huddling in the smoke-filled ruins of their homes.
Hitler’s war machine, the blitzkrieg, knows only destruction.
Where is the magnificent combat? Ishtar wonders. Where is the holy sound of clashing swords? Where are the warriors determined to test their pride, their honor, and their skills one-on-one? Where are the heroes whose battle cries are my hymns?
Ishtar gently frees herself of her daughter’s grasp. “Wait here, Florence.”
“Mama!”
Ishtar winks. “I won’t be long.”
Down the block, she climbs over the burning ruins of her home, a small maisonette on the corner. Flames lick her, and the walls hiss and spit molten plaster. She brushes fiery debris off her shoulders and sighs as she tiptoes through pieces of broken furniture and chinaware. She pushes aside a splintered dresser and sees a glint of metal on the floor.
Ishtar blows the brick dust off her sword.
&n
bsp; “At last,” complains Kasusu. “This is just like the time you left me at the bottom of that lake in Wales. I had to wait fifteen hundred years to be found! The humiliation.”
“Hush,” says Ishtar.
Another squadron of German bombers appears on the crimson horizon, lit by the burning trees like a false dawn. They will be overhead in minutes. Why? What is left to destroy?
“Where is the glory?” she asks aloud.
The smoke thickens around her as she climbs out of the wreckage of her apartment. Then she sees him, picking over the mangled bodies of those who didn’t get to safety in time. He digs out a victim’s eyeballs and tosses them to his waiting pack of demons, igniting a tussle.
“There is nothing for you here, Nergal,” she says.
“That is where you are wrong, dear sister.” He wheezes with each step. Patches of jaundiced skin dangle from his face, and the rest is covered with weeping sores. His rheumy eyes narrow. “There is plenty for me.”
The bombers pass through the clouds of black smoke. They know there are no soldiers here and the remaining people are defenseless. They know that the school contains only women and children, and they do not care.
“You should have retired, Ishtar,” says Nergal as he crawls over a mound of pale corpses sniffing for juicy morsels. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“You call this beautiful?” Ishtar tightens her grip on her sword. “You were golden and glorious once, Nergal. What happened?”
“Unlike you, I was not sustained by the love and worship of mortals,” he growls. “I was left to feed on their hatred. Fortunately, they hate for the most inconsequential reasons, as you must have noticed. If someone looks different, speaks with an accent, prays at one house rather than another…anything, really.” He shakes his head in wonder. “It is marvelous.”
“There are heroes still,” Ishtar replies.
He laughs. “The age of heroes has long passed. This is a time of monsters and monstrous deeds.”
The planes’ bomb hatches open overhead.…
“It is my time.” Nergal digs out the plump heart of a freshly killed young man and begins to chew it, letting the blood dribble down his chin. “Courage does not matter. Honor is a poor joke. Pride has given way to terror. This is an era of machines and meaningless death. And there you stand, with a sword. Do you know how ridiculous you look?”
City of the Plague God Page 5