“And the prince? What would you have me do with him?”
Another long pause. For the briefest of moments, Sereb-Meloch feared she had departed from his tabernacle. A wave of relief washed over him when she finally spoke again.
BRING HIM TO ME. THE CHILD OF MY ENEMY MARDUK WILL BRING ME NEW LIFE.
Sereb-Meloch knelt in his tent the rest of day and deep into the following night, as his goddess shared many things about the days ahead.
8
The Zagros Foothills, East of the Town of Susa
“So if I’m not taking you back to Babylon, where exactly are we heading?” King asked as they trudged along the snowy plain west of the mountains. He was beginning to like this mess less and less with every new piece of information. He was also still having a hard time wrapping his brain around the fact that Belshazzar’s own grandfather, King Nebuchadnezzar, had issued a contract for his death. Even after the prince had explained it to him—twice—he was still completely bewildered by it all.
“To the ruined city of Eridu,” the prince said. “The city was founded millennia ago by the great Nimrod, said to be the earthly incarnation of Ba’al Marduk himself. Eridu is where the tomb of Tiamat is said to rest. We must get to it before Sereb-Meloch and the Girtablilu.”
King struggled to grasp the wisdom of going to the exact place their adversary wanted the boy to go. The one place that had marked the prince for death by his own royal family. It turned out that Belshazzar was not only heir apparent to the throne of Babylon, he was also an acolyte for the god Marduk. The chief acolyte at that. As the two had packed up camp and prepared for the long journey west, Belshazzar had explained that it wasn’t only his royal blood that had caused Sereb-Meloch to target him as a sacrifice for the Girtablilu.
“Sereb-Meloch is a high priest of a blasphemous cult of Tiamat worshippers,” Belshazzar had explained. “It is his belief that she is not actually dead at all, but merely in slumber, like a great bear that hibernates in winter. He believes it is his divine calling to awaken her. If he does this, she will feed upon the life-giving elements her body released upon her death—elements that were used to construct the world all around us. In short, she will unmake everything in existence, if returned to life.”
The rest, King had managed to piece together from his studies in mythology, additional nuggets revealed by the prince and even a few things he’d picked up while infiltrating Zaidu’s band of mercenaries. Before the universe existed, there had been the gods. And like all pantheons of antiquity, they were all a bunch of a soap-opera debutants and backstabbing SOBs. Tiamat, the mother of them all, waged war on her children—the lesser gods—after they had assassinated her husband. In turn, they sent out a champion, Marduk, who eventually defeated her.
Marduk had cast her body out into the void, and the universe had been born from her decomposing flesh. From what Belshazzar had told King, the myth was only partially true; the full story, known to only a handful of Marduk’s high priests, had been passed down orally through the generations. From what King gathered, the goddess had been buried in a primordial stone. Marduk had erected a great prison, disguised as a temple, to secure her for all eternity. While she slumbered, however, it is believed that parts of her essence—King assumed it was something like atoms, from the description he’d been given—seeped from her rocky sarcophagus, thus bringing about the earth and the rest of creation.
The only thing capable of unsealing the tomb, Belshazzar had told him, was a key…a key that would be revealed by the blood of the warrior-god Marduk, or as King’s luck would have it, by his ‘Acolyte Prime.’ In other words, Prince Belshazzar. The sacrifice to the scorpion men was meant to appease them and garner their favor, while providing the necessary ingredient to open the sepulcher of Tiamat. Nebuchadnezzar, of course, knew the danger his grandson’s blood represented, and the Babylonian king had been willing to do whatever it took to keep the deranged priest from opening the tomb—even if that included murdering his own grandson.
Apparently, Belshazzar believed Sereb-Meloch had traced this tomb disguised as a temple to a place called Eridu. It was the last place on earth they needed to be, and it was the first place the crazy kid actually wanted to go. Damn. We’re bypassing the frying pan and jumping right into the fire.
Apparently, the prince could detect the mental battle raging in King’s mind.
“I know it sounds mad.” Belshazzar took a swig from a water bladder and then handed it to King. “But I cannot return home now, no matter what. Not until the threat of Tiamat’s tomb is ended once and for all.” He looked up at King, his eyes wide with worry and fear. “I cannot do this alone, Achelous. I need your help.”
That one bewildered and frightened look helped remind King that despite how grown up or how brave the prince might seem, he was still just a normal twelve-year old boy. A child. An innocent who could not possibly survive this on his own. He would need help.
The people of this time and this world referred to King as ‘Achelous.’ He’d not taken the name of his own volition. Ninety-three years before, he had overthrown an evil despot in a small settlement, near the outskirts of Athens. The people had been overjoyed at their newfound freedom. Like many before and since, they had felt his deeds were those of a god. When he’d insisted he was not, they tried to make him their king. After his insistent refusal, they’d done the only other thing they could. They’d bestowed on him a name of great honor…the name that in Greek meant ‘He who drives out grief.’
King had accepted the name with humility and grace. Since that time, he’d done everything he could to uphold the gift those poor villagers had conferred upon him. Now, looking down at Belshazzar’s haggard and fearful face, he knew to continue to honor that gift, he really had no choice. He would see this boy through the coming ordeal, no matter what. He’d become he boy’s protector. His soldier. His guardian.
“All right, I’ll help,” he said after an uncomfortably long pause. “But first, we’re going to need some horses.”
9
The City of Nippur, Two Weeks Later
King felt uneasy. He’d been so ever since entering Nippur, a thriving religious center a few days journey west of the Tigris River. When they’d entered the gates earlier that afternoon, the city, famous for its grand temple to the wind god Enlil, had been teeming with pilgrims, traveling merchants, soldiers and the assorted swarm of humanity so common across the fetid infrastructure of such places in the region. The throng, pushing and shoving their way through the narrow, stone-cobbled streets, had made it impossible for King to tell whether he and Belshazzar had entered unnoticed. A handful of unsavory types were always lurking about, but it was nearly impossible to tell whether they’d taken any interest in the newcomers.
King had, of course, insisted that Belshazzar cover his face with a tagelmust—a long strip of cloth wound around the face and head to protect the wearer from harsh desert hazards, such as sandstorms, intense heat and the sun’s blazing glare. Wrapped around the prince’s face, King thought it should at least protect the boy’s identity for a time.
Now, set up for the night inside the city’s only public house that still had space available, he was beginning to worry. He’d ordered the prince to remain in their room until he could secure food and drink for them both. The plan was to stay for the night, recuperate from their arduous journey and then hit the road before dawn the next morning. But sitting in the cedar wood chair, waiting on the tavern-keeper’s daughter to prepare their meal, he scanned the crowd huddled together in drunken debauchery within the dingy tavern.
Just as in most public houses of the region, this one was dotted here and there with some of the most weathered and homely prostitutes King had ever seen. Their portly arms wrapped casually around the necks of every cutthroat mercenary and vagabond that ventured into the place, desperately trying to lure the road-weary travelers into a night of decadent bliss. The ones actively engaging the harlots were no bother to King. It was the handful
of men who managed to ward off the prostitutes’ charms that concerned him the most. From one corner of the room to the next, King spotted at least six sets of dark eyes locked squarely on him, clayware mugs of ale practically untouched.
King’s eyes darted to each man, instantly assessing the impending threat level. To his left, at the table nearest the exit, sat a swarthy man of lithe frame, clothed in rough leathers. His sash held no less than six small daggers and one curved scimitar. A quiver of arrows adorned his back, though King couldn’t locate the bow that was undoubtedly nearby.
Further across the room, leaning back in his chair, so his massive head rested against the stone wall, sat a giant of a man. King estimated this one at nearly seven feet tall and weighing around three-hundred and fifty pounds—the weight was comprised mostly of muscle. King couldn’t detect a trace of fat anywhere on the huge man’s frame. Strange markings—possibly tattoos—covered much of the face not hidden by his bushy mane of a beard. His hands, too, were almost matted in hair, and King got the distinct impression that this was someone from the frigid climes of the north. Perhaps Russia. He could see no weapons anywhere near the man, but with his size and brutal demeanor, King couldn’t rule the man out as a potential threat.
At the table directly across from him sat three men locked in quiet conversation. Though outwardly they showed no signs of malicious intent, King had been tracking them the longest. He’d glimpsed one of them near the city gates, when he and Belshazzar had first entered the city. The other two had been loitering near the bazaar they had passed, coming to the inn. Since King didn’t believe in coincidences, he was pretty sure their presence here was ominous, to say the least. The simple fact that they hadn’t taken their eyes off him since the moment he’d come out of his rented room, confirmed it. They were up to something, though there was little King could do about it until they made their move.
Finally, the most unnerving watcher of all was the ancient man hunched in his chair, to King’s right. Shrouded in the same desert rags so common among the nomadic shepherds of the region, the man would have seemed innocuous enough if his eyes hadn’t constantly darted to the same men King had been eyeing in quick, furtive glances. The old man’s gnarled fingers rubbed nervously at his cup, while he mumbled unintelligibly to himself in a language King could not quite place. Since King had spotted him, the man had not once looked in his direction. Instead, he kept a constant vigil on the others, as if anticipating the danger that lay ahead.
There was no doubt about it. Despite King’s best efforts, he and the boy had drawn entirely too much attention to themselves. Between Nebuchadnezzar’s assassins and Sereb-Meloch’s warrior-priests, there were simply too many unknown variables to keep the prince safe while in a heavily populated city.
After more than thirty uncomfortable minutes, the barmaid came out to King’s table brandishing a healthy plate of roast mutton, steamed dates wrapped in grape leaves and some strange concoction that resembled mashed potatoes that had been mashed just one too many times. Paying the doe-eyed barmaid, he gathered up the plate and a flagon of ale, and carried it to his room. As he strode toward the door, he became more and more convinced of the need for a change of plans. If they remained in their room through the night, the prince would be dead by dawn. Time to get out of here. They’d eat, pack the leftovers for later, then slip out of the city before anyone noticed. They’d then find a safe place outside the city to camp. Somewhere remote, with sufficient cover.
His new plan went to hell the moment he opened the door to the room. Belshazzar was nowhere to be seen.
10
A mountain-sized lump swelled in King’s throat as he darted into the room in search of his charge. Tossing the food onto a nearby table, he began shoving the room’s sparse furniture aside, hoping the prince had hidden under the bed or the cupboard. The room had only one entrance and no windows. There was nowhere for the kid to hide. A tense ten second search revealed nothing of Belshazzar’s whereabouts.
“Shit.” King spun around and retreated back out into the common area. Of the initial six stalkers, only the three congregated at the table together remained. The Russian, the archer, and the old man were nowhere in sight. “Shit. Shit. Shit,” he mumbled to himself in English, gripping the hilt of his sword as he scanned the tavern.
“I’m gonna kill him,” he growled, as he began making his way to the door. Before he’d made it five feet, the three loiterers stood from their table, and made their way in his direction.
“Where do you think you are going?” one of them, the largest and most heavily armored of the group, asked. He drew his sword from his belt, and his two buddies followed suit.
“I don’t have time for this,” King said. Before the other could respond, King stepped to the larger man’s left and extended his left leg around the other’s while throwing a swift upper cut across his jaw. The man wheeled backwards, tripped over King’s extended leg and slammed into a nearby table, crashing to the wooden floor with a thud. King spun around with a roundhouse kick, knocking a second man to the ground before leveling his sword at the third’s throat. “I suggest you let me pass.”
The third man, his eyes wide, nodded before backing away and opening a path to the door. Taking his cue, King dashed out into the dusty street and glanced around. With the sun having set hours ago, the streets were dark. Only dotted here and there with the occasional torch lamp, attached by a sconce to the side of a building. A gentle, but arid breeze brushed past King’s cheeks, drowning out any subtle sounds of movement he might have otherwise heard. The city had cleared of almost all traffic. Only the occasional intoxicated wanderer scuttled along the manure-littered streets.
King’s heart thumped harder against his chest. How could he have lost the boy? If Belshazzar had left of his own free will, what had he been thinking? Why would he have left the safety of the room? What possible motive would there have been in that?
King’s memory drifted back to the first moments of entering the city and fast forwarded to the time he’d discovered the prince missing. He hoped to find something that might shine a little light on the boy’s sudden disappearance, maybe insight to where he might have wandered.
The kid had been captivated by the town. Awestruck by its architecture and tightly winding streets. Having grown up in Babylon’s palace, he’d never been allowed to walk among the capital city’s people. He’d never been permitted to experience life in the big city. From the moment they’d stepped through the gates, the prince’s eyes had expanded with wonder at all the sights and sounds. The stench of the desperate masses. The emotional tsunami of the mob-minded crowd crashing through the city gates with them.
So of all the kid’s wonder, what had garnered the most of his attention?
As King allowed his eyes to wander around the city once more, they caught sight of a structure jutting above the canyon of squat, sandstone buildings surrounding him. A strange parapet, like a twisted stone finger pointing accusingly toward the sky. King knew the parapet would lead down to the base of a massive ziggurat temple dedicated to the Mesopotamian god of wind and earth, Enlil.
Of all the structures the boy had seen, the ziggurat had been the one he’d insisted they visit. He’d explained that as Acolyte Prime of Marduk, it was his holy duty to pay homage to the lesser gods whenever approaching one of their temples. But King had refused. The city was far too dangerous for a sightseeing expedition, even one of religious observance. King had ushered Belshazzar away, toward the center of town, in a ramshod search for a place to stay the night.
The temple would be the one place the kid might have slipped away to see. Unfortunately, it looked like the prince’s escape had been unobserved by King alone. If the missing stalkers were any indication, they’d ducked out the moment King had left the room. Once again, coincidences and King never saw eye to eye. Belshazzar was being hunted. Perhaps already caught.
King sprinted southeast toward the temple. A five minute run through the narrow, winding
streets brought him directly to the base of the enormous stone pyramid. The massive gates leading to the temple were left unguarded, and King wasn’t certain whether that was a stroke of luck or a terribly bad omen. With the influx of travelers and pilgrims making their way to the city for the annual festivities honoring the wind god, he’d expected a certain amount of security to be in place, discouraging thieves and cutthroats from the buffet of easy pickings. At the very least, he’d thought they’d be there to keep the peace among the ever increasing intoxicated throng.
Just outside the gates, several caravans, their camels and pack animals bedded for the night, huddled around a cluster of campfires all around the ziggurat’s protective walls. He could hear men praying and singing praises to appease their god. Forty-five hundred years before, when Nippur was constructed, Enlil had been the chief deity among all the Mesopotamians. Not only was he the god of earth and wind, he was also said to have created humans. As Nippur passed down from empire to empire, the city—and subsequently, its temple—had seen various states of disrepair and renaissance. Eventually, as the Babylonians had come into power, Enlil was replaced as the chief god by Marduk.
Still, even today, Enlil was seen as an important figure, especially to the nomadic shepherds and tribesmen, who could easily be doomed by the sudden rage of an unexpected sandstorm. To survive, the people would do anything required to appease the god of the wind, including this annual pilgrimage to his temple to pay homage and sacrifice.
King quickly began scanning the crowds, searching for any signs that his charge had huddled among the throngs to pay his own form of respect. But as King made his way around the temple’s perimeter, searching by the dancing illumination of the campfires, none of the travelers came remotely close to resembling the young prince of Babylon.
Jack Sigler Continuum 1: Guardian Page 5