Twilight in Babylon

by Frank, Suzanne

  “It could be an omen,” the man said.

  “Go pay an exorcist to make it go away. When do you think the troops will be ready to fight?” the lugal asked.

  The sergeant seemed less than enthusiastic. “First, we need to inform the town that they are in arrears. What did they do?” he asked.

  “They were the suppliers of Shapir,” the lugal said. He was pleased with how authentic a reason it sounded. “Though Shapir has been obliterated by the gods, the evil they promoted against the people of Kish must yet be stopped.”

  “They are villagers,” the sergeant said. “I don’t know that they have carts, even.”

  “That is bad,” the lugal said. “We must rectify that.”

  The sergeant stared at the man. “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “We’ll supply them with weapons and machinery. Great for our economy. Then when they are ready, we’ll have a war. Our soldiers can even train theirs. The commonwealth can come watch us beat them. It will be splendid. Maybe we should make it a feast day. How long do you think it would take to outfit them?”

  “I have not been a citizen of Kish long,” the sergeant said. “However, I find this reprehensible behavior. Have you been in battle, sir?”

  “Of course not! We’ve always gotten what we wanted through negotiation and bartering.”

  “Then why go to war?”

  “The glory of it, my boy. The glory.”

  * * *

  Twilight wasn’t heartening. Their first night in Kish was going to be horrifyingly memorable. No sooner had they rented rooms in the local tavern, than they had heard the proclamation demanding the populace’s attendance.

  “I’ve never been to a public execution,” Chloe said.

  “It’s not to be missed,” Cheftu replied. His tone was bathed in irony.

  “Firestorm in one city, a traitor executed in the next. I’m not so sure Nimrod’s plan of heading north was so good. Maybe we should have headed south,” Chloe said. “Dilmun, maybe.”

  Cheftu was shaving, contorting his face to get every little hair, so he didn’t reply.

  “Dilmun,” Chloe repeated. “It’s just a straight journey south on the river—”

  Kettledrums jolted them both.

  Her husband cursed as blood ran down his hand.

  An omen.

  Cheftu’s blood. Blood on Cheftu. An omen.

  “Chérie, are you well?” he asked.

  Chloe nodded, then turned away. An omen.

  After he spotted the blood and changed cloaks, Cheftu was ready. Outside, Lea, Nirg, and Nimrod sat in a row, waiting. The five of them joined the rest of the visitors and residents in the main square.

  “My God, it looks like home,” Cheftu said in French.

  The square was missing Madame Defarge, but it had everything else.

  Gallows.

  Cart with prisoner.

  Clergy.

  Aristocracy.

  Commoners.

  The latter were clustered around the gallows, the former examining a clay replica sheep’s liver, and the aristocracy were all military, watching as they stood at attention, helmets beneath their arms.

  “For the acts of treason against the commonwealth,” the scribe cried out, “Sergeant Olal of Akkad will be executed by severing his neck with a blade.”

  “I may puke,” she whispered to Cheftu.

  “No,” he said.

  “I can’t help it.”

  “You can and you will,” he said. “If this people believes in public executions, then that means the attitude is neighbor against neighbor.”

  “We’re just passing through.”

  “What better disguise for spies? No one can suspect you are anything less than supportive, chérie.” He looked at her. “You are tough, my warrior. Better to appear bloodthirsty than condemning of the rulers.”

  “Just let me find my crochet hook,” she snapped.

  “Knitting needles.”

  Chloe faced forward and stared blankly. She looked through the scene before her. No analysis; no scrutiny of the various elements on the gallows. Gaze straight ahead and see nothing. Still, the sounds were awful. The sun had clouded over from the oil-fire smoke, which sent the residents of Kish inside as soon as the traitor was declared dead.

  In a grim line, the five returned to their tavern. Outside, a young man in uniform waited. “Are you the survivors of the Shapir fire, sir?”

  Nimrod said they were.

  “The male humans are requested to come with me, sir.”

  “Where?” Cheftu asked.

  “To see the lugal, sir.”

  Chloe squeezed his hand; she’d throw up while he was gone.

  * * *

  “Mighty hunter, eh?” the lugal said to Nimrod. “Quite a reputation there, boy.”

  Nimrod was pleasant, but that was all. Like Cheftu, he was deeply suspicious of this place.

  “Traveling for pleasure?” the lugal asked him, glanced at Cheftu, then turned back to Nimrod.

  “We’re moving north,” he said.

  “North? Agade?”

  “No, no, on the Tigris.”

  “We have lands that reach quite far,” the lugal said. “I wouldn’t want your humans, your villagers, to get caught up in any property disputes, especially being new to the neighborhood.”

  “We’ll be much farther north,” Nimrod assured him.

  “That spy who infiltrated my army was from the north. Did you know him? Either of you?”

  “No,” Nimrod said. Cheftu shook his head.

  “Got your families with you?”

  “Our wives,” Nimrod said. “The rest are going to meet us.”

  “Good thing they weren’t in Shapir when you set that place afire, isn’t it.”

  Cheftu tensed.

  “I believe your impression is incorrect,” Nimrod said, choosing his words with care. “The fire fell from heaven.”

  “Don’t lie to me, boy. Fire hasn’t ever fallen from heaven, and even if it was a city of attorneys, firefall didn’t start last night.” He peered into Nimrod’s face. “I think you are some sort of reconnaissance team, masquerading as Urians, come to check the defenses at Kish.”

  “Why?” Cheftu asked.

  “You’re a mountain man; I don’t need to give you any excuses. Everyone knows how your humans are wild, animalistic, greedy. You want Kish. What other reason do you need.” He smiled. “That’s all the citizens of Kish will need to hear. We thought we had the enemy dead to rights, but the ruler of the enemy returned, and now our fight is even more vital.”

  “What do you want?” Nimrod asked.

  “Simple enough. You’re a mountain man and a hunter. I want you to train some troops in the marshes.” He turned to Cheftu and smiled. “And I want him to lead my men against yours.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “War, gentlemen. Competition breeds invention, invention requires experimentation, and that needs a field study. War is good for business.”

  Cheftu touched his naked chin. “What have your annual floods been like?”

  “We lost every grain of the winter crop and most of the summer.”

  “You have to start a war to make the economy boom again?”

  The lugal looked Cheftu dead in the face. “I have to eliminate half my population so I can feed the others.”

  * * *

  “Are you okay?” Chloe asked.

  Cheftu nodded, but didn’t stop doing his stomach crunches. He was alternating them with straight-leg scissors. This exercise routine had come to Cheftu through her, from the U.S. Air Force. They’d done it together on cold nights in Jerusalem, and on those spring days when they could get time alone, they’d done it in the fields.

  “Are you sure?” she said. “You haven’t been yourself since you met with the lugal.” Cheftu halved his speed, sweat flying off his muscled body—before her eyes, his abs were pumping up. “You haven’t said a word, hardly, for three days now.” He paused, then t
urned over to do push-ups. Watching his body in motion was usually the only aphrodisiac Chloe ever needed, but Cheftu was exercising as though it was an exorcism. Nimrod hadn’t spoken either. “If you think you and Nimrod are being clever and keeping something from us, you’re wrong,” she said.

  Cheftu stopped, holding his body above the brick floor, triceps bulging. “I don’t think I’m being clever,” he said.

  “Is this Kidu or you?”

  “I don’t know. Is this nagging from the marsh girl or you?”

  Chloe felt stung; she could react to his words, or she could figure out why her husband, who was so careful, precise, and understanding, would deliberately be rude. Whatever had happened, he’d sworn he wouldn’t tell. “You promised, didn’t you.”

  Cheftu released himself and lay on the floor, nose to the ground. He didn’t say or do anything, just breathed heavily and sweated.

  “You even promised not to talk about the promise,” she guessed.

  He said nothing; he wouldn’t.

  “You are an honorable, wonderful man.” She spoke in English—he listened harder when she spoke in English. “I love you with my whole heart.”

  He looked up. His eyes revealed a tortured man. “Oh honey,” she whispered, and opened her arms. Cheftu crawled over and embraced her, his head against her breast, his hands in fists. “Anything…” she whispered.

  “Don’t,” he said. “You don’t know what demon you deal with.”

  They were still sitting, Chloe rubbing his shoulders, when there was a knock on the door. “Kidu, sir!” the man called. “The lugal, sir, requests to speak with you, sir!”

  Cheftu pulled away from her and opened the door. “Tell him… Sergeant Kidu reports at once.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll report it, sir!”

  He closed the door, his back to her.

  “I’m so blind,” Chloe said. “The training—you’ve put yourself through a three-day boot camp, based on the exercises I showed you. You… this is the deal with the demon?”

  “Whisper!” he hissed. “There is no security here, chérie, no one to trust. Remember that.”

  “I have you.”

  “I’ve become the enemy,” he said, and stormed to the door.

  She chased after him, grabbed his arm, and whispered. “Cheftu, have you ever been a soldier?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you sleep with one.”

  He turned to her. “You don’t want to get involved in this, Chloe. It is not your concern.”

  “Don’t insult me and don’t be dramatic. Tell me what you need.”

  “I’m supposed to lead men into battle. Heavy casualties are expected.”

  “When?”

  “After I set my seal on the contract with the devil,” he said.

  “Let’s leave tonight,” she said in a rush, the image of Cheftu stained with blood still clear in her mind. “Right now. Before you sign, before this gets out of control.”

  “We’re nowhere close to where Nimrod wants us to be. We lost everything in Shapir.”

  “We’ll lose our freedom, too, if we don’t leave. Leave now.”

  Cheftu turned and looked at her. “Just walk away?”

  “We have each other, we can work—anything. Let’s just go!” Chloe was away, packing a few things in a small bag that wouldn’t draw notice: water bottle, some sausage balls, knife—

  “Oh-kay,” he said, and knocked on their common wall. Nirg grunted acknowledgment. Seconds later, Nimrod stepped in the back window. Chloe hoped the spies weren’t watching the courtyard also. She knew they were at the front door.

  “What are we close to?” Cheftu asked.

  Nimrod shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Cheftu stared at him. Nimrod thought for a while, then spoke slowly. “A haunted place.”

  “Would we be pursued?”

  Nimrod twisted his eyebrows. Then he shook his head. “Not to Bab-ili.”

  Part Six

  The Tower

  The euphoria of getting away had faded—it had faded some twelve hours earlier when Chloe realized she was the one who had persuaded everyone to just up and leave.

  She was responsible. I’m not usually impulsive, she thought. The images that had terrified her so were faded; now she just felt silly. It had taken all afternoon to communicate the “bailing” message to the rest of the Ur group, those who had gone through the fields and not experienced the fire. There had been no argument that Chloe knew of—so in twos and threes—they had sneaked away while the rest of the city closed its eyes in the afternoon. Like ants fleeing a stomped hill, the group had scattered in dozens of different directions in an effort to confuse any search party. Chloe and Cheftu had gone north. Alone, together, on foot.

  Now they were more than a solid day of walking, away. Twilight had flashed in Technicolor on the horizon, and brought with it relieving cool. Cheftu had taken her hand, and they’d exchanged a smile, the first communication since dawn. My country for a wheeled conveyance, Chloe thought.

  North. They headed north, just off the river in case the Kishite lugal sent soldiers poling after them.

  Chloe yawned, then glanced up. It had become night—it came shockingly fast here—and everything was dark now. Except the eastern horizon.

  She tugged Cheftu’s arm. “Haunted?”

  He looked at her, then looked to the east. And stopped, his face turning pale. “What is that?”

  “We’re going to hope it’s not aliens,” she said. “It looks like an airport. It takes a lot of light to glow like that.”

  Then she looked at her husband; he’d never seen an airport, or the power of electricity light up a city and turn the night sky pinky purple. Believing it was haunted was an easier angle for him. “It’s not ghosts, though. They don’t need light, now do they?”

  She wouldn’t want to say he was scared, but his steps were slightly less aggressive than they had been for the past day. If Cheftu, who was a few rungs higher on the experience chain, felt this way, how would Nimrod and his family react?

  I don’t believe in little green men from Mars, she said to herself, as they drew closer. Why would they come to earth anyway? But she didn’t have any explanations for what she saw. “Is that a… spaceship?” she asked when they had a better view.

  It rose from the plain in graduated stages, tall and skinny, pointed toward the sky, mounted on a platform. All around the enormous object people scurried back and forth. Noise, light, confusion—her heart tripped, and for a second Chloe wondered at the wisdom of approaching.

  “That’s the tallest stepped pyramid I’ve ever seen,” Cheftu said in wonder. “How did they get it so high?”

  His words gave her a newer, less bizarre, lens through which to look at the scene. Of course—a platform on top of a platform. The stages. The “spaceship” part was a taller, thinner pyramid than she’d ever seen—more like a protoskyscraper in appearance. A short one. “How did they build that?” she asked.

  “Look at that manpower,” he said, as they drew closer.

  A tent city stretched out from the platform, a strange sea of undulating goatskins, punctuated with a thousand dung fires. Huge plates of copper were angled opposite enormous bonfires to cast an almost-day-bright reflection on the workers of the temple. The hovering smoke clouds were ruddy from the light.

  Agog describes Cheftu’s expression, Chloe thought. Then she remembered—he’d never even seen the Eiffel Tower—it was built eighty years after he left France. They’d seen huge, impressive buildings before, gold-covered or emblazoned with jewels, majestic in their sprawl and simplicity, but never tall.

  The building was tall.

  They reached the outskirts of the tent city. No one stopped them, or even seemed to notice them as they walked through. Again, Chloe was struck by her understanding every word everyone said. Gossip, arguments, children’s bribes, jokes. “It’s the beginning of the day here?” she asked Cheftu. Despite the lack of sun, these p
eople were all acting like it was morning. Washing, dressing, eating, and setting off for the structure.

  Smells of scalded milk and urine mixed with the sweet aroma of the palm groves and the fetid smell of the river. A group of women were doing laundry in the water. A small group of boys gathered fallen straw among the grasses. Oxen and onagers, goats and sheep; every ten steps or so, there was a miniature barnyard.

  Garbage piled up everywhere. Beside tents, behind them. Blood stained the dirt, offal, human and animal, provided a minefield for walking. Chloe saw the flicker of rats’ tails and the scurrying insects as they fought to stay alive in this chronologically confused world.

  Cheftu’s expression had become almost a sneer as he fought against the smells, which grew worse and worse. Chloe gave up and covered her mouth with a cloth. They’d passed through the tents, now people were just camped under the sky—no shelter at all. “They sleep under the sun?” she asked Cheftu.

  “They obviously have no leadership,” he said with disgust. “This place is infested.”

  They were at the foot of the building. And they were wrong. A group of men organized the mass of workers into sections, and each had a different assignment: carrying bricks to the structure; carrying them up the dirt road that ran parallel to the structure; slicking the just-laid bricks with bitumen; hauling bitumen. And a dozen tasks in between.

  The foreman saw Cheftu and assigned him brick duty immediately. “We just arrived,” Cheftu said. “Who is in charge?”

  “Of the Esagila?”

  “Is that what this is?”

  “Sure is. Next time a flood comes, we’ll all be able to hide on the structure and the gods won’t be able to wipe us out. Floodwaters will never get that high. Are you ready to work?”

  “I’d like to, uh, settle in, speak to someone about what you are doing here.”

  “We’re building a mountain to hide on, that’s what we’re doing here. Are you interested in being a day person or a night person?”

  “What do you mean?” Chloe asked.

  He sighed and barked a few orders at a ragtag group of men and boys who were hauling bitumen. “Do you know how to work ovens?” he asked Chloe.

  “Uh, yes.”

  “Good, one more for the ovens,” he said, and made a crude mark on his clay. It wasn’t filled with writing, just the most basic scrawls for counting.