Ark

by J. J. Wilder

  Once through the inner gate you reached a mighty ramp wide enough for four chariots abreast, yet steep enough that it winded you to climb up. Up, and up, and up, to the towering walls of the throne room and the royal bedchambers and the kitchens, fierce stone-carved lions at each door and hard-eyed guards with razor sharp spears and gleaming swords standing guard.

  The throne room occupied the center of the royal sanctum, with the King’s chambers taking up the entire rightmost wing, my brothers’ and my rooms on the left, each of us having our own servants’ quarters. As well, our personal chambers contained dressing rooms and bathing rooms and nightsoil chambers, as well as guard’s nooks and balconies and courtyards. The walls of our royal sanctum were hung with lavish tapestries, and the stone floors were covered in the finest rugs, and the rooms filled with gold-gilt statues of the gods and goddesses. The guards were clothed in the finest robes, their helms glittering with precious gems, their spear hafts polished to a gleam, their swords forged by the finest smiths in the kingdom.

  Yet for all the lavish luxury, the palace often seemed like a prison to me. Guards watched my every step, whether I was in my own rooms, going to the temple of Inanna accompanied by Irkalla or to the throne room to sit with Father at ceremonial affairs, or taking the evening meal in the dining chambers.

  The only freedom I ever found was in dressing in the plainest, coarsest, rough-spun robes and sneaking out of the palace with Irkalla. It was always a tense, fraught affair, my head kept down, my heart hammering as we tiptoed across the courtyard and out of the palace to the city beyond. If the guards knew me, they never stopped me, which might have been thanks in part to the glitter of gold passing from Irkalla’s hand to theirs.

  Even cloaked in a plain woolen robe so as not to draw attention, I could tell that they feared me, seeing my height and occasionally glimpsing my face. I thought some of them knew who I was, and thus offered me deference in fear of my father’s wrath. If I could I would have told them that I would never betray them to him, but they would have only pleaded for mercy and trembled all the more, and that would have ruined my pleasure among them; thus I let them think what they will.

  Even with the sleeping draught Irkalla gave me, sleep eluded me well into the smallest hours of the dawn, and it was late in the day when I finally arose and left my chambers. I waited until full dark that night to sneak out of the palace with Irkalla; if I had but known the trouble I would have finding sleep again that night, and why, I might have stayed in the palace.

  Tonight Father was in his cups, and it was at such times when he was most dangerous, so I clothed myself in my plain commoner’s robes and had Irkalla accompany me to my favorite temple, a tiny, rude little building far off the main road, hunched and crammed between taller, newer buildings, and overshadowed by a towering ziggurat to Enlil.

  It was easy to miss, being dark within and as old as the stars themselves, the once-handsomely carved exterior long-since crumbled. I had discovered it by accident, one day, while lost with Irkalla, and I fell in love with it. It was nothing but four crumbling brick walls and a slab of stone across the top, the ceiling so low I felt the stone brushing my hair if I stood upright, and the walls were close and stained with age. This place had been there for an age already, and the altar to Inanna was a soot-stained block of stone with a rudely carved little statue to the goddess and a few guttering candles.

  The priestess was as old as the temple, stooped and hunched and wrinkled, and though she knew me, she allowed me to come and pay my respects to the goddess and say a prayer or make an offering.

  This night, however, was different. I was not here to make an offering to Inanna. It was the anniversary of my mother’s death, and the reason for my Father’s drunken rage, and my own steep melancholy. I lit a candle and wafted the smoke to the ceiling, whispered a prayer to my goddess, and tried to remember my mother. Tall, imperiously beautiful, her hair the same rich glossy auburn as my own, always left loose in a cascade around her shoulders and waist, her eyes kohled and her nostrils pierced and her ears hung with precious jewels, her wrists adorned with gold, the bracelets clattering as she walked and tinkling as she caught me up in her lithe arms.

  I remembered her singing to me at night, teaching me prayers to Lady Inanna, showing me how to light the candle and waft the sweet smoke to the heavens. I remembered her sitting on her chair beside Father’s throne: head high, a gold circlet on her brow. I remembered her lying beside me as I drifted to sleep, her skin smelling of perfume and her hair of jasmine.

  I remembered, too, the night she died. I had heard a shout and stumbled from my bed to the doorway of the throne room. Father was lounging on his throne, and a naked human girl was on top of him, writhing sinuously and moaning loudly, her eyes hooded as if dazed by the herbs the priests used to commune with the gods.

  Father had a wineskin in his hand, and Mother was standing in the center of the throne room, kohl dripping in black streaks down her cheeks. I remembered her cursing Father, calling him dog and pig, damning him in the vilest terms. I remember Father throwing the girl off of him, stumbling from the dais, and swinging his fist clumsily at Mother. Even a half-strength blow from my father was enough to fell an ox; a drunken strike such as that one . . . it connected with Mother’s temple, cracking wetly, and she fell. I watched as she tumbled to the floor, and I watched as her head struck the stones with a sickening crunch, and then redness seeped out of her to stain the flags.

  Father fell to his knees, cradling her, cursing her, cursing himself, begging her to get up, begging her to forgive him. I remembered the way Mother’s head lolled oddly, dripping crimson. Father changed that night, and his distaste for humans soured further into open hatred and persecution.

  I was much like my mother, so said Irkalla and the other servants, and I thought my face reminded Father of her, reminding him of his sin, of his guilt, of his shame. He sank deep into his cups and was prone to sudden and terrible rages, and gods help anyone who got in his way. He had been known to kill messengers and servants for the slightest transgression, and if there were any humans in the dungeons, they died awful deaths at his hand. And if I was near him, I received the worst of his rage. He did not strike me, but he cursed me, accosted me with epithets and threw things at me until I left.

  Thus, on the anniversary of Mother’s death I stayed in my rooms until it was dark and then I made my way to this temple, and I remembered Mother the best I could, whispering her name and calling up her face—a face that grew more hazy and distant with each passing year.

  When I had lit my candle and said my prayers, when I had remembered my mother and offered propitiation to Inanna on my Mother’s behalf, Irkalla and I scurried out of the temple and threaded our way through the dark, narrow streets of this rude, rough section of the city, back toward the temple.

  Bad-Tibira was not a gentle place; Father’s rule did not foster peace. I felt no fear, however, knowing if I were to reveal my face, no man would dare harm me. It was a hot night, and my melancholy was thick upon me, sorrow a dense knot in my heart, perhaps occluding my better judgement. I decided to pause at an inn for wine, against Irkalla’s wishes.

  The inn was a human establishment, and as a Nephilim, even in a commoner’s robe, I stood out. Stares met me as I we entered, eyes following me, conversations halting momentarily.

  “We should not be here, mistress,” Irkalla whispered. “It is not safe.”

  I shushed her. “A cup of wine or two cannot do harm, Irkalla,” I said. “And besides, what can a handful of drunk humans do to us? If they laid so much as a finger on me, they would find death close behind.”

  Irkalla sighed. “Still, Highness, it is not wise.”

  “A cup of wine, and then we go.”

  Irkalla nodded and waved the innkeeper over.

  We took a bench in a dark corner of the inn, my hood pulled down despite the heat of the night and the oppressive humidity. I had a cup of wine in my hand, a rough carven vessel, faded and spli
ntered, and the wine was bitter and heavily watered. Men filled the tavern, mostly dumu-nita—the unmarried freemen. They were young and rough looking, and they eyed me, obviously a woman alone with a single maidservant. They tried to get a glimpse under my hood, and a few even sauntered over and tried to talk to me. A glimpse of my glittering, golden Nephilim eyes sent them scurrying away easily enough; these human men had easier targets to woo than a Nephilim woman.

  There was a table directly opposite mine, no more than four or five cubits away, and at it was a human male, sitting facing me. He too sat alone, swilling beer and digging idly at the scarred wood of the table with a fingernail. He was handsome, especially for a human. Even among Nephilim he would have been worth a second look, with striking blue eyes set in his thin, dark face, his sharp features framed by curly raven-black hair. Those ringlets drifted in front of his face from time to time, and he brushed them aside with a large hand calloused from work.

  Oh, Inanna, he was handsome. Until I saw him, human men were all the same to me: small, weak, insignificant . . . but Japheth was different. No taller than most humans, he would be at least a foot shorter than me, and smaller all around, but his presence, his searing beauty, the intensity of his mere existence, made him seem every bit as huge and dominant as my many elder brothers. He wore a sleeveless tunic with a wide black leather belt and thick-soled sandals that strapped his calves up to his knees. His thick, muscular arms were bare in the flickering rush-light, and I found myself trying not to stare at him and failing . . . and wondering if perhaps a distraction was what I needed.

  I rose unsteadily to my feet, ignoring Irkalla’s hissed warnings and entreaties to come back, and skirted around my table. I accentuated the sway of my hips, pushing my hood back so that he might see me better as I approached his table. He looked at my face and at my hair in its intricate braids. His eyes took in my ears adorned with the finest jewels, my luminous golden eyes lined with kohl. He saw me, the handsome stranger, and he sat a bit straighter on the bench.

  “May I join you?” I spoke in a low and sultry tone.

  “Of course.” His voice was smooth and deep, as he lifted his hand for the innkeeper.

  He did not smile at me, but his gaze was fierce and unwavering.

  The innkeeper brought a flagon of wine, and the beautiful human let his fingers brush mine as he poured the dark red liquid into my cup. A drop splashed onto my hand; I lifted my hand to my mouth and licked it away, slowly—this was no weak, watery wine poured for a wayward Nephilim woman intruding in a particularly-human place, no, this was fine, expensive wine, undiluted and potent.

  He wore a strip of braided leather around his neck, hung with a copper pendant on which was inscribed a rune depicting the name of a human god, Elohim. Oh, that was brave, that was. My father’s hatred for the many names of Elohim was widely known throughout Bad-Tibira and the surrounding lands. To openly show one’s allegiance to The One God was tantamount to jumping into the Tiber at full flood. I grew up listening to the screams of prisoners who worshipped The One God, grew up watching my father cut off noses, strip away skin, and burn the soles of feet with red-hot sword tips.

  Normally, I would have advised him to jump from the walls if he wished so much to die. As it was, I found his brash arrogance attractive, because anyone who would risk the wrath of my father for his God was a brave man indeed. My people were not brave, only foolish and arrogant and ignorant—their faith was no faith at all, only futile propitiation to empty gods, pointless offerings to blood-thirsty deities in hopes for a successful battle and more wealth.

  I have observed those who worshipped the One God, and I have found their faith to be superior. They were willing, many of them, to die for their God, while my people would have denied their own fathers if it benefited them. These human Elohim-worshippers did not merely burn offerings, did not mutter a prayer to a statue and go about their way . . . no, they truly believed. The only question I had was whether the god they believed in so fiercely was any kinder than my gods . . . or any more real.

  So here was this handsome human flaunting a name of the One God in an inn only a short walk from the palace . . . and I wanted him. I tried to blame it on the wine, but I cannot honestly say that drunkenness was the only reason for my desire. I might be unmarried, but I am no quivering virgin. I knew what I wanted: to feel his arms around me, to feel his hard chest beneath my hands. I wished to hear his voice, to know his name. Surely he was a lord, a great man, or a king from some foreign land. To be honest, however, I didn’t care if he was an arad, a slave. I would have him. I vowed to Inanna that I would have him. After all, was I not the daughter of King Emmen-Utu, the greatest king of all the Nephilim?

  He shifted in his seat and breathed deeply, peering at me, trying to discern my features in the gloom of the tavern.

  “What is so lovely lady as you doing in so ugly a place as this?” He tried to sound casual, as if it were of minor interest to him.

  The way he ran his tongue over his lips and dug his square-cut thumbnail into the tabletop belied his relaxed tone, and I unclasped the front of my cloak, let him see a bit of skin above the bodice of my dress.

  “Does it matter?” I sipped my wine and let my interest burn in my eyes.

  “No, Highness.”

  “Highness? What makes you think I am royalty? Perhaps I am just a servant girl wasting her mistress’s time?”

  “Ha!” His blue eyes flashed and he drank deeply of his wine. “And perhaps I am a priest of Enlil. Or wait, no, perhaps I am one of your father’s guards, come to find you.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “There is not another woman in all of Bad-Tibira half so beautiful as you, Princess Aresia. I know, for I have bedded many of them.”

  “An ugly ox-herder like you? I think not.”

  He leaned forward and said, “You don’t think I’m ugly, Princess.” He sounded confident of himself.

  “Don’t use my name so loudly,” I murmured, and took a long drink of the wine. “And what makes you think so?”

  “I saw the way you looked at me.” He grinned, a flash of white teeth in the gloom. “It wasn’t that difficult to interpret.”

  “How did I look at you, then?”

  Damn him for being right; I buried my irritation in another swig of wine.

  “Like a dog eying a scrap of meat.” He smirked at me. “Hungrily.”

  “I did not look at you in any such fashion,” I said, lifting my chin. “I am a princess and a Nephilim. I do not look at pathetic, lecherous humans with anything like hunger.” I said this with more force than I had intended.

  The wine and my lonely, bitter mood were beginning to win out over my self-control. I think this blue-eyed stranger knew this and was toying with me. I do not like being toyed with. Not one bit.

  “You did, though, princess.” He was mocking me . . . not laughing outright, but the corners of his mouth were tipped up slightly, and his eyes flashed with humor. “Exactly like a hungry dog. Not that I’m comparing you to a dog, mind you.”

  “I could have you killed for that, you know.” I was definitely drunk now. “And don’t call me princess.”

  I thought about trying to stand up and walk back to the palace, but judging by the way the table was dipping and swaying, I decided I had best stay put. And no more wine.

  “You could,” he was saying, “but you won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “One, because you’re drunk.” He ticked the numbers on his fingers as he spoke, “Two, even if you did call for the guards, they don’t come here. Not at this time of night. And three, you’re drunk—you need me to get you home. Do you see what I’m saying?” He was teasing, but also serious.

  “I am . . . not . . . drunk.” I think I was trying to convince myself, at that point, because I certainly wasn’t convincing him. “And besides, I have my servant.”

  He just nodded and laughed, tossed back the dregs of his wine. “Listen—why don’t you let
me walk you home?” He was suddenly serious, glancing around at the other patrons of the tavern. “Both of you.”

  I followed his gaze and noticed, for the first time, everyone was watching us. There were more than a few angry faces, many hard pairs of eyes glaring at me. The room continued to spin, but the heady pleasantness had gone, leaving me dizzy and more than slightly panicked. Some of the eyes were, as this man had put it, eyeing me with . . . interest. They may not have known who I was, but if they did, they were unafraid. The only option I had, it seemed, was to let him walk me home. If anyone saw me and reported my presence outside the palace, Father would be furious with me; if anyone saw him, and more specifically, the pendant around his neck, he would be dragged to my father and tortured to death. But if I tried walking home alone, I was sure I would never make it. Not intact, anyway.

  He stood up, held a hand out to me. “Are you coming, Lady?” The callouses on his palms scratched my fingers, his hand warm and strong.

  He easily pulled me to my feet, despite our height difference, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and guiding me out the door. I felt many pairs of eyes watch me leave, heard a few feet scuff the packed dirt floor, benches scrape and cups clatter on tables. The arm around my shoulders hustled me out into the street, hesitated, and then pulled me away from the inn and back toward the palace. At least, I hoped he was taking me there. It occurred to me then, with his arm locked around me, that perhaps I had only gotten myself in a different kind of trouble. How did I know I could trust him? The fear bubbled up slowly, penetrating the haze of wine fogging my mind.

  “Wait.” I pulled him to a stop and wiggled out of his grasp. “How do I know you are not going to do the same thing to me?” It was hard to get the words out properly . . . I was a bit more drunk than I’d thought, it appeared.

  He just chuckled and pulled me back into a fast, stumbling walk. “A bit late to think of that, Highness. You’ll just have to trust me.”