I Shall Slay the Dragon!

by Igor Ljubuncic

  His hunger flared. “I will be right next to you, if you need me.” Or maybe that wasn’t such a good idea, he mused. But he had to say it, to keep his dignity.

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  “I shall require a bath,” Iermiah said. He seemed to have overheard. That smug smile.

  Shimshon chortled with forced delight, trying to defuse the tension. “A habit you must have learned from the Sidonians.”

  Both Iftach and Iermiah stabbed him with annoyed glances. “There’s a pool in the shade of a huhuba in the back,” the owner spoke. “You are welcome to it too, Shimshon.”

  Rami thanked his friend and climbed toward the rooms on the second floor. With a hesitant backward glance, Dlila followed. Shimshon was left alone with Iftach; smelly, dusty, holding his gear under his armpits.

  Shimshon watched her feet tread the stone steps. He remembered his lust.

  “I shall require a woman. Can you arrange that?” And a room at the far end of the tavern.

  Iftach pursed his lips. He sized Shimshon up and down. “Will two suffice?”

  CHAPTER TET

  WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF MALAKHIM?

  The rustle of beads covering the door entrance woke him.

  Instantly, Shimshon was alert, but he kept his eyes closed, pretending to still be asleep. He quickly remembered where he’d left his bronze blade. He imagined reaching down and drawing the sword. But then he heard the visitor breathe, caught the winy smell of him, and relaxed.

  Shimshon blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the morning glare. One of the prostitutes woke up, rose, and scurried into the corner of the room. Shimshon watched her. Lithe legs, dusky skin, dark nipples, and a luscious growth of hair between her legs. Within a heartbeat, he was aroused again.

  The second one kept on snoring, even when Iermiah poked his head through the veil of threaded peas. “Have you slept at all?”

  Shimshon rubbed his eyes. “Quite some. You?”

  Iermiah nodded slowly. “Haven’t heard a single moan. The Akkadian wine was excellent.”

  What about Dlila? Has she overheard? Shimshon untangled his legs and rose. The first prostitute was still standing near the small washstand, looking wary.

  Rami noticed Shimshon’s stare and followed it, craning deeper into the chamber. “Oh my.”

  Shimshon flicked the curtain of beads, making Iermiah squint. “You haven’t paid to look.”

  The prophet retreated. He spoke through the drape. “We need to go, my hotheaded Ammonite.”

  Shimshon looked at the whore and snapped his fingers. “Wake your friend and leave. The silver is there, on the stand.”

  The woman took the small satchel first, then stirred the other girl out of her sleep. Without a word, the prostitutes collected their things and left, slithering in between him and the prophet, seductive smiles on their sleepy faces.

  “Iftach’s daughters,” Rami said, stepping in, the beads clicking.

  Shimshon frowned. “What?”

  “The man was born to a prostitute, poor lad. After his kin drove him off, he spent his life as a bandit in Iehuda. He gathered some wealth and came here. He makes a decent living, and no one’s his judge but God.”

  Shimshon searched for his clothes. He found them bundled under the bed. “Strange.”

  “You didn’t mind the strangeness last night,” Iermiah chided him. “Or that they are Israelites.”

  “A beautiful woman is a beautiful woman,” Shimshon said, and he thought of Dlila.

  “Dress up. Iftach has a light meal for us, and then we need to go meet the wise men.”

  A tingle ran down his spine. Yes, the reason why he had come here. “Let’s go.” Then he paused. “What about Dlila?”

  Rami’s face turned serious. “No, she is not allowed. She must stay here. Iftach can help her sell the remaining silk. But the oils are mostly spoiled, I’m afraid.”

  Shimshon grimaced.

  “Do not worry. She will be protected. Trust me.”

  Shimshon grunted. “Trust an Israelite?”

  Iermiah snorted in return. “That, from an Ammonite. Come.”

  In the common room, Dlila was sitting on the floor in front of a low table, looking at him very intently. He couldn’t decipher that look. Was it anger? Disappointment? Or just curiosity? How loud had he been last night?

  I am a man, I have my needs. I should not be sorry for following my passions.

  Dlila wiped chickpea spread from a wooden platter with a piece of roast bread. Each time she did it, the short-legged table wobbled, and the wine in her cup shuddered.

  Shimshon sat down opposite her, wondering if he should speak.

  “Did you sleep well?” She made the decision for him.

  “Well enough,” he mumbled, unable to meet her gaze. Why do I feel guilty? It is not right.

  After they broke their fast, Iermiah led him out into the city, on foot. Dlila stood in the doorway, watching them. Shimshon wanted to say something smart, but wisdom escaped him, so he joined the prophet and shrugged the itch of Dlila’s stare off his shoulder blades.

  The Israelite was dressed in his travel-stained robes, but he had wound prayer straps around his arms. That reminded Shimshon that the prophet also had his own reasons for coming to Bavel.

  Street after narrow street fell behind their sandals as they wove their way through the crowds. Shimshon paid little attention to their route. It was a hopeless maze, so he focused on studying people and their cultures. A few wizened old women offered baked goods and dried fruit off hot, beaten-copper pans in front of their doorsteps. A tattooed stranger with a snake on his shoulders wanted to foretell his future, but Shimshon ignored him.

  He had more important things to do than haggle with swindlers.

  “Now, prophet, you tell me why you came here.”

  Iermiah was silent, almost as though the man hadn’t heard him. Then, he spoke. “What do you know of malakhim?”

  Shimshon patted his pouches after an unruly child ran past him. They were all there. “What?”

  The prophet slowed his walk. “Messengers of God.”

  Shimshon felt the small piece of threaded cloth in his tunic suddenly weigh heavy. “Melek?”

  Iermiah shook his head. “Elohim.”

  Shimshon thought of his mother for a moment. “I don’t know anything about them.”

  Rami sighed. “One came to visit me shortly before I met you.”

  The fine hairs on his nape were standing now. Shimshon made his fists open. He had to remain composed and listen to what the prophet had to say. “And?”

  “He told me you would come and that we must go to Bavel together.”

  Shimshon didn’t like this one bit. “You must have drunk too much—”

  “I know what happened,” Iermiah insisted.

  “Why would your god be concerned with me?” Shimshon bristled, feeling anger rush to his chest. He didn’t like the prophet’s story.

  “He is your mother’s god, too. Your god.”

  “Not mine.”

  Rami smiled. “Believe what you wish.”

  Shimshon balled his fists again, fingernails digging into his palms. “That makes no sense.”

  “Then why did you come with me here, Ammonite?”

  Shimshon stopped walking altogether. Reluctantly, he pulled out the cursed piece of cloth with its mysterious writing. He showed it to the prophet, who stared with curious but unconcerned eyes. “I got this from an old man. In my king’s army camp. He...warned me not to go to Iabesh. He gave me this scrap.”

  Slowly, Rami let a smile slip onto his lips. He stepped closer to let a group of people pass, but maybe, Shimshon suspected, so he could whisper the next sentence.

  “Triv, that word. Hm. The old man might have been a malakh.”

  Shimshon shrugged, almost involuntarily. “Just take me to the wise men.”

  They walked on in silence, but not for long.

  A burly man the color of old coal stepped in their pat
h. He was muscular, but not quite as tall as Shimshon. It was a bold move. A challenging move. Hostile. Few men, sane or sober, dared do that. It was a blessed distraction to keep him from wrestling with his nagging thoughts.

  “You are blocking my way,” Shimshon warned him in Aramaic. The dark fellow had better understand.

  “You are big,” the muscled man said in a careful, measured manner. “I take you to a lion pit, you fight for me.”

  Shimshon noticed Iermiah had walked around the human obstacle and was waiting on the other side, pointing. “It is your lucky day. I am in a hurry.” Shimshon stepped around the rude stranger, ignoring the urge to strike him down.

  “Well done. Not all trouble should be solved with strength,” Rami complimented him.

  Shimshon gave his sword-belt a shake. “No, but it’s the fastest way. How much longer?”

  “Be patient.”

  A large square opened up before them, with a massive temple dominating the crossroads. An impressive figure of a naked woman loomed above the entrance, holding horns in her hands. Two large lions flanked a black-stone dais leading up to the door, and there was a fire burning in a pit below the wide platform of steps. Guards dressed in gold robes and owl masks stood ceremoniously on both streets.

  “Is that the tower?” Shimshon asked, his voice low.

  Iermiah snorted. “No. That is the temple of Ishtar.”

  As they approached, Shimshon noticed two other men on the dais, each loudly narrating his own story. One had white chalk smeared on his face and the other was covered in dark mud. Shimshon could not understand their words, but they sounded ominous.

  “And those two?”

  “The priests of the goddess. The exorcist and the diviner. They are banishing evil spirits from the city.”

  Shimshon shrugged, trying to ease the prickly sensation off his shoulder blades. He realized the white-face priest was staring at him. Pointing. Even though there were hundreds of people in front of the temple entrance, Shimshon knew the crooked finger and that baleful stare were directed his way.

  “How much longer?” he asked, grinding his teeth.

  Iermiah waved his hand toward the endless snarl of buildings. “Just there.”

  Shimshon was almost convinced the prophet might be mocking him when the skein of houses eased, like a forest ending in a field. Low dwellings hung back behind an invisible line, opening into a clearing in the north part of the city. Shimshon could not have seen it yesterday. All those domes and spires obscured it from view to travelers coming into Bavel.

  A low, wide hill rose along the north side of the clearing where there was a palace, drawing all attention to it. The king’s home, Shimshon thought.

  The hill was terraced and there were a thousand workers there, planting trees and grooming hedges of thorny flowers. It was a complex garden, with columns that supported thin bridges between different levels, but the spans of stone were too slender and too narrow for men to cross. Instead, flowers and creepers grew up and around them. There were vines and palms and even a marble fountain, sprinkling precious water into the warm air.

  “A gift from the king, for his queen,” Iermiah noted, hardly looking as impressed as Shimshon felt.

  “His reign must be prosperous,” Shimshon whispered, even though there was no need.

  The royal palace was so magnificent, it was easy to miss what was in the center of the clearing.

  Looking closer, there was another building, a turret of a sort, although it wasn’t very tall. It was squat and simple, made of stone that matched the reddish dust that clad the city. It had no ornaments and no windows, looking plain and ugly compared to the palace. And yet, it dominated the open space, no shadow from any of the domes or spires touching it.

  “That is our destination.”

  Shimshon felt his heartbeat quicken.

  “Come.”

  Reluctantly, he followed the prophet. It felt like a dream. Questions flooded his mind. He wondered what significance that lonely building had. Did King Esar Haddon suffer the presence of that humble-looking building below his splendid garden? Or was it the other way around? The fact that no house, not even the palaces of the rich and mighty, dared encroach the wide clearing around the turret made him realize that ugly thing was the true core of power in Bavel.

  The sudden understanding didn’t make him feel any less anxious.

  As they drew nearer, Shimshon noted a tiny staircase carved into the edifice, winding around the building to its flat top.

  “That? The wise men are there?”

  Iermiah nodded.

  Shimshon frowned at the spire. “Where is the entrance?”

  “On the roof.”

  “Why?”

  “You will have to ask them that yourself.” Iermiah was intently looking at him until Shimshon returned the same look. “Welcome to the Tower of Bavel.”

  CHAPTER YOD

  THE NUMBER OF THE BEAST

  Shimshon had never really been afraid in his life.

  But...the narrow staircase left little place for courage. A gust of wind, a slip of the foot, and he could end up on the hard, red ground fifty cubits below, and no amount of strength and prowess could help him then.

  Iermiah climbed happily, without worry, despite his overnight binge. Shimshon followed, a hand brushing against the mud brick of the tower’s worn face. The stone was warm, tingling under his fingertips. As he cleared the last step, Shimshon breathed with ease. On the roof, there was another well of steps, but this one burrowed into the tower, an unnatural eye-socket of night, inviting them in.

  “Are you ready, Ammonite?” Rami teased.

  If the Israelite can do it, so can I. “As you are,” Shimshon lied.

  The prophet waited. “Remember, you may not like the truth of what the wise men have to say.”

  Omens. I need to know. He could not turn back now. “Lead the way.”

  Down they went.

  Torches illuminated the staircase, but the light didn’t reach out, Shimshon noted with dismay. To his relief, inside the tower, the stairwell was bigger, with wide, rough steps that wouldn’t let him slip easily. Soon enough, the square of sky vanished, and they were enshrined in a world that had only the amber of burning wood and pitch as its source of light.

  Down.

  Shimshon swore they descended for much longer than they had climbed. He lost the sense of space as he followed the curl of the stairwell. To his left, there was a black chasm, and it dropped into perfect darkness.

  It was dizzying, looking down into that void. He focused his eyes on the steps, counting them.

  Soon enough, he lost count, but there was no end to the spiral or the black drop on his left. His sense of dread spiked.

  Suddenly, a doorway opened on the right side, where the wall of the tower should be.

  Shimshon swallowed. We are well underground.

  Iermiah noticed his distress. “The tower looks smaller from the outside,” he offered.

  “How far...down have we gone?”

  The prophet shrugged. “Inside the tower...it does not work quite like that.”

  “Where does that passage go to?” Shimshon realized he was whispering again.

  “One of the libraries.” The prophet pointed at the glyph above the doorway. “The Library of Crafts.” Rami was looking at him quite intently. “All right, we go deeper.”

  After another turn of the stairway, they reached a second portal.

  Shimshon frowned. “How many levels are there?”

  Iermiah climbed back, standing dangerously close. Shimshon felt exposed, vulnerable. A quick shove from the prophet, and he would lose his footing and plunge into that fathomless well. But there was no malice in the other man’s eyes. “One level for each tongue of the world. There are seven hundred and seventy- seven levels.”

  Shimshon realized he was gaping. He closed his mouth shut. He composed his thoughts. “Each library keeps scrolls in a different language?”

  Iermiah shoo
k his head. “No. But the book keepers will be able to read every language there is. If one cannot read something, then another will.”

  “And where are you taking me?”

  The prophet shrugged again. “Taking you? No. You will have to find out yourself.”

  Shimshon balked. “I will have to descend and climb all these hundreds of levels?”

  Iermiah pursed his lips. “Until you find what you seek.”

  “Where are you going then?”

  “I don’t know. I just know I must climb these steps, the same as you. We part ways when we part, and we meet again outside.”

  Shimshon stood in front of the entrance, feeling something approaching fear. Twice now. “What does the sign read here?”

  Iermiah glanced at the glyph. “The Library of Animal Kinds.”

  Shimshon felt his eye twitch. “That makes no sense.”

  “It will.”

  Down they went, passing by more entrances and more glyphs. Shimshon felt unease just staring at the symbols, so he hurried past them. Then, on an unknown level, there were two doorways, side by side.

  “What do those say?”

  Rami grimaced. “I do not know.”

  “What do you mean? You knew the first two!”

  The prophet sighed. “Only because I had entered those libraries before. I have been here...a few times. Each time, my search took me into a different vault. The first time I was lucky, and I stepped through the very first entrance, into the very first library. The second time, I do not even know how deeply I went. The third time...the libraries were marked differently. The Library of Crafts wasn’t the first level back then.”

  “They move all those books around?”

  “Or entire levels,” Iermiah suggested unhelpfully.

  Dark sorcery, Shimshon thought, his gut clenching.

  They continued, deeper and deeper. Strangely, Shimshon felt no cold, thirst, or hunger. His legs didn’t tire, even after he lost count of the steps for a second time. On a few occasions, Rami remarked on the glyphs above the dark passageways, but mostly, he was silent. Sometimes, the levels opened up into a single library, and sometimes there were three, five, or ten corridors branching off.

  “How many times have you been here?” Shimshon asked. Then, he heard a shuffling of feet. Both Iermiah and he stopped descending, but the scrap of soles persisted. Climbing up, coming their way, was a man in brown robes. He didn’t acknowledge them. He moved on as if they didn’t exist.