That was hours ago.
Three more tablets down. As Herodot translated each symbol into Greek, he finally began to understand what Trianni had run from. The great scribe had worshipped words, history, and fact. Gujaritan had been a simple village of bead-making, fishing, hunting, and art.
But what seemed to have offended Trianni was the village's continued patronage of "Keepers," a sect of story-tellers that passed down their vocation through the ages. The keepers were charged with remembering a legend, and often recited it during moon's feast and other ceremonies.
Even as a young man, Trianni believed they were useless jesters who the village clothed, fed, and sheltered. He held onto those beliefs until he met Isin.
According to Isin, the village had been found and destroyed to keep the legend from spreading beyond Gujaritan. Trianni agreed with this assessment upon discovering his brother had been murdered in Lothal days before the village was destroyed.
My brother sealed their fate in one of his drunken ramblings. And for that, Isin and I were all that remained of our kin.
It was then that Trianni told the legend of the beast that once terrorized Gujaritan, demanding a sacrifice every so many seasons. The beast had ultimately been defeated by a young man named Rashim. According to Trianni, Isin hadn't believed in the tale until his induction into the Keeper sect and witnessing Gujaritan's destruction.
In the set of tablets Herodot read, Trianni had yet to tell Isin's version of the tale, but the somewhat terse version of the legend was enough to send shivers down his spine. What struck him the most, however, was when he came across the same word he'd seen in Philus' account: Garaaga.
The phonetics for the word were the same in Greek as in Akkadian. When he'd translated the syllables, a cold chill had wracked his body. Gah-raah-gah.
Since drawing the Greek for it, he sat staring at the scroll, re-reading the passage over and over again. Trianni wrote his account over two-thousand years ago. Philus, almost three-hundred. Coincidence? Had the Macedonian been able to read Akkadian and found Trianni's writing? Or was Garaaga a legend known in that part of the world? And if so, why hadn't Herodot come across it in other translations?
"It is time for dinner," a humorless voice said.
Herodot looked up. Akakios stood before the table. His mouth didn't smile, but his eyes glittered.
"I'm sorry, sir. Time got away from me."
"Are you finished with those?" Akakios said, his long finger pointing to the tablets.
Herodot shook his head. "Yes. Well, all but the last one."
"I see. Then what have you been doing the last while? Every time I looked at you, you were staring off into space or at the scroll."
"Sir? Have you ever heard of something called 'Garaaga'? Or Gujaritan?"
Akakios licked his lips and smiled. "Garaaga?"
"Yes. I've come across that word in two different historical accounts."
"Can't say I've ever heard of it."
Herodot shrugged. He picked up the three tablets and yawned. "I am hungry," he said.
"Then let us go eat. I assume the others of your kind will take their meals in their cells?"
"Yes."
"Then you should come eat with me. And tell me about what your beloved Tupšarru has had to say."
Herodot smiled. "That will take longer than a mere dinner, teacher."
"Then let us make it last a while."
His cell was dark. Clouds clothed the moon leaving the ocean black and its white caps all but invisible. He stared up at the ceiling. Even after the exhausting day, it was nearly impossible to sleep.
The evening meal had been stressful. He'd never eaten in the company of the librarians. When he and Akakios arrived in the dining hall, the patron pulled Herodot toward the front tables.
A lowly scribe eating dinner with the giants? And a Jew to boot? Herodot's skin crawled at first.
Akakios smiled at him. "All know you. You are respected more than you imagine. Come."
As they approached the table, many of the artisans nodded to Akakios. The head translator smiled in return. They found a place near the edge of the table. Akakios gestured to Herodot to sit opposite. "This way we can talk," he said.
Evening meals were usually as raucous as the morning and mid-day meals, but the hall was much quieter than usual.
"Is there something I don't know about?"
Akakios poured wine into a clay cup and pushed it across to Herodot.
"Only that the war rages on. Ptolemy has claimed a victory in the eastern city."
"Most of the Jews live in the eastern section," Herodot's voice shook.
"Not to worry," Akakios said nodding. "Ptolemy has no grief with your people. He only hates the Romans."
Herodot sipped at his cup. "No, sir. You misunderstand. I'm not concerned about them hurting the people. I'm more worried about the homes and shops being destroyed."
"And the Synagogue."
"Yes, and the Synagogue."
Akakios drank. His eyes glittered as he uttered a sigh. "The wine is particularly good tonight."
Herodot said nothing.
"There are also statues in that area, my young friend. They are prized almost as much as your temple. And, might I say, much older."
"Yes."
"But still, that is not why they are so quiet."
"Then--"
"The fighting has moved closer to us. Caesar's soldiers are spread too thin and the Library is no longer guarded as well as before." Akakios held up a hand to catch the eye of a servant. Herodot turned and watched the Egyptian boy head toward the kitchen. "We shall have to be careful. Especially at night."
"Is that why you came to the hall?"
Akakios nodded. "I'm afraid we need to curtail your nightly Akkadian studies. At least for the time being."
"Has Cleitus made that pronouncement?"
"Yes," a voice said as a hand patted his shoulder.
Herodot sat straight up. His cup jiggled on the table. Blood red wine spilled over its edge.
"My apologies," the old man said. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
"Cleitus," Akakios said.
The old man bowed and then turned to Herodot. "Do you mind if I sit? I am famished."
Herodot tried to speak but only managed a cough. He turned toward Akakios, face flushed.
"We would be delighted."
Cleitus pulled up his toga and sat next to Herodot. "Have you hailed a servant?"
Akakios nodded. "Wine?"
"Please."
Herodot reached for an empty cup and filled it with wine. He passed it to the old man.
"Thank you, scribe." Cleitus sipped. "So, yes, I have mandated a curfew for the Library. All members are to be in the dormitory by sunset."
"But I have--"
"Much to do, yes, I know. We all do, Herodot. But we can't have you wandering around during the night."
"He's right," Akakios said. "If the legionnaires aren't guarding us, no one is."
"Have you sent word to Ptolemy?"
Cleitus nodded. "I am waiting to hear back from him. I expressed our concern that the Library might become a casualty should either army choose to bring the battle here."
The servant appeared with a large tray and set plates of broiled fish and unleavened bread on the table.
"Swine?" the old Librarian asked in Egyptian.
The boy nodded and made his way back to the kitchen.
Akakios glared at Cleitus. Cleitus raised his eyebrows and then shook his head. He turned to Herodot. "My apologies. I mean no offense."
"None taken," Herodot whispered.
Cleitus stared down at his plate for a moment. "I've seen better catches."
"Perhaps if Ptolemy's ships weren't so close to shore, the fishermen would venture further."
"Perhaps," Cleitus agreed. He reached for a piece of bread and placed bits of the meat inside it. Akakios and Herodot followed suit.
They were silent for moment.
; Be careful of that one, Archelon's dusty words echoed in his mind, he is his own creature.
"So, my boy," Cleitus said between bites, "did you get the scroll?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
"Scroll?"
"Yes, Akakios. I gave Herodot a bit of a present. You told me he'd been working on Akkadian tablets. I thought he might be interested in the account of Philus."
Akakios blinked. "Philus?"
Herodot nodded. "Old legend," Herodot said as he swallowed. "Philus was a very important soldier in Alexander's army. He told the story of his friend Nerutal and his harrowing journey through the Indus."
"Ah. Fairy tales, I'm certain."
Cleitus laughed. "Yes, tales of large pig-like animals, strange snakes, and creatures from myth. Surely Nerutal was insane."
"Did Philus believe them?"
Herodot shrugged. "I would say he did. Or believed at least enough of it to warrant its record. Trianni spoke of the village of Gujaritan. It would have been about--"
"Trianni?"
"Yes, sir," Herodot said as he turned to Cleitus. "Trianni is the scribe whose tablets I have been translating."
"Oh. Continue."
"Trianni's home village in the Indus is described as being four to five days walk from Lothal. Up the river."
"Ah," Cleitus said. "About the same distance Nerutal described?"
"Indeed."
"Wait," Akakios said. "This village, this Gujaritan, does this have to do with what you asked earlier?"
Herodot nodded. "Yes, patron. Trianni's Gujaritan bears some resemblance to that described in Nerutal's mad ramblings."
"And how did Trianni describe his birthplace?"
"Through the eyes of sentiment. He left it for Akkad, for knowledge and love of writing. But it appears that upon hearing of its destruction, he thought it important for it to live on in the annals."
"Heresy," Akakios grinned. "Surely the Akkadians took him to task for that."
"Doubtful," Cleitus said. "If he was a worshipper of Niniba, rather than Marduk, then any such writings would be protected."
"And considered worship," Herodot added. "Niniba blessed all writings and those who performed the craft."
"What about this other word you asked about? Garoga?"
"Garaaga, patron."
Cleitus turned to Herodot, eyes wide. "You didn't find mention of that in Trianni's writing, did you?"
"Yes, sir."
The old Librarian smacked his fist into the table. "Fantastic! You've discovered a link. Many civilizations have come and gone between Akkad and Alexander's misadventures in the Indus. But a legend like that? To find it in both accounts? Truly amazing."
"Dribble," Akakios said. "Stories kept alive by superstitious fish mongers."
Cleitus' face scrunched up in a frown. "Don't belittle the importance of what your young scribe has uncovered, Akakios. This is important. It should be studied."
Akakios shrugged. "Certainly. Perhaps once young Herodot has finished with the rest of Trianni's Akkadian marks."
The two men stared at one another. Herodot said nothing. The flushing pride he felt a moment ago disappeared. The tension hovering between the two older men was palpable.
Akakios dropped his eyes and folded bites of fish into another piece of bread. "Is there any more to this tale? Of Trianni's, I mean?"
"Just that Garaaga was some kind of god. Although that's not very clear. It had what we Jews call 'nephilim.'"
Cleitus barked laughter. "Demi-gods."
"Yes," Herodot agreed. "Except they don't seem to be very god-like. There's no account of them doing more than causing trouble."
"Trouble?"
"Yes, patron. Trouble. Taking sacrifices and the like."
"Not a friendly bunch, then?" Akakios asked with a grin.
Herodot chuckled. "Not at all."
A low bell rang. Cleitus placed another bite of fish into his mouth, and washed it down with wine. "Never fails. Just when I'm enjoying a meal. Excuse me."
The old Librarian rose from the table and walked toward the front of the hall. He stared at the men remaining at their tables.
"That is last bell, gentlemen. I ask that you please return to your cells until morning. The servants will be visiting the dormitories with wine and food through the evening. Until tomorrow."
Cleitus bowed to the hall and then exited.
Akakios sighed between his teeth. "I have great respect for that man, but he is capable of strange ideas."
Herodot said nothing, merely bade his patron good night, and headed to his cell.
That had been hours ago. Cleitus had been correct about finding a connection between Philus and Trianni. It was unprecedented. With the exception of Lothal, the Indus had been very isolated from the ancient kingdoms of Sumer, Akkad, and Babylon. So how could this Nerutal have come in contact with the same creature described in the legend of Rashim?
"Rashim," Herodot whispered. He shivered in the cool night and wrapped the blanket more tightly around himself.
What had Rashim seen? What had Isin seen? And why had Akakios, his patron, looked so uncomfortable at the mention of "Garaaga?"
Two more tablets, maybe three, and he'd know more about Rashim and Garaaga.
Someone was shaking him. "Go away," Herodot muttered.
"Wake up!"
Herodot's eyes flipped open and he stared into Isaac's face. The room was still dark. He turned his head and stared at the orange glow through the window.
"It's not even dawn yet, Isaac. Go away."
"Herodot, get up. Something's happened."
"What?"
"The fight is a mere street away."
Herodot sat up and almost knocked his head into Isaac's. "Has Cleitus called for an assembly?"
"No. But get dressed. The guards are calling us to defend the Library."
Herodot blinked. "With what? Books? Scrolls? Tablets?"
"Someone started a fire on the other street. It's spreading. They fear it might touch us."
He rose from the bed. Isaac turned away as he put on his tunic. "Where are we to assemble?"
"Main hall. Hurry."
Herodot pulled on his sandals as Isaac disappeared from the room. Somewhat awake, he could hear the sounds of swords clashing in the distance and the screams of dying men.
He ran out of his cell, his feet slapping against the stone floor. The main hall was well lit with torches and crowded with sweating, terrified scholars.
"Ptolemy's forces have advanced," a familiar voice boomed over the crowd. "Caesar's men are fighting for every street now attempting to hold the palace." Herodot stood on his toes and saw Akakios standing on a crate near the heavy, wooden doors at the Library's East entrance. "We must prepare for fire. Head to the kitchen! Grab every pot you can find and bring it back here. We'll fill from the fountain!"
For a tense moment no one in the crowd moved. Akakios took in a huge breath of air. "GO!" he screamed.
The crowd dispersed. The din of sandals and bare feet smashing against stone was deafening. Herodot was jostled and then fell as bodies moved past him, over him, and stepped on his chest. He cried out but could barely hear himself as the panicked men headed off toward the kitchen and dining hall.
A foot slammed into his head and Herodot's world went black.
Clay dust covered his robes. An older man sat at an ancient table. He wiped sweat from his brow. Caked mud clung to his forehead.
Tablets stacked as high as the eye could see lined the walls. The old man was bent over a fresh tablet, his stylus etching the soft clay. His lips moved as he scratched.
"Akkad," Herodot thought. "I'm in Akkad."
The old man continued scratching. Crimson bled from the tablet, but the old man continued his work. Rivulets streamed over the sides of the clay square and soon covered the table. Herodot wanted to scream, but had no voice.
The liquid sloshed over the side of the table across from the scribe. Herodot watched as the liquid bubbled and
slid along the floor. It was making a shape. An arm of blood slowly spiraled into infinity, its broad end curling into a hook.
The old scribe paid no attention. His stylus continued etching into the soaked clay.
From the bloody spiral, a blurry shadow rose. Its shape was impossible to define. Arms, legs, a misshapen head, would be visible for an instant before returning to amorphous chaos.
The scribe looked up. He saw the shape and grinned. "You can't stop words," he croaked. "Word is Nabu. Word is all there is."
Tendrils of bloody smoke slowly reached for the old man. The scribe returned to his work, his hand moving furiously across the tablet. When the smoke reached him, its molten fingers of air wrapped around his neck. The old man gurgled and raised his free hand to his throat. The hand holding his stylus continued etching. A blade of smoke appeared and sliced off his writing hand.
Blood streamed from the wound. The old man's severed hand continued writing words.
The world shook as the shape growled. "Garaaga."
Fingers of smoke smashed into the scribe's eyes. The old man collapsed into his chair, but his severed hand continued to write.
Herodot found his voice and screamed.
Someone was screaming. The sound was close. After a moment, Herodot realized it was him.
His throat burned and his eyes flew open. Akakios was standing at the foot of the bed, his face filled with shock and worry.
"My boy?" Akakios whispered. "Are you all right?"
Herodot stared at his patron. "The hand. The word."
"What?"
A fire. A jostle of panicked bodies. The fire!
"Akakios? Are we safe? Are we--"
"We are fine," Akakios smiled. "Both Ptolemy's men and the legionnaires kept the Library safe. They doused the fire with our help."
"But are they still fighting?"
"Of course. The fire was their common enemy. Once the street was clear, they formed up and returned to battle." Akakios leaned in, the smile disappeared from his face. "But you, my boy, are you all right?"
Herodot looked around the room. The infirmary was empty save for the two of them. "I-- My head hurts."
"And by the sound of it, your throat." Akakios lifted a silver cup to Herodot's lips. "Drink slowly," he commanded.
Legends of Garaaga Page 15