Weary, he dropped the hoe and straightened, easing his sore back and eyeing the nearest woods. If he could escape into them and remove his chains, no one could catch him. Unfortunately, between him and freedom there stood two Scouts with bows. They chatted idly, with a water jug at their feet. Farther along his row worked Zimri, his hoe rising and falling, thudding into the soil. They seldom talked. Gilgamesh was still furious with them for trying to ambush Beor, for linking him to their abominable plan. He felt that Magog might have forced Beor to let him go by now if it hadn’t been for the failed ambush, the attempt to slay Beor. Gilgamesh wiped his brow. Enlil was gone because, several days ago, Beor had taken him to a meeting with Japheth and his sons.
“Keep working,” the senior Scout shouted, a grandson of Canaan named Yorba.
The second Scout perked up, seeming to look past Gilgamesh. He touched Yorba on the elbow and pointed.
Gilgamesh turned, and his eyebrows rose. Hilda, wearing her knee-length dress, bearing a spear, strolled with Gog. The handsome young man was beefy around the shoulders, with heavy arms and two prized bronze wristbands that gleamed like the sun. The bands proclaimed him the wrestling champion of Magog Village, and the boy must have constantly polished the wristbands the way they shone. Gog had a thick neck and open features, and long blond hair. Give him a few years, and he would certainly turn massive, perhaps fat. Now he was in the bloom of youth.
Gog and Hilda held hands, Gog studying Gilgamesh carefully. Hilda seemed concerned, with her blonde hair tied in a ponytail.
Zimri straightened, letting his hoe swing to his side. Zimri wore clean woolens and had a trimmed beard, although sweat bathed his face. His wounds bothered him. But he had talked, and now received better treatment than Gilgamesh did.
Silently, as he had done everything since his capture, Gilgamesh watched as the couple picked their way through the wheat field. They had been promised to each other. The wedding was to take place after Festival, after the “Babel problem” had been dealt with. From the few snatches of conversation that Gilgamesh had overheard, the sons of Magog were worried about Nimrod’s reaction to the Hunters held in captivity.
Gilgamesh watched the couple approach, again noticed them holding hands. He thought constantly about Opis and Uruk and that he wasn’t there to press his suit. His stomach roiled, and he was sick with the knowledge that as soon as he was free, he’d become a murderer. If Uruk had married Opis, Uruk must die, would die. On that, Gilgamesh had vowed every night.
Yorba, the taller of the two Scouts, a square-headed man with premature silver hair, hurried near, his bowstring half-drawn and his barbed arrow an instant from being aimed at his heart.
“Go away,” Yorba told Hilda. “Your father will drive my head through a tree if I let you stay.”
Hilda stopped. So did Gog. He peered at Gilgamesh frankly. “She’s in no danger. I’ll protect her.”
Yorba laughed. “Do you think a Hunter wrestles a bear or a champion of Magog Village? It is with cunning he’ll strike, not with grappling holds.”
Gog released Hilda’s hand. He stood half a head taller than Gilgamesh and surely weighed fifty pounds more. Slab-like muscles bulged under his tunic.
“Hilda says he is honorable,” Gog said. “Would an honorable man try to brain me with a hoe?”
“Stand back,” Yorba warned, aiming the barbed arrowhead at Gilgamesh.
Gog addressed Gilgamesh. “They say you are a champion among the Hunters. Perhaps you’d like to wrestle me.”
Gilgamesh looked into Gog’s eyes.
“I’m heavier than you,” admitted Gog. “Yet I’ve beaten men heavier than myself. Do you think you can pin me?”
“Don’t let him goad you,” Yorba said.
“Goad me?” Gog asked. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“He’s a Hunter,” Yorba said. “He’s one of Nimrod’s captains. He’s clever, they say, cunning.”
Gog ran a thick hand through his hair. “Against strength and skill, cunning goes only so far.”
Gilgamesh glanced at the hoe lying in the dirt.
Gog noticed, and he nodded to Hilda. “He shot your father with an arrow and now would use a hoe against me, against a man offering to wrestle him. I call that a lack of honor.”
Gilgamesh snorted.
“How can you disagree?” Gog asked.
“Go away,” Yorba said. “Leave. He’s only goading you. He’s not going to wrestle you.”
“Why not?” Gog asked. “He’s a captain, isn’t he? He’s one of their premier warriors. My offer is genuine. I don’t know anyone else who will give him the same opportunity.”
Hilda spoke. “I’ve thought about the day Gilgamesh shot my father. I’ve wondered sometimes if he did that to save my father’s life.”
Yorba laughed. It seemed he laughed often. “He did it to save Nimrod’s life. Beor would have finished the Mighty Hunter but for Gilgamesh.”
“Is that true?” Hilda asked.
Gilgamesh blinked. The girl was pretty and vulnerable, he realized. The wary look in her eyes told him that. He stared at his feet. He never should have stolen from her. He understood finally that Semiramis had sent him out of spite. Semiramis hated Beor, and she hated Beor’s daughter.
“Why won’t you talk?” Hilda asked. “Why won’t you ever answer us?”
“He’s proud,” Yorba said. “All the Hunters are. His capture has demeaned him.”
Gilgamesh shook his head, even as he continued staring at his feet.
“Oh?” Yorba said.
Gilgamesh lifted his eyes. Hilda seemed fragile, even though she carried a spear.
“Why do you hate us so?” she asked.
Gilgamesh couldn’t understand what pulled the words out of his mouth. “I don’t hate you. And the reason I don’t talk is shame, shame for stealing from you and shame at doing Semiramis’s bidding.”
“Eh?” Yorba asked, stepping nearer. “Semiramis ordered you to do this?”
Gilgamesh closed his mouth.
“Only men of honor feel shame,” Gog said. “So if he feels shame, perhaps he is yet honorable.”
“No,” Yorba said.
“Why do you say that?” Gog asked.
Yorba scowled. “We’re not here to debate. Gilgamesh must work. So you must leave.”
Gog glanced at Hilda. She nodded. They turned to go.
Gilgamesh bent to pick up the hoe.
Yorba, lowering his bow, stepped from behind and pushed Gilgamesh, tripping him, causing him to sprawl and, with a crackle, to crush wheat.
“What are you doing?” shouted Gog. “That was a foul act. You must treat him with respect. In Magog Village, we even treat cattle better than that.”
“He was going to strike you,” Yorba said. “Now go, leave. The slave must finish his work.”
Gilgamesh’s stomach tightened, as did his fingers around the hoe’s haft.
“That’s right,” snarled Yorba. “Pick up the hoe and charge. Then I’ll drill you like you deserve.”
“No!” Gog said. “Do that, and you’ll have to answer to me.”
Yorba stepped back from Gilgamesh. He regarded Gog. “He broke your grandfather’s peace. He is treacherous, dangerous. I’m merely doing my duty, guarding against more of his underhanded schemes.”
“He is brave, whatever else he is,” Gog said. “Brave men must be given respect.”
They stared at one another, the proud archer and the open-faced wrestler. Yorba at last dipped his head. “As you wish.”
Gog glanced at Gilgamesh. Then he took Hilda’s hand and left.
Gilgamesh picked up the hoe.
Yorba half drew his bow. “They say Gog is noble. I call him a fool because he doesn’t understand those tainted by Nimrod.” Yorba bared his teeth. “You must understand me. Do anything wrong and this time I won’t miss. Right through the middle of your neck instead of grazing it on the side.”
Gilgamesh’s eyes became half-lidded. So, Yorba had b
een the one to try to assassinate him back in the Zagros Settlement, that day by the well. He nodded. “I’m an easier target this time, more in keeping with your skills.”
The second Scout walked near, while Yorba no longer grinned. His square, silver-rimmed face was a study in hatred.
“I promise not to move,” Gilgamesh said. “Or should I step closer? Perhaps the skilled Yorba would like to place his arrowhead against my neck. Then you might not miss.”
With his eyes narrowed, Yorba turned to the other Scout, motioning with his head. The man picked up a dirt clod, wet, webbed with weedy roots. Underhand, the second Scout pitched the clod up in a high arc. Yorba spread his feet and drew the bowstring to his cheek. He tracked the clod, waiting. The string twanged.
Gilgamesh watched the arrow’s flight. It struck the clod, disintegrating it. Then the arrow sped on, hissing into the earth a hundred paces distant.
“I spoke as a fool,” Gilgamesh said, impressed. The man was skilled.
“You are a fool,” Yorba said. “Someday, I shall kill you.” He smiled sourly. “But not today. So back to work—slave.”
Gilgamesh took a deep breath, lifting the hoe, turning and chopping his thousandth weed.
25.
As Europa shook her head, a profound sense of deja-vu settled upon her. Once, she had stood like a bulwark for her brothers and sisters—in Antediluvian times. They had been scattered after her father had lost his castle and had lost his kingdom to brigands, to Nephilim marauders. One by one, she had redeemed her brothers and sisters from slavery or won them husbands and wives, providing them the means to restore what had been lost.
Now, this night, after almost ten decades since leaving the Ark, she stood against cowardice, against craven capitulation to the sons of Ham, to the offspring of a peasant girl. Only this time it wasn’t brothers and sisters she saved, but her very own children.
Gomer, Magog and Tubal huddled together on one side of a brazier. The three were thick men bundled in furs and leather and with heavy beards, clan heads. They met in a spacious hall, with the rafters swathed in shadows, with cold winds howling outside. On the other side of the brazier whispered Madai, Meshech and Tiras, also clan heads, also thick-limbed men with blue or green eyes. Tiras was their spokesman, and he had said that trouble with the sons of Ham must be averted. They wanted Beor to leave Magog Village, leave Japheth Land altogether, and to take his hatreds, as they called it, elsewhere. They predicted that otherwise Beor would bring Japheth Land nothing but continuing trouble.
Japheth frowned at the flames, standing, stroking his blond beard. He was lean and tall, and he was the patriarch of this land, not at all heavy like his sons.
“No,” Europa said. She sat in a throne-like chair, closest to the brazier, wearing fur gloves and heavy garments. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, her hair hidden under a hood. Despite her age, she had retained her beauty and the imperious cast to her noble features. In Japheth Land, the clan heads met together and debated ideas. Along with the patriarch, they made laws or issued joint edicts. This night, she had decided to sit with them, to make sure they benefited from her long experiences in such matters.
There were precedents in her family for such a thing. Her mother had whispered the stories to her as a child, and her grandmother, a formidable lady, had witnessed the greatest of those events. Far back in Antediluvian times, when her father was still a child, their kingdom’s army had been on the verge of defeat, on the point of collapse. On the battlefield, the women had thrust forward as they bared their bosoms, pleading with the men to fight on to the last, to die heroes rather than see their wives and children made into slaves. The men, who cherished their wives, who, unlike many Antediluvians, had believed that an element of holiness and gifts of prophecy resided in their women, depended on their advice and goodwill. The men had rallied and driven the enemy back.
“Don’t you realize that in you flows the blood of kings?” Europa asked.
The six clan heads had heard these stories many times, had been weaned on them. They listened. Tiras, however, scowled, while Gomer’s eyes shone.
“Not only kings,” she said, “but the blood of heroes, of sage captains of war. Before my father’s time, the best young men ranked themselves into The Hundred, the chosen formation. They fought in a wedge, giving ground if needed and returning to the attack to win. Shrewd tactics guided them. But even if the battle were uncertain, they always retrieved the bodies of the fallen and brought them home. To throw away one’s shield was the height of disgrace. More than one warrior who had done so and returned home ended his shame by hanging himself.
“Even before my father’s time, the kingdom was known, was marked by men with hardy bodies, well-knit limbs, fierce countenances and unusual mental vigor—just like you sons of Japheth are today. Back then, they appointed men to lead them, and they obeyed such men. They knew how to keep rank, and they recognized opportunities when they came. Oh, my sons, they understood that fortune was fickle, that valor alone was supreme.
“What did Noah say? What did Noah predict for you, my sons? ‘May Jehovah enlarge Japheth, and let him dwell in the tents of Shem, and let Canaan be his servant.’”
Japheth stirred, stroking his beard, the twin vertical lines between his eyes sinking deep in thought.
“We know what dwell in the tents of Shem means,” Europa said. “To have fellowship with those of Shem, to be friendly with them. We are friends, and I counsel us to continue. Wasn’t it I who urged you to send Assur to Babel?”
“Yes, Mother,” Tiras said.
“Enlarge is easily enough explained,” she said. “To possess wide lands, to rule mighty kingdoms. I have always known that was your destiny. But I have come to realize something else. A person cannot rest on his accomplishments or on his abilities. It is like the proverbial rabbit that knows he’s fast and yet loses the race to the tortoise. The sons of Ham feel themselves cursed, and thus they struggle hard against it. They have accomplished much because of their struggles. Yet you, my sons, although I am loath to tell you this, have rested too much on Noah’s prophecy. You must win these kingdoms through courage, through action.
“And how are you to win them?” Europa asked. “I think the last part of Noah’s prophecy says it easily enough: Let Canaan be his servant.”
Europa swept her hood back, the better to study her sons. “Who is the greatest of Canaan’s sons? Beor is. Beor is a mighty warrior, the one who holds grandsons of Ham captive. With Beor stand other sons of Canaan, the Scouts. Now is the time to band together with them and use these servants to help you overcome the Hamites.”
“But mother,” Tiras said. “You just told us that you urged us to send Assur to Babel. He returned with news that they accepted what has happened. That they will come to Festival and bargain for their men.”
“You believe that?” she asked. “Fie on you, Tiras. I didn’t think I had raised such a simpleton.”
“That’s my point,” Tiras said. “I don’t believe it. Beor has provoked them. Those of Babel will be enraged and demand satisfaction against us.”
“What of you?” Europa asked. “Aren’t you enraged that Hamites came to Japheth Land as thieves and murderers?”
“Against one of their own,” Tiras said, “against Beor, not against us.”
“Beor is Magog’s guest. Protecting one’s guests is a holy duty.”
“Yes, I understand that,” Tiras said. “But—”
Japheth shook his head, and Tiras fell silent.
Europa said, “You speak of the Hamites as if you fear their wrath. Yet who leads them? Kush the Ox, they call him. What is an ox? It is a slow and stupid beast.”
“And strong and tireless,” Madai added.
“Yes,” Europa said, “but also guided by a nose-ring. Lead by the nose, in other words.”
Madai shook his head. “The strength of oxen is harnessed through yoke and pole to heavy wagons. By their strength, they drag vast loads. Kush may drag all of
Babel upon us, and then what?”
Europa became silent. “These are not the words of a king, Madai.”
“A king must be wise, as you’ve told us many times,” Madai said. “Surely it isn’t wise to give the Hamites a pretext to fight.”
“They don’t fight,” Japheth said. “Assur told us of their good intentions.”
“And you trust that?” Europa asked. “You trust Ham?”
Japheth pursed his lips. “You spoke before about enlarge, in terms of Noah’s prophecy. I don’t believe enlarge means kingdoms. I think it means open-minded, to explore the worlds of thought to vistas of mental acumen. And if that is so, then your entire line of argument is… It fades.”
Europa looked stricken. She was surprised Japheth would undercut her before the boys.
Tiras cleared his throat. “Father, mother, Noah’s prophecy is interesting, to be sure. Yet we have come together to decide what to do about Beor. Should he be allowed to keep the Hamites as slaves?”
“They aren’t slaves,” growled Magog.
Tiras held up his hand. “I retract the term. We’ve been arguing all night about it, and I don’t want to start that again. Whatever we call it, should we allow Beor to do as he sees fit while among us?”
“We’re three to three on the issue,” Magog said.
“Father,” Tiras said. “You must break the tie. You have quizzed Enlil and you have heard Beor’s explanation and our views. Which way do you now chose?”
Europa tried to signal her husband, but he studiously kept from looking at her.
“For now,” Japheth said, “I vote with Gomer and the others. Let Beor keep his captives until Festival, until Noah and Shem tell us what they think. Then we shall see what happens.”
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