Wives of the Flood

by Vaughn Heppner

  As if reading his thoughts, she reminisced about that day too.

  He felt heat on his face. She laughed, and she detailed exactly what had happened that day, how she had kissed him and soon thereafter he had fled.

  “What if I kissed you now, Gilgamesh, would you run away again?”

  He smiled.

  “I’m serious.”

  He cocked an eyebrow.

  “I’m serious in that I want to know what you would do.”

  “Do?” he asked. The wine seemed to swirl in his mind.

  “If I arose and came around the table and kissed you. Would you squirm free and rush out the palace?”

  “You tested me then and found me loyal to Nimrod.”

  “That was then,” she said softly. “Perhaps another loyalty test is in order.”

  “Don’t test me beyond what a man can endure.”

  “What are you saying?” she whispered.

  “You’re…you’re beautiful, and I’ve drunk wine. What man could resist you?”

  “You once did.”

  He gulped more wine. He didn’t want to betray Opis. Yet he had been so long without a woman. Back in the wilds when Semiramis had kissed him, he hadn’t yet slept with a woman. Now desire flamed in him. The cozy room, the candles, wine, the most beautiful woman in the world across the small table from him, it wasn’t right what he was thinking. She was Nimrod’s wife, his queen. Yet he had heard rumors. Semiramis was unhappy. Very unhappy, and he yearned to slay Uruk. It had become his passion. He didn’t know how to do it unless Nimrod was out of the way. His old friend wasn’t the man he had once known. Nimrod had always been ambitious, of course. What drove the king now seemed… Gilgamesh had heard the story of Laban, how Azel the Demon had indwelled him. Had something similar happened to the king?

  “Gilgamesh,” whispered Semiramis.

  His head reeled at the possibilities. He had drunk far too much wine. He should flee. But the woman was ravishing. “Did you put something in my drink?”

  “For instance?” she purred.

  “A little green fly?”

  “What if I said yes, Gilgamesh? What if I said the green fly, crushed and prepared, a love potion of irresistible power, had been liberally added to your wine? What if you knew that you couldn’t resist me? That if I crooked my finger, like this, Gilgamesh? Do you see, my love, I’m crooking my finger? It means you must rise and come around the table. You must do as I order. I am your queen. I order you to rise.”

  He stood, swaying, with his heart pounding.

  “You are an obedient subject,” she said.

  “I am,” he whispered.

  “Walk around the table, Gilgamesh, my gallant lover. I, your queen, order you to come to me and kiss me, take me, to hold me as one who will never let go.”

  She was beautiful, bewitching and she had ordered him. He must obey his queen. The drug in his wine…

  “Gilgamesh, this instant you must obey my order.”

  His legs seemed to move on their own accord. The two of them embraced and kissed.

  Only much later did they talk about Nimrod, kingship and the follies of letting a megalomaniac rule them.

  5.

  The reason for hot bread and continuing jugs of drinkable water came many mornings later. A shout woke Odin. He drew his torso from the cold slime of his pit, looking up. Lean-limbed Gilgamesh peered down the hole.

  “Would you like a little exercise, Spear Slayer?”

  “I thought you were in Erech governing the people,” Odin said.

  Annoyance flickered across Gilgamesh’s handsome features. “I’m the governor of Erech, that’s true, and I’m also the king’s herald.”

  “The errand boy, you mean. Do you like running hither and yon, wherever your king commands?”

  “I’d rather stay in Babel, if you must know. And for the coming celebration, I will be. Then it’s off again on the king’s errands.”

  Odin rubbed a finger across his chest to clean it of mud and then he scratched his nose. “I’ll trade you places, if you like. I’m always near Babel.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question, Spear Slayer.”

  “Do you have a rope?”

  Gilgamesh showed him he did.

  “This must be Nimrod’s idea,” muttered Odin. “He likes pulling the wings off flies. You’ll get me to say yes and then laugh at me and leave.”

  “My offer is genuine.”

  “Once I get out I’m supposed to do something for you, is that it?”

  “Of course.”

  “And then it’s back into the hole with me?”

  “That depends,” Gilgamesh said.

  “On my good behavior? On whether I sell my soul to Nimrod?”

  “No. On whether you’re still alive after Nimrod is finished with you.”

  A cold feeling swept through Odin. He felt bitter. A moment later, he shrugged. “Toss the rope. I could use a vacation.”

  Gilgamesh threw one down, instructing Odin to tie it under his armpits. The mud made sucking, slurping sounds and the cord bit into his flesh as he swayed upward. He emerged through the opening.

  Odin blinked at the morning light and laughed as rough hands pulled him the rest of the way up. Babel stood like a small mountain in the distance. Sunlight reflected off the nearby Euphrates. Three chariots were parked to his left, curious donkeys watching him. Men held him as his legs wobbled. He’d forgotten how to lock his knees. Finally, he indicated they could let go.

  Their mouths twisted with distaste. Two of those who had been holding him wiped their hands on the grass. The last used a rag. Odin staggered and then swayed. He delighted in the sweet odor of the outdoors, breathing deeply. He marveled how bright the grass was and beautiful the horizon.

  “You stink and look a mess,” Gilgamesh said, who waved off flies.

  Odin ignored the even greater amount of flies around him as he scraped slime from his body, flinging it from his hands.

  “You’re naked under all that mud,” Gilgamesh said. “We can’t have that for propriety’s sake. Here.”

  Odin first wiped his face and then wrapped the rag around his emaciated waist. “Don’t I get a bath or at least a swim in the Euphrates?”

  “No such luck,” Gilgamesh said. “But give him a drink and then let him eat.”

  One of the Mighty Men, a youngster with tattooed cheeks, went to a chariot and lifted a waterskin from the peg.

  “A drink, I said,” Gilgamesh said.

  Understanding flickered across the warrior’s features. He drew a small copper flask from his belt pouch and pitched it to Odin.

  Odin caught it and hesitated.

  “Go on, drain it,” Gilgamesh said. “You’ll need it. Believe me.”

  Odin worked out the cork and sniffed the strong brew. “What’s next?”

  “A little exhibition of your skills,” Gilgamesh said.

  Odin lifted his eyebrows. “I’m getting a spear?”

  “Not just a spear, my friend. Gungnir.”

  Odin corked the flask without having sipped and pitched it back to its owner. “I’ll take water if you don’t mind and then that food you talked about.”

  “Hope eternal.” Gilgamesh shook his head. “What fools we are. But I can’t say I fault you. Let him drink.”

  Odin stumbled to the chariot and chugged from the water jug. He debated flinging the jug at the nearest warrior, leaping aboard and trying to drive for freedom.

  “You wouldn’t get far,” Gilgamesh said.

  Odin saw how closely they watched him. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “It was only a thought.”

  Gilgamesh snorted. “Nor should we worry about being tied to a tree and left for the vultures and crows.”

  “Is that what he threatened you with if I escaped?”

  “It makes no difference what the threat was because you’re not going anywhere.”

  Odin supposed that was true. Still, maybe being cut down by them would be better t
han anything Nimrod planned.

  As if divining his thoughts, Gilgamesh said, “Hilda will soon be here.”

  Giddiness filled Odin. He hadn’t thought to see her again. “Why is she coming?”

  “I think the king wants to surprise you with it,” Gilgamesh said.

  “Has she…” Odin let the question drop because he refused to think badly of Hilda. Instead, he poured water over his head, washing out mud and filth, and he poured it on his beard. Too much of the grime had impacted into the pores of his skin to allow him to be clean, but at least he looked human again instead of like some earth monster risen from the roots of a tree. One of the warriors handed him several sticks of jerky. He gnawed on the first one, making his loosened teeth ache. He was a shell of his former self. Thin because, like a hibernating bear, he had lived off his accumulated fat.

  Gilgamesh frowned, turning away. He took several steps and then twisted back to face Odin. It seemed he wanted to speak, but he glanced sidelong at the other three.

  “Here they come,” said the young warrior, the one with the tattoos.

  Each of them gazed toward Babel, Odin chewing fast. Dust rose, indicating chariots, a cavalcade of them.

  Gilgamesh marched near and clutched him by the arm. He glanced at the other three. They peered at him curiously. He let go of Odin and backed away, shaking his head. A moment later, he took out a rag and wiped his hand. “I didn’t have anything to do with what’s about to happen. It was all Nimrod’s idea.”

  In sick apprehension, Odin watched the approaching chariots.

  “Shouldn’t we bring him there?” the tattooed youth asked.

  Gilgamesh signaled Odin. “Get in the chariot. You’ll ride with me.”

  The ride was short, a place of dirt mounds and many pits dug into the grassy area. Not pits like his swampy hole, but wide and open to the air, usually fifteen feet deep and thirty feet across. Animal sounds came from several of them. One of the pits had a four-foot high, woven reed fence around it.

  The three Mighty Men drew knives, surrounding and prodding Odin in the back.

  “Escape isn’t an option,” warned Gilgamesh.

  Odin watched the chariots pull in. Nimrod wore armor and Uruk the War Chief rode with him. Canaan came, Hilda—Odin’s throat caught. Hilda! Her hair whipped in the wind and she seemed pale. She wore billowing clothes and her mouth was a firm line of disapproval. As they pulled in and she saw him, she began to tremble.

  “Don’t speak to her,” cautioned Gilgamesh.

  “Why not?” Odin asked.

  “It will be much worse for you if you do.”

  The chariots halted. One by one, the crowd filed toward him. Hilda leaned on her grandfather Canaan’s arm. She looked away and then looked at him. It seemed she wanted to call out, but she looked at Nimrod every time she seemed ready to speak. The Mighty Hunter grinned as of old. His eyes shone as if he’d been drinking.

  “Hilda!” shouted Odin.

  One of the warriors kneed him from behind. He crumpled to the grass.

  Laughter rippled from Nimrod’s crowd.

  Anger swept away the terror. Odin rose, realizing he had learned nothing in the Well of Knowledge, at least nothing about controlling his rage.

  “Odin the Traitor,” Nimrod said, striding to him, with Uruk on his heels. The War Chief carried a huge figure-eight-shaped shield. They weren’t taking any chances with him. Nimrod sneered, saying, “Bring him.”

  The three warriors grabbed Odin by the arms, hustling him after Nimrod and Uruk. Gilgamesh hung back, his face a mask. They marched Odin to one of the pits.

  Three snarling wolves looked up, shaggy, starved-looking creatures.

  More Mighty Men took up position, hefting big shields like the War Chief. Canaan and Hilda stood behind them.

  “Give him his spear,” Nimrod said.

  Gingerly, from behind the shield wall, a man handed the spear point-first to Odin. As he stood on the edge of the wolf pit, Odin took it, realizing with a shock that it was indeed Gungnir.

  “Hilda,” he said, grinning, hefting his spear. The warriors did him the honor of looking worried, shifting uneasily.

  “If you use it on them, she dies,” Nimrod said.

  Odin spun around. Nimrod and Uruk stood on the other side of the pit.

  “What’s this all about?” Odin asked. He was surprised they feared him. He was a stick, a joke of what he’d once been.

  Nimrod glanced at the wolves and then back to him. “Jump into the pit.”

  “No!” Hilda shouted. “Don’t do it, Odin.”

  “Ah,” Nimrod said, gracing her with a glance. “This is interesting. You speak to him.”

  She paled and shook her head.

  “You know what that means,” Nimrod said.

  “No, no,” she said. “You mustn’t.”

  “You know how to insure it doesn’t happen, my dear,” Nimrod said.

  She bit her lip, blinking back tears.

  “Whatever he wants out of you, Hilda,” Odin shouted, “don’t give in, ever.”

  “Poor advice,” Nimrod said. “Now jump in as you value her life.”

  Odin eyed the pit floor fifteen feet down. Even if he’d been in the best of shape, it would have been a chancy thing. Then one of the men of the shield wall pushed him.

  Hilda screamed. Odin lost his balance. The wolves snarled, scrambling out of the way. One of them wasn’t fast enough. Odin fell on it so it yelped and broke his fall. The other two leapt from him. Groggy and surprised, he realized he still held Gungnir. He wobbled upright and the two wolves took to snarling. He lunged, stumbling because he wasn’t used to this and his thigh giving way because it had so little strength. He thrust his arms, stretching to reach, killing the nearest wolf. The other backed away, its hackles raised. He yanked his spear free and staggered against a dirt wall, panting, watching and judging his chances. He trembled uncontrollably, whether from lack of food or fear he didn’t know. He pushed off the wall, and soon the third wolf lay dead at his feet.

  Still shaking, almost vomiting the sticks of jerky, Odin looked up. The others with their big shields crowded around the pit, with Hilda and Canaan looking over their shoulders.

  “That was a dirty trick,” Odin said.

  “Hand up the spear,” Nimrod said, his grin now frozen in place.

  For an instant, Odin debated hurling it at the handsome face. Yet he wasn’t suicidal, at least not yet. So he poked it up. Gilgamesh took it. A rope ladder uncurled and Odin climbed out.

  To the side, Nimrod spoke earnestly with Hilda. She had a knuckle in her mouth.

  “What’s he saying?” whispered Odin.

  Gilgamesh shook his head.

  “You don’t know or you won’t say?” Odin asked.

  “Won’t say,” Gilgamesh said.

  “Very well,” Nimrod said loudly. “Bring him along.”

  The shield wall moved behind the Spear Slayer, leaving only one way to go. Odin took it and soon he stood at a similar pit, except this one had the four-foot fence. Below, prowling back and forth, was a young male lion. Its ribs showed. The lion coughed and angrily swished its tail.

  “This fight won’t go so easily,” Nimrod said, who swung open a small gate.

  Odin’s throat was dry and he wondered how many pits the Mighty Hunter would take him too, how many he could survive.

  “What’s it to be, Hilda?” Nimrod asked, stepping from the gate, giving Odin room.

  “What’s he asking her?” Odin hissed at Gilgamesh.

  Gilgamesh stared at him.

  “Not to be his wife, I hope,” Odin said.

  Gilgamesh shook his head.

  “What?”

  Hilda sobbed.

  “Into the pit with him!” shouted Nimrod.

  Odin didn’t wait to be pushed. He’d been watching the beast. He scooted to his rear, with his legs dangling over the edge. Gilgamesh handed him Gungnir. With spear in hand, Odin slid down bellowing a war cry. The lion roared. Th
ey charged. Odin ducked, set the spear and took a raking to his left shoulder, one claw opening skin. Gungnir snapped, although the bronze point bit deeply into the beast. Bleeding, gasping, terrified, Odin dodged about in the small space as the dying lion crawled after him. Finally, it was over, but Odin was drenched with sweat mingled with his own blood.

  Nimrod stood above, clapping. “An excellent show, don’t you think so, Hilda?”

  Tears stained her puffy features.

  “Throw down the ladder,” Nimrod said.

  Odin was pushed to the next pit. Snakes, over a hundred of them, slithered upon each other down there.

  Hilda moaned.

  “What now, my dear?” Nimrod asked. “Are you ready to see noble Odin die?”

  She moaned again. It was a pitiful sound.

  Terror and pain wilted Odin’s courage. The idea of vipers slaying him left him paralyzed. Then he roared and tried to leap into the pit before Hilda could give way. Gilgamesh tripped him and two Mighty Men kept him down.

  “No, Hilda!” shouted Odin. “Whatever he wants, don’t do it. He’s going to kill me anyway.”

  Nimrod clapped again. “What a touching display. See how noble he is, my dear? Will you let such a noble man die such a hideous death?”

  Hilda wept, and she went to Nimrod, taking his hand. “Please. Don’t do this.”

  “You know how to save him,” Nimrod said.

  “No!” howled Odin, struggling to get up.

  “Choose,” said the king.

  Hilda hung her head. She nodded.

  “You’ll join Ishtar’s priestesses?” Nimrod asked, “and all that entails?”

  She nodded again, sobbing, while Odin was hauled to his feet.

  “Take him back to the hole,” Nimrod said. “His life has been spared thanks to the daughter of Beor.”

  6.

  Shem groaned in his sleep. Sweat bathed his face. Terror filled him. Jehovah spoke to him in a vision.

  “You must go to Babel and there buy a clay jar from a potter. Take along some of the elders of the people and stand before the stairs of the Tower. There proclaim the words I tell you, and say, ‘Hear the word of Jehovah, O king of Babel, Erech, Akkad and Calneh and all you people. This is what the LORD Almighty, the God of Heaven and Earth, says: Listen! I am going to bring disaster on this place that will make the ears of everyone who hears of it tingle. For they have forsaken me and made this a place of foreign gods. They have burned sacrifices here to gods that neither they nor their fathers knew, and they have filled this place with the blood of the innocent. They have built this Tower for a temple of adultery, prostituting themselves to false gods and yearning to set their throne above heaven. So beware, the days are coming, declares the LORD, when people will no longer call this place the Gate to Heaven but the City of Confusion.