by Tim LaHaye
Murphy gave the signal, and the loading crew, evenly spaced around the crate, pulled at the ropes securing the panels on each of its four sides. The wooden panels crashed to the ground simultaneously. A team from the PFF raced over to cut the protective coats of fabric and plastic that had been fashioned around the head. As the last layer of wadding fell away, Murphy stepped up to the microphone set up alongside the head.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the world, there is much to tell about this great find, how we came to discover it, to reclaim it, and understand its significance. That will all have to wait until we have it safely in place in its temporary home, the Parchments of Freedom Foundation, which has generously put up the funds for this great artifact to be studied thoroughly and expeditiously I want to thank God for His strength and guidance throughout the entire process. We look forward to Sharing its wonders and secrets with you soon. Thank you.”
In this moment of great professional triumph, Murphy was saddened by his thoughts of Laura and the guards at the PFF, and all the other terrible events that had led to this wondrous achievement. As if by reflex, he also shuddered when he thought about the man who was responsible for so much of that suffering, Talon, who was still at large, and would presumably be as keen to possess the Golden Head of Nebuchadnezzar as he was the Brazen Serpent.
Maybe even more so, because Murphy had thwarted his chances to put the Serpent back together. And if this mystery man Talon truly did have an interest in these icons for the dark powers many believed they still possessed, Murphy was beginning to have a feeling that as eventful as the last few weeks had been, the days ahead would present even greater challenges.
With God’s help and protection, he would be ready.
SIXTY-NINE
THE SLAVES PULLED in unison on the ropes, straining with all their might. Finally, the massive piece of gold came crashing to the ground. The idol that had brought the king and his people so much torment now lay in ruins in the swirling dust, its disembodied head staring with betrayal at the man whose image it had been fashioned after. King Nebuchadnezzar then ordered that the pieces be gathered up and delivered to Dakkuri, the chief Chaldean priest, back in the city. The gold would be reused for sacred vessels, or so the king had been led to believe.
The king was mad, of that Dakkuri had no doubt. For seven years Nebuchadnezzar had groveled in the dirt, living like a beast in the shadow of his own palace, his wits scattered to the four corners of an empire that hung by a thread while jealous neighbors plotted its overthrow. And yet, now that the king’s sanity had been restored, now that he spoke and thought and acted like a man once more, Dakkuri had a strange sense that he was madder than ever.
What else could explain his decree that all the idols should be destroyed? Somehow, Daniel and his God had the king under their spell.
Dakkuri shivered, and it was not just because of the damp air in his chamber. If the worship of idols was ended, who would the people turn to in times of danger and uncertainty, when plague and pestilence struck, when the crops failed or the rivers overflowed their banks? From whom would they receive the strength to destroy their enemies, to raze their cities and enslave their sons? Who would give them the power to rule the world?
More to the point, where would Dakkuri’s own power and prestige come from? When he looked into the sacred fire, it was he-and he alone-who could interpret the shifting shapes of light. When Nergal, the fierce god of the underworld, was angry, only Dakkuri could interpret the signs. If Nergal’s wrath could be stemmed only by human sacrifices, it was Dakkuri who chose the victims. When demons entered the city, only he could decide who was possessed and who was not-who must be stoned to death and who spared. Sometimes, he flattered himself, the common people feared him more than their cruel king.
And the rewards were in keeping with his status. Robes woven with gold thread that glittered like the sun. The rarest sweetmeats, the richest wines, whenever he desired. And naturally he could take his pick of the temple dancing girls.
But in a world without idols, all that would be gone.
He lifted his eyes. Against the bare stone wall the lamplight flickered. And there, glinting in the shadows, was the Serpent.
He no longer remembered what impulse had led him to weld the broken pieces together again, to raise the Serpent up and give it an honored place among Babylon’s many deities. But seeing it whole again, he had felt a dark power filling his body-like a goblet being filled to the brim with strong wine. His head had filled with light; a delicious, unbearable fire had bubbled through his veins. He felt like a giant. He could do anything. A knife blade struck at his heart would have been melted by the energy that glowed through him. He was a god.
And from that moment on he was the Serpent’s slave.
Breathing deeply and slowly, he focused on the sinuous bronze form before him. It seemed huge in the half-light, its shadow writhing on the wall like a living thing. He opened his mind, felt his will draining away like water from a broken pitcher.
As the familiar ecstasy crept into him, he smiled through closed lids. “Tell me what it is I must do,” he whispered.
As far as Nebuchadnezzar was concerned, Dakkuri could be trusted. He had served many faithful years as a priest in the vicinity of the king’s palace. But Dakkuri had a secret. He had become a devotee of the former angel of light who had rebelled against the Creator. Dakkuri, the Chaldean, belonged to, and was a servant of, the dark angel Lucifer.
Standing in the basement of the temple, Dakkuri addressed three of his most trusted disciples. The broken pieces of Nebuchadnezzar’s image now lay alongside other sacred and profane vessels of worship in the dark and foreboding storage area. Most of these priceless items had been captured by Nebuchadnezzar’s army during the raid on Jerusalem many years before.
Dakkuri spoke with quiet passion to his three Luc ferian disciples.
Each disciple had sworn an oath to carry out the task that was about to be assigned. It was a plan that would forever change the course of human history.
“Fellow servants of Lucifer, hear me. The Golden Head of Nebuchadnezzar must be hidden from the world until the time of the end.”
Dakkuri picked up the beautifully formed Brazen Serpent, a fitting symbol indeed.
“I have inscribed on this Serpent the words to lead to the precise area where the head of gold is to be buried.”
Dakkuri placed the Serpent on the vessel worktable and proceeded to break it into three pieces with a large hammer. He then handed one piece to each of the three disciples.
“Each of you is to travel to your predetermined areas and bury your portion of the Serpent as instructed. Each of the Serpent pieces will of course be useless without the other two.”
One of the disciples stood and asked, “Master, why must the Golden Head remain hidden?”
“The world has no need for the head of gold at this time. But there is coming a time when the world’s leader will have need of the Luc ferian power that this Golden Head represents. That time is yet future. It is the time spoken of by Daniel the prophet in his interpretation of the king’s dream….”
Dakkuri paused to reflect on the implication of his words.
“It is the time when Babylon will rise a second time and rule the entire world.”
SEVENTY
THE SEVEN SAT in their chamber deep within the castle. The man called Talon sat before them. Far from showing any fear at not having met their goals, he was showing annoyance at having to answer their questions.
“Murphy got lucky. He had the help of the U.S. Marines, and remember, you instructed me not to kill him or do any further harm to his circle.”
“Yes.” The British voice was doing the debriefing. “This has been a disappointment. We will never know what powers the Brazen Serpent might have had. A shame, but whatever powers it had, we do not need them in order to move forward.”
“Well, it served its purpose,” Talon replied offhandedly, seeming to be concentrating more on the o
bject he toyed with in his hand, poking it with his sharpened fingertip, than on his words. “It led Murphy to your precious Golden Head.”
“Indeed. It led Murphy there. Not you. Now we must adjust our strategy. Now that the Golden Head is known around the world because of his discovery. That will require some careful rethinking and planning. But the good news, Talon, which is why you are still in our good graces, is that with all this notoriety, when we do take control of it—and we will—it will be a symbol of even greater power and glory.”
Talon rose. “Good. You let me know how to proceed. You can have the power and glory” He turned to leave, swinging the object he had been preoccupied with as he walked away. It was a leather strip holding a cross, one he had once broken into three pieces, but which was now glued together.
“I’ve got a personal interest in this now.”
AFTERWORD
I hope you have enjoyed Babylon Rising. As noted in my introductory message, I am having a great time creating this adventure, and I can’t wait for you to read the next book in the series. I’m in the middle of writing it now and I’m having even more exciting times working on the second book than I had on this first one. And that’s saying something.
Look for the second novel in the Babylon Rising series in hardcover in fall 2004.
In the meantime, please share your thoughts with me about this first book and look for additional information and news updates from me at my website:
www.timlahaye.com
I also invite you to visit www.babylonrisingbook.com, the official website of the series. Bantam Books and I have tried to make this website an enhancement of your reading experience. In the coming months on this site, you will find additional background information about the series, the characters, and the revelations in the novels. You can sign up for the Babylon Rising newsletter, read excerpts of forthcoming titles, post comments, keep in touch with the Babylon Rising team, and send a Babylon Rising electronic postcard with your own custom message.
Again, thank you for reading Babylon Rising.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No man is an island unto himself! That is certainly true of authors. If the truth be known, we have all been influenced by scores of people who helped develop our skills and knowledge so that we have something interesting and meaningful to share with millions of potential readers.
I particularly want to thank Joel Gotler, my agent, whose vision, faith, and contacts put me in touch with Irwyn Applebaum of Bantam, the most can-do, driven publisher I have ever met. Many thanks as well to my editor, Bill Massey, and the great professional skills and experience that he applied to this book.
I am also grateful to my agent for putting me together with Greg Dinallo, a great fiction writer who caught my vision for merging informative and challenging prophecy with exciting action. It was a pleasure to work with him.
Finally, I wish to express my profound appreciation and thanks to David Minasian, my personal research assistant, who shares my love for God’s Word and has provided much invaluable help in researching, editing, and suggesting material throughout this book project.
The adventure continues with
BABYLON RISING:
THE SECRET ON ARARAT
by
Tim LaHaye
and
Bob Phillips
Read on for an exciting excerpt from the
next book in the Babylon Rising series.
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BABYLON RISING:
THE SECRET ON ARARAT
On sale now
BREATHE. He desperately needed to breathe. But he knew instinctively that if he opened his mouth to try and suck in a breath, he would die.
Gritting his teeth fiercely, Murphy opened his eyes instead. And a pair of yellow, animal eyes stared back. Then a wildly gaping jaw came into focus through the greenish gloom, pointed teeth bared in a silent snarl. Murphy reached out, expecting the teeth to clamp down on his hand, but the dog face had disappeared, sucked back into the watery darkness.
It was no good. He had to get some air into his lungs before they burst. He turned his face upward, toward the feeble light, and after an agonizing few seconds during which he had the horrifying sense that he was sinking, not rising, his head broke the surface.
He sucked in a huge, spluttering breath, simultaneously grabbing on to the narrow stone ledge that projected from the side of the pit. Resting his head against the jagged rock, he could feel something warm mingling with the freezing water. Blood. As the pain suddenly hit him, a wild carousel of thoughts started racing round his brain.
Laura. He would never see her again. She wouldn’t even know he had died here, in this remote, godforsaken place. She would never know his last thoughts had been about her.
Then he remembered. Laura was dead. She’d died in his arms.
And now he was about to join her. With that thought, his body seemed to relax, accepting its fate, and he felt himself slipping back into the surging torrent.
No! He couldn’t give up. He couldn’t let the crazy old man win at last. He had to find a way out.
But first he had to find those puppies.
Clutching the ledge with both hands, Murphy took a series of quick, deep breaths, hyperventilating to force as much oxygen as possible into his lungs. He’d done enough cave diving to know he could stay under a full two minutes if he had to. But that was under ideal conditions. Right now he had to contend with the effects of shock, blood loss, and bone-shaking cold—all the while trying to find two little dogs somewhere in a swirling maelstrom. As he let himself slip back under the freezing water, he wondered—not for the first time—how he managed to get himself into these messes.
The answer was simple. One word: Methuselah.
Murphy had been making his way carefully through the cave, fanning his flashlight across the dank black walls, when he found himself standing not on loose shale but what felt like solid wooden planks. Ever alert to tricks and traps, Murphy instinctively reacted as if he’d just stepped onto a tray of burning coals—but before he could leap aside, the trapdoor sprang open. As he felt himself plunging into the void, a familiar cackling laugh shattered the silence, echoing crazily off the rock walls.
“Welcome to the game, Murphy! Get out of this one if you can!”
As Murphy cartwheeled through space, his brain was still trying to come up with a suitable response. But all that came out was a grunt as he slammed into the ground like a bag of cement and the air was punched out of his lungs, before the impact flung him sideways and his head connected with a boulder. For a moment all was black, buzzing darkness. Then he raised himself up on his hands and knees and his senses returned one by one: He could feel the damp grit between his fingers; he could taste it in his mouth; he could smell stagnant water; he could dimly make out the shadowy walls of the pit he’d fallen into.
And he could hear the fretful whining of what sounded like two cold, wet—and very scared—little dogs.
He turned toward the sound and there they were, shivering together on a narrow ledge. A pair of German shepherd puppies. Murphy shook his head: He always tried to prepare himself for anything where Methuselah was concerned, but what were a couple of puppies doing in the middle of an underground cave complex miles from anywhere? Could they have gotten lost and somehow wandered this far from the surface? He didn’t think so. Much more likely they were there because Methuselah had put them there.
They were part of the game.
Fighting his natural instinct to gather the bedraggled pups tightly in his arms and tell them everything was going to be okay, he approached the ledge cautiously. They looked so helpless. But that didn’t mean harmless. Nothing in Methuselah’s games was harmless, and if he had put them there for Murphy to find, then something about the dogs was out of whack. He just had to figure out what.
Just then the steady dripping sound that had been nagging away at the back of Murphy’s consciousness since he landed in the pit started to get louder.
He turned in the direction of the noise and suddenly it became a roaring, as a huge wave of water surged through a narrow gap in the rocks. In a second a frothing tide was tugging at his ankles, pulling him off balance. Forgetting Methuselah’s mind games, he pushed himself back toward the ledge, scooped up the puppies, and stuffed them under his jacket. His eyes darted round the walls of the pit, looking for anything that would help him find a way out, as the rising water swirled around his chest. The puppies were just a diversion, he thought bitterly, fighting to keep his footing. He hadn’t spotted the real danger until it was too late. “Don’t worry, fellas, I’ll get you out of here,” he assured them with more confidence than he felt. Then the torrent lifted him off his feet and the panicking dogs squirmed out of his jacket. Fighting to keep his head above the surface, he grabbed for them, but his fingers closed on icy water and then he too was engulfed, spinning out of control like a bunch of wet clothes in a Laundromat washer.
He closed his eyes, and even as his lungs started hungrily demanding air, he tried to find a calm place in his mind where he could think. He checked through his options. The water would soon reach the level of the trapdoor, which was no doubt secured against escape. So, search for another way out under the water, or look for the puppies again before they drowned? If he tried to find a way out on his own, the puppies would be dead by the time he found it. If he tried to save the puppies first, he’d probably wind up too exhausted to find a way out. If there was a way out.
So much for his options.
The only shred of hope he could cling to was the fact that this was a game. And a game, however deadly, still had rules.
But there was no way he could figure them out while his lungs were screaming and his thought processes were beginning to go fuzzy due to lack of oxygen.