Ark(15)
He was incoherent, spitting mockery of the very goddess to whom he sacrificed every feast-day. He paced from wall to wall, slamming the butt of his spear into the polished stone floor with cracks resounding like thunder. He stopped in front of me, broad chest heaving, and spittle at the corners of his mouth, his eyes narrowed and glaring and incandescent with rage, his fingers tightening on the haft of his spear. My father was a frightening figure under the best of circumstances, standing six cubits tall—a full cubit taller than I, and close to three cubits taller than the tallest human—his arms and chest heavy with muscle even as his hair grayed with age. His flesh bore a maze of scars, which told the tale of many battles fought and won.
In his anger he was utterly terrifying—a god made mad.
I wondered if maybe he truly was mad—perhaps the centuries of war had loosed his brain in his skull . . . I did not know. I only knew I was more afraid of him at that moment than ever before. He looked perfectly capable of driving his fifteen-foot-long spear into my belly and throwing me off the balcony. Indeed, this was not fury; this was madness, pure and terrible. I tensed myself for a blow, for the stab of spear-blade.
It never came.
He turned abruptly and strode back to his throne, slumping down into the cushions and pillows. A goblet of wine was thrust tentatively into his massive hand, and he quaffed deeply. He was making me wait; this was a favorite tactic of his—the condemned would stand shaking in the coolness of the throne room, listening to the King’s breathing and wine-gulps and belching, all the while wondering what their fate was to be.
“Bring him in,” my father ordered.
I nearly fainted, for I knew what he planned. He would not punish me directly, but he would focus on Japheth instead. I wanted to weep at the thought, but I couldn’t . . . wouldn’t. I heard a door slam, then the scrape of dragging feet and the rattle of jangling chains. Two guards appeared from a side-entrance, Japheth between them. Blood streamed from his nose and mouth, his lips were puffed and split, his eyes bruised black. He was limp in the arms of his jailers. This was no act; Japheth was proud and would not feign weakness to glean sympathy.
I couldn’t stop a tear from escaping, and I averted my eyes.
Elohim, save him. Save him. The prayer crossed my mind unbidden.
He was dumped at the bottom of the dais to lie motionless at my father’s feet. The king rose and knelt near Japheth’s head, grabbed a hank of hair and lifted him so Japheth’s swollen eyes met his. “Japheth, son of Noah . . . did you think I would not find out? I would slit your throat here and now, but that would be too quick. Your pain will teach my foolish daughter a lesson.”
Japheth cracked an eye open, regarded my father with a bleary-eyed gaze, head wobbling. He drew a breath, moaned, planted his palms on the floor and pushed himself up. My father backed off, amused, watching as Japheth struggled to his knees, attempting to rise, only to fall back to the floor. Hands flat against the stone again, his breathing labored, blood and drool pooling beneath his chin, Japheth rose to his knees again, and this time stayed there, facing the king, staring up defiantly at the giant towering over him.
“I curse you, Emmen, son of Dagon, son of Sargon.” Japheth’s voice was strong and unwavering, his words ringing clearly in the hall; he paused, wiped the blood from his face with a forearm. “You are a maggot before the will of The One God, and you will die like the insect you are, squirming in the mud. You will die, and all your might will not save you.”
No one had ever, ever spoken to my father like that. There was an odd tone in Japheth’s voice, a hollow, absent note that somehow seemed familiar.
It struck me in a flash: many years ago, when I was a girl still reeling from my mother’s death, there was an ancient human beggar woman that loitered near the gate to the palace. Old and tottering and blind and frail. Her eyes were clouded gray, her skin hung in wrinkled bags from her bones, and her hair was little more than a few, thin, lank, yellow-white strings. Kichu often used to walk with me to the palace gate, and sometimes just beyond, and he would buy me trinkets from gold sellers and toys from traveling merchants.
He found the old beggar woman amusing, and would stop to converse with her. He would provoke her, I realized later, until she became irate and cast curses on him, calling down the wrath of her One God on him, prophesysing Kichu’s doom. Usually he laughed at her and mocked her but never caused her harm and would always toss her a coin before he departed. Once, however, her words did not amuse him, and I think he always carried those words with him; I know I never forgot them.
She had begun with the usual curses, screaming insults and calling on Elohim to strike him dead. “Elohim will punish you,” she wailed. “You will not escape his wrath! Turn away, mighty prince! Silence your mockery!”
Kichu had just chuckled at this and dug in a pouch for a coin. His hand was arrested midway, however, when her voice changed, and her blind eyes closed, her normally hunched back straightened and her head was thrown back, her mouth stretched wide in a rictus. Words had emitted from her, but they were not in her voice, and her lips had not moved as she spoke.
“Death will find you, Kichu, son of Emmen, son of Dagon,” she had croaked, her voice low and echoing and guttural and not her own normal shrill shriek. “You will walk this earth for many years to come, and you will find victory among the fields of war. Your wives will bear you many sons and daughters, and you will rule over men. You will stride with arrogance, and life will taste as honey on your lips. But death will find you, and will replace the sweetness of life with bitter gall of tragedy. Death will roll down upon you; the skies will break open and rain horror upon you and upon your people. Your sons and your daughters and your wives will drown before your eyes, their heads will be broken upon the palace roof, and you will watch them die. Death will find you, and your mighty arms will not stay its touch. Call out to The One God for mercy, Kichu, son of Emmen, son of Dagon, for your death is certain.”