Day of the False King (11 page)

“No…no, my lord. I’m very sorry.”

“What were you talking about?”

“I — I asked him if he knew a cure for my
suffering,” the man said unwillingly. “It’s the custom here, you know.”

Semerket did not believe the man, and
brought his face closer to look into his eyes to ascertain if he were
lying. When he drew near, the unmistakable scent of honey filled his
nostrils. Semerket smiled, for the smell confirmed his suspicions.

Before he could say anything more, however,
a sudden deep tolling of a bell came from the direction of the river.
All around the square, people turned to listen to its sonorous,
mournful notes. Families started to rise, gather their belongings
together, and bid their farewells to their sick relations.

“What is that?” Semerket asked.

“The warning bell from the bridge. In a few
minutes, its gangplank will be drawn back so that evildoers cannot
cross it during the night.”

Semerket knew he had to get back across the
river. If he did not reappear through the Egyptian temple’s gate, his
Dark Head spies might panic and report him missing to the Elamite
authorities. He cursed his luck, for he wanted to question this man
more closely; Semerket was now absolutely convinced he was not telling
the truth about Marduk.

“Tell him,” Semerket said over his shoulder
as he walked swiftly away, “tell him that I want to see him again.”

“Believe me when I tell you, my lord — I
don’t know this man!”

“Tell him.”

When he reached the street that would take
him to the bridge, Semerket suddenly turned to call out. “I can help
with that skin condition of yours, you know…!”

The man did not reply, but many heads turned
in the dark to hear what Semerket had to say.

“Wash it with plain water!” Semerket yelled,
his voice echoing through the dark square.

“WE WERE VERY WORRIED, SIR,”
the thin spy told him reproachfully as they walked down the alley, away
from the Egyptian temple.

“I’m sorry.”

“We almost went to our captain.”

“I’ll try to get here earlier tomorrow.”

“We thought something had happened to you.”

Semerket said nothing, and continued walking
swiftly in the direction of his hostel.

As it was night, his spies no longer feared
being seen with him. The fat spy puffed and wheezed without restraint.
“Where did you go today, sir?” he asked Semerket companionably.

“But you know,” said Semerket.

“How could I? We were waiting outside the
temple all day, just as you paid us to do.”

Semerket smiled. “I was praying.”

“YOUR THUMB, my lord.”

The priest pushed Semerket’s thumb lightly
onto a wedge of soft clay, using a rolling motion. He took the wedge
into a shaft of light that streamed from an opening in the roof,
comparing the print to the one Semerket had made on Pharaoh’s tablet so
many weeks before.

It was dawn, and Semerket was in the Temple
of Marduk, which the Babylonians called the Esagila. Though the Great
Temple of Amun in Thebes was far larger, it would be hard-pressed to
compete in sheer opulence with the Marduk sanctuary. Alabaster pillars
rose to coffered ceilings of hammered gold, while purple curtains hung
from silver rings, cascading in rich folds to mosaic floors of
malachite, turquoise, and mother-of-pearl. The Esagila existed in a
perpetual and holy state of gloom, lit only by the small skylights in
its roof. Everything in it, including the gold and silver threads woven
into the vestments of its priests, seemed made for the shimmer of lamp
and torchlight.

“All seems in order, my lord.”

The priest indicated that Semerket was to
follow him into the rear of the building. They soon came into the cool
vaults where the priests secreted their treasure.

“If you will make your signature,” the
priest said in his low voice, “in cuneiform, please, here on this
tablet where I have indicated…?” He pushed a fresh wedge of clay toward
Semerket. Several leather sacks already waited for him on a table of
inlaid citron wood, each bulging with gold.

Semerket blinked in surprise. “But I can’t
take all this.”

“I assure you, my lord, it’s precisely the
amount inscribed on the tablet you presented. If you’d care to count
it…?”

“I couldn’t possible carry it all!”

“Perhaps your servants…?”

“I have none.”

A trace of suspicion lit the priest’s eye.
Who was this servantless man, Semerket could almost hear him thinking,
who lays claim to Pharaoh’s gold? In the end, the priest suggested that
Semerket take only as much as he could conveniently carry. The rest
would be returned to the vault until Semerket came for it. The priest
smoothed out the figures he had previously inscribed onto the clay
receipt, and quickly entered the new amount.

“Your gold will be safe with us, my lord.”

Semerket once again affixed his thumbprint.
When he left the room, his belt was stuffed with gold rings. Never
before had he carried so much wealth on his person. And to think he had
four more of Pharaoh’s tablets waiting back in the hostel…

At the thought of Pharaoh, a sudden river of
guilt surged through him. Since his arrival in Babylon, Naia’s and
Rami’s rescue had so consumed him that he had given no thought to his
other mission, that of obtaining Bel-Marduk’s idol for his king. Since
he was at the Esagila, Semerket reasoned, he might as well see the idol
for himself, if only to gauge the effort it would take to transport it
back to Egypt.

He stepped into the processional line,
following it down a long sloping ramp into the underground chapel. It
was perhaps an hour or more before the temple guardians allowed him
into the presence of Babylon’s most sacred idol.

The soft chanting of songstresses filled the
halls, and the overpowering scent of smoky myrrh enveloped him.
Semerket strained to see ahead to where the idol reposed, but the crowd
of milling worshippers blocked his view. He did not know what to
expect, but when he finally saw the thing standing beneath its
cloth-of-gold canopy, his first feeling was of disappointment. The idol
was no taller than he was, and not at all well crafted; glancing down,
he saw the statue’s wooden armature poking through a broken toe.

Fashioned in a crude, archaic style, the
bearded god wore a high crown, and a girdle of starlike rosettes hung
about his waist. A soft smile on his face gave the unfortunate
impression of nothing so much as divine imbecility. In the god’s left
hand was a ring-and-rod scepter held close to his chest, while his
right hand extended forward in greeting.

Pharaoh had told him that at the start of
every reign, the new king of Babylon clasped the outstretched hand in
his to receive the god’s consent to rule. The hand was now almost
featureless, its thumb and fingers smoothed almost entirely away. How
many kings, how many millennia, Semerket wondered, had it taken to wear
that hand to such slimness?

The god gradually became vibrant in his
eyes, resplendent with the accumulated worship it had inspired over so
many centuries. It was perhaps the oldest statue of any god in the
whole world, and for that reason, the most revered. Semerket abruptly
remembered the words Pharaoh had whispered to him. “I will take the
god’s hand in mine, and I shall be cured of all illness.” Seeing the
golden hand that had conferred power on so many kings, Semerket thought
for the first time that perhaps the magic that resided in the idol
might indeed help Pharaoh regain his health.

Semerket continued to stare at the statue
until a temple guardian whispered that he must leave the chapel so that
other worshippers might themselves approach the god. When he was again
in the outer hall, he found a young priest waiting for him.

“Lord Semerket?” the man asked.

Semerket nodded, surprised.

“The Lord High Magus Adad requests a word.”

“With me?” Semerket asked, wary.

The young priest inclined his head, pointing
to a small, featureless door at the end of the hall, all but hidden
from the public’s view. It opened upon a narrow, private stairway
leading to the temple’s second floor.

The high magus’s chambers were as dark and
quiet as the god’s sanctuary. The young priest put a finger to his
lips, and nodded to the far end of the room. Semerket stared into the
gloom and saw the back of a man, busy at a distant stone altar. The
young priest closed the door softly behind him as he departed, and
Semerket was alone with Adad. At that moment, the ferrous, salty smell
of freshly spilled blood subtly infiltrated his nostrils, alarming him.

“I’ll only be a moment, Lord Semerket,” Adad
called reassuringly from the table, though his next words were
disturbing enough. “I’ve just finished reading your liver.”

Semerket saw the discarded carcass of a
sacrificed kid lying at the Magus’s feet, its eyes half-lidded, its
gray tongue protruding. Adad turned from the table, and Semerket noted
that his hands were green with bile. Thrusting them into a basin of
water, Adad cleansed himself before again addressing Semerket.

“I’m disappointed,” said Adad casually,
wiping his hands upon a cloth. “The kid’s liver wasn’t clear today,
telling me first one thing and then another. I didn’t learn as much
about you as I wished.”

“If the Lord High Magus wants to know
anything about me, he has only to ask.”

Adad looked at him, taking Semerket’s
measure. The magus was a large, powerfully built man, bearded like his
god. “Words were invented to hide the truth, Semerket,” he said. “Only
a liver never lies. But for all its cloudiness, I did discover
some
interesting things about you.”

Semerket arranged his features into polite
curiosity.

“It told me you come here in search of
someone. Two persons, in fact.”

Semerket’s expression did not change.

“It said that you and your pharaoh work to
some secret purpose here in Babylon.”

Semerket continued staring at the magus.

“It tells me that Egypt’s wealth has been
committed to the endeavor.” Irritated by Semerket’s continued
stillness, Adad became suddenly impatient. “Well? Are you mute? What
have you to say to all this?”

Semerket shrugged. “I would say the liver
tells you nothing more than what you found by reading the contents of
my pack the other night.”

Semerket heard Adad’s short intake of air.
“Do you doubt my ability to read livers?”

“I’m beginning to.”

Adad’s tense jaws clenched several times
before he answered. Few had ever spoken to him so impudently. The high
magus began to pace, not looking at Semerket, and when he threw himself
into his chair his fingers thrummed on its ivory armrest. “Since the
Lord of All has given us the gift of prophecy and divination,
Bel-Marduk’s magi have no need for common snooping,” he said firmly.
“But if you would be so honest, then why don’t you admit you come here
to carry away our holy idol to Egypt?”

“Did you learn that from the liver?”

“I won’t banter with you, Semerket.
Ambassador Menef told me of Pharaoh’s interest in it the moment Ramses’
courier arrived in Babylon.”

Semerket again did not respond. He was
thinking instead of what possible motive Menef might have for telling
Adad of Pharaoh’s confidential words. Some might construe it a
treasonous act. Was the ambassador seeking to thwart Semerket somehow,
intending to send the idol to Egypt himself and thereby earn Pharaoh’s
favor and acclaim? As it was, Semerket cared little as to who
successfully arranged the idol’s state visit to Egypt. If Menef had
already done so, all the better — Semerket would be thus free to
continue his search for Naia and Rami, unhampered by other concerns.

Yet if that were true, what purpose had this
high priest Adad for waylaying him like this? If the idol’s visit to
Egypt were already managed, what need for any of this discussion
between them?

“And was Ambassador Menef successful?”
Semerket asked. “Have you given your permission for the idol to visit
Egypt?”

“It’s not mine to give. The decision resides
with King Kutir alone.”

Semerket spoke his doubts aloud. “Then why
did Menef go to you and not to him?”

Adad dropped his eyes. He looked at his
hands, picking nervously at the golden tassels on his pectoral.
“Because the magi must be consulted, of course.” He raised his head to
peer again at Semerket. “Because we alone can divine the god’s
disposition in these matters.”

“I certainly hope you do a better job of it
than with the liver,” Semerket said lightly. Deciding that he could
accomplish nothing more from the interview, he backed away, extending
his hands to knee level, turning to leave. As he reached for the door,
Adad’s voice came to him, sharply.

“A moment, Semerket.”

Semerket faced the high magus.

“Once, long ago, another king of Elam
marched into Babylon. He laid unholy hands on the idol and carried it
off to Susa in chains.” Adad paused for effect. “Their crops failed.
Plague struck. The Elamite armies went without victories. One after
another their kings died. Finally, of their own accord, they returned
the idol, paying us in gold to remove the god’s curse from their land.”

The high priest was warning him, Semerket
knew. Nevertheless, he asked, “And the reason you tell me this, Lord
High Magus?”

“Because it’s what happens when the Lord of
All is taken from Babylon against his will.”

“You see me,” replied Semerket. “What armies
did I bring with me? What weapons? I don’t even carry a knife.”

Adad stood. “But there is about you an air
of violence and mayhem. I’ve heard they call you a ‘follower of Set’ in
Egypt — that you can wreck a nation simply by walking through it.”

Semerket shrugged. “I am not your enemy,
lord. It’s true I seek the idol for my king, but you must decide
whether it will go or stay. As I see it, my task is merely to convince
you — and Kutir — of the advantages such a visit might bring to both
our nations.”