Chapter 11 - The Ziggurat
The limousine had stopped in front of a sad looking six-story brick building in a forgotten and neglected part of town. Ben thought that the white brick structure, built in the Italian Renaissance revival style, had probably been constructed in the 1920’s. All of the building’s terra cotta trimmed windows were boarded up and the door to main entrance was merely a reinforced piece of plywood, across which stretched a band of yellow plastic warning tape.
Ben stepped out of the car and proffered his hand. Lilian took it and he gently pulled her forward. She leaned through the passenger window and said, “I’ll call for you, Mr. Fetch. Stay nearby.”
“Yes, madam,” the driver said, and pulled away.
Lilian gently touched Ben’s elbow and said, looking up at the building, “Welcome to the Ziggurat.”
“Hmmm.”
“Not impressed?”
“Well, no,” admitted Ben.
“This is merely the location being used this evening. Tomorrow this will again be an abandoned building.”
“How do we get inside?”
“We use magic,” she said. She took off her shawl and waved it in the air theatrically. “Sésame, ouvre-toi!”
There was a mechanical click from behind the door, and a whirring noise. A tiny orange light blinked twice and the plywood door swung outward in a surprisingly smooth motion.
“See?” she said, grinning. “Magic!”
“Bravo,” said Ben as she took his hand. “Can you also pull a rabbit from a hat?”
Lilian led him toward the door. Beyond it was nothing but an inky blackness.
“Better,” she said. “I can put one in.”
“That’s not much of a trick.”
She winked at him. “It is when the rabbit disappears.”
They stepped past the door and watched it close behind them. Ben saw a sliver of red light ahead of them and they began to walk toward it. When they had almost reached it Lilian moved aside a thick plastic curtain to reveal a staircase above which dangled an exposed red bulb. They went up several sets of stairs before emerging onto a broad landing illuminated by another red bulb. Twenty feet in front of them was a paneled wooden door with cracked but intact glazing at the top. Faded yellow lettering on the glass pane read “Administration Office.” Beneath that was a newly painted edition – a circular labyrinth a foot in diameter that resembled a fingerprint, the entrance at the bottom. It was similar to the one on the doors of Steepleguard, except that this version had elven circuits instead of five.
Next to the door stood a human figure.
“The guard,” whispered Lilian, putting her arm around Ben’s waist and ushering him forward.
As they approached, Ben saw that the figure was a man dressed in a metallic skirt composed of rows of overlapping gold plates, like the scales of a fish. His muscular chest was bare except for a gold broad collar. On his head was a tall, elongated bronze helmet decorated by rows of turquoise beads. Four metallic wings had been affixed to his back, in the shape of an X, like the wings of a dragonfly. A thick, black, and intricately woven beard fell to his chest, where it was cut horizontally. In each hand the guard held a bronze weapon that looked like a massive fork but with three tongs at both top and bottom.
Ben leaned over and whispered, “I’m sure he’s a tough customer but those metal wings and skirt are going to be a real problem if gets into a fight.”
Lilian replied, “Oh, he’s mostly ceremonial. Like the single Marine guard at the door to the White House. Besides,” she teased, “he has a big gun inside that skirt of his.”
“A big…oh. Lilian, that’s not very ladylike.”
“No, seriously, it’s a requirement for the job.”
“Lilian!”
“I’ve seen him use it.”
Ben moaned. “Enough!”
The two stopped in front of the guard and Ben saw the man tighten his grip on the two weapons in his hands, as if readying them. The former Marine removed his arm from around Lilian, suddenly alert. Lilian, however, was completely at ease, as if the guard were merely a teenager responsible for taking movie tickets.
She said, “Vos es migdu Lilitu sef Sarganu, Mutu vil Benzira, pos rindet es Temu. Adilnah.”
The guard glowered at Ben.
“Show him the dowry, Mutu,” said Lilian.
Ben held out his left hand and made a fist, feeling silly.
The bearded guard bent over and inspected the signet ring, cynically at first, but in short order his eyes widened and his expression changed to one of bewilderment.
“Badeel!” said Lilian forcefully and, to Ben’s astonishment, she slapped the man viciously on the left side of his face. The stunned guard slowly went to one knee and lowered his head, mumbling something that sounded like an apology.
“Be careful,” Lilian seethed at the cowering man in English, daggers in her voice, “or I will make you the fetch of Nea’deez.”
The guard mumbled something else, pleading. Lilian towered over the censured man for what seemed like forever, letting the tension build.
Then, it was over. She looked at Ben and her radiant, carefree smile had returned.
“Sorry,” she said and put an arm back around his waist. “It’s so hard to get good help these days.”
With that, the two walked through the door and into the lair of the Nisirtu.
Beyond the door was a spacious room that resembled, in size and furnishings, a large hotel conference center. Dozens of round tables were scattered about the room, each capable of seating ten people. The tables were covered with red cloths and harbored lit candles at their centers. Each was stocked with several bottles of liquor, wine, and water, buckets of ice and a variety of glasses. There were also makeshift booths along both walls. The walls were covered with thick black tapestries that kept the room’s illumination from penetrating the cracks in the boarded-up windows behind them. A ridiculously long banquet table that offered all varieties of sinful delicacies had been positioned at the back of the room.
While moderately extravagant, these things would have been disappointingly mundane to Ben, given that the people in the room - there were about a hundred, he guessed - supposedly controlled his world, or large swaths of it.
Compensating for the ordinariness was what he saw in the center of the room: Two immense and imposing statues, thirty feet long and ten feet high, with the bodies of bulls, the wings of birds, and the heads of men. The heads were almost exact facsimiles of the head of the guard Lilian had reprimanded, with elaborately braided bears, elongated caps, and scornful expressions.
Ben detected a slight flicker from what he had initially assumed were spotlights on the floor around the statues.
Lilian followed his gaze. “Lamassu,” she said. “Guardians.”
“Holograms,” marveled Ben.
“Yes. Centuries ago, the statues at the Ziggurats were real, but that was when the Nisirtu could safely meet in one place for years without detection. Today we must be mobile and you can imagine the logistical difficulties of moving such immense stone statues secretly from place to place. These look very realistic, don’t you think?”
“Incredibly realistic,” agreed Ben.
“Let’s sit down,” said the woman. They took a booth and sat beside each other facing the entrance. “I want to be able to see who comes and goes. Drink?”
“Water.”
She arranged two glasses. Ben could hear the people in the booth behind him talking but they were speaking in what sounded like the same language Lilian had spoken to the guard. What was it called? Agati?
Lilian handed Ben his water.
“Thanks,” he said, taking a sip. “Tell me then, how is it that the Nisirtu came to be the masters of the world? Did the Illuminati go bankrupt?”
“You’re humoring me?” she asked.
“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?”
She nodded. “We are the descendants of the Ma
dihee, a nomadic tribe that originally migrated in and out of what are now Iraq, Syria and Iran five thousand years ago or so. Our ancestors bred superior horses that were capable of traveling further and faster than others. They also developed primitive rope varieties of saddles and stirrups, though historians today would argue that neither existed in the period.
“At that time, wheat was being harnessed and the region was becoming agricultural. The Madihee, however, remained nomads, and because the tribe was constantly on the move and had a far larger range than other nomads, the tribe’s horsemen were often paid to carry messages or small items between individuals and villages. The messages were, at first, only verbal and the items were often canisters of clay tokens and runes that had special significance to the recipients. But this was cumbersome so-”
“No, wait…please don’t tell me the Madihee invented writing.”
Lilian nodded. “It was a necessity, don’t you see? Why tote a thousand runes or little clay spheres when their meaning can be impressed in a clay tablet that requires a fraction of the space? That allowed each Madihee courier to carry ten times as many messages, or more, than before. This greatly increased the tribe’s efficiency and profits. Of course, at that stage, the cuneiform did not denote sounds and no one thought to use papyrus. Those developments came much later.”
The researcher breathed out. “Right…this is a bit hard to swallow.”
“It was an economic necessity, Ben. Who would have more impetus to create a writing system than the people would profit by it? Necessity is the mother of invention. Can you offer an alternative?”
“Well, no. I mean, I can’t point a finger at a specific person or group as the creator of writing. It was an evolutionary process.”
“True. The Madihee constantly improved upon their rather crude initial product. Needless to say, they tried to keep it to themselves. It was a secret technology that was immensely profitable. But that was an impossible task. They inadvertently spread their insight to others like bees spread pollen amongst the flowers in the field.”
“Stimulus diffusion. I get that. But the Madihee? No historical record references them as the founders of cuneiform.”
“Who does the historical record say created it?”
“Well, it doesn’t.”
“Using your logic, then, writing was never invented.”
Ben rubbed his face and mumbled. “Fine. I won’t interrupt again – go ahead with your story.”
The woman nodded. “Once messages could be written on tablets, those became our couriers’ primary cargo. Cities and kingdoms were founded and armies began to march between them. These entities became the primary customers for the Madihee’s services. Soon, not only messages but also contracts and maps required transport. Demand was so great that our nomadic ancestors began recruiting members from other tribes, which extended their reach. Eventually the network extended for a thousand miles in every direction from its epicenter. The Madihee diversified and began to travel by river, also. The tribe was, in a way, the postal service of its era. Not surprisingly, the Madihee had the best translators, who were especially useful to traders and monarchs.
“But, unbeknownst to their clients, the couriers were providing copies of many of the messages they were carrying to a group of Madihee intellectuals in the city of Ur called the Nisirtu. This internal organization was responsible for collecting, sorting, analyzing, and using the stolen information to the tribe’s advantage. In this way they knew who would war against whom, when taxes in various cities or kingdoms would be raised or lowered, who would be assassinated, what mines had been found or abandoned, what new technologies had been discovered, and so forth.”
“Quite a sophisticated operation,” Ben quipped.
“Yes, and successful. The Nisirtu worked day and night processing the information that was flowing in from every corner of the map. They were privy to newly discovered mathematical formulas, scientific principles, medicines, weapons - everything. They amassed huge libraries of maps and knew everything that could be known about the geography and cultures of the ancient world.
“In time,” she continued, “our ancestors used their insight to covertly obtain key positions within the various kingdoms in order to collect still more information. They became oracles, teachers, prophets, and advisors, yet they remained in communication with each other via an invisible internal network of messengers. That private network and the strategic placement of their spies made our ancestors virtually omniscient.”
“Wait,” interrupted Ben, holding up one hand. “You’re telling me that the Madihee had created a kind of ancient internet, right?”
Lilian was impressed. “That’s right, Ben. Oh, certainly, it was a very slow moving version of the internet. A ‘query’ might take months to answer instead of seconds. Yet the Nisirtu could obtain any type information it needed, from the movements of armies to the name of an obscure queen’s favorite uncle’s favorite food, simply by plugging the question into their ‘machine.’”
“Impressive,” said the researcher smiling, but not believing the fable.
“It was,” agreed Lilian. “In time, the Madihee horsemen faded away, as did most nomadic groups. However, the Nisirtu lived on, as an independent institution.”
Ben shrugged. “Still, knowledge is not in itself power. It has to be utilized to one’s advantage.”
“That’s right,” said the woman. “Which is why we learned to use our network to do far than just anticipate political and military events. We began to steer them.”
“How?”
“It was an evolutionary process,” the woman replied. “Let us say that a handmaiden to a king gave birth to his illegitimate son and that the Nisirtu became aware of this through one of their spies. In early days of the Nisirtu, the council would send agents to befriend the son and his mother and earn their trust so that if someday the son became king, or was given an honorary post, we would profit from our association with the young man. We would use the information available to them to our advantage, but in a fairly limited way.”
“Alright.”
“Fast forward a few centuries and you would find that the we would no longer wait for such an event to take advantage of. We would make it happen. We would make it a priority to learn about the king’s lusts as soon as he ascended to the throne and would ensure that a handmaiden of our choice found her way into the king’s bed. We would also ensure any legitimate children died during or soon after birth.
“Once a bastard son was realized we might have the king killed to move things along, but only after ensuring the bastard child would be accepted by the king’s court, typically through a combination of bribery, blackmail, and assassination.”
“I see,” Ben said, playing along. “The Nisirtu no longer waited for opportunities. They made opportunities.”
“Exactly, though never directly, Ben. We learned to control events from afar in order to limit our exposure. If we wanted a king dead we ensured that his adversaries stumbled upon documents that showed the weaknesses of his fortifications and how best to exploit them, or that a slighted Queen had available to her the poison necessary to end the life of her unfaithful husband. That kind of thing.”
“You controlled events from the shadows, you’re saying.”
“Correct. We began to write what we call ‘scripts,’ manipulating people into doing what we require while convincing them that they are acting of their own free will. A script is like a play where none of the actors know they are actors. The writers of these scripts are called scribes and the Families dictate the objectives of the scripts. Scriptus Ridley is easily the most famous scribe in the Ten Kingdoms.”
Ben blinked. Script? Wasn’t that the term Fiela had used earlier to describe the quarantine? Had Ridley made that happen, then?
Lilian continued, “As millennia passed we grew our network of insiders and learned new ways to manipulate international events. We developed a variety of tools to predict outcomes gi
ven specific inputs. Mathematical and psychological models, among others. We learned to control entire populations. Our members became diplomats, advisors, holy men, courtesans, and the like.”
“World leaders?”
The beautiful woman shook her head. “Rarely. We do not seek any overt power because overtness is weakness. Better to be the puppeteer than the puppet, even if the puppet is a king or a senator or a president.”
The researcher said, “That’s not a history, Lilian. It’s a conspiracy theory.”
“That’s only partially true,” she responded. “Besides, you’re supposed to be humoring me.”
Ben said, “So how do most of you spend your days? I mean, when you’re not in secret lairs plotting the overthrow of governments. Lawn darts, maybe?”
Lilian grinned. “Oh, there are many other roles, Ben. The Nisirtu is a microcosm of what you’d expect in anywhere. We have spies, priests, poets, programmers, physicians, scientists, and philosophers, for example. Some work only within the Nisirtu but most work among the Ardoon.”
“And you? What do you do, when not recruiting roguishly good looking men into the Nisirtu?”
“Ah,” said Lilian, sitting down her glass. “I’m a ne’er-do-well. I am the last surviving member a family that was for hundreds of years quite powerful. Noble, actually. I am entitled to eighteen fetches.”
“You have no responsibilities?”
“Not to the Nisirtu. I have not been idle, though. Growing up I attended the best schools, had the best mentors, and traveled extensively. I am an equestrian of some note and I became interested in music as a child. I play several instruments, though I prefer the violin, as you have seen. I also sing.”
“Really? I’d like to hear you sing.”
“Then you will,” she said with an expression that indicated she was pleased with his interest.
Ben said, “I’m surprised you didn’t enter into…what, politics, I guess? Nisirtu politics. I mean, with your family’s background, you could have been some kind of diplomat or ambassador. I assume you guys have those types of things.”
“Yes,” she said, the joy suddenly gone, “but I am barred from serving in any such capacity as a result of some family indiscretions I’d rather not take up tonight. I hope you don’t mind, Mutu. The story is rather convoluted.”
Ben let it go. The phantom skeletons in her family’s mythical closet were no business of his.
She said, “Are you interested in politics, Ben?”
“Not anymore. I’m jaded. It doesn’t seem to matter who’s in charge. Same words, same actions, different faces.”
Lilian watched him, saying, “The president is giving a speech tomorrow morning to an association of high school principals about the importance of education to the future of America.”
Shrugging, Ben said, “Doesn’t every president? It makes for good PR.”
Lilian said, “You don’t think education important?”
“Of course I do. But what is he going to say that hasn’t already been said a million times? He might propose some token initiative, come up with some new slogan and shake a few hands, but nothing of substance will be done.”
“What would you do if you were him?”
Ben said, “I haven’t really thought about it. Maybe invest in some kind of jamming device that prevents phones from working inside schools.” He smiled crookedly, “Get rid of the instant messaging, texting, and emails, and you might even get the kids to look at the instructor on occasion.” Taking a sip of his water, he looked at Lilian and winked. “You know I’m joking, right?”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Please.”
Surveying the room, Ben said, “To be honest, Lilian. I am not overwhelmed by what I am seeing here. The holograms are awesome but otherwise the Ziggurat resembles a PBS-sponsored bingo tournament.”
Lilian laughed. “Well, keep in mind this is a small monthly congregation, and a regional one, at that. We’re only here because I need to be seen with you. It proves our association.”
“Our marriage, you mean.”
“Exactly.”
Ben saw a shadow fall over Lilian’s face. She was looking toward the entrance.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“An old family acquaintance has arrived.”
Ben peered at the entrance. “Were you expecting him?”
“No. He normally resides in North Africa. He is a member of the Tenth Kingdom and the senior Peth-Allati lord of all the kingdoms. He leads the Seven’s wars against the rebels. His name is Moros and he’s like a senior Gestapo. Charming but with a black heart.”
As she spoke Ben saw a tall, lean man approached their table. His hair was greased back like Casanova’s and he wore an immaculate silk suit, shimmering black, though the starched white shirt was open-collared. His smile was radiant, his teeth perfect, and his eyes as silver as the moon.
“Lilian!” the arrival said. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Good evening, Lord Moros. I’m as surprised as you, I’m sure.”
The man examined Ben before looking at Lilian inquiringly. “This is your new husband?”
“Ben,” the accused said, standing and holding out his hand. Moros shook it firmly. “Please have a seat. How did you know that Lilian and I were married?” He almost used air quotes but stopped himself.
The Nisirtu slid into the bench opposite them, saying, “Lilian, careful girl that she is, registered you as her fiancée a few hours after the incident at the motel to ensure you didn’t become collateral damage in a script. It was a natural deduction on my part.”
Lilian said, “What brings you to Denver, Lord Moros?”
“Business. These are, well, hectic times. The rebels are nearly defeated but they have made a mess of things, as you know. I am meeting with some other Peth commanders from around the globe to discuss our situation. Denver proved to be the most convenient location for us to meet.”
He focused on the table and put out his lower lip as if pondering his next words. Then, looking at Ben, he said, “I was surprised to learn that Lilian had such an impulsive streak. Marrying an Ardoon she only just met? It’s not like her. I mean, you are, well, quite the dish, but…”
He squinted at the signet ring on Ben’s finger. It seemed to bother him. “Still, it was a surprise, as I said. She is normally a very calculating woman.”
“She still is,” remarked Ben. “Trust me.”
“Yes, well, it seems rather unfair that dear Lilian knows so much about you - everything, I assume - yet you know so little about her. Almost nothing, is my guess.”
“We only met yesterday.”
“Yes, of course. Perhaps I might break the ice, then. That ring you are wearing - her father’s. Has she told you of her family?” The Peth lord leaned forward and added in a grave tone, “Of the man who once wore it?”
Ben felt Lilian stiffen.
“It is of no consequence,” the woman said, staring at Moros.
“Really?” The Peth lord turned to Ben and raised his eyebrows. “Ben, do you think it is of no consequence that your new wife is the bastard daughter of a mad king?”
“It’s true,” Moros said, seeing the dumb expression on the other man’s face. “Lilian is the illegitimate daughter of King Sargon, former ruler of the Fifth Kingdom. Her mother is a woman whose name has been erased from history - and believe me, Ben, when the Nisirtu wipe a name from the history books, it is thoroughly and completely wiped.”
Before he could stop himself, Ben said, “What happened to King Sargon?”
“He was chained to a stake at the bottom of some dingy pit until he finally shriveled up and died. I don’t know where but one pit is pretty much like another when you’re wallowing around naked in your own feces with rats nipping at your genitals, eh?”
“Yes,” said Lilian coolly, her face a mask of placidity. “But by then he was quite insane.”
Ben’s expression darkened. He stared at Moros
but said to Lilian, “Your friend is being an ass. Don’t encourage him.”
“No,” said Lilian, “Moros is right. You should know that my father was a king and my mother was not his wife, yet she was Nisirtu - my genetic profile confirms this. I was born a decade after his wife and legitimate mate, the queen, had died. When I was still a child, my father went insane and attempted to lay waste to the other Houses. He was captured and imprisoned and is said to have died blabbering about nonsensical things.”
She stopped and said to Moros pointedly, “That is the abridged version.”
Moros snorted disapprovingly. “Your version lacks drama and you have omitted some tasty tidbits. You should have let me tell the tale.”
“Time is short,” retorted Lilian.
The eyes of the other man sparkled. “Touché. But Benzira-”
“Ben.”
“Sorry, Ben, do you understand what that means? That ring is not just the ring of Lilian’s father. It is a ring worn over thousands of years by hundreds of kings. Much of the world was shaped by the men who wore it.” Gazing at it lustily, he said, “I never thought to see it again, especially not on the hand of a…well, you’re not a slave anymore, are you?”
Ben leaned foreword and said, “You talk too much, Moros, and that thin veneer of civility does a poor job hiding the asshole beneath it.”
“Careful,” said the other man in a subdued but menacing tone. He met Ben’s angry gaze. “I can have you written out of the world this very night.”
“He is Seven,” interjected Lilian. “You cannot harm him.”
Moros shrugged, his face full of contempt. “Accidents happen. Not everything that happens is scripted, bastardess.”
Ben shot up from his seat, his hands clinched into fists.
“No!” pleaded Lilian, clutching his sleeve. “No, Ben. Please sit down.”
The other man said in a bored voice, “Calm yourself, Ben. I apologize, sincerely. I assure you, I do grow on people-”
The Peth froze. Something like fear flashed across his perfect face.
“Yeah, like a fungus,” came a girl’s voice.
“Bitch,” said Moros, his face reddening visibly even in the dim light of the room.
“Hey, Moros,” said the girl. “Still angry about your broken toys?”
Pivoting, Ben saw the newcomer strut around the edge of the booth and walk past him to Moros. She was dressed in a girls’ prep-school outfit that consisted of a plaid skirt, blue knee socks, black pumps, a white silk blouse, and a black sweater with some kind of crest sewn onto the pocket. Her hair was red and her face was as pure as virgin snow.
Still, Ben knew her. “Fiela?” he wondered aloud.
“Hi Ben,” she radiantly. “Fancy meeting you here!”