King Nebuchadnezzar was a beast of war, ripping through nation after nation and carrying home spoils to great Babylon. He was unaware of two ruthless spiritual entities tasked with keeping his war-mongering in check, neither did he contemplate gods...
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627 BC, Susa
Nabopolassar's hands were crimson with the blood of his enemies when the news reached him. Piercing the earth with his battle axe, he turned to face the messenger fully. "Speak one more time, boy. Tell me again."
The boy of about thirteen smiled, his weather-beaten skin stretching with the action. "You have a son, governor."
Nabopolassar shouted to the sky. "Yes! YES. Ha-ha." He snatched the captive soldier before him in a tight embrace, the very one he was about to slaughter only moments ago. Releasing him, Nabopolassar surveyed the gathering of captured enemy soldiers. "Fate has smiled upon you this day. I give you the gift of your lives." His booming voice carried over the living, dying, and dead.
The captives numbered about five thousand. He and his men had ploughed through half a thousand when the good news came.
"Bow, beasts!" Ea-Nasir, his second in command, clanged a sword against his polished iron shield as he wove through the gathering of kneeling enemy soldiers. "Thank your governor. Kiss the floor."
All obeyed, kissing the floor four times as they bowed. Nabopolassar turned from the sight. It wasn't pleasing enough to top the joy coursing through his veins, forcing renewed energy into his very bones.
I sired a son. My first blood.
His eyes swept over the lush planes of Susa, taking in the low valleys and rising hills. Their city burned in the distance, black fumes darkening the early evening sky. He had conquered and now his men plundered, amassing wealth for Ashurbanipal, king of Assyria. He cursed, hating the fact that Chaldea, the region he governed, was under the oppressive thumb of the old goat. The thought threatened to sour his mood but he spat it out immediately. Today was a day of joy, gladness, and triumph.
"You must come with me." He gestured to Ea-Nasir and swung an arm over his shoulders, pulling the equally large man along. They both stank of blood and sweat, a testament to their hard-won victory.
Their battle horses neighed and dragged hoofed feet across the rocky ground as both men approached. "We do not stop riding until we reach the West camp," Nabopolassar said as he snatched his reins and mounted the stead.
It was night when they reached Nabopolassar's tent. Dirt clung to his skin, his fingers were stiff with dried blood, and his eyes dry and grainy from the assault of the wind while they rode. Once he dismounted and stood before the tent, the weariness evaporated like dew in the sun.
The cry of the babe welcomed him even before he flipped the tent flap aside and strolled in with all the swagger of a victorious warrior and father.
An oil lamp hung from a three-corded raffia rope stretching from the centre of the tent, its light bathing the place in a pleasant amber glow.
And then there was Tiamat.
Her dark hair was damp and lay in loose ringlets around her face; the wan state of her complexion caused that red patch around her left eye to stand out. She wore the birthmark with dignity, always choosing to pull her hair aside and show the work of imperfection Nabopolassar had grown to love.
