All night, the verbal virus had spread from Sumerian to Sumerian. By dawn they were grouping according to language. Interpreters were few and far between: a few of the younger people had managed somehow to snag two languages and were doing their best to mediate. By mid-morning there was a huge crowd in the main square.

Some of them were holding signs. The fact that the signs were made of clay tablets on poles and not very big made it hard to read them. The fact that the signs were attempts to render hundreds of languages in cuneiform that had never been written down before (and some of which didn't even exist yet) rendered the protest signs even less effective than they might have been.

Knots of dissatisfied citizens were trying to organise chants. This, again, was hard to do since nobody could understand what the others were chanting. Ori, who could understand them all, noticed that they were more or less all chanting, 'What do we want? Communication! When do we want it? Now!'

Communication isn't going to come anytime soon, thought Ori, who was beginning to regret all of this.

Don't, said Prajapati. They brought this on themselves. Besides, we're trying to save them from making a terrible mistake.

Ori noticed trains of families carrying their meager belongings. They were forming up to return to Warka, or whatever city would have them. Ori felt sorry for them, but at least they would be away from the influence of Nimrod and his idiotic Tower.

Nimrod had noticed the growing number of would-be expatriates preparing for an exodus and he did not like this at all. He ordered his men to bring out his party piece: the stuffed lion.

The lion was still pretty impressive, although bits of it had started to shed. Some trumpeters were ordered to play in the hope of gathering a crowd so that Nimrod could address it and reassure everyone that the Tower was fully as wonderful as advertised and that all was going according to plan.

Unfortunately, the trumpets had been stored in the same place as the lion. All of Babylon was dusty, to be sure, but that particular storeroom was badly chinked, and the wind had been blowing. So when the hastily-assembled trumpeters raised their instruments for a heralding fanfare, what came out was an unpleasant SQUA-a-a-awwwk! accompanied by a shower of desert sand.

It reminded Ori of the time Samya had tried to stop the Tone Wars with a particularly threatening song called 'Entropy'. The brass section had required therapy after that one.

The crowd jeered, but Nimrod was not to be deterred.

'Friends! Babylonians! Fellow adventurers! Listen to me! This is just a minor setback! My user-service team will have this problem sorted in no time!' He raised his pudgy hands in what he obviously imagined was an elegant and commanding gesture to underscore his mastery of the situation. Ori thought he looked like a bantam rooster trying to intimidate a barnyard full of Orpingtons.

If Nimrod's theatrical gestures failed to have an effect on the crowd, his words were worse than useless. Only a small minority of his listeners could still understand Sumerian. To the rest his speech, as one member of the audience put it, 'sounded like Chinese – whatever that is.'

Nimrod wiped away tears of frustration. 'Don't go! We haven't got to the good part yet!' But a fair number of the people in the square – about one in three – were in fact about to do just that. They headed for the city gates in a long queue of family groups.

There they were stopped by Nimrod's guards. The guards had orders to keep everyone inside. They refused to open the gates. The crowd refused to disperse. There was pushing and shoving and multilingual shouting. Finally, some of the burlier men in the crowd managed to wrestle the restraining bar off one of the gates – and the crowd began to pour through. Guards put up a show of resistance but were overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Soon, most of the men-at-arms had to scramble to one side to avoid being trampled underfoot.

Other gates were soon opened. The victorious crowd streamed out of the city in all directions. They formed caravans of humans, carts, and beasts. They marched determinedly away. Songs drifted back to the ears of those remaining in the city. The songs had different tunes and different words – but they all told one story: we're going home. The way may be long and hard but we will rejoice when we get there.

It would seem Nimrod has given them a purpose after all, commented Prajapati wrily. Ori agreed. But what about those still in the city?

I think it's time for you to do some talking, said Prajapati. If I were you, I'd put on a show.

'All right,' replied Ori. Stripping to the waist and wholly shifting form, Ori unfurled what were after all an imposing set of wings and flew to the platform where Nimrod was standing.

Nimrod stared, open-mouthed.

The crowd stared, open-mouthed.

A child shouted, 'Look, Mommy, that's the biggest bird in the world!'

You'd better be glad for that, kid, chuckled Prajapati. Those terror birds really were a bad idea.

Ori turned to Nimrod. 'I think you'd better close your mouth. It's undignified. Besides, there are flies about.'

Nimrod closed his mouth. He glared at Ori, his beady little eyes trying to bore holes of malice in something – preferably this angel who had shown up to steal his thunder and spoil his fun.

'See, my people!' began Nimrod.

'My' people, in a black hole, snorted Prajapati.

'See, my people!' Nimrod repeated. 'See the lengths the gods will go to in trying to stop me, your friend and leader, from accomplishing this major milestone, this historic launch of the biggest thing ever! They're even sending their feathered minions to try to stop me! Me, Nimrod! I laugh at gods!'

This speech was pretty good for off-the-cuff, thought Ori. It might have been persuasive if enough people had heard and understood it. Alas for Nimrod: simultaneous translation hadn't been invented yet. Only a small percentage of listeners had a clue what he'd just said. He might as well have been shouting, 'Last one in the reflecting pool is a rotten egg!'

Ori spread wings and hovered a few feet above the platform. Ori knew this would drive Nimrod bonkers, and it did. The little dictator danced from foot to foot, shooting Ori looks that he only wished could kill.

'People of Sumeria!' called Ori loudly. 'Friends! I mean you no harm!'

Unlike Nimrod, Ori could be understood. By everyone. That was because in addition to the gift of language-shifting, Prajapati had given Ori the gift of universal comprehensibility. Each listener heard Ori speaking in their own language. This was a handy trick, and Ori was determined to use it.

Ori could tell that the words – the first announcement that had made sense all day – were helping people to calm down. Time to press the advantage.

'As you all can tell from what's happened, this Tower isn't a really good idea. It's bad for the environment. There's no good water source out here. The structure is unsound and likely to put you in serious danger…'

That part, at least, was true. Ori was determined to avoid needless metaphysical explanations – but determined to keep people out of that gravity-trap.

'Please go back to your groups for your noonday meals. Talk among yourselves. Make your own decisions. If you want to go back home maybe I can help organise something. If you want to strike out for new territories I can draw you a map or two. But let it be your decision. Take your time. And in the meantime, please stay out of the Tower.'

In any group of people, about one out of three will do the reasonable thing if it's put to them clearly. This third now began to reflect that, yes, there was a water shortage. That Tower didn't look safe. In fact, there had been more than a few fatal accidents among the construction crew. Come to think of it, this whole city was beginning to seem like a bad idea: too many strangers, now even more alien because you couldn't talk to them. High prices, a lack of meaningful work, no cultural activities to speak of and the falafel stands at home were much better… They decided to break for lunch and discuss things with their clan members.

Another third of any group will dig in their heels and double down on whatever silly activity is the latest thing, even when it's reached its sell-by date. These are the late mullet-wearers, the tragic diehard disco fans. There was a murmuring in this group next. An attempt was made to shout renewed support for Nimrod. Nimrod might have been encouraged by this if he had understood them. But since they were shouting in random languages, he thought they were threatening him. He signalled to the guards, who chased the confused supporters out of the square.

That left the remaining third – the hopelessly indecisive. These would be waiting for a winner to emerge among the warring factions. Thus it has ever been. This bunch decided that for now, nothing had been decided. And since it was lunchtime, they'd break for food. Time enough to resolve major issues on a full stomach once the next act of this highly entertaining drama started in the afternoon.

Ori could tell that this was the best that could be expected under the circumstances.

Nimrod wasn't having any. He eyed Ori balefully. 'This isn't over! Just you wait!' He stalked off to confer with his 'team'.

Ori flew to the top of the clock pillar, perched there, and waited for what came next.

Dmitri Gheorgheni

06.03.23 Front Page

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