Nezzar II

627 BC, Susa

Nabopolassar’s hands were crimson with the blood of his enemies when the news reached him. He pierced the earth with his battle axe and faced 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, general.”

Nabopolassar shouted to the sky. “Yes! YES. Ha-ha.” He kicked aside the enemy commander he was about to execute and beamed at the spread of captured 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, and he and his men had ploughed through half a thousand when the good news came.

“Bow, beasts!” Ea-Nasir, his second in command, clanged his 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. Since he escaped the womb, he wouldn’t die. This one wouldn’t die. 

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 and announcing their hard-worn victory. He had conquered, and now his men plundered, amassing wealth for Ashurbanipal, king of the Assyrian empire—the foot under which great Babylon groaned.

The thought threatened to sour his mood, but he spat it out. Today was a day of triumph.

“You must come with me.” He swung an arm over Ea-Nasir’s shoulders, pulling the equally large man along. 

Ea-Nasir laughed. “Then who will face that sow?”

Nabopolassar made a face. The emperor openly loathed him and made it a point of duty to be represented by his officials whenever he sought an audience. That he made no secret of his disdain for Babylon—despite gaining great wealth from their backs—never ceased to boil Nabopolassar’s blood. 

Again, his mood threatened to sour, but he forced a smile and patted Ea-Nasir on the back. “Do what you must.” 

It was night when they reached Nabopolassar’s tent. Dirt clung to his skin, his fingers were stiff with dried blood, and his eyes were dry and grainy from the assault of the wind while they rode. Once he dismounted and stood before the tent, the weariness evaporated. 

The cry of his baby welcomed him as he flipped the tent flap aside and hurried in. The glow from the oil lamp swinging from a raffia rope exposed Tiamat. She sat with the child in the midst of pillows, her dark, damp hair clinging to her brow, and her complexion was wan.

“You’re here,” she said in a low, tired voice.

A proud smile stretched his face. “Yes, I am here.”

A guilty pang twisted his heart. He did her no honour, succumbing to her insistence that he take her along. 

The priest said this one would survive if he’s born close to battle. Do you not believe? And these walls choke me. I will die if you leave me here with this large stomach.

Stubborn woman. Settling next to her, Nabopolassar peered at the red-faced, crying baby in Tiamat’s arms.

“He is so angry.” She sniffed then chuckled. Shifting to a sitting position, she lifted the baby. “Carry him.”

As Nabopolassar received the bundle, he marvelled at how light and tiny it felt. “Forgive me for bringing you here? This is no fitting place to birth our child. I did you a great wrong. I do not know the ways of—”

“Remember what the priest said? It is good he was born so close to the place of our victory.” Her eyes lingered on the baby’s face. “Bless him.”

A part of him found it hard to believe he had come this far. A governor of a fast-rising province and now a father about to give his blessing. Emotions of varying degrees roiled within him. 

“Bring the knife.”

When a servant appeared with one, Tiamat used it to cut a lock of her hair and place it in a small earthen bowl. Taking the knife to Nabopolassar’s beard, she cut the tip of a ringlet and added the strands to hers. 

Burning the hair with a chunk of coal from the incense burner, Nabopolassar poured olive oil over the ashes and mixed the oil and ash with two fingers.

“Son of my might.” He swiped the mixture over the child’s forehead. “No enemy shall triumph over you.” He stopped crying, his fist finding its way to his mouth as he stared at Nabopolassar.

Nabopolassar grinned down at him, beyond proud of their creation. “You shall never fear death, my boy.” He lifted the child. “Your mother never fears death. Look at her.” He turned the baby to face Tiamat. “She brought you into this world.” 

She chuckled and rested her temple on his shoulder. “What shall we name him?” 

Nabopolassar grew quiet. He had considered each name the temple sent three months ago, and only one had seemed fitting—a protection of sorts as his son continues his legacy.  “He will conquer and expand the boundaries of Babylon.” 

“That would mean more enemies.” Tiamat yawned, her eyes droopy with sleep. “He may die young.”

“Then I pray for his protection too.” Gripping Tiamat’s hand, Nabopolassar raised it to his lips and pressed a kiss against the soft skin. “His name is Nebuchadnezzar.”

***

The crow observed it all with enhanced sight from its spot on a nearby Acacia tree. Satisfied with the information it gathered, it spread its wing and—

A smoking black arrow shot it down. It cawed as it struck the ground, madly flapping its wings as the weapon burned it from within.

Abaddon strolled over and observed the twitching bird with a flat, unimpressed gaze, then he returned his attention to the tent ahead. 

“You should have made its death instant. Now it’s suffering.” The gold trinkets hanging from his companion’s spiral horns tinkled as she scooped the bird with gentle, clawed hands.

“You shouldn’t touch that,” Abaddon said dryly. “It reeks of Marduk’s essence.” The black bow in his grip transformed to a simple iron staff and hovered some inches to his right.

Ignoring his warning, Ziba swept a finger over the bird’s feathered head. “You poor thing. Marduk took your eyes.” The crow released a pained caw. “Sorry for your pain, but Abaddon had to keep you from telling Marduk what you saw.” 

At her words, the bird stiffened and then went feral. It dug its claws into Ziba’s palm and ripped at her skin, all the while cawing madly. Feeling nothing despite the lines of dark blue blood leaking from the wounds, she let it rage.

The bird suddenly burst into a cloud of black ash and charred feathers. Abaddon gave her a pointed look. “Focus.”

She marched over and glared up at him. “You did not have to kill it.”

“We do not cuddle stained things.” Abaddon waved a hand, easily shifting Ziba from his path. “Stay alert. This mission is important.”

As he resumed his stroll towards the governor’s tent, Ziba jogged after him. “I could have gotten information from it and—”

“The right information will come when it is needed.” He continued his unhurried pace, long legs covering a greater distance than Ziba’s shorter ones.

“Well, we could have saved the bird. We could have—”

Abaddon paused and stared at her with completely black eyes. Ziba gulped; it was like standing before a yawning, soul-destroying darkness whenever he looked at her like that.

When he finally spoke, his words were measured and slow, like he was trying to make an idiot understand something simple. “Your random acts of goodness are futile. Saving a bird would do nothing to get you up the heavenly ranks.” He frowned as though puzzled. “Why do you find it difficult to accept this truth?”

Ziba tore her gaze away and tugged at a thin gold chain hanging from her horns. “You do not have to be so… flat about it. I understand the realities of our existence.”

He resumed his languid pace, hands clasped at his back. “I doubt you do.”

The rest of their trek was silent. Abaddon loved to do things this way. Walk instead of simply appearing at a destination, going through the motions when he had so much power he could form a thought and it would instantly manifest.

There was an itch in her; for centuries, she had wanted to—

No! Giving her head a quick, hard shake, Ziba forced herself to focus like Abaddon said.

When they reached the tent, the child and its mother were fast asleep, but the governor was awake, staring at his son as he mumbled prayers to Nabu and Marduk.

“Influence the father,” Abaddon said. “I’d handle the mark.”

Rolling her eyes at his commanding tone, Ziba stretched her right hand. A thin blue line extended from the tip of her middle finger, travelled to the governor, and latched on to his right temple. 

She planted a single thought: Treason.

The governor’s eyes widened as though coming to a sudden realisation. 

“Yes, governor,” Ziba smiled broadly at the thought of the chaos to come, “the kingdom is yours.”

When she turned, she saw Abaddon had already marked the child. The diagonal line down his forehead with two circles at both ends was a clear sign of ownership that only spiritual beings can recognise.

Destroyer’s. 

Stopping herself from squealing in excitement, Ziba hurried over and grinned at the cute little beast of war. “Make this fun, Nebuchadnezzar. I’ll be cheering you on.”

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