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A Whoremaids Tale: 903 years of Babylonian Whoring
....
The doors of the great hall were massive. I stood before them in a stupor. Not because of the sheer grandeur of their intricate carvings and endless epitaphs, but because my neck could barely hold my head high enough to witness the hinged monument in it entirety. You see I have traveled far from my home, and winters between the Tigris and Euphrates seem to have consumed the joyous Spring that our land once reveled in. The journey from Samarra has left its mark on both horse and rider. My hands have yet to straighten from the permanent fist born of nine straight days gripping the reins of my steed through the ice blast of a cruel Mesopotamia wilderness. Only the scent of roasting hog revives me from my frozen insomnia. The hardtack turns in my stomach.
The sound of a great burden could be heard. The creaking and moaning of the thousand year old doors preceded their actual moving by what seemed liked an eternity. A slight wind brushed my face. I was forced to step back a considerable distance to accommodate the wide arc of each lumbering door. Those would be the first of many steps back I would take that evening; back into an age almost forgotten.
Nebuchadnezzar III presented himself before a hall of overwhelming gilded excess.
I knelt, and bowed my head.
"Hail! We’ve been expecting you traveler. Come, let me show you the great palace of Babylon."
I followed the young king into the hall. The room glowed with the golden brilliance of uncountable treasure and artifacts. I had heard of this palace and indeed read of many more like it, but never had I had the opportunity to experience the grandeur of the throne of a civilization myself.
"My Father had this constructed in honor of Hammurabi's Code," he said, pointing to large slab of marble covered in etchings. "Did you know the Gardens are almost complete? To bad my Father couldn’t have witness the final construction himself. Did you know the Gardens were created to..."
I cared not to listen to this young man’s account of things conceived before his own conception. Nebuchadnezzar III, son of the great Nebuchadnezzar II, had been known for some time now to be a fool. His lack consideration for his inherited empire was all to evident during his frequent trips to the local whorehouses; which is where he spends most of his time, or so I’m told. The dereliction of his people is known know to many outside forces, and I fear the time of conquest is nigh. The sweeping tableaus of Babylonian leaders and kings which adorn the walls of this great room now only serve to cast down shame onto the ignoramus walking in front of me. If only he would stop talking long enough to notice.
He led me through the great hall and down several corridors, each one seemingly smaller then the last. I ceased looking about myself as the walls now no were mere sand stone. I followed the sound of this babbling leader down some winding stairs to the cellar...and then down more stairs to another cellar. It was colder now and the young king had the only torch. Finally we reached a rotting wooden door.
"Well, here it is. The palace library. The Whoremaids Tale was set aside for you. You should find everything you need inside. We are feasting in three hours" He motioned with his head as he opened the door. I found it strange that he did not enter the library. Perhaps he was scared he might learn something. I thanked the king and lit a small torch as I entered the library.
In my father’s time, the palace library was a grand spectacle. Books, manuscripts, records and maps of all kinds could be found and enjoyed in a modern sanctuary just off from the great hall. But ever since the new king established an arena for pit fighting in that sanctuary and moved the books to the wine celler, things have fallen into disrepair. My father was a personal scribe to Nebuchadnezzar II and I, my fathers apprentice. Fortunately such connections have allowed me access to places and books no commoner could ever get near. The book I came here to seek, the knowledge I have traveled so far to acquire is contained in the Whoremaids Tale. This book, or should I say tome, or codex even, since it is many volumes, is older then even the Ancient’s memory can serve. From what my fathers tells me, a whore mistress some millennia ago began keeping a journal of the happenings and goings-on of her brothel. This brothel is still being run today. It is Babylon’s most indelible artifact. From whore mistress to whore mistress, wench to wench, the this literary tradition was pass down with the proprietors of the whore house. My father never spoke of what was contained in the pages of these books but legend has it there are stories of ancient Kings, leaders, inventors and mysterious wanderers, all who have passed through the doors of the old brothel. Tales in the time of conquest and capture. Eras of great change, and great challenge. Like warriors on the bank of the Tigris, every war and peace has left its mark in the pages of the Tale.
I lit several candles. The library in the yellow light was now no more than a closet. Books piled to the ceiling like support pillars. In a room which used to hold a score of large wine caskets and enough room for thirty men, now held the scholarly wealth of Babylon and a small wooden table and chair. I retrieved the first book in the Whoremainds Tale and sat down. It was a small leather bound diary no bigger than the palm of my hand. I blew off the dust accumulated since my father touched its hide. No title, no lettering, just the dullness of a thousand years of existence. I carefully open its cover. A candle flame dances in the resonant stillness. I begin...
....
The doors of the great hall were massive. I stood before them in a stupor. Not because of the sheer grandeur of their intricate carvings and endless epitaphs, but because my neck could barely hold my head high enough to witness the hinged monument in it entirety. You see I have traveled far from my home, and winters between the Tigris and Euphrates seem to have consumed the joyous Spring that our land once reveled in. The journey from Samarra has left its mark on both horse and rider. My hands have yet to straighten from the permanent fist born of nine straight days gripping the reins of my steed through the ice blast of a cruel Mesopotamia wilderness. Only the scent of roasting hog revives me from my frozen insomnia. The hardtack turns in my stomach.
The sound of a great burden could be heard. The creaking and moaning of the thousand year old doors preceded their actual moving by what seemed liked an eternity. A slight wind brushed my face. I was forced to step back a considerable distance to accommodate the wide arc of each lumbering door. Those would be the first of many steps back I would take that evening; back into an age almost forgotten.
Nebuchadnezzar III presented himself before a hall of overwhelming gilded excess.
I knelt, and bowed my head.
"Hail! We’ve been expecting you traveler. Come, let me show you the great palace of Babylon."
I followed the young king into the hall. The room glowed with the golden brilliance of uncountable treasure and artifacts. I had heard of this palace and indeed read of many more like it, but never had I had the opportunity to experience the grandeur of the throne of a civilization myself.
"My Father had this constructed in honor of Hammurabi's Code," he said, pointing to large slab of marble covered in etchings. "Did you know the Gardens are almost complete? To bad my Father couldn’t have witness the final construction himself. Did you know the Gardens were created to..."
I cared not to listen to this young man’s account of things conceived before his own conception. Nebuchadnezzar III, son of the great Nebuchadnezzar II, had been known for some time now to be a fool. His lack consideration for his inherited empire was all to evident during his frequent trips to the local whorehouses; which is where he spends most of his time, or so I’m told. The dereliction of his people is known know to many outside forces, and I fear the time of conquest is nigh. The sweeping tableaus of Babylonian leaders and kings which adorn the walls of this great room now only serve to cast down shame onto the ignoramus walking in front of me. If only he would stop talking long enough to notice.
He led me through the great hall and down several corridors, each one seemingly smaller then the last. I ceased looking about myself as the walls now no were mere sand stone. I followed the sound of this babbling leader down some winding stairs to the cellar...and then down more stairs to another cellar. It was colder now and the young king had the only torch. Finally we reached a rotting wooden door.
"Well, here it is. The palace library. The Whoremaids Tale was set aside for you. You should find everything you need inside. We are feasting in three hours" He motioned with his head as he opened the door. I found it strange that he did not enter the library. Perhaps he was scared he might learn something. I thanked the king and lit a small torch as I entered the library.
In my father’s time, the palace library was a grand spectacle. Books, manuscripts, records and maps of all kinds could be found and enjoyed in a modern sanctuary just off from the great hall. But ever since the new king established an arena for pit fighting in that sanctuary and moved the books to the wine celler, things have fallen into disrepair. My father was a personal scribe to Nebuchadnezzar II and I, my fathers apprentice. Fortunately such connections have allowed me access to places and books no commoner could ever get near. The book I came here to seek, the knowledge I have traveled so far to acquire is contained in the Whoremaids Tale. This book, or should I say tome, or codex even, since it is many volumes, is older then even the Ancient’s memory can serve. From what my fathers tells me, a whore mistress some millennia ago began keeping a journal of the happenings and goings-on of her brothel. This brothel is still being run today. It is Babylon’s most indelible artifact. From whore mistress to whore mistress, wench to wench, the this literary tradition was pass down with the proprietors of the whore house. My father never spoke of what was contained in the pages of these books but legend has it there are stories of ancient Kings, leaders, inventors and mysterious wanderers, all who have passed through the doors of the old brothel. Tales in the time of conquest and capture. Eras of great change, and great challenge. Like warriors on the bank of the Tigris, every war and peace has left its mark in the pages of the Tale.
I lit several candles. The library in the yellow light was now no more than a closet. Books piled to the ceiling like support pillars. In a room which used to hold a score of large wine caskets and enough room for thirty men, now held the scholarly wealth of Babylon and a small wooden table and chair. I retrieved the first book in the Whoremainds Tale and sat down. It was a small leather bound diary no bigger than the palm of my hand. I blew off the dust accumulated since my father touched its hide. No title, no lettering, just the dullness of a thousand years of existence. I carefully open its cover. A candle flame dances in the resonant stillness. I begin...
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