night like the howl of a great beast in mortal pain. It rang through the stone corridors and could be heard even beyond the palace walls, in the moonlit market square, in the mazelike alleys where the beggars slept. Even the waterfowl at the edge of the great river squawked in disturbed response to the cries, then burst into flight over the mighty banks upon which the city was built
.
The scream was followed by a silence that was, if anything, even more chilling
.
Then the thrashing, the writhing, the uncontrolled rolling of eyes that were shedding real tears over the most horrible of dreams. Unearthly surroundings, swirling chaos, images and noises from a realm between wakefulness and sleep
.
The ruler of the greatest power on earth was powerless to resist this relentless assault from within his own mind
.
A dozen of his elite royal guards, strongmen whose powerful legs were pounding the great stone flags, shouted orders back and forth. The light from hastily lit flaming torches illuminated helmeted faces constricted in fear as they raced to confront whatever dire threat they had failed to foresee
.
Short swords drawn, the guards poured into the king’s bedchamber, eyes frantically searching the flickering shadows for the gleam of an assassin’s dagger. The bedchamber shadows revealed no threatening figure, but there was no sense of relief, for each of the guards would rather have faced an assassin than turn his terrified gaze upon the body of the king
.
Nebuchadnezzar, ruler of the Babylonian empire, conqueror of the Egyptian army at Carchemish, destroyer of Jerusalem twice in a decade, whose name struck fear into the hardest of hearts, now sat bolt-upright on the great ebony bed, eyes wide, mouth trembling, the skin of his torso a ghostly pale. The royal pillows were soaked with sweat
.
“My lord.” Arioch, commander of the royal guard, took a step closer, knowing that to approach too near the king’s person was to invite death. But he had to be sure. The king’s body appeared unmarked, and surely there had been no time for an assassin to make his escape. Had he been poisoned, then? The king’s breathing came in ragged gasps, a hand fluttering at his heart. Though stunned, he didn’t seem to be in pain. If it had been poison, he would be clutching his belly in agony by now
.
Steadying himself, knowing he had to calm his panicking men by example, the captain waited
.
“A dream.”
The king’s voice was a whisper. The usual thunder reduced to a breath of wind
.
“A dream, my lord?” The captain’s eyes narrowed. This couldstill be dangerous. Sent by a sorcerer with true knowledge of the black arts, a dream could kill as surely as a blade
.
“Forgive me, sire. What manner of dream was this?” The king whirled to face him. “For surely it was most terrible,” he added quickly
.
The king closed his eyes in thought as if trying to recall a forgotten name or bring the face of a long-dead friend to mind
.
“No,” he said finally, grimacing in anger. His voice rose to something approaching its normal timbre as he grasped the earthenware wine jug beside the bed and dashed it to the floor. “I cannot tell. I remember nothing!”
“Speak!” The king gripped the arms of his golden throne, his fingers kneading the elaborately carved lions’ heads as he surveyed the men standing before him
.
They were a strange sight. Two Chaldeans with shaved heads and hooded eyes, naked except for linen loincloths and the sacred amulets hanging around their necks. A black-skinned Nubian with a cheetah’s pelt around his thin shoulders. An Egyptian, whose simple cotton shift was offset by a startling ring of black kohl around his eyes. And a Babylonian, a priest of Marduk himself, bringer of plagues
.
“Bring me the best of the sorcerers this day” had been his decree. “Gather them from the four corners of Babylon, for my spirit is anxious. I must know the meaning of my dream.”
They stood in a half circle