Quest for Babylon's Soul

Two

TwoDecember 2011.

Somewhere in the poorest suburbs of Basra, Iraq.

The so called 'pacifying' NATO mission in Iraq was almost over. After killing lots of 'enemies', plus thousands of civilians and leaving the country without a united government or clear idea of its future, NATO's gaze turned slowly towards Afghanistan and Syria. After all, the USA, biggest arms trader in the world, needed new orders to keep its economy running. Every day, thousands of soldiers were returning home to be reunited with their families and friends. That's why in the last weeks of the Iraq mission, there was a shortage of men in the NATO base, and the local officers allowed different nationalities to pair up on patrol.

There weren't a lot of people on the dusty streets at this time of day. A bunch of nippers were chasing a ragged ball under the scorching afternoon sun. If there was one thing which hadn't changed in the last two thousand five hundred years, it was the heat and the drought. The two heavily armed men hiding behind bullet-proof vests were sweating like hell, while slowly walking the route of their daily patrol. They were only two because their perimeter wasn't big. Also, in this neighborhood of Basra, not once during the 'pacifying' mission had an accident or assault happened, so it was logical that at the end of their unwelcome stay, NATO's military attention was minimal.

The two commandos were of differing nationalities; a Frenchman and an American. They were walking slowly down the middle of the dusty, unpaved street, observing the one story mud houses. They were watching for any hint of ambush organized by the local terrorist groups, who had grown more powerful with every passing day since Saddam was killed. Despite the fact that there hadn't been a terrorist attack in Basra for months, they couldn't forget their lost friends.

They'd almost reached the end of the street and were about to turn left, when a woman wearing a traditional yashmak to cover her head and face, ran out of one of the miserable, ruined houses on the corner. She headed towards them, waving her hands and shouting. The soldiers instinctively lifted their guns and pointed them at her as a precaution.

“Stop where you are!” the American shouted at the woman, but she kept running towards them, continuing to shout. “Stop where you are. Now!” The trained-to-kill soldier repeated his words in Iraqi and released the safety catch on his machine g*n.

“Wait a minute.” The French soldier placed his hand over the weapon of his colleague. “I think she's asking for help. Let's listen to what she wants.”

The American nodded, but the muzzle of his g*n remained focused on the woman, ready to take her life in a second if she proved to be a threat.

The Iraqi woman was now within three feet of them, and despite the yashmak, they could clearly see that she was crying. She reached them and threw herself onto the dusty ground, in front of their feet. In reasonable English, she begged, “Help me, please, help me. My husband is dying. Please, help us. We don't have any money or medication and he's dying.”

The two soldiers glanced at each other, puzzled, as the woman continued her fervent appeals. “Please, please!”

“What's wrong with him?” the American asked.

“Six days ago, he cut himself badly while working on one of the restoration constructions in the center. I've tried to clean and dress the wound, but it became rotten from the heat two days ago. Since then, he's had a high fever and is delirious almost all the time. We haven't had anything to eat in the last three days, which has weakened him even more. Please, help me.” Tears brimmed against her red-rimmed eyes once again. “I beg you, ask one of your doctors to come and examine him.”

The two soldiers stood in the middle of the street with the woman at their feet, trying to decide what to do. The Frenchman finally put his radio to his mouth, gave the base their coordinates and asked for a doctor to be provided, to examine a local resident.

The woman got to her feet and beckoned them towards her house. They followed her, but refused to enter the building, electing to stay outside to wait for reinforcements and the promised doctor. The woman shrugged her shoulders and disappeared inside, to check on her husband.

Within twenty minutes, two military jeeps bearing the NATO insignia stopped in front of the house. An American doctor and seven soldiers stepped out of them. Once the newly arrived troops had secured the perimeter, the two patrolling soldiers, their commanding officer and the doctor entered the small dwelling.

The woman welcomed them in the narrow, dimly-lit corridor, and invited them into a very small and modestly furnished room. On the bed, a bearded man of Arabic origin lay with his eyes closed. He was emaciated and clearly in a bad way. His lips were cracked and his lank, greasy hair hung limply on the dirty white pillow.

The woman went to the bed and lifted the sheet away from her husband's body, revealing a suppurating wound. She hadn't been exaggerating when she described the injury. The wound started at the top of his left hip and extended almost to his armpit. Its violet color, the stench of rotting flesh and the swarm of flies inside the stifling room led the doctor to shake his head discouragingly. He knelt, dropping his leather satchel next to the bed and carefully examined the man. After five minutes, he got up without having said a word. The haggard woman fastened her desperate gaze on him.

“Do you understand English?” he asked. She nodded and he turned towards the commanding officer who remained standing by the door. “His condition is very serious. I can't do anything for him here. If we leave him, he'll die within twenty-four hours, guaranteed. If we take him to the base he's got a chance, but the prospects aren't good.”

“Please, take him with you. Save him. It's just the two of us, I can't lose him.” The woman fell to her knees again, pleading for help.

“What happened to the rest of your family?” the officer asked. He was a tall man in his early thirties, with face dominated by deep blue eyes and Greek nose.

“We had two sons, they were our pride and joy, but we lost both of them. The eldest was part of the Revolutionary Army. He died in a fight not long after you arrived.” She broke off, sobbing for a few moments, and then continued. “We lost our little boy two years ago. There was a car bomb in the center of Basra – a suicide bombing. He was playing football nearby. So, it's just the two of us now.” The woman's sobs grew in intensity.

The officer stood deep in thought for a minute, then helped the woman to her feet and nodded his assent. He turned towards the two soldiers who'd first met her. “Bring the stretcher from the vehicle.” Turning towards the Iraqi woman, he added, “But I'm afraid you can't come with us to the base, Ma'am. If you come to the main entrance tomorrow morning at nine, I'll ensure somebody comes out to report on your husband's condition.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” For a second her face lit up in appreciation, before it became gloomy again and she spoke in a low voice. “But we don't have any money. I can't pay you.”

“Don't worry, ma'am. Your sons have paid a high enough price. We'll try to save your man, but as you heard the doctor say, his chances are not good. I'd suggest that you pray for him.”

Four soldiers entered the small room, carrying a stretcher. They carefully moved the delirious man onto it and carried him out of the house. Before leaving, the officer and the two soldiers agreed to her passionate requests and followed her into the only other room in the ramshackle house. It was kitchen, living room, and water closet, all in one. The Frenchman took pity on the woman's abject poverty and reached into his pockets, removing a few ration packets and a dozen small tins of food. He put them on the wobbly wooden table in the far corner of the room and as he turned back, his eyes were drawn to something sitting on a wooden shelf, in the opposite corner of the small room. He walked over to it, unable to take his gaze away. It was an exquisite vase, and the entire surface was decorated with etchings of carriages, soldiers and strange symbols. Examining it, he realized the symbols were similar to Arabic writing, but not exactly the same. The thing that attracted him the most, however, was that the vase appeared to be made of pure gold.

“What's that?” he asked the woman as she eagerly sorted through the tins.

“Our most valuable possession,” she answered, lifting her eyes to him. “It has been passed down through my husband's family for many generations. This tradition can be traced back more than two thousand years. It belonged to a famous ancestor of his – a member of the mighty Persian army during Xerxes' reign. As far as I know, he gained distinction by quelling a rebellion in ancient Babylon and this was the prize for his actions.”

“It looks as if it's made of gold,” the officer exclaimed. His attention had been caught by the Frenchman's enthusiasm, as he studied the vase.

“Yes,” the woman answered simply, and she began to carefully place the ration packs into a small cupboard.

“And yet, you're starving?” the Frenchman couldn't believe his eyes. His nose was almost touching the vase as he examined it closely. “You could have sold it for a fortune. It must be worth millions.”

The woman shook her head firmly. “It's a family legacy. My husband would rather die, than sell it.”

“I'd suggest, Ma'am, that you better pray that doesn't happen soon,” the officer said. He turned his attention to the two soldiers. “It's time for you to continue your patrol. It's getting late.”

The soldiers left the small house and after a minute, the woman heard the jeep's engine and the crunch of the sand under its tires as the officer set off back to the foreigners' military base. She walked to the front door and watched the two soldiers until they turned the corner.

* * *

Just after midnight, the same Iraqi woman left her small home. She'd spent the whole afternoon praying for the recovery of her husband. As darkness fell, she ate a tin of tuna the Frenchman had left, along with a small piece of hard bread, and then slept for a few hours. When she woke up just before midnight, she very carefully took the vase down from the shelf, and wrapped it in a pillowcase.

She walked out on to the street and glanced nervously in both directions, but there was no sign of life. The night was quiet. She turned and hurried towards the outskirts of Basra. The only light visible came from the magnificent starry night sky. It was more than enough for the woman, she knew exactly where she was going, and also how to remain unnoticed by the patrolling soldiers.

Another five minutes passed, before she left the last house behind her and entered the boundless desert. She might be a woman, but she wasn't stupid. She knew that gold makes men go crazy and she'd spotted the flames of greed in the eyes of the French soldier. She had to do everything within her power to protect her family's heritage from violation, it was her responsibility while her husband was so ill. It was her duty.

Twenty steps later, the woman and the package in her hands disappeared into the impenetrable darkness of the desert night. A falcon's cry echoed, breaching the silence briefly before the desert lapsed back into total silence.