Mosaic of Time

James Abraham Carter

The anomaly had struck without warning: a temporal rift in space that jolted the Earth's fabric, producing a catastrophic change that upended the entire planet. Time and space warped, causing great swaths of history to be pulled from different eras and superimposed over the contemporary world. Chaos reigned as vast areas of modern civilization completely vanished across the globe, displaced from the present and replaced by a mosaic of prehistoric landscapes and ancient cultures from remote antiquity.

North America had become a primeval wilderness, reclaimed by pre-Columbian peoples. Central and South America reverted to the 19th century, while most of Europe was now a patchwork of medieval towns and cities. Sub-Saharan Africa regressed to the Jurassic era, teeming with dinosaurs. The Middle East and Asia reverted to the Neolithic, while Australia, due to its self-sufficiency, was the least affected continent: its modern civilization was mostly intact, save for an area in Western Australia whose farmland was vital to the nation’s food security.

In this region, a peculiar anomaly had materialized: the ancient Sumerian civilization of Shuruppak, comprising eight city-states with Shuruppak as their chief center of commerce. Needful of their grain yields, Australia’s government had sent a representative to ensure harmonious relations with King Ziusudra.

And so it was that James Roberts, a scholar who had been chosen for the task due to his expertise in the Sumerian language and culture, adjusted the strap of his satchel as he walked along the dirt road that led toward the city-state of Shuruppak, its whitewashed mud-brick walls a shimmering jewel rising proudly from the surrounding wheat fields.

About six months ago, shortly after the Time Warp, as the world-changing event was called, tentative contact had been made with Shuruppak by the state government of Western Australia. The Sumarians had been just as shocked by their transition to the modern world as the Australians had been by their astounding arrival. But the Sumarians were more mistrustful. To them, modern technology seemed like magic, and they were very wary of it and of those who used it.

For this reason, the state government kept its people well away from them to prevent misunderstandings that could lead to conflict. Taking into account the Sumarians’ attitudes, James had been dropped off several kilometers from the city so its inhabitants wouldn’t be disturbed by the sight of the Landrover that had transported him from Perth. Dressed in the traditional garb of the Sumarian era, so he wouldn’t look disturbingly alien, James felt the weight of his mission. As a scholar of Sumerian culture, he was the Australian government’s best hope for diplomacy.

The city walls rose impressively before him as he got closer. They were at least fifty meters high, with the main entrance flanked by a bas-relief of roaring lions. He paused for a moment, taking in the impressive scene. He’d seen photos of the city, but these two-dimensional images had done little to prepare him for the actual reality. Even now, although he stood before its undeniable material presence, he felt as though he were in a dream - an ancient city brought forward in time by inexplicable and mysterious cosmic forces.

James pulled himself from his reverie. He was here on a vital mission, not to gawk like a snap-happy tourist. As he walked forward, taking his credentials from his bag, he saw the guards by the mighty portal tense at his approach, and when he arrived at the massive cedar-wood gates, the smiles he had expected from the warriors, who had been informed of his coming, were entirely absent. Instead, spears were leveled at his throat, and harsh words rather than pleasantries were shouted at him.

"By the decree of the High Priest Shara," the lead guard spat, his voice harsh with the dialect of five thousand years ago, "all outsiders are to be treated as enemies. You are a spy and a sorcerer, and you will die for it."

**********

The dungeon was a dank, gloomy hole cut into the limestone beneath the city. James lay on the rough straw, wondering what the hell had happened. Initial contact with Shuruppak indicated that King Ziusudra, although suspicious, was not overtly hostile. Clearly, something had changed in the meantime that no one in Australia’s government had suspected. The mission was in ruins, and now he was accused of being a sorcerous spy and facing death. The situation was grim, but James wasn’t one to easily give up hope. He had to escape, but how? The cell was solid stone and the thick door was heavily barred.

His furiously working mind hit upon an idea. It was a desperate long shot, but in the face of certain death, it was worth a try. James let out a loud groan, followed by a piercing shriek of agony. He then lay limply on the straw, arms and legs grotesquely posed, eyes closed and mouth ajar.

He waited in the tense silence. A harsh voice shouted from outside the cell: “What is going on in there?”

James kept silent. He heard the sound of the heavy bar being lifted. He held his breath so his chest didn’t rise and fall. The door creaked open, and the sound of approaching footsteps cut through the gloomy silence.

"The dog is dead," one guard sneered, stepping closer.

In a heartbeat, James exploded into action. He uncoiled like a spring, driving his foot into the lead guard’s groin. As the man buckled, James snatched the bronze sword sheathed at his belt. The remaining three rushed him. The cell rang with the wild clash of blade on blade and the cries of dying men. He parried a sword thrust, pivoted, and delivered a precise strike to the carotid artery of his second attacker. Within seconds, two more warriors fell, and then the cell was silent, save for the last gasp of a mortally wounded foe. 

James hadn’t fought like a Bronze Age soldier; he had fought with the skills of a modern close-quarters combatant, his techniques being a combination of the most effective styles. The dead and bloody bodies lying at his feet were proof of their effectiveness.

The young man leaned heavily against the wall. His body trembled in the aftermath of the battle. He had trained long and hard, but he had never killed a man. Now he had slain four in bloody and brutal combat. He took a deep, calming breath, and then another. He had to get out of here. More guards might arrive at any moment.

He cleaned the bloody sword and himself as best as he could. Then, strapping on a dead guard’s scabbard, he sheathed the blade. Cautiously, James left the cell and stole quietly along the corridor. The other cells he passed were empty. Shuruppak didn’t have a police force in the modern sense. The city watch patrolled the streets, breaking up fights or apprehending petty thieves who were careless enough to get caught pilfering from the marketplace. Most crimes went undetected or remained unsolved. His jailers were ill-prepared to deal with a skilled and desperate man.

Ascending the stairs, he warily peered into the guard room. It was occupied by a single man, but he was slumped over a table, snoring in an alcoholic slumber so deep that he had been completely oblivious to the desperate fight below. Taking full advantage of this lapse in discipline, James walked out unimpeded and vanished into the twisting alleyways of the ancient city.

**********

The marketplace was a sensory assault of incense, the aroma of food, and the shouting of merchants as they hawked their various wares. James kept his head down. His traditional clothing enabled him to partially blend in with the Sumarians, but his light skin and foreign features worked against him. It was only a matter of time before a citywide search commenced, resulting in his speedy apprehension and execution. His mind racing, he thought, “How do I reach the gate and pass the watchful guards?”

Then, a cry pierced the air—a sound of such raw, wounded humanity that it stopped him in his tracks.

James turned and gasped in horror at what he saw. In the center of the square, tied like an animal to a wooden post rising from a stone plinth, stood a frightened young woman. She was stark naked, her skin glowing like burnished copper in the sun. The slave merchant reached out, with a leering grin. His thick, calloused fingers, moist from having probed her slit, now squeezed her firm, youthful breast. Again she screamed, a cry of pain and terror that made the crowd laugh in sadistic delight.

"Look at her," the fat slaver wheezed to the gathered onlookers. "The royal line of Ziusudra, reduced to chattel. She is a rare prize for any man with enough silver. And still a virgin, as my fingers have demonstrated to all of you. Shall we start the bidding at twenty shekels?"

Nisaba struggled frantically against her bonds as men with more money than morality shouted their raucous offers. Her eyes, wide and terrified, scanned the crowd, looking desperatly for succor. When they met James’s, he knew despite the danger to himself that he had to act.

The young man thrust through the crowd, but it was not only chivalry that propelled him. He was alone in a hostile city. He needed help, and if he aided this girl, perhaps she would aid him in return. He pushed past the last man and sprang forward like an enraged tiger. In one fluid motion, the leap and strike combined, he slammed his blocky fist into the obese merchant, sending him reeling senseless into the dust. Before the man could recover or the crowd could react, James swiftly sliced the girl’s bonds with his purloined sword.

"Run," James commanded as the crowd, now recovered from shock - the unexpectedness of the swift attack - began to edge menacingly toward them.

They bolted. The city was a maze of mud-brick walls and narrow, winding ways down which they madly raced; the mob, like baying hounds in hot pursuit. Nisaba, though frightened, moved with feline grace, guiding James along the twisting lanes. They turned a corner, sprinted down another alley, and rounded a bend with gasping breath and hammering hearts. The sounds of wild shouting faded. The mob had raced off in another direction. For the moment, they had eluded their enraged pursuers.

"My former nanny," gasped Nisaba, her voice strained as she and James leaned against a wall, breathing hard. "Urasa. She lives in the shadow of the temple district. They will not think to look there."

**********

They found refuge in the home of Urasa, a middle-aged widow with sharp eyes and sharper instincts, who had served Nisaba loyally. The house was a simple affair of plastered mud brick with a flat roof. The interior was well lit by light spilling in from the courtyard around which the rooms were built. Nisaba, now draped in a simple tunic, wept for her father as she recounted the brutal betrayal.

"Our people are afraid,” she began. “This transition to a new land is undeniable. All the constellations are different - a silent testament to peasant and prince alike. Everyone is grasping for answers, for certainty in the face of the unknown. Shara, High Priest of Anu, convinced the terrified nobility that this was a sign from the gods and that Heaven wanted him, as a priest and astrologer, to lead us in these uncertain times;” she explained, her voice trembling with emotion.

"Shara claimed that only he could protect us from the evil sorcerers of this age, meaning you and your people,” she said, looking at James shamefacedly. “My father accused Shara of trying to take advantage of the situation and refused to abdicate, so the treacherous villain stabbed him in the back in the throne room. Shara wanted me for his bed to solidify his rule, but I would rather die than spread my thighs for the murderer of my sire. When I rejected him, he, in a fit of rage, condemned me to be sold as a slave.”

“Your father was right in his accusation,” said James. “I…”

His next words were cut off by a mighty crash. The front door splintered inward under the blow of a heavy battering ram. Guards poured into Urasa’s home, shouting wildly for them to surrender. A neighbor, in an act of treachery driven by the promise of reward, had seen the fugitives and betrayed them to the city watch.

"Go!" Urasa screamed, shoving James and Nisaba toward the back door.

They fled into the night, but the city had become a trap. A guard lunged from the shadows of an alleyway, his bronze sword glinting. James blocked the strike with his blade and slew the man. Other warriors surged forth from a narrow lane, driving a wedge between the trio. Nisaba, separated from her companions, tripped. She struck the cobbles and was winded by the fall. The guards swarmed; their rough hands grabbed the girl and dragged her away.

"Leave her!" Urasa shouted, catching James’s arm as he moved to save the screaming girl. "There are scores of them! Death will serve no one. I know the way into the palace—the old ways, the ones long forgotten."

James hesitated, his heart and mind in turmoil. More guards raced at them, swords glinting in the light. There must have been at least a dozen fierce warriors swiftly bearing down upon them. With a bitter curse upon his lips, he turned and fled.

The high walls of the palace loomed. Behind them, the racing guards were swiftly gaining on them. In but moments, stabbing blades would spill their blood upon the cobbles. Urasa was nearly spent, her age a heavy weight upon her. They gained the palace wall - a towering, impenetrable barrier. James leaned against it, breathing hard. He cast a frightened glance behind him. The warriors were mere yards away, closing in like a hungry pack of racing wolves. Urasa pressed a section of the stone. A secret door swung open. Both stumbled through. Their pursuers’ swords crashed against the barrier as it closed.

The darkness of the secret way was alleviated by faint light leaking in through hidden illumination apertures. James sagged to the floor of the passageway as Urasa pulled a lever that locked the secret door, then sat beside him to catch her breath, which had been stolen by their frantic race.

After a few minutes of needed rest, she spoke. “I accidentally discovered these hidden ways while working in the palace. I told no one what I’d found, fearing that I’d be executed to keep things secret. Come, we must continue on. I’ll lead you to the torture chamber first. I am sure that is where Nisaba has been taken.”

Urasa led James down a flight of steps that debouched upon a subterranean passageway - a gloomy, long-forgotten tunnel of dust and shadows that passed beneath the palace walls. James moved like a ghost along its branching, dingy length, guided by his aged companion, until they reached the heavy, hidden door that gave access to the vile torture chamber.

His blood turned to ice as he looked through the spyhole in the panel. Within the room, Nisaba—strapped completely nude to a heavy wooden table—was being subjected to Shara’s sadistic scrutiny. The High Priest stood over her, a tall figure of ruthless menace. The bronze poker in his hand was aglow with frightful heat, the light from the nearby brazier casting his face into a sinister study of light and shadow. The nobles of Shuruppak, summoned to witness her confession, stood in a circle. In the thrall of Shara’s influence, which played upon their superstitious terrors, their faces were bleak with fear and helplessness.

"Speak, little princess," Shara hissed. "Who aided you? Speak the truth, or you will writhe and scream in agony, and beg for death."

James slammed his foot against the door. It gave way with a thunderous crash.

He leapt into the room, his blade drawn, and a wild look on his face. Shara spun, a sneer twisting his lips as he drew his own gilded sword. "The foreigner," the High Priest laughed. "The gods are on my side. Meet my blade and die."

"It is not I who will be lying lifeless in the dust," James retorted as he lunged at his smirking adversary.

The fight was a blur of sharp bronze. Shara was strong, fueled by religious fervor and an arrogant sense of destiny, but James fought with all the skills of the modern world: a style of fighting that was an accumulation of martial knowledge acquired over centuries. Shara lunged, a wild, overconfident strike. James caught the blade on his guard, stepped inside the priest’s reach, and drove his sword through the blackguard’s heart.

The High Priest gurgled, his eyes wide with shock as the life bled swiftly out of him. He collapsed, his vaunted claim of divine destiny falling, like his body, to the dust.

James moved to the torture table, cutting the leather straps that bound the girl. He helped her up, and she clung to him, sobbing for a time. Then, her composure regained, Nisaba stood, her dignity shielding her even in her state of undress. She walked to the center of the room, her gaze sweeping over the cowering nobles, shocked into immobility by Shara’s death - a man supposedly anointed by the mandate of the gods.

"Your 'god-chosen’ king lies in a pool of his own foul blood," she declared, her voice ringing with royal authority. "Man cannot defeat the will of heaven. Therefore, Shara’s end disproves his claims. My father lies dead, and you did nothing to oppose this evil. How shall you repent?"

The shamefaced nobles looked at the corpse, then at the girl who carried the weight of her father’s noble legacy. One by one, they fell to their knees. Dumuzid, the chief minister, prostrating lower than all the others. "The king is dead. Long live Queen Nisaba. We shall repent by serving you well and faithfully in all things."

**********

The months that followed were a whirlwind of activity. The transition to a new order was not without friction, but James Roberts remained at the palace, the first man of the modern era to witness a new world in the process of being created.

As the sun set over the golden crops of the Wheat Belt, casting long shadows across the walls of Shuruppak, James stood on the palace balcony beside Nisaba. They were two people from vastly different eras, but bound by their common humanity - the desire for justice, peace, and the commitment to improve the lives of their people.

"The peace treaty and trade agreements between our peoples have been signed. Your task is done, and yet you stayed," she said softly, touching his arm.

"How could I not?” I have found a place where I am wanted," he replied, taking her hand. “As we worked together to achieve these goals, we also grew together. First, we were colleagues, then we became friends, and now our friendship has transformed into love. I couldn’t be anywhere else but by your side.”

She smiled. “After my father’s death, and all the horrors I have experienced, I didn’t think I could ever be happy again. I’m glad you didn’t go when your government recalled you.”

“The prime minister was initially furious, but my promise to help the new ambassador in the capacity of translator and cultural adviser made him happy.”

“And now,” she said, gazing at him with mock seriousness, “you had better think about pleasing your new ruler.”

“He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, and how should I do that?”

“By kissing me, for a start,” she replied with a smile.

And he did so with considerable passion.

The End