They were set down at the edge of a marsh, where giant serpents abounded, and monstrous crocodiles lay in wait—creatures large enough to swallow a man whole. Nor did the peril long remain concealed. For a great python, hidden beneath the mire, stirred suddenly from its slumber and seized one of the young nobles in its jaws. Yet before it could coil about him in its deadly embrace, the youth drew his sword and, with a savage stroke, split its throat from top to bottom, escaping with little harm.
Nimrod beheld this and smiled faintly.
Within an hour, the competitors began to part from one another, each intent upon pursuing his own design and stratagem.
Before them lay a branch of the Nile, no less than a hundred and forty cubits in breadth. It might easily have been crossed by swimming—were it not for the crocodiles that basked upon either bank. Yet the Ethiopian hero knew well what must be done. Turning back upon his path, he came upon a herd of tapirs with their young. With practiced skill, he captured several and drove them toward the river's edge. There he released them, frightening them into the waters.
At once the crocodiles, drawn by the promise of flesh, hurled themselves upon the prey.
Seizing the moment, Nimrod cast his heavy spear across to the far bank with prodigious strength. Then he entered the water slowly and swam beneath the surface, crossing unseen and unharmed. Two competitors, observing his cunning, followed his example and likewise gained the opposite shore. But a third, attempting the same, was suddenly dragged beneath by a monstrous serpent and vanished forever into the depths.
The first stage of Nimrod's design was simple: he knew that the others, judging it safer to travel by the full light of day, would seek shelter for the night. He, however, intended to sleep but little, that he might keep watch upon his rivals—above all those whom he deemed most cunning.
His caution soon proved wise. For he saw one of the competitors take advantage of another who had bent to drink from a stream, and strike him down with an arrow. Nimrod did not condemn the act; for they were engaged in a contest, and each had chosen his own methods. That man's method was to eliminate his rivals one by one.
Now only five remained.
To keep himself informed, Nimrod relied upon an unfailing advantage. Being a hunter, he had mastered the art of training falcons, which followed him wherever he went, serving as his eyes from the heavens. These birds circled endlessly above, uttering sharp cries whenever their master drew near to another competitor—thus he was never taken unawares.
With the coming of night, a bitter wind arose, bearing a chill near unto death. To guard himself against the cold—and to avoid drawing the attention of beasts that hunt in darkness—Nimrod dug a pit in the earth, within which he kindled a fire from hardened splinters of wood. When it had burned down to embers, he laid stout sticks across the hollow and covered them with green branches and soil. In this manner, he kept himself warm by the rising vapors of heat, without flame to betray his presence.
Yet he did not sleep. He ate nothing but a few roots he had gathered.
At some hour deep in the night, he heard afar the roar of a jaguar locked in struggle with its prey. The sounds of the contest endured for some time, until the beast gave forth a sharp cry of pain, suddenly cut short. Nimrod understood then that one of the competitors had been tested by a wild creature—and had prevailed.
Distrusting fortune, Nimrod had taken precautions before nightfall, scattering a wide circle of dry twigs about the place where he lay. He knew well the habits of great cats, how they approach their prey in silence, striking from behind with a killing bite to the neck.
As he had foreseen, the twigs began to crack, ever so faintly, beneath the stealthy tread of a predator drawing near.
He took up his leopard-skin cloak and wrapped it about his neck, guarding it against the beast's jaws. Calm and alert, he gripped his great dagger. The snapping of the twigs betrayed the creature's approach. It came on, hungry and merciless, while the Ethiopian prince measured the distance between them.
His trained ears told him the moment of attack was at hand. His nostrils caught the foul breath of the hunter seeking warm blood.
The twigs cracked once more—and then silence fell, heavy with death.
The beast leapt.
But Nimrod was ready.
With terrible strength, he seized the creature mid-air with one hand, while with the other he drove his blade into its belly, ripping it open from side to side and spilling its entrails upon the marshy ground. A long, guttural cry escaped it—and then it was no more.
At dawn, he beheld the fallen beast: a great and powerful jaguar that had sought to devour him in the darkness. With his dagger, Nimrod cut from it a portion of flesh, which he roasted upon the embers. Having eaten his fill, he set forth once more, the sun now at his back.
For many hours he walked, leaving behind the accursed marsh and its perils. The land before him was bright and burning, yet he knew it to be no less dangerous—for such regions abounded in venomous serpents, and in the lairs of lions, wolves, bears, and boars.
He pondered whether he might avoid the forest that lay ahead. Yet to circumvent it would mean a longer road.
Then an idea came to him.
Entering the wilderness, he sought out the tallest tree he could find and climbed it with difficulty. From its summit he beheld the vast green expanse, and judged that to cross it would be folly. He would lose himself within its depths, and though he might yet escape, the time lost would cost him his life all the same.
Thus he resolved to skirt the forest's edge.
Before him flew his falcon, borne upon the wind. After long walking, he heard its urgent cries as it circled high in the sky—a sign that another drew near.
Proceeding with caution, he glimpsed from afar one of the competitors emerging from the forest, dragging behind him a coil of vines. Reaching a certain place, the man cast the vines upon the ground as though they were a rope, and began to pull with force.
There, in a pit of quicksand, another competitor had been trapped.
A second had come upon him and, hearing his cries, had sought to rescue him with the vines. But treachery repaid mercy. For when the man was drawn to safety, he turned upon his rescuer and struck him down with a sword, killing him without warning. Then he dragged the body and cast it into the same pit of shifting sands.
The prince of Ethiopia witnessed these things—and went on his way.
Throughout that day he encountered no great peril, save for a furious she-bear, which he felled with ease by a single arrow to the heart, loosed as the beast reared upon its hind legs to terrify him with its size. Such was Nimrod: never did he loose more than one shaft upon his prey.
That day he fed upon a hare, and made little exertion beyond what the journey required.
As evening drew near, he came upon a sandy region dotted with small trees, whose blossoms were rich with pollen gathered by bees. From this he judged that honey must be abundant nearby. Venturing further, he discovered a great hive, beside which there lay but a single bee.
Approaching, he reached for his dagger to cut away the sweet comb.
But a hoarse and suffering voice cried out:
"Touch it not!"
Turning, he beheld a figure of dreadful aspect—and knew him at once, for he was one of the competitors. His face was grotesquely swollen, so that he seemed scarcely human.
In agony, the man said:
"Do not dare take the honey. There is but one bee—but its sting is deadly. Behold what it has done to me."
Nimrod sheathed his dagger, extended his hand, and seized the bee between his fingers, crushing it.
Then he went to the youth's aid.
The sting had struck him between the eyes; his brow was so inflamed that it nearly blinded him. Nimrod examined him closely and saw that his breathing was labored—the venom had reached his throat, and would soon kill him.
Leaving him for a moment, Nimrod returned with herbs. He laid them upon a stone and crushed them with the hilt of his dagger. Then from his satchel he took a horn or bone, scraping it with the blade until a fine powder fell. Mixing this with the juice of the herbs, he made a paste.
Then he bade the youth open his mouth.
"The taste is bitter," he said, "and thou mayest lose thy senses—but when thou awakest, thou shalt be restored."